That Which Goes Bump In the Night (Vapor Only, IC)

[Yasuragi]

That Which Goes Bump In the Night
OOC


"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

--HP Lovecraft, 1933

Introduction:

It is 1910, twelve years after the incredibly destructive Great War, which goes by as many names as there are people. The Great Shame to the shattered remnants of the Drachenstaat theocracy in honor of their overthrow and exile as a result of their defeat at the hands of their former colony -- while at the same time, People's Union of Drachenstaat celebrates it as the Workers’ Birthday, the dawn of their new communist era. The Mendeans had no fewer than three names for it, depending on who you discussed it with: the Eiren Winter, the Great People’s War, or the Continuation War. To the Rothians, it was simply ‘the Great War’, and to the Fanaglians it was ‘the Upheaval’ in honor of the collapse of their monarchy and the establishment of the Republic. Regardless of the semantics of the naming, all agreed -- it was a War to End All Wars. And so it had been, as for twelve years, the world had enjoyed a degree of peace unheard of in prior decades. There were always some minor conflicts raging in Nill, of course, and bush conflicts in Pahada, and the latest rebellion in the Clockwork Empire, but sustained conflict was a thing of the past. The Eiren nations, it seemed, had no more appetite for war, and instead turned to the business of peace.

Free from the horrors of war at last, people lept into anything, everything that could provide a degree of escapism from the last half-decade of terror and destruction. Culture flourished, as scandalous new dances spread from Fanaglia to the rest of Eiren, along with the brass undertones of a hopping new genre of music that sent chaperones the world-over swooning in dismay. Museums grew crowded once more, buoyed by a new generation of schoolchildren, and Eiren expeditions fanned out across the globe to hunt, find, and buy exotic new artifacts from foreign cultures for the amusement of those at home. Airships, once weapons of destruction and bombardment, now carried all manner of goods and passengers faster than ever, and the sprawling networks of railroads expanded and grew with each passing month. Telegraph poles spread up and down the continent, carrying news in a matter of days, not months or even years, and faster ships now cruised the seas. The world had never seemed so interconnected as now.

That was not to say that this new era was without issue or problems, not at all. The New Order had toppled the Old Order, but the newfound reign of Ibrahama, Menid, and Varenhold is threatened and undermined without and within. Dangerous new ideologies, born from the destruction of the Drachenstaat order, or arising from Ibrahamic philosophical debates, have the potential to destroy this era’s powers as assuredly as they overthrew the Old Order. Where the sparks of liberation and free-thought were lit, now lies the potential for a overwhelming and powerful revolution. Old grievances within society lurk underneath the facade of gilt and glory of post-war euphoria, and only time will tell if stability can be achieved…. Or if the cycle must begin anew. So it is in Rothia, where bitter reactionaries and militant youths meet in secret societies in catacombs and churches, plotting how best to restore their humbled nation’s glory. So too is it in the Clockwork Empire, where a beaten Aianrida licks his wounds even as rebel armies rise in the south, calling for the return of the exiled Protector. The world passed through fire and destruction, but not all share in the glory and prosperity of this new order. Those who have, must fight to keep what they have seized, and those who have nothing, must fight to survive.

“We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.”

--Nathaniel Hawthorne, The American Notebooks

It is often said by post-war poets and authors that man made the world hell for himself during the Great War. In such a destructive conflict, where millions had perished in seemingly fruitless and unnecessary battles, and new and ever-more dastardly weapons were deployed on a near-monthly basis, this is not surprising. The world tasted poison gas en masse for the first time, and walkers and landships crushed crumbling buildings underfoot. The spectre of Famine walked the countryside, hand-in-hand with the pale figure of Pestilence as hundreds of thousands perished due to starvation, or the pandemics that swept in armies’ wake. The aphorism, ‘war is hell,’ took on a deeper, more personal meaning to the millions that suffered through the Great War. Yet, greater threats lurked - and continue to lurk - unseen and unknown by most. Forces so terrifying, so unthinkable, as to drive the most battle-hardened veteran insane in an eyeblink, or to make the most traumatized civilian long for the privations and desperation of war once more. Select few are dimly aware of the unseen horrors behind the metaphorical cosmic curtains, but most dismiss them as superstition, or native nonsense, lending them no credence or further thoughts. Fewer still have seen the supernatural in motion and lived to tell the tale -- and the rarest few do so with their sanity preserved.

This is a story about those unlucky few, the more fools they, who sought to part the nebulous curtain of ignorance and to lift the veil of confusion. In doing so, they desired to glimpse that which, perhaps, was best left unseen, and gain knowledge of the unknowable…

Will you survive this story? Or will you end up disemboweled by murderous cultists in Klippenstaad that daub your blood on the walls of your hotel as a warning to your friends and family -- to avoid the path that you took? Will you survive that, only to find yourself consumed alive by savage riverine gharials, deep in the murky swamps of Menid, your screams swallowed by the empty jungles with not a soul for miles? Or will you survive everything you encounter and succeed in your quest, only to finally succumb to the madness that gnaws at your mind, driven to mindless gibbering by that which cannot be understood, forcing your family to leave you, restrained and helpless, in an asylum in the Volksunion?

Only time will tell.

“Slowly but inexorably crawling upon my consciousness and rising above every other impression, came a dizzying fear of the unknown; a fear all the greater because I could not analyse it, and seeming to concern a stealthily approaching menace; not death, but some nameless, unheard-of thing inexpressibly more ghastly and abhorrent.”

--HP Lovecraft, The Crawling Chaos

IC Knowledge:

"It is for this reason that I urge, with all the force of my being, final abandonment of all the attempts at unearthing those fragments of unknown, primordial masonry which my expedition set out to investigate."

--Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee, Family Letters, 1913

Jackson Elias

Jackson Elias is 38, of medium height and build, and dark-complexioned. He has a feisty, friendly air about him and, as an orphan in Kuffurt, Varenhold, he learned to make his own way early in life. He has no living relatives, and no permanent address. Although born a Drachenvolk, he has since discarded Drachenvolk culture and the masks that go with it, eschewing them as outdated and obsolete. He is an avowed atheist.

You like him, and value his friendship, even though months and sometimes years separate one meeting from the next. You'd be upset and probably crave vengeance if anything happened to your friend. The world is better for having Jackson Elias in it.

His writings characterize and analyze death cults. His best-known book is Sons of Death, exposing contemporary Khalees in Parthan. He speaks several languages fluently, and is constantly traveling. He is social, and enjoys an occasional drink. He smokes a pipe. Elias is tough, stable, and punctual, unafraid of brawls or officials. He is mostly self-educated. His well-researched works always seem to reflect first-hand experience. He is secretive and never discusses a project until he has a final draft in hand.

All of his books illustrate how cults manipulate the fears of their followers. A skeptic, Elias has never found proof of supernatural powers, magic, beings, or dark gods. Insanity and feelings of inadequacy characterize death cultists, feelings for which they compensate by slaughtering innocents to make themselves feel powerful or chosen. Cults draw the weak-minded, though cult leaders are usually clever and manipulative. When fear of a cult stops, the cult tends to vanish.

Skulls Along the River -- written in 1901, this exposes headhunter cults in Oulous.
Masters of the Black Arts -- Written in 1903, surveys supposed sorcerous cults throughout history.
The Way of Terror -- Written in 1904, it analyzes systemization of fear through cult organization. Warmly reviewed by renowned Mendean socialist, Dzhorzh Sorel.
The Smoking Heart -- Written in 1906, the book details the historical practices of the Dødsfolket, an ethnic group within the Volksunion, including no-longer practiced dark rituals involving sacrifice and skull masks that honored the death god Sifyr.
Sons of Death -- Written in 1908, discusses modern-day Khalees in Parthan; Elias infiltrated the cult and wrote a book about it.
Witch Cults of Varenhold -- Written in 1909, summarizes covens in nine Varenholt counties; interviews practicing witches.
The Black Power -- Written in late 1909, expands on The Way of Terror and includes supplementary material and interviews with cultists and cult leaders.

All of you have, in some way or another, a connection to the intrepid reporter and author, Jackson Elias. Some of you have become fast friends with him over the course of his travels, to the point where he makes a point of coming to visit while passing by, or even - more rarely - altering his itinerary so that he might pay you a call. A couple may have had a chance with him at something more than a passing dalliance, but those futures were dashed by Jackson's incessant wanderlust and drive. Others are friendly, but impersonally so, maintaining a friendship over radiograms and telegrams, communiques that are lengthy, but few and far between due to Jackson's travels into poorly-mapped areas. Some are more passive, responding to his updates on the Oulen death cults at their leisure, while others write regularly, regardless of a response or not. All of you, however, have heard of Jackson Elias, and have read at least one of his books. You all know that he is, for lack of a better word, a 'debunker' of superstition and a devout opponent of all things 'supernatural,' eschewing both as mere avenues for the cunning to control the gullible, and by doing so, gain power and wealth for themselves. You know that he is a hardy man, possessed with a great deal of determination, an even greater amount of wanderlust, and a ferocious independence.

Jackson Elias works alone.

Oh, he works with people when he's in a specific area or city, but he doesn't have a team. He has no partners, he has no sidekicks. He travels to a place, works largely on his own or with a handful of close allies, and - once done - departs on another adventure, leaving his friends and coworkers behind as he gallivants off to the opposite end of the world. It's part of his appeal, really, to the public - this charismatic, handsome man, traveling the world unfettered by the restraints of friends or family, his job taking him to odd and exotic locales, where he brings a scientific mind to the matter at hand and by doing so, educates the wider world. A contemporary Bill Nye meets Indiana Jones, really. His closest connection is perhaps his publisher, Johann Kinder, who often is in charge of handling Jackson's fan-mail and other personal communiques, sending messages around the world without judgment, and passing on the choicer messages to Jackson at the site of his latest obsession.

Which is why Mireille Delatte, a Fanaglian balloonist and aviator, found it odd when she received a communique from Klippenstaad - from Johann Kinder, on behalf of Jackson Elias.

The Carlyle Expedition lingers in the memory of most Eirens and other Mizrics, given that it had only happened four years prior. The expedition, setting out from Varenholt, was led by a millionaire playboy who sought to spend his summer playing at being a Mehmetologist. After spending a month in Rothia where the more serious academics accompanying the playboy nobles and magnates were able to study and consult various documents and artifacts, the expedition set out for Asterdan - former southern Mehmet. There, after only two months, the Carlyle Expedition suddenly abandoned their dig site and took ship south, to Eastern Parthan. Rumors swirled that the Expedition had found some clue to the vast treasures of the lost Pharaoh Teklemet, but they were never confirmed. Then, a month into their supposed safari, the entire Carlyle expedition vanished, with telegrams going uncollected, and money no longer being withdrawn. Half a year passed, and the distraught sister - and heir - of Rutpert Carlyle set out to Parthan to uncover what happened to the expedition and to rescue her brother.

With the help of local guides, her expedition uncovered a number of mass graves that contained the bearers and many of the academics accompanying the expedition. All the bodies bore signs of mutilation and heavy abuse, but there was no sign of the bodies of Rutpert Carlyle or a number of other expedition leaders. Distraught, Erika Carlyle returned to Klippenstaad to throw herself into the family business, while local authorities hunted for - and ultimately hanged - a number of natives accused of the murders. Rumors still swirl, however, that the Expedition did indeed find the vast wealth of Pharaoh Teklemet, but fell afoul of some curse placed upon his final resting place, a curse that brought doom to every man and woman of the Expedition. Others claim that Rutpert Carlyle was brutally murdered by agents of his sister, in an internal family coup d'etat that saw her become the sole heir and owner of the vast Carlyle family fortune. Regardless of what one believes, there are a number of questions and mysteries that surround the Expedition that remain unresolved or unanswered even to this day.

It seems Jackson Elias took it upon himself to find out more. But why does he need your help?

KLIPPENSTAAD SCOOP

RUTPERT CARLYLE, the playboy whom everybody knows - or knows about - is quietly leaving Klippenstaad tomorrow to check out the tombs of Mehmet! You've seen the cuties RUTPERT has found in the nightspots. Who can doubt he'll dig up someone - er, something - equally fabulous from the Asterdani sands?

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 4 Apr 1905

CARLYLE EXPEDITION EMBARKS FOR ROTHIA

Led by the fabulously wealthy playboy Rutpert Carlyle, the Carlyle Expedition departed this morning for Pia aboard the crack Rothian steamship Royal Standard.

Contrary to earlier reports, the expedition will perform research in Rothia under the auspices of the Penhew Foundation before continuing to Mehmet next month. Readers may recall the enormous party which Mr. Carlyle, now 24, gave at the Nalfort-Bechel Hotel upon reaching his majority. Since then, scandals and indelicate behavior have become Carlyle's trademark, but he never has become tarnished in the eyes of Klippenstaad socialites.

Members of the expedition have been reluctant to reveal their purpose in Mehmet.

OTHER EXPEDITION MEMBERS:

• Renowned Mehmetologist Comte Aubrey Penhew is assistant leader of the team and in charge of excavations.
• Dr. Rutpert Huxton, a fashionable 'Sigmundian' psychologist accompanies the expedition to pursue parallel researches into ancient pictographs.
• Miss Hypatia Masters, romantically linked in the past to Carylye, will act as photographer and archivist.
• Mr. Josef Baas, intimate to Mr. Carlyle, accompanies the group as general factotum.

Additional members may be secured while in Rothia.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 5 Apr 1905

CARLYLE DEPARTS MEHMET

NEKHDJEHENET -- Comte Aubrey Penhew, temporary spokesman for the Carlyle Expedition, indicated Monday that the leaders are taking ship to East Parthan for a 'well-earned rest'.

Sir Aubrey denied rumors that the expedition had discovered clues to the legendary wealth of the lost expedition of Pharaoh Teklemet, maintaining that the party was going on safari "in respite from our sandy labors."

Rutpert Carlyle, wealthy Klippenstaad leader of the expedition was unavailable for comment, still suffering from his recent sunstroke. Discussing that unfortunate incident, local experts declared Asterdan far too hot for Drachenvolk at this time of year, and suggested that the young Varenholt had not been well-served by his youthful enthusiasm, rumored to have led him to personally wield pick and shovel.

The expedition will travel to Asabom in Parthan, where they shall stay with a local Fanaglian magnate, Mr. Royston Whittingdon at his residence in Collingswood House. From there, they shall travel inland to the city of Borian, where they shall embark on a lengthy safari before returning to Klippenstaad.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 14 Jul 1905

CARLYLE EXPEDITION FEARED LOST

BORIAN -- Uplands police representatives today asked for public assistance concerning the disappearance of the Carlyle Expedition. No word of the party has been received in nearly two months. The group includes wealthy playboy Rutpert Carlyle and three other Varenholt citizens, as well as respected Mehmetologist Comte Audrey Penhew of Rothia.

The expedition left Borian on August 3rd, ostensibly on camera and hunting safari, but rumor insisted that they actually were after legendary Asterdani treasures, notably the lost wealth of Pharaoh Teklemet.

Carlyle and his party reportedly intended to explore portions of the Great Depression, a vast plain to the northwest of Borian.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 15 Oct 1905

ERIKA CARLYLE ARRIVES IN PARTHAN

BORIAN - In response to clues, Miss Erike Carlyle, sister to the Varenholt leader of the lost Carlyle Expedition, arrived in port today aboard the Asterdani vessel Fount of Life.

Several Kikuyu-villager reports recently have been received concerning the putative massacre of unnamed whites near Aberdare Forest.

Miss Carlyle declared her intention to find her brother, regardless of the effort needed. She brought with her the nucleus of a large expedition.

Detailing agents to coordinate supply and other activities with local Parthan representatives, Miss Carlyle and the remainder of her party depart for Borian tomorrow.

Her companion, Mrs. Viktoria Portner, indirectly emphasized Miss Carlyle's purposefulness by regaling us with dreadful tales of the rigors of traveling aboard the ramshackle Asterdani ship.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 11 Mar 1906

CARLYLE MASSACRE CONFIRMED

ASABOM - The massacre of the long-missing Carlyle expedition was confirmed today by local Parthan police representatives.

Authorities blame hostile Nandi tribesmen for the shocking murders. Remains of at least two dozen expedition members and bearers are thought found in several concealed grave sites.

Rutpert Carlyle, Klippenstaad's rollicking playboy, is counted among the missing, but his body was not recovered among the mass graves. Many bearers and other expedition members are reported dead, however.

Erika Carlyle, Rutpert Carlyle's sister and apparent heiress to the Carlyle family fortune, led the dangerous search for her brother and his expedition. She credited Kikuyu tribesmen for the discovery, although local Parthan police actually found the site.

Among other expedition members believed lost, and without confirmed bodies, are Comte Aubrey Penhew, noted Mehmetologist; Klippenstaad socialite Hypatia Masters, and Dr. Rutpert Huxton.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 24 May 1906

MURDERS HANGED

ASABOM - Five Nandi tribesmen, convicted ringleaders of the vicious Carlyle Expedition massacre, were executed this morning after a short, expertly-conducted trial.

To the end, the tribesmen steadfastedly refused to reveal where they had hidden the bodies of the white leaders, including Rutpert Carlyle. Barrister Harrick, acting for the Carlyle Family Trust, cleverly implied throughout the trial that the massacre was racial in motivation, and that the fair-skinned victims were taken to a secret location, there to suffer the most savage treatment.

Miss Erika Carlyle, defeated in her efforts to rescue her brother, left several weeks ago, but is surely comforted now by the triumph of justice. The administration of the Carlyle family fortune now falls upon her slender shoulders.

--Klippenstaad Pillar, 19 Jun 1906

Notable NPCs:

Accepted Characters:

Lord Luciano Errante Raminotto

Mireille Delatte

Anders

OOC Rules:

You’re all adults (or at least mature teenagers). The rules are fairly simple.

• Be civil to other players OOCly. Being mean IC? Absolutely. Don’t bring it into real life.
• Post consistently. We can’t build suspense well if half the players only post once every two weeks.
• If you have disputes over the way I handled or responded to your character, and you’re not satisfied with an explanation I gave you in this thread? TG me or DM me on Discord. Talk it out with me and we’ll see how to rectify things.
• Your characters may very well die; that’s fine. Don’t get emotionally attached to your characters! Be invested enough to build good characters, but not attached enough that their death might upset you!
• Suspension of disbelief is kinda needed for a Lovecraftian RP; be nice about it.

[The Biosyn]

Klippenstaad Aerodome, January 16

Anders stifled a yawn, before reaching to take another sip of his coffee. Court business kept him up late last night, but they told him he’d have some time off, and that meant picking up a job on the side. From his window seat in The Sky’s Height, a small cafe located inside the Aerodome of Klippenstaad, he could watch the passengers disembarking from the latest arrival. Having airships unload their passengers and cargo inside was a small blessing, sparing everyone from having to face the harsh Varen winters right away. Regardless of the weather, however, he was here to score a job, and that meant pretending to read his copy of the day’s Klippenstaad Pillar, all the while watching for foreign visitors that might be in need of a local guide. He sat there for a half hour watching; even after he had finished his coffee, there had been no one matching the mark: everyone seemed to be Varenholt, returning home. With the airship nearly empty, he paid for his coffee, and exited the cafe, nearly missing the last of the passengers as they left the airship, which included a small group of foreigners. An odd group, he counted at least three nationalities. Deciding they fit the bill, he approached them, and, as he was fairly certain the woman in the group was Fanaglian, he took a guess and greeted them in Cynfeli.

[Inoroth]

FAS d'Meilleur
Klippenstaad Aerodome, Varenhold
16 January, 1910
7:42 Local Time

"INCOMING!"

Darkness, frozen air, sudden flashes of bright light and heat. The ground shakes, shadowy blobs rise from the ground, sounds of shrapnel and ricochets whiz by. There is a ringing dullness to the sounds, the smell of death and decay mixed with smoke from exploded ordinance sour the nostrils and sting the eyes. A flare shoots into the sky, the sickly orange glow revealing an alien world of muck and mire, punctuated by craters and twisted metal that may once have been something useful. Men run to an fro, or cower in fear, but they all seem wrong somehow, grotesque and deformed. Fires burn on the horizon, and madness claws at the back of the mind. All that is secondary though, in the peripheral. Illuminated by the flare is a young girl, in immaculate white dress and not a speck of mud or tarnish to be seen, completely out of place in the living hell. Her face is gaunt and pale, her body weak, but her eyes are bright and shining. She is far away at first, but without moving soon fills the full frame of vision, pushing the horrors out to make room for the calm.

"Don't worry, Pappy, you'll be safe with me."

For a few seconds, there is serenity in the storm as she reaches out for an embrace. Suddenly though, her confident smile turns to concerned frown and then fear as the sound of impacting shells start pounding, each closer than the last. They are getting very close now.

"Pappy, don't go!"

The girl reaches out her hand, but too late. A wall of mud and fire explodes before her, searing pain throughout, and the shells keep falling.

*boom* *boom* *boom* *boom*...

...*wub* *wub* *wub* *wub* *wub*

Slowly returning to consciousness, becoming aware once again of the shuddering rhythm of an engine whirling outside. For a moment, he had the terrifying sensation of not knowing who or where he was. He had been dreaming: the dream was a familiar one. Then he remembered: he was Lord Luciano, youngest son of a Pianese Count, laying in a chair tucked under a blanket on a Fanaglian airship bound for Varenhold. A weight rolled off his chest as his body relaxed, and his breaths came more easily. Luciano was toasty and warm, but there was a chill on his nose and cheeks. With the minimal effort possible, he cracked open one eye and peaked out. Ice had crystalized on the window pane, and nothing could be made out outside beyond the dark grey-blue light that comes of being below a storm cloud. Inside the cramped cabin it was dark, everything seemed blue or grey, and there was little embellishment of the molding, carpets, fold out dresser, or bed. Luciano's trunk sat where he had left it on the dresser.

'But what if something happened to them while I was asleep? What if someone opened it and took something, or what if something fell out?"

He thought. At first Luciano tried to resist the familiar impulse to check, to remain nice and warm and return to slumber. But the niggling fear that something might be wrong with his carefully prepared pack won out in the end, and with a sigh of defeat he rose, folded his blanket carefully back on the chair. Then he picked the blanket back up, and folded it again the opposite way. Then two more times the same thing "just in case." Even though Luciano had used that excuse a thousand times, even he himself was never quite sure what case he was preparing against, but it probably did some good. Probably.

Luciano then walked over to the dresser and opened the trunk. Inside, everything seemed undisturbed, exactly as he had left it... but he couldn't be certain. Carefully he pulled everything out, mentally ticking off the list as he did so. He pulled the spare socks and mess kit out of his old pith helmet. That seemed fine. He counted each book as he unrolled the clothing wrapped around it. They were all there. He was tempted to open one of the unlabeled bottles of Fanaglian Spirits he'd picked up for the trip, but decided against it, taking a sip from his hip flask to take the edge off instead. When he got to the playing cards, he sighed -- the only way to be sure was to play solitaire, four wins in a row should be sufficient. Once he'd finished his test, perhaps fifteen minutes later, he continued unpacking the rest of the gear. When he got to his pistol, he paused, then pulled it out of the holster. He cracked the action open and checked that it was empty. Then he looked down the barrel. Also clear. Three more times to be sure, and began to polish it.

Finally, everything was out on the bed or the floor, and it all was there. Luciano stopped again, this time to appreciate his collection and his cleverness at being prepared. Then he went through the laborious process of repacking a considerably large pile of stuff into the comparatively small trunk he carried it in. He'd done often, and it went fairly quickly and without issue, for everything had its place. Luciano locked the case back up and turned to open the door to his cabin... but what if something had rolled under the bed? What if he had forgotten something? It *did* seem a bit too easy to get everything in there. It was probably best to unpack it all again and check... just in case.

One and a half hours later, Luciano had finally repacked his trunk for the fourth time, and was certain that everything was fine. He walked over to the door as he had thrice before tried to walk through, but this time he grasped the knob, opened it, and walked into the hallway... where he nearly bumped into the young Fanaglian lady who had recruited him for this expedition, Miss Mireille Delatte. Instinctively, Luciano nodded and reached to tip his hat, despite the fact that he had left it in his cabin. He realized midway his mistake, and tried to pass his action off as an adjusting swipe through his hair. Perhaps she hadn't noticed. Smiling as best he could, he greeted her in correct but rather accented Cynfel:

"Ah, Miss Delatte, just who I was hopping to, uh, 'bump' into... heh, my little joke there, heh, yes. B-but yes, I desired to once again express my thanks for your consideration on this expedition, the timing working with the semester break was... the word escapes m -- Ah yes, fortuitous. I trust the others have likewise had a good journey thus-far? If my small-clock is still accurate, we should be arriving soon, yes?"

[Fanaglia]

It was a quiet morning, as most were in sleepy Bosquet Ombragé. The sun had already washed over the green treetop seas of the surrounding forests and marshlands, kissed the clay rooftops of the village that smiled back with their own mock-sunrise, and made its way up into blue skies, which were dotted with only the occasional fluff of a jovial little cloud. Outside, the only sounds were from the occasional light breeze rustling the leaves of the mangrove trees and from the canaries, who had begun to sing while most of the rest of the village was still sleeping; inside, there was the sound and smell of bacon frying and the smell of biscuits baking.

Tending to this breakfast was Mireille Delatte, who had not only risen before her mother, but had risen before the canaries, before the sunrise. This was her habit, for she could not care for her mother until after she'd filled the fuel tanks and prepared and inspected the gondola and envelope of her Guttersnipe¹. As she always did, she also made sure to pick a few oranges from around the neighborhood to place in her gondola for a midday snack, or to share with any passengers she may pick up.

Just as she was putting her bacon onto a plate to bring to her mother, she heard a knock at the door. "Now, who could that be?" She rarely got visitors outside of business hours. She opened the door and, standing on her stoop, was a lad with an oversized cap and an inadequate but valiant attempt at a moustache -- he was the telegram delivery boy.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle!"

"Good morning, Claude. What have you got for me today?"

"Telegram for you from a Monsieur Jackson Elias."

"Jackson Elias?" That was a name she hadn't thought about for quite some time. They had parted amicably, but what happened between them was years ago. She smiled as warm memories came rolling back. "Very well, Claude. Merci. Here, take this," she said, tipping him a Krôm as she took the telegram from him.

"Merci Beaucoup, ma'amselle. Bonne journée!"

As she closed the door, Mireille could smell her biscuits. She walked quickly back to the kitchen to pull them out of the oven -- had they been in there any longer, they would have burned, but, as they were, they were perfect, kissed by a hint of brown across their tops. She quickly portioned out the breakfast onto two plates, poured two glasses of orange juice, tucked the telegram into her belt, and carried the meals into her mother's bedroom on a pink tray. "Morning, Mother," she said as she came into the room, setting the tray down across the arm rests of her mother's wheelchair. Her mother, a plump, bespectacled woman whose wrinkles betrayed the face of someone who once used to be quite happy and full of laughter (though those days may have been long ago), was sitting up in her bed beside the window, reading a book.

"Good morning, my dear. Who was that at the door?" Her mother asked, not looking up from her book.

"It was Claude, the telegram boy."

"Telegram? Who from?"

"Jackson Elias." Her mother lowered her book into her lap and looked over her glasses at Mireille with that disapproving look that only mothers can manage. "Mother, that was years ago."

"What did he have to say?"

"I don't know. I haven't opened it yet."

"Well, go on. Open it!" She urged with a friendly tone and a half smile on her face.

Mireille blushed. "I was going to wait until after we'd breakfasted."

"Nonsense, dear. Go ahead! Open it!"

While she would rather have had some privacy for when she opened the message, she couldn't deny the smile on her mother's face -- a sight that was so rare anymore. "Fine," she resigned, unfolding the telegram. "Have information concerning Carlyle Expedition. Need reliable team to help. Arrive in Klippenstaad January 16. Discreet and Trustworthy. Faical Teck - Khadar. Comte Bassot - Quibella. Not asking lightly. Signed Jackson Elias."

"'Not asking lightly'?" Mireille's mother repeated.

"Oui."

"What sort of trouble's he gotten himself into this time?"

"No telling, with him."

"The Carlyle Expedition?"

"They were those wealthy adventurers who were lost in Menid some four years back."

"Well, are you going to meet with him?"

"The sixteenth of January -- that's not a lot of time..."

"You're still young. What's stopping you?"

"Mother, what about you?"

"What about me? Dear, you've given up enough of your life to take care of me. I'm the one stuck in a wheelchair -- you shouldn't feel like the one who's trapped here because of it. I'll manage."

"But what about the business?"

"Charles has been really sweet lately." Charles was the owner of a rival balloon courier business with a very loud and abrasive personality, but Mireille's mother liked him. Mireille suspected she liked him a bit more than she let on. "He and I have been talking a bit about you, in fact, and how to send you back to school. He's already agreed to help look after our side of the business if you left, possibly even merge together."

"Father would never have stood for it." Just the idea of merging with Charles' business felt like it turned her stomach.

"That's true, dear, but your father's gone. I can't run the business myself anymore and I know that your heart's not in it. He started that business to take care of you, not to hold you back. Let it go. I'll be all right; don't you worry about me." Tears began to well up in Mireille's eyes. "Oh, dear, come here; I miss him, too," her mother assured her, misreading her tears as tears of sorrow at the mention of her father. In truth, Mireille was moved to tears instead because in the years since control of her life had been wrested from her by her father's mental breakdown and crippling of her mother, she had resented her mother for all the care she required, for holding her back. Every day was a day that Mireille would hope for her mother to die so that she could leave, so she could put that place and all of its painful memories behind her. Although she was as much a victim as Mireille and was always gracious for the care she provided, Mireille had grown to hate her more and more over the years. Now...now, she was free of that responsibility. Now, that hatred was gone. Now, she could be her own woman again. Now, she could remember how to love her mother.

Now, she could go on an adventure.

---

Jackson Elias' telegram had not been very clear about what she was expected to do (she had tried to contact him in return, only to receive equally-clueless replies from his publisher, who had apparently sent the telegram on his behalf, and who assured her, "You don't know anything I don't!"), so Mireille elected to prepare for anything. She sent telegrams to Teck and Bassot, the two men he'd mentioned by name, with instructions to meet her in Rotstern, northern Arviragus². She had been briefly acquainted with both men when they had flown as passengers in her Guttersnipe, both of them on referral by Jackson Elias; Faïçal Teck was particularly hard to forget, but she knew neither of them particularly well. She decided that, if she were to assemble a "reliable team," she knew precisely the man: Dr. Zhakshakulovy.

Dr. Z. could at times be a bit of an arrogant cock and held some problematic beliefs, but he was a no-nonsense sort of man and no one knew more about ancient Mehmeti civilizations than he did. Mireille just hoped he remembered having her as a student and that she could convince him to come with her. Before she left on the train for Cynfel City³, she prepared her Guttersnipe (with all of her flying supplies carefully packed into the gondola alongside the folded envelope) to be shipped to her if it turned out to be something she would need.

In packing the gondola, she hesitated a moment when she held it -- her gun. It was her father's, which he always kept with him whenever he flew and which was passed to her mother when he went off to fight that blasted war. It was a dreadful, heavy thing and it made her insides squirm with discomfort; she had only ever threatened to use it once and had never actually fired it, but the fact that it was the weapon that her father had turned on her mother before using it on himself...that was the association that made the ugly metal feel as if it were searing into her flesh like acid. She'd tried to dispose of it many times in the past, but it was one of her father's few possessions before he was destroyed by the war and turned to the bottle; she had very little else to remember him by. Even still, the evil deed it had committed would have been enough to outweigh any sentimental value had it not also served a practical purpose -- in her line of work as a balloonist, she had thus far been lucky enough to have only had one occasion in which she needed it. Only a foolish pilot flew these skies unarmed. Guns were expensive and she was hardly swimming in cash, and so it remained in her possession. After considering stowing the unpleasant object in the gondola, Mireille decided at the last minute to pack it instead in her steamer trunk, which would accompany her first to Cynfel City, then to Rotstern and eventually Klippenstaad.

With a head full of worry but a heart finally freed and full of adventure, she bade goodbye to her mother and Charles, who had come to see her off at the train station in the center of town. It had been years since she'd seen the sprawl of Cynfel City and all of its hustle and bustle; she felt as if she were returning to her true home.

---

Once in in Cynfel City and back on the campus of the Tagan College of Science and Technology, it actually took surprisingly little convincing from Mireille and a tolerable amount of grumbling from Dr. Z. before he agreed to come along. Something about getting out into the countryside and putting the busy city life behind him, at least for a time, seemed to appeal to him, especially when taken together with the intriguing history underlying the mystery. Much to Mireille's surprise, she also happened to run into another former professor of hers, Professor Raminotto, who had overheard them discussing the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the Carlyle Expedition.

Raminotto was a peculiar gentleman, but he was always kind to Mireille when she was his student and she admired his passion for solutions, whether they be to complex mathematical problems or to any sort of disorder that manifested itself around his person. His desk, his office, his manner of dress -- everything was always neat and tidy, with nothing out of place. She suspected this was the reason behind his fascination with the occult -- the lack of any real, tangible way to order, classify, and explain such phenomena was at complete odds with his orderly character. When he expressed an interest in joining them, Mireille happily invited him along, knowing that such an analytical mind could prove to be an asset in solving such a mystery as this.

And so, with her learned gentlemen recruited for the journey, the three of them traveled by streetcar to the Aérodrome de Cynfel, where they boarded an airship bound for Rotstern to collect the rest of their team before boarding the FAS d'Meilleur to Klippenstaad.

---

As the d'Meilleur flew northward, the temperature dropped and the ship bucked and rocked in the chilly air. Mireille Delatte was of course accustomed to turbulence; what she was not accustomed to, however, was not being in control of the ship while flying through it. At least it's not storming, she thought to herself as she rose from her bunk and attempted to look out the frosted window. Although with such a steep drop in temperature, and with those clouds... she shook off the thought and decided that a brief walk down the length of the ship may be what she needed to soothe her nerves. Perhaps the bar was even still open at this hour.

As she walked down the narrow hallway past the other passenger cabins, she was startled when one of the cabin doors suddenly opened and a man nervously rushed through, nearly bowling her over.

"Ah, Miss Delatte, just who I was hopping to, uh, 'bump' into... heh, my little joke there, heh, yes." It was Professor Raminotto, without his hat. She smiled when he attempted to hide the fact that he had tried to tip her a hat that wasn't there. She found his moment of awkward abesent-mindedness charming and wholly relatable, so she said nothing about it. "B-but yes, I desired to once again express my thanks for your consideration on this expedition, the timing working with the semester break was... the word escapes m -- Ah yes, fortuitous. I trust the others have likewise had a good journey thus-far? If my small-clock is still accurate, we should be arriving soon, yes?"

"No, Professor, thank you," she told him warmly. "Not too many men would be willing to come along on such a journey on so little information. Dr. Z. has thus far kept to his usual self and the others are surely exhausted from their trip and are adjusting to the change in time zones, so I haven't seen any of them since we left Rotstern. You are correct, though -- it shan't be long before we touch down in Klippenstaad. I was just getting up to stretch my legs and grab a drink. Care to join me?"

---

1. Guttersnipe: A Fanaglian term for a small, motorized hot-air balloon.
2. Arviragus: The northern-most duchy in Fanaglia.
3. Cynfel City: Capital of the duchy of Cynfelyn in southwestern Fanaglia and home of the prestigious Tagan College of Science and Technology, where Mireille Delatte attended before family tragedy brought her home to Bosquet Ombragé.

[Inoroth]

FAS d'Meilleur
Klippenstaad Aerodome, Varenhold
16 January, 1910
7:45 Local Time

Miss Delatte graciously ignored Luciano's gaffe as he continued talking. Thinking back, she had always been among his more considerate students, even by Fanaglian standards. She had attended Tagan College in 1899, while he was still a newcomer to both the College and Cynfel generally, still adjusting to the local customs and even more unsocial than usual. Mireille had somehow found this out, and made it a point to bring in some local treat each week for him to try and compare with Inorothian delicacies. Quite bright, good future.. it was such a terrible shame about her father. Luciano thought for a moment about his own nightmares, how real they sometimes were, how... yes, it was for the best that he lived alone, for everyone's sake. After he finished talking, Miss Delatte cheerfully answered:

"No, Professor, thank you, not too many men would be willing to come along on such a journey on so little information. Dr. Z. has thus far kept to his usual self and the others are surely exhausted from their trip and are adjusting to the change in time zones, so I haven't seen any of them since we left Rotstern. You are correct, though -- it shan't be long before we touch down in Klippenstaad. I was just getting up to stretch my legs and grab a drink. Care to join me?"

Such a request from a lady to a gentleman would be considered quite forward in Inoroth, suggestive, even... but Lord Luciano had learned by now that Fanaglians typically were quite fond of spirits and it was normal for invitations to drink to be made without any further implications. He nodded and gestured for her to lead the way -- the hallway was too confined to walk side-by-side.

"But of course I would come. What good are time and money if I do not do anything I like with them? Besides, I have followed Dr. Elias' career for some time now, remarkable man. His books never fail to fascinate -- though I myself contend that he has allowed his drive to be factual and critical of the unusual to push him too far, to the point where he would not accept any evidence of the supernatural no matter how compelling. Now, this might be slightly impolite, and I apologize if it is, but do you believe there are supernatural things in the world, Miss Delatte?"

[Fanaglia]

As Mireille led the way down the narrow hallway towards the bar as the professor had gestured for her to do, she gave a slight laugh and looked over her shoulder to answer his question. "You know, Professor, I can't say I know for sure. With all of the time I've spent around the territory of the Pannas Tritios, I've heard more than my fair share of stories from the travelers I've met. Horrifying stories, really, about magic and curses and necromancy and all sorts of strange hoodoo. While I've never seen any such thing with my own eyes, I've never laid eyes on the Lord Almighty, either. Although, with certain...unpleasant things in the world, I have similar doubts about both." She was silent for a moment as they approached the darkened bar, dwelling for a moment on dark thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, she shook those thoughts away and refocused on what lay ahead. "Seems the bartender's turned in for the night. No matter," she said, with renewed pep in her voice. She reached around the corner and pressed a black button to switch on the electric lights, illuminating the modest little pub at the stern of the passenger gondola with a dim, orange glow from the small lights set into the ceiling. The bar was little more than an aluminum desk, bolted to the floor and surrounded by five little, round stools, covered in black leather and likewise bolted to the floor in front of it. There were two windows -- one on each side -- but the shades were pulled down over them. Mireille stepped behind the bar and placed the dish on top. "Just leave a few Krôms in there and we'll be fine," she assured the professor as she did the same. Underneath the bar were two kegs -- one of Morris' Fanamedu¹ and one of Tagan Pale Lager. In a cabinet behind the bar was a small selection of Fanaglian wines and a few bottles of rum. Pouring herself a glass of Fanamedu, she asked, "What will you have, Professor?"

---

1. Fanamedu: a thick, distilled clover honey liquor similar to krupnik that is made with hops and hempseed. Fanamedu is very iconic in Fanaglian culture, and is especially popular among women.

[Liecthenbourg]

Kenkichi straightened his posture, tugging at his tie like the perfectionist he was. He looked over himself in one of the airship's mirrors, bringing a comb from his pocket to straighten his hair once more. It was the machinations of a man who had to give a friendly face, a firm hand and a winning smile to get those stories. If you could build a rapport, a relationship, with anyone -- they would likely be amicable to you. Be more open. And that was the hook that would give you the passion that truly made journalism an art rather than a trade.

The airship was an impeccable piece. Truly something out of the ordinary -- well kept and tidy, with pleasant furnishings and finishes. Its cabins were perhaps slightly too small for his liking, but he and the porters he had hired -- two, both Korrukkans -- had easily fit his belongings including the priced camera and type-writer the storage holds on the airship.

How the Korrukkan journalist had come aboard this expedition to Klippenstaad was something spectacular to say this least.

He had been finishing off an investigative report in Fanaglia; on the rise of political extremism and the ramifications it had had in the life of its citizens -- both urban and rural. In Bosquet Ombragé he had filmed marches and rallies, writing the names of those involved that he could muster; writing their slogans from behind street corners and from overlooking roof tops and balconies. It was almost fate, that when he had made his way back to the city's rail station he happened to have bumped into an old associate from older scoops in the city: Mireille Delatte.

"How are you?" he had asked in his not-so-perfect Cynfel.

"Fine." she would reply in a casual smile, as if they were friends whom had been parted for naught but a few days.

What had caught his attention, like a seductress weaving a veil about his neck, was when she had mentioned her purpose. "I'm investigating new leads into the Carlyle case." This was it. This was his break, the big story that he could film, report on -- tell the world the story from a different angle. A new lead. And no one in his journalistic circles seemed to have mentioned it; but really why would one if they had heard of it? He certainly wouldn't have. Delatte had been generous enough to even invite him along, highlighting that his expertise in the field as a journalist could come to some use.

"If not me, at least the camera." He would joke, running his hang along the back of his head.

Even if nothing were to come of it he could still use it. That was what he had told himself. If this was but another dead end his goal could change to getting to Erika Carlyle. She detested the journalists, the cameras and it all. But speaking to her, breaking her out of the cocoon that was the Carlyle Expedition on her life would be a merit in and of itself.

And if even that were to fail; this involved Jackson Elias. That man sold things. That was good, too. And a man with a good taste in smokes. Always a respectable persona in a man.

He dampened his hands in some water from the wash basin, rubbing his eyes awake to freshen himself up. He pondered what to do. The stewards had already made it clear through clenched teeth that smoking was not permitted aboard. Nervousness had also kept him away from most social interactions, especially as he oversaw his gear be kept and stowed safely and properly.

But now was no longer the time to hide behind his shell. Adjusting his fedora and redoing the buttons on his black suit for the third time, he stepped out of the washroom with a powerful gait. He had heard the hustle and bustle of people moving to the pub and despite the fact he did not drink he felt that mingling would be an ideal solution. The rapports, the rapports -- how important they were.

The dim orange light that pierced through the gaps between the door and its frame were the key give aways; as were the muffled voices from within and the clinking of coin.

Tired and worn hands, hands that had held a rifle as much as they had typed keys to parchment, pressed against the swing door. There they were sat, their silhouettes caked in the orange glow from the above lights. The black leather stools had a nice shine to them, almost making them seem more inviting and warm than they truly were.

Holding his hat to his chest he gave a pleasant smile to both.

Kenkichi cut into the brief silence with his accented Cynfel, a heavy tone if there was one indeed. "My sincerest apologies for my reclusiveness; Mlle Delatte and her distinguished guest." He held out a hand to the man at the bar. "Higa Kenkichi; Freelance Journalist."

[Inoroth]

FAS d'Meilleur
Klippenstaad Aerodome, Varenhold
16 January, 1910
7:47 Local Time

The Fanaglian girl to faced backward while walking forward as she answered, not a terribly comfortable or graceful-looking pose:

CYNFELI "You know, Professor, I can't say I know for sure. With all of the time I've spent around the territory of the Pannas Tritios, I've heard more than my fair share of stories from the travelers I've met. Horrifying stories, really, about magic and curses and necromancy and all sorts of strange hoodoo. While I've never seen any such thing with my own eyes, I've never laid eyes on the Lord Almighty, either. Although, with certain...unpleasant things in the world, I have similar doubts about both."

Ah, so Delatte felt that way, then: a doubter, just like old Elias. Better too suspicious than too trusting, with the former folk far more tolerable than the latter. Certainly a respectable position, in many ways the simplest answer to the hardest question... still, there were just enough unexplainable phenomena to make it unsatisfactory, those one-in-a-hundred genuine articles refusing to be rationalized away, at least for Lord Luciano. Not that a more complete explanation had been forthcoming, despite his considerable inquiry into the realm of spirits and ghosts. Although it pained him to admit it, he knew less about the ethereal now than he had when he began seriously investigating it.

To his unending frustration, it seemed no model or system currently devised or employed had truly ordered the supernatural, made it into the respectable science it deserved to be. Others might be content with blissful ignorance of the subject, or be able to simply ignore troublesome evidence for the sake of their sanity and peace of mind, but that gift of comfortable cognitive dissonance had not been Luciano's lot, not for many long years now.

Without fully realizing it, Lord Luciano slowly slipped into that brand of pontification all academics are accustomed to, as though he were back at the College lecturing:

CNYFELI "I envy your fortune then -- how easy it might be to discount all accounts of phantasms if one has not seen with their own eyes. Nearly all tales of ghosts and goblins are fictions, perhaps with a root of truth, but fictions none the less... but there are just enough accounts where the dismissive rationalizations are insufficient.

The trouble with the supernatural, of course, is in the word itself: quite literally 'those things beyond the natural'. But that window of the unexplained has been closing for as long as mankind has been curious to explore and capable of understanding, the noose of Reason drawing ever tighter on the realm of Religion. Once fire was a devouring demon, now it warms our homes and powers our great engines of manufacture. Electricity was the tool of vengeful gods, now it illuminates our rooms in intervals so well understood that they can be accurately measured and billed for by the power companies.

As we learn the inner workings of 'supernatural' forces, they are recategorized as natural forces, ones that we can control and utilize. Consider the other wonders achieved even in the past few decades, with radio and helium and chemicals and countless other advancements spanning the full scope of human understanding, each coming faster than the last.

Why should heaven, or whatever it may be, be the exception? Why can't Man one day uncover the last stone, and learn even the Mind of God? I do not know what form the spirit world will be found to take, but I have seen for myself that, on some level, it exists -- and if it exists, we can know it. We achieve feats that would have been considered utterly magical not five decades ago, and I shudder to think what we will have uncovered five decades hence. I am confident, however, that someday we will understand spirits as well as we understand gravity or electricity, and if fortune favors us, it will be within our lifetime."

As he took a pause to breath, Luciano realized that perhaps he was blithering on about something the lady might not be terribly interested in. He decided to just stop talking for a bit. Before he had the chance to become fully embarrased, they rounded a corner in the hall, revealing his salvation -- the ship's bar. It was dark, and clearly closed at this hour, but Delatte seemed relieved as she inhaled deeply, making a bee-line for the good stuff. Clearly, she noticed his hesitation, as they were certainly breaking some rule by being here without a steward or stewardess. As she got behind the counter and began assembling her drink, she cheerily said:

CYNFELI "Seems the bartender's turned in for the night. No matter, just leave a few Krôms in there and we'll be fine... What will you have, Professor?"

Stammering, he steadied himself on one of the small round stools and instinctively wiped his forehead with his kerchief. This was happening, he thought, and, simultaneously struggling to accept the deviation from order while also trying to think about nearly anything something else, he accidentally began his second lecture of then night:

CYNFELI "Y-y-y-yes, thank you... you know, it's funny: that Fanamedu you're pouring has a rather peculiar false-etymology back in my country. 'Fanno' is the third-person plural present of 'to make', while 'mi' and 'du' are slang for 'me' and 'two', respectively. So, many Inorothians believe that the name 'Fanamedu' is literally 'make me two'. While incorrect, I find that mistake rather applicable to this particular situation -- I'll have a double Fanamedu, one the rocks if they have ice, please."

Just as the Inorothian seemed to be relaxing, the door behind him swung open with a sudden jolt, the swinging door smacking against the wall with a loud 'thwap'. Faster than the human eye could follow, Luciano sprang to his feet and swung round to face the possible threat, his posture tense and ready for action while the blood pounded in his ears as his eyes darted about. Before him stood a middle-aged Korrukan man, tall for his people, and rather well dressed.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark and his heart rate began to return to normal, Luciano thought he recognized him from embarkation, though he had not seen him since then. As if to confirm this, the fellow began speaking slowly and deliberately, as one less familiar with a language would:

CYNFELI "My sincerest apologies for my reclusiveness; Mlle Delatte and her distinguished guest. Higa Kenkichi; Freelance Journalist."

With one hand, he held his hat comfortably but firmly, while the other he thrust towards Luciano in the manner of confident and important burgesses back home. 'A man of action, eager, and with little patience for pleasantries, most likely.' he thought. Smiling, Lord Luciano took the man's hand slowly, gently nodding as they shook.

CYNFELI "Mr. Kenkichi, a pleasure to meet you. I am Lord Luciano Errante Raminotto, but Professor Raminotto or Professor Luciano are sufficient.
Miss Delatte was once a student of mine, and it is by that connection that I am here -- it seems you two are already acquainted, so am I amiss in assuming they you will be joining our little expedition?"

'There, now the Korrukan knew he was not as impatient and aggressive.' Luciano thought as he sipped his drink. Although he wasn't certain, the Pianese nobleman thought h he detected a slight look of disapproval as he did so.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

FAS d'Meilleur
Klippenstaad Aerodome, Varenhold
16 January, Republican Year 43
Minute 48 Hour 19

The thrum of the engine, a constant companion since leaving Fanaglia, had long since faded as the airship moored in Varenhold. In its place was the humdrum of the thousands of people who worked in or near the aerodome. Hetezchiqwe found that he favored the mechanical rhythm of the engine to the organic chaos outside. At least the engine bore no ill will on his mind, as sometimes the shouts of foreign rabble were wont to. It had been over a 10 long years since he'd last seen combat in the jungles and swamps of the Qarilik, yet even now the babble of foreigners and the liquid cling of a humid land were apt to make him uncomfortable. It was a weakness of his that he disdained. It wasn't his innate disregard or scorn for foreigners that he hated about himself, that was natural as some cultures were inherently inferior. Rather it was that he himself felt a times almost frightened to be among them. That weakness had been with him since the jungle.

Casting aside his thoughts on such an uncomfortable topic, Hetezchiqwe sat up from his cot. The cabin aboard the airship was small. It was adequate for his purposes however. No need for more room than that of a chest and cot. Anything more was simply wasteful extravagance. Though, a Mendean airship would have been somewhat better built. The airship was good....for a Fanaglian. He reached for the top of his chest and lifted off a pair of leather sandals. They were well made by a craftsman in Nekhdjehenet and just as well worn. After lacing them on, he stood and grabbed him robe from the hanger on the wall. Though he had been on assignment in Fanaglia for over a year, Hetezchiqwe refused to wear their clothing. It simply wasn't as comfortable as good Mendean clothes. Nor as practical. By the Ancestors, how was one supposed to excavate a ruin in a suit? So he wore the traditional robed tunic and sandals of Menid. It went down to about his knees and was tied in the front. The red cloth was pattered with a simple silver thread. Under it he wore a white tunic. It was all held together with a nice leather belt. Nothing was garish, at least in Menid, but it was well made.

He heard the distinct mumbling of conversation outside and he paused to try and listen. It sounded like his student, Mireille, and his colleague, Professor Luciano Raminotto. He didn't dislike Dr. Raminotto, nor did he like him. He was a veteran yet also a noble. A professor who, at least in the past, had done a real day's work. It was also obvious that the Professor suffered from Soldier's Sickness, an affliction that struck most men who fought in the Great War. Taking into account all these things, Hetezchiqwe found that for now he could tolerate the noble. Mireille was a smart girl, a credit to her sex. She was more than willing to get in the dirt and wasn't afraid to work for a living. When she asked Hetezchiqwe to join her on the mission to aid Mr. Elias, he leaped at the opportunity. He had worked with Elias before, with regards to the Pannas Tritios and other tribes. His mentor, Dr. Sorel, has also worked with the man. Aiding Elias was only the right thing to do, with the added benefit of getting back into the field and away from the shallow largess of urban living.

The clamor from the bar section of the aircraft increased. It seemed another person had joined his colleagues. Through the walls of the craft, Hetezchiqwe could not make out the exact words or even languages and accents of the speakers. He assumed Sinfel Yazik(Cynfeli) since that was the language most seemed in care. He decided he'd go check it out. If anything, he could see if the bar had some Arakh or Vodka. He unlocked his cabin door and set out. The pub was down the hall from the passengers cabins, a path impossible to lose. He could see three people in the bar. Mireille was at the bar, serving drinks and the Rothian Professor was standing before her. Like all Fanaglians, Mireille seemed at home with liquor in hand. A Korukkan man stood more to the side. Hetezchiqwe was right, they were speaking in Cynfeli.

Walking past his peers, he too went behind the bar. It seemed that the two were having some Krupnikas or something of the sort. Fanamedu perhaps. He didn't mind the spiced versions of the drink, but for now he was looking for something a bit harder. There, below a rack of Camelone Whisky and a bottle of aged spiced cider from Svalheim was a small bottle of Araka. The distilled milk beverage was the national drink of Menid and one of the most popular. It's undistilled form, Kumis, was only 2% alcoholic. However Araka was distilled and mixed with some kefir and grain alcohol to make a beverage stronger than wine and weaker than vodka. It was the only dish for the descendants of horselords.

With a smile, he straightened and said in Mendean "Спасибо господину, большая часть выпивки здесь! | Spasibo gospodinu, bol'shaya chast' vypivki zdes'! | Thank the lord, most of the booze here is swill!" He turned to the others and offered it up. At the same time, he said "Mireillechika, Vrach Raminotto, would you care for a drink?" As he hadn't caught the Korukkan's name he couldn't verbally offer but he also gestured to the man.

[Fanaglia]

"I envy your fortune, then," Professor Raminotto told Mireille as they walked down the hall. "How easy it might be to discount all accounts of phantasms if one has not seen with their own eyes..." She was glad she had her back to him as they walked, for, otherwise, he would have seen the smirk on her face.

He never does stop lecturing, does he? She mused to herself. Although she could hardly fault the man; she herself was apt to ramble on about topics about which she was passionate, but which most people may not find particularly interesting. It was easy for her to recall friends' and associates' eyes glazing over whenever they'd get her started rambling about the ballast systems on the new Tagan R-4 racing dirigibles. She respectfully listened, making mental notes on several of his more interesting points, as he rambled on. He really was quite a good speaker when he was lecturing -- when he felt he had control over a situation and command over his audience. It was rather different from the way he was when he did not have such control, such as the moment when he had bumped into her in the hallway.

When Mireille asked him if he'd have her fix him anything from the bar, he stammered, ""Y-y-y-yes, thank you..." and the nervous man returned before quite shortly returning to his lecturer role. "You know, it's funny: that Fanamedu you're pouring has a rather peculiar false-etymology back in my country. 'Fanno' is the third-person plural present of 'to make', while 'mi' and 'du' are slang for 'me' and 'two', respectively. So, many Inorothians believe that the name 'Fanamedu' is literally 'make me two'. While incorrect, I find that mistake rather applicable to this particular situation -- I'll have a double Fanamedu, one the rocks if they have ice, please."

"I'd heard that too," she said as she poured the drink. "Although the travelers I've ferried usually use the "me" and "two" in a far less polite sense. Here you go, Professor."

Just then, the door to the pub swung open and struck the wall, the handle striking a well-worn indentation in the wall beside it. Far more startling, however, was the professor's reaction; the poor, rattled war veteran leaped to his feet and spun round, ready for a fight. It was only Mr. Higa, Mireille's journalist associate they had happened to bump into in Rotstern. "My sincerest apologies for my reclusiveness; Mlle Delatte and her distinguished guest," he said warmly in his thick Korukkan accent as he made to shake the professor's hand. "Higa Kenkichi; Freelance Journalist."

"Mr. Kenkichi, a pleasure to meet you," the professor replied as he shook the man's hand. "I am Lord Luciano Errante Raminotto, but Professor Raminotto or Professor Luciano are sufficient. Miss Delatte was once a student of mine, and it is by that connection that I am here -- it seems you two are already acquainted, so am I amiss in assuming they you will be joining our little expedition?"

"I am quite happy to say that he is," Mireille said. "Mr. Higa and I have done business in the past when he was doing some work in and around Bosquet Ombragé and when we happened to run into each other back in Rotstern, it occurred to me that it could be quite beneficial to have a photographer and someone to publish our findings (and, with Jackson Elias involved, there will surely be at least some sort of story to tell) and he was eager for the interesting, new angle on a popular, old story."

As she said this, Dr. Z. entered the room through the still-open door, his robes flowing around him as he made his way directly towards the bar, a man on a mission, saying nothing to anyone until he'd found what he was looking for: a small bottle of Araka. He said something in Mendean as he poured himself a drink and offered it to the rest of the people in the room, speaking in Cynfel for the first time since entering the pub: ""Mireillechika, Vrach Raminotto, would you care for a drink?""

"None for me, thank you," Mireille responded as she lifted her glass of fanamedu in the air to show him. "I'm already set. How has your flight been so far, Dr. Z?"

[Senkaku]

FAS d'Meilleur
Approaching Klippenstaad
Varenhold

---

Faïçal yawned and stared out his cabin window, rimmed by a few frost crystals, at the billowing clouds rising up through the evening sky outside. He could feel the thrum of the airship's engines as they battered their way towards Klippenstaad against the biting northern wind- fortunately, thus far it had been a fairly smooth ride. The stately vessel had made swift progress since setting out, and soon they would be arriving. It had been an interesting journey so far, and Faïçal had no doubt that the plot would only thicken upon their arrival.

Outside, the northern twilight was fading, the sky's dark bruises deepening as the western horizon faded and drained of its warmth.

---

Not even two weeks previously, he had just arrived home from a party on Simya Beyul's yacht on Lake Balshun, to find a telegram waiting for him. The next morning, over breakfast at the villa, as one of his servants re-read it to him, Faïçal had sat and thought for a moment, sipping his pomegranate juice thoughtfully as he looked out over the Golden Strait at the sparkling sapphire waves, the waving palms lining the beach, the passing ships and the distant green shores of Koh Arij.

I'll go. Why not?

His servants had spent the afternoon in a frenzied whirlwind of packing and preparing, and the next day they loaded his baggage onto the train as he headed up to the North Harbor aerodrome to catch the flight to Cynfel. The trip had been uneventful, besides a brief and pleasant encounter with a couple occupying one of the other first-class cabins, and then he'd had a few days in Cynfel to re-acquaint himself with the charming city before heading off to Rotstern to meet Jackson's pilot friend. He recalled flying on her airship a few times, but he'd never quite established how she and Jackson were acquainted.

But then, there was so much he hadn't established about Jackson, and the company he kept.

---

I need a drink. It's not even 8, the bar should still be open, right?

Faïçal rose from his chair, throwing on a heavy white fur coat that rose around his neck and fell almost to his thighs- the temperature dropped off sharply outside his cabin, since he had his little electric heater running as hot as it could manage to try and ward off the cold. The citizens of the Free Imperial City of Khadar were many things, but cold-hardy was not one of them. He also traded his warm slippers for a pair of black boots, which in the fading natural light and glow of the lamps seemed almost to blend in with his dark pants and shirt.

He stepped out into the narrow hallway, strolling towards the bar, where he could see lights- but upon arrival, the bartender was nowhere to be found, only a few of his fellow passengers, including Mireille. He smiled brightly and inclined his head to her as he noticed her lifting a glass of fanamedu, and spoke in almost-perfect Cynfel.

"My dear lady, so nice to see you- I don't suppose there's any more of that to go around, if I wanted to have a glass?"

[Fanaglia]

"Ah, Monsieur Teck! So glad you could join us. Oui, of course; there's plenty to go around," she said as she filled him a glass. "Just leave a few krôms in the dish for the real bartender. Everyone, this is Faïçal Teck, who is, from what I understand, an antiquities expert of some sort, no? Monsieur Teck, this is Monsieur Higa Kenkichi, a photojournalist from the Clockwork Empire, and professors Luciano Raminotto and Het Zhakshakulovy from the Tagan College of Arts and Sciences in Cynfel City." As she handed Teck his drink, she silently congratulated herself for not butchering Dr. Z's surname too badly.

[Razonica]

Tagan College of Science and Technology

Sevia had decided to wear her business clothing to the college. It would be rather unusual for her to come wearing Razma leathers, ir even just traditional Razonican clothing. All the patterns and layers of Razonican dress would have given her away easily. Though, still had her sword hung from her belt. It was Razma tradition to do so, and she was of the Tribe now.

She'd had her supplies sent ahead of her to where she would be staying, but had kept some of her books and personal studies of cultures and histories with her. After all, she might be prompted to show something to prove she was truly worthy of the group. Everyone always demanding some sign of intelligence from Razmas, particularly because most of the world saw them as either a cult of lesbian savages or some low class Razonicans. The Razma were not a separate people, technically. The Razma were, like most Razonicans, of Raz ethnicity. Some, like Sevia herself, were not Raz nor even Razonican.

Sevia had never been to this land before, though she'd studied their culture briefly in a Razoncian university. The invitation from her friend had been one reason, to meet her relative Anders another. But the true reason she'd come to this college was to meet some man or woman of her field and impress them so much that she might have a chance to study under them, to learn more, and to publish international works. Perhaps this journey itself could do that.

The young woman earned a few questioning glances as she walked into the college carrying a sword on her hip. Thank the Everparents her handgun was under her vest, hidden away behind her jacket. She almost asked were to go, but remembered that she'd been asked in telegram to be discreet. She chose to walk the halls, searching for her relative Anders. Hopefully, he'd have found the others by now. Or, perhaps, the others would find her.

[Inoroth]

FAS d'Meilleur
Klippenstaad Aerodome, Varenhold
16 January, 1910
7:51 Local Time

For a moment the man was silent, the pause slightly awkward for all involved. Mr. Kenkichi still seemed to be formulating his answer when Miss Delatte kindly interjected for him, presumably on account of the language barrier. 'Considerate as always' thought the Inorothian as she explained:

CYNFELI "I am quite happy to say that he is, Mr. Higa and I have done business in the past when he was doing some work in and around Bosquet Ombragé and when we happened to run into each other back in Rotstern, it occurred to me that it could be quite beneficial to have a photographer and someone to publish our findings (and, with Jackson Elias involved, there will surely be at least some sort of story to tell) and he was eager for the interesting, new angle on a popular, old story."

Professor Luciano nodded understandingly, and turned back inquire further about which sorts of stories Mr. Ken preferred to report on or something to that effect. Instead, his eyes shifted to a second figure who now appeared in the doorway. As Professor Luciano was already facing in that direction, and because there was no accompanying sudden crash upon the man's arrival, and lastly because the fellow was quite familiar, an embarrassing repeat of his earlier panicked display was not forthcoming. Instead, the Pianese professor smiled sincerely and extended his hand to the approaching figure, who perhaps did not notice. At any rate, he passed the three of them by without so much as a nod and began rummaging about behind the bar.

'One must wonder', thought Luciano to himself as he allowed his hand to drop back to his side again, 'Whether this curious behavior is an oddity unique to Professor Zhakshakulovy as a person, or whether it is to be found among a number of Menid's many untitled elites.' It did not strike Luciano as unreasonable that a society which emphasized egalitarian principles and the raw ambition that a lack of codified societal structure imposed might produce in large number the sort of direct and focused mannerisms Professor Het regularly displayed. Long ago, Professor Raminotto had concluded that there was no malice behind his odd behaviors, beyond perhaps the mild distain which the Mendean held for most Eiren customs in general, a fact to which his current outfit testified. It was simply that Professor Het had no interest in following the protocols of a foreign culture, seemingly preferring to behave according to his own code and devil take those who were offended -- which had grown into a not-inconsequential crowd over his tenure at the Tagan College.

Suddenly, Professor Luciano realized he was lecturing to himself, and decided it was best to return his attention to the Mendean 'Socialist", who by now had wrestled some small and vile brown bottle from the depths of the liquor cabinet and triumphantly held it up for them all to see, forgetting his audience for a moment as he proudly announced:

MENDIAN "Spasibo gospodinu, bol'shaya chast' vypivki zdes'! "

When all he recieved in return were stares ranging from confused to amused, he corrected slightly and began mixing Mendean and Cynfeli:

CENFELI (Mostly) "Mireillechika, Vrach Raminotto, would you care for a drink?"

Being a gentleman, and Miss Delatte being a lady (as well as having been addressed first by Professor Het), not to mention unsure of whether he wished to sully the smooth flavor of his Fanamedu with... what could be charitably described as the unknown, Lord Raminotto waited while she answered:

CYNFELI "None for me, thank you, I'm already set. How has your flight been so far, Dr. Z?"

The Inorothian's face furrowed for a bit as he finished considering, before he tossed a second coin into the jar and silently indicated that he would take a small amount, but a very small amount, to taste. Before Professor Het had had the opportunity to either answer Miss Delatte or begin pouring Luciano's second drink, a fourth person entered -- this was rapidly becoming a crowd, and the number of people in the cramped space was beginning to make Professor Luciano uncomfortable.

This fellow was another he had seen when they boarded, known by reputation as the son or nephew or something of a powerful Khadari merchant family. Special considerations were made for 'his highnesses" entrance onto the ship, and he had been surrounded by porters carrying his many bags onto the ship -- not his stowed luggage, which presumably required half of the ship's lift capacity to bring along, but merely the presumed 'necessities' the Khadari Burgess would have need of during the flight.

Although Lord Raminotto had not confirmed the rumor, this was supposed to be one of the men Dr. Elias had personally requested for their mission, and he certainly carried himself with grace and arrogance befitting old money who were high-ranking nobles in all but name. With only a mild accent, the effortlessly addressed their leader, Miss Delatte in what was increasingly obviously the language everyone on the team had at least a rudimentary understanding of:

CYNFELI "My dear lady, so nice to see you- I don't suppose there's any more of that to go around, if I wanted to have a glass?"

Now, Professor Raminotto was not known by his acquaintances as a proud man, nor as one over-concerned with financials beyond his discrete investing, being a man of considerable means in his own right who did not like to flaunt it... but compared to the wealth and power this Khadari fellow doubtless commanded, it was difficult for even a refined nobleman not to feel a tinge of envy somewhere in the general awe at the complexity of managing and accounting for such an estate -- why, this man might disregard thrice the total sum of Luciano's whole worth as a rounding error for one of his lesser trust accounts.

Partly to ease out out of discomfort at the number of people in the closed space, and partly to avoid interacting with the latest and by far richest member to enter, Professor Luciano began edging towards the far side of the bar and tried his best to look interested in anything other than the latest guest. His plan was ruined by the (most likely) unintentional introductions Miss Delatte gave the man. Luciano smiled as best he could while managing a half-hearted wave, and returned to swirling what remained his Fanamedu in his glass.

[Senkaku]

"Ah, Monsieur Teck! So glad you could join us. Oui, of course; there's plenty to go around," she said as she filled him a glass. "Just leave a few krôms in the dish for the real bartender. Everyone, this is Faïçal Teck, who is, from what I understand, an antiquities expert of some sort, no? Monsieur Teck, this is Monsieur Higa Kenkichi, a photojournalist from the Clockwork Empire, and professors Luciano Raminotto and Het Zhakshakulovy from the Tagan College of Arts and Sciences in Cynfel City." As she handed Teck his drink, she silently congratulated herself for not butchering Dr. Z's surname too badly.

Faïçal smiled at her, his teeth as dazzlingly white as porcelain or the bleached fur of his coat. "An expert? You flatter me," he said to Mireille in a conspiratorial, faux-shocked stage whisper, his eyes widening for a moment in exaggerated shock before crinkling with self-deprecating mirth. He turned back to the others, raising his glass of fanamedu. "A pleasure to make all your acquaintances," he said, inclining his head graciously and taking a sip. He glanced back at Mireille for a moment, surveying the room as he took one of the stools at the bar- the Rothian professor looked somewhat uncomfortable, but everyone else seemed fairly at ease.

He reached inside his coat, procuring a cigarette and an exquisite platinum lighter inlaid with sapphires. The servants were always careful to leave a box of cigarettes (always Lucky Lotus Golden Plus, a high-end Khadari brand manufactured by the Teck Tobacco Company) in the inside pocket of his jackets, along with one of his lighters- he was slightly pleased to see the platinum one, an old favorite, and it matched his silver watch nicely, with the pale blue diamonds glittering on its face. There was a quick flash of golden flame, and then he took a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red orange, jetting the smoke out through his nose and pensively regarding his drink for a moment.

Then he looked up, shaking his head slightly and looking back to Mireille. "But how rude of me, after you so kindly poured me a drink! May I offer you one as well, or anyone else?", he said, looking around the room as he finished the sentence and pulling out a few more cigarettes.

[Yasuragi]

Mere moments after Teck had taken the first or second drag from the cigarette, sending a faint haze of nicotine-scented smoke -- not unappealing to the senses, really, but visibly present nonetheless -- swirling around the small lounge and bar, an imperious cough came from the doorway on the far side of the lounge. Swiveling in their chairs, the expedition would see a smartly-dressed porter, dressed in the traditional uniform of a civilian airman, the badge of the company prominently displayed on his shoulder. Safety carabiners clinked softly as the man moved, currently not hooked to anything, but clearly well tended and oiled, showing signs of use, but not wear and tear. Raising a hand slightly, he gestured towards the small brass plaque that hung at eye level besides the door, which clearly read 'No Smoking' in no fewer than three different languages. "Monsieurs, Madam," he spoke in clipped Cynfel, "we have arrived at Gellir Patrekssen Aerodome, Klippenstaad. My apologies for the turbulence throughout the evening; we have been in a holding pattern whilst waiting for the evening winds to abate. It is now," he unhooked a wieldy and overly large pocketwatch that hung on another chain by his waist, consulting it briefly before hooking it again with a practiced gesture, "approximately half-past seven in the morning."

As if on cue, the very frame of the airship rumbled loudly, sending minor vibrations coursing throughout the ship. The liquids within each man or woman's glass sloshed slightly, and each and every one swayed as the ship's momentum halted abruptly. In the distance, very faintly, they could hear the cries of the mooring crew as they shouted back and forth in a foreign language - Cynfel-accented Varen - communicating with the crew manning one of the many towers of the aerodome. Peering out of the windows, the expedition would see numerous mooring towers breaking through the fog and mist that still dominated the area, albeit dissipating slightly more quickly in the morning breeze. The bright orange light of the sun, previously and primarily blocked by the dark night-time clouds, was making more of a comeback, shining wanly on the scene. Beyond the mooring towers, the tall curved shapes of innumerable airship hangars breached the fog banks, appearing for all the world as a pod of whales breaching the surface of the water.

"I am afraid there is little time for complimentary breakfast or beverages, madam, monsieurs," the porter said, inclining his head politely. "There is another storm approaching; we must offload all of our passengers and cargo as soon as possible. Your cabins are already being seen to. It is our pleasure to have enjoyed your patronage." With that, he nodded and gave a short half-bow, and a final glare at Teck's cigarette, before departing through the corridors on his business. The sounds of clattering luggage and half-sleepy murmurs of awakened guests filled the corridor as he departed; the ship was coming awake.

---

Mirielle watched, shivering slightly in the chill breeze and cold of the harsh Klippenstaad winter climate, as imposing bulk of the d'Meilleur slowly dwindled overhead as the wooden elevator clacked and clattered downwards towards the roof of the aerodome below. Although not even one of the truly massive airships, the Fanaglian craft was still impressive in her own right, especially when surrounded by smaller passenger and cargo airships that serviced Klippenstaad and nearby areas. The cold would diminish slightly as the elevator passed through the roof of the aerodome, revealing a city in miniature underneath the massive hangar. Dozens - if not hundreds - of buildings were crammed into the space, lit brightly by electric lamps lining the bricked paths and roads that marked the ways through the aerodome. Movement caught her eye as she saw other elevators moving up and down identical woode spires, carrying passengers up to the mooring spires and the waiting airships, or instead, crates of exotic or mundane goods, with stevedores perched precariously on top of the swaying and rattling platforms. The elevator shuddered one last time as it came to a squeaking halt, and the operator hauled the doors open, allowing them to spill out into the relatively warmer air. The shops nearby each had signs, the Varen lettering identifying them as customs offices, shipping offices, cafes, bookshops, and many other associated buildings that inevitably clustered around airfields and aerodomes around the world. Behind her, and the rest of the expedition, struggled a small band of stevedores and porters that sweated, strained, and restrained muffled curses as they manhandled the dozen or so small - but heavy - trunks and pieces of luggage that carried all their clothes, equipment, and other accouterments.

It was worth noting that Mireille had never been to Klippenstaad before, and certainly knew nothing of the city - nor enough to get around. She had made arrangements for her accommodations at a modest hotel - the Klippen-Muninssen - one with a reputation for modesty and propriety - a bonus when an unmarried young woman was traveling with equally unmarried men that were not her family - via Johann Kinder, Jackson Elias' publisher and primary point of contact. Kinder had no clue when Elias would return to Klippenstaad beyond the details mentioned in the mysterious communique a month prior, nor where he would surface once he did return to the city. As such, the two had made an appointment to meet at Kinder's office in the afternoon of the 17th, in order to best discuss the mystery that had been presented to them by their mutual friend, Jackson Elias. It was still early morning on the 16th, however, giving Mireille and the expedition a full day and a half in Klippenstaad, a large, strange, and bustling city.

As she passed through the streets of the aerodome, a tall, well-built Varenholt man with tousled blond hair, green eyes, and a warm smile, hailed her in fluent, albeit accented, Cynfeli.

[The Biosyn]

Gellir Patrekssen Aerodome, Klippenstaad
January 16, 1910
Morning

CYNFELI”Bonjour! Mademoiselle, Messieurs,” Anders said, tipping his fedora hat with his right hand, his winter coat and scarf draped over his left arm. “Good morning! Welcome to Klippenstaad, capital of Varenhold! I hope you journey here wasn’t too rough with the storms we’ve been having here the past couple days. However!” He said, broadly gesturing at the buildings inside the aerodome, and beyond the walls, where the rest of the city lay. “Even in the winter, Klippenstaad and the surrounding area has much to offer, much to see!”

As he spoke, he took in the group he was addressing. The woman, probably Fanaglian, and several men, one that seemed more nervous than the rest; a Mendean who was robed in their traditional garb, good for the heat of Menid, less so for the winters of Varenhold; another whose nationality he couldn’t yet identify, though he seemed to be someone either rich, important, or both; and the last, a Tiantian.

CYNFELI“If it isn’t too bold of me, but for such esteemed visitors, who I imagine want to enjoy their holiday here in Klippenstaad to the fullest, I would be happy to offer my services as a guide and, if needed, translator during your stay. Oh! How rude of me. How can you consider employing my services before I properly introduce myself. I am Anders Halvorssen, at your service.” He said, cheerily, proffering his free hand for a handshake.

[Fanaglia]

Mireille was somewhat surprised to meet someone so easily who spoke such fluent Cynfel. She found it somewhat suspicious that he knew to address her in that language out of all of the tongues she could hear being spoken around the busy and cosmopolitan micro-metropolis in which the travelers then found themselves. She recalled the day when she first experienced the bustle of Cynfel City -- her provincial sensibilities easily overwhelmed by the size, the noise, and the chaos of the big city, she had accepted the help of a young boy offering, like Anders Halvorssen, to show her around and help her get a sense of the city before escorting her to Tagan College. Not fifteen minutes later, he led her along a "shortcut" -- a narrow alley out of sight of the foot traffic of the main streets -- another boy leaped from behind a refuse bin, cut the strap to her handbag, and ran off with the other boy to disappear with all of her money into the crowded street they had just left. She was fortunate to have found a police officer that day who was kind enough to give her enough money to hire a cab to take her to the school; the officer also made sure to warn her about trusting strangers who prey on naïve and unsuspecting out-of-towners like her.

Of course, in Cynfel City, she was alone. Here, she was with friends, or, at least, a group of men she felt she could at least somewhat depend on. And, she realized, that they had all just stepped off of a Fanaglian airship -- Cynfel would have been a safe choice of language to make for someone looking to do a little bit of business. A translator would be useful in a place where she did not know the language herself, nor was she aware of any of the others in her party being particularly familiar with the language. And Klippenstaad was a big place; she hadn't the foggiest idea of how to find the hotel that Elias' publisher had booked for them. Perhaps they did, in fact, need the man's services, for at least as far as the hotel. If he proved useful, perhaps they could continue to accept his services. Returning his handshake, she said to him, "Monsieur Halvorssen, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Mireille Delatte. My traveling companions and I have actually had quite the long journey from Rotstern and I am sure I speak for us all when I say that, before we set out for any exploring, we would like to make our way to our hotel, where we have rooms reserved for us, and where I believe we have another friend there waiting for us already." The friend she spoke of was the exorcist Faolan Mahoney. She and Reverend Mahoney had met several years prior when he had been summoned to the household of the Genevard family in Bosquet Ombragé and he had hired Mireille's services as a sky taxi. Although she was a Catholic and he was a Protestant, she admired the sunny disposition the reverend maintained despite all of the darkness he had witnessed, both on the battlefield and in his work as an exorcist. The two had remained in touch via regular letters in the mail and he was one of the first people she told (other than her mother) when she decided to leave Bosquet Ombragé to join Jackson Elias on his assignment. Perhaps a strange addition to the team she was asked to assemble, but it was, after all, a strange mission. "Could you show us the way to the Klippen-Muninssen, Monsieur Halvorssen? And what might your fee for such a service be?"

[Camelone]

Faolan put his backpack down on the bed of the hotel room that Ms. Delatte had the foresight to inform him of before he embarked on this journey, a journey that he had no problem with thus far. When he arrived off of an airship his contacts from his former Battle were able to secure for him all he did was find an officer of the law and asked for directions, it worked remarkably well to as he arrived safe and sound only taking a few wrong turns in the end. Though he must admit that the hardest part of the entire trip was just trying to go, his wife was not to keen on him leaving when the matters were not related to church business and his bishop took a lot of coaxing as well to get his approval. While they held an amiable enough view of Jackson Elias neither thought it was important enough for him to leave his congregation and family for an unknown amount of time, thankfully they relented in no small part due to his constant speaking of it and appealing to the Order of Exorcists, well now everything is history as they say. Faolan had been wondering the entire trip so far what it possibly could have been that Mr. Elias had found that needed such a team to aid him, it truly was a perplexing mystery that he was eager to find out.

As he sat in the hotel room his mind began to wander to what brought him here, the events that put him into contact with Ms. Delatte, certainly an act of Providence to meet someone with such an eccentric common acquaintance. To hire one of many sky taxi's and finding the one who had a connection of Mr. Elias was highly unlikely and he could remember that time very vividly, it was unfortunately one of the times that Faolan would have to use prayer and blessings to aid a family and not simply proscribe a meeting with a doctor or just talking with the local reverend. No matter how long that he had been doing this the fear always emerged at first when the signs reared their ugly head, one could never get used to something so unnatural and foreign and most of all evil. Despite the fear and unnatural power that stood before him that day one thing was sure the Cross would be victorious and it was, it took a few days but the boy was released of the demon that had been plaguing him for so long and the family given the peace that they so sought after for such a long time. That was what kept him going all the time and got him out of bed in the morning, the hope that came from the Cross and the inevitable victory that was to come, with that in mind there was nothing that could hamper his spirits or cause him to much distress for nothing could truly harm him if his soul was safe in God. Cracking a smile he grabbed his Bible and began to read the Scriptures, it was a good way to pass the time and he certainly did have to pass some time for he had no idea when Ms. Delatte and the rest of her group would be arriving, one of the unfortunate side effects of arriving early.

[Liecthenbourg]

The Korrukkan journalist clasped his hands together and watched as the porters shifted the hefty camera from the ship at port. They were ashore, at a fantastic aerodome. A quick reading of the signs, and the landing crew as they ported, led him to believe it was one called Gellir Patrekssen. They had come ashore and he had incessantly demanded "we must allow for me to film this". He would pace about, itching for a cigarette, "stories, my fellows!"

They would be remembered for eternity. Anything to do with Jackson Elias sold. And everyone read it.

A tirade of information from a local, and the Korrukkan businessman managed to catch the last of what was said. The accent was pleasant. He couldn't recall having come to Klippenstaad before, nor having heard someone from the area speak Cynfeli. Or he might have. Honestly, what mattered was that this sounded pleasant.

A thud and the camera came down with a graceful thonk onto its legs and the porters began doing their best to remove its more delicate wrappings: cloth and the like.

"I am Anders Halvorssen, at your service."

Slipping through after the only person he knew well enough did her introduction, the slick -- if eccentric -- Korrukkan freelancer took the man's hand. "Higa Kenkichi, at yours."

A mental note caused the man to turn on his heels with a gracious bow, turning to Mireille. "I hope you do not mind..." he swallowed, running his tongue along his teeth in contemplation. "But I really do believe getting a shot of us and the airship would be most... beneficial to any story of this I would wish to publish. If you wouldn't mind?"

[The Biosyn]

Gellir Patrekssen Aerodome, Klippenstaad
January 16, 1910
Morning

CYNFELI”Mademoiselle, thank you for considering my services,” Anders said, still speaking in such a bright, chipper manner that was starkly contrast by the chill winter breezes that wended their way through the aerodome. Shaking her hand, and then the gentleman who introduced himself, “Higa Kenkichi, at yours,” he continued. “Dear sir, welcome to Varenhold. Mademoiselle, messieurs, yes, I know the way to the Klippen-Muninssen and can most certainly guide you there.”

“I hope you do not mind…” Higa Kenkichi said, turning to Mireille. “But I really do believe getting a shot of us and the airship would be most... beneficial to any story of this I would wish to publish. If you wouldn't mind?”

A few minutes later, after Kenkichi had acquired his shots and given everyone leave to move once again, Anders rematerialized next to Mireille. “I would be happy to lead you and your companions to the Klippen-Muninssen, and anywhere else required. For my services, as both guide and translator, package deal, 60 cents an hour would be sufficient, up to no more than $4.80 for a day.” Removing his fedora hat and placing it upon his chest, as if in supplication, he turned to the side, as if clearing and indicating the path they would take. “If Madamoiselle Delatte and Messieurs find that agreeable, then we can be on our way, though perhaps we should find ourselves a shop and get you all right proper winter coats. Even without the storm the sailors say is coming, winters here are no walk in the park!”

[Fanaglia]

Mireille shifted uncomfortably. Sixty cents an hour could potentially be quite a fair amount in the end, and they hadn't been paid yet. She had already spent most of her savings just getting to Klippenstaad. She looked to her more well-to-do companions for some help negotiating with the man. To buy herself some time, she said to him, "I had already donned my cold-weather clothes before disembarking, Monsieur Halvorssen, which should be more than adequate, but thank you. Although I cannot speak for my companions. Do any of you require any warmer clothing? And what do you think of his offer?"

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Het was still rubbing his eyes after the camera flash when Anders approached Mireille again. He was not a fan of the devices, if only because they reminded him of the flashes in the dark from the jungles of Asterdan. The young man had quoted a price at $4.80 a day. Het did not believe that the price was terrible but the inner Mendean in him yearned to barter it down. However, the young man was trying to make a living and Het could not fault him for that. Better to make a friend with the young intrepid fellow, rather than alienate him by acting the role of cheapskate *bag. And if Het hadn't missed his guess, Anders was somehow connected to the....more grey parts of society. Not that it was a bad or uncommon thing of course. Very few longshoremen in Menid weren't at least on good terms with the Thugges or Tahvilis crime families. And besides, while he had brought a warmer robe and boots, he was already getting a bit cold. He withdrew a 2₮ coin with a gold inner circle and silver outer circle. He flipped it to Anders.

"There's the wage for today, Anders Halvorsevich. It's two Tomans, which I believe is more than enough for your fee. Now I heard you mentioned shopping for warm clothes. Davai! Let's go. I myself am in need of clothes for the brutal Nordesian winter. It is far too cold for Mendeans here, we prefer our tropics." At that last bit, he gestured to his already heavy robes that nonetheless had failed to keep the bite of the wind from his cheeks.

*Bag(s) = Wealthy People

[The Biosyn]

Anders expected they would try to haggle his price down a bit; everyone tried, especially, in his experience, the wealthy travelers he would peddle his services to. Thus, when Mireille turned to her companions, asking them what they thought about his price, he was surprised when the Mendean, of all people, tossed him a coin worth more than what he was asking for. He’d found them, or at least the handful he’d been a guide for, bankers and businessmen all, they’d been the shrewdest and the least willing to part with their coin.

He caught the coin, and, after regarding it for a second or two, estimating it’s value, he turned to Het. “Thank you, Monsieur,” Anders said, his already smiling face somehow smiling more, indicating that he found his payment more than acceptable. “You are right. Please,” he said to the group, though especially to Het and Mireille, “Consider my services yours for the day.” He began to lead them through the aerodome towards an exit. “This way, though not the most direct to the Klippen-Muninssen, will take us right past a good shop for winter clothes, for you all, Messieurs. And not to worry,” he said, expounding upon the shop, fully stepping into his role as their guide “their prices are reasonable, the quality is, I think, some of the best, and, even better, it’s right here in the aerodome!”

He gestured at the shops they passed as they walked, “As you can see, there are a good number of shops in the aerodome. After the first, and much smaller, aerodome was destroyed during the War, about 15 years ago, they decided to rebuild it bigger! And that meant business needn’t completely dry up in the winter because no one wanted to go out in the cold. And, it means that visitors, such as yourselves, won’t find themselves frozen to the bone the moment you step off the airships.”

[Yasuragi]

Gellir Patrekssen Aerodome, Klippenstaad
Morning of January 16, 1910

The biting cold of the Nordesian winter was famous, indeed. Even though Klippenstaad lay nestled between high foothills that provided a modicum of shelter from the westerly winds, the proximity of the capital to the sea meant there was no respite from the icy breeze that frothed the tops of the waves before sending them crashing heavily against the shore. Even the hardiest men and women recalled that winter as being especially cold, and especially bleak. Oppressive clouds had hung over the city for longer than usual, and more winter storms had raged than previously recorded - and the winter was not yet even over. Yet, the mood was upbeat within the Aerodome -- and eavesdropping on passing conversation and commentary, echoing in a dozen different languages as the party followed Anders -- would reveal why: the city had recently been choked by a persistent fog and smog weather phenomenon that had persisted for weeks without change. Not even the watery winter sun had driven it away, nor the cold sea winds. The fog had clung to the city tightly, making it so it was shrouded by perpetual dusk.

Freed from the tyranny of the mysterious fog, which had lifted just two days prior, and further blessed by a bright sunny day and lack of biting wind, the citizens of Klippenstaad were in fine form - and the shopkeepers within the aerodome were happy to take advantage of this, advertising their wares in the artificial streets and alleyways within the massive building. Entering within the nearest one, with Anders ushering in Mireille first, gallantly, the party soon found themselves equipped with a wide variety of winter coats, gloves, scarves, shawls, and other assorted sundries essential for comfortable traveling within Varenhold. Anders, of course, leaned against the counter of the shop as the shopkeeper and his female assistants bustled around the party, measuring and examining, followed by exclamations of exaggerated delight as a particularly appealing cut of cloth was held up for the group’s appreciation. A half hour later, their pouches a tad bit lighter - Anders’ a tad bit heavier, thanks to the cut the shopkeeper had slipped him - and with Faical’s servants straining to haul the now-heavier luggage behind them, the party set forth for the main entrance to the aerodome.

Joining the steadily thickening streams of passengers moving throughout the aerodome, they passed shop after shop and elevator after elevator before emerging into a marbled entry-hall, dominated by a large statue of a man, Gellir Patrekssen. “And this! Madamoiselle and Messieurs,” Anders said, gesturing grandly at the statue before them. “This is Gellir Patrekssen. One of the early leaders of the Rebellion. He wasn’t a Mask, but he was a good friend of the brother and sister Masks, Dove and Magpie. Though his faction of the Rebellion was rather, ah,” here Anders gave a little cough at remembering the rumors that had spread like wildfire after the Drachen raid of the Rebellion’s location, “rather brutally put down by the Drachen forces in the city, his death pushed Lady Dove and Lord Wolf to get over their differences, something Gellir Patrekssen had ceaselessly encouraged them to do, for the good of the Rebellion.” As he spoke, Anders guided the group to the front of the statue. Once there, he bid them wait but a moment while he would fetch them a ride.

Ahead, Anders had disappeared through the glass-framed doors that led outdoors, there to find the appropriate transportation. The overlabored servants, clutching the luggage of the group, followed him slowly; the group would not be delayed by the servants attempting to pack the top or trunks of the cars. They had just barely reached the doors when Anders re-emerged inside; catching sight of the servants, he clapped one of them on the shoulder and gestured to one of the cars, speaking quietly to the man. With a nod, the servants disappeared through the doors, and Anders returned to the party, a slight smile on his face.

---

Klippen-Muninssen, Klippenstaad
Later that morning, January 16, 1910


“Madam, it is our pleasure to be at your service,” the Varenholt said in accented Cynfel, bowing slightly after Mireille had introduced herself. “Of course, we have your reservation on record, and you have been vouched for by Mr. Kinder. A series of rooms for each of you, along with accommodations for your servants. One second, if you will allow me, Madam.” He turned to one side to tug on a series of wires and cables that hung to one side of the desk; the wiring trailed up to the ceiling before vanishing through a series of holes drilled through the flooring; presumably these were signaling bells, intended to summon a host of servants and maids to carry their luggage and escort the group throughout the hotel. For now, though, the lobby was mostly empty, with perhaps a half-dozen people, excluding their group, scattered throughout it. Lush Pahadan carpets covered most of the flooring, while the wood and stone walls provided solid protection from the elements outside, keeping the heat from a raging central fireplace well-contained. A handful of leather chairs lay scattered discreetly around, most occupied, mostly kept in small nooks. The large bookcases around the lobby hinted at a previous history of the hotel, but few of the Varenholt in the lobby paid much attention to the dusty tomes therein.

Speaking of the Varenholt…. The clientele of this hotel were seemingly more conservative than many of the Varenholt the party had seen at the aerodome. Nearly every one of the guests, and certainly all of the servants - including the concierge - wore the masks that were the epitome of Varenholt and Drachenvolk culture. The masks were, of course, different in subtle ways, marking the distinction between rank, class, age, and gender with ease - provided one knew the subtleties of Antlitzschrift - the language of the masks, as many Eiren academics called it. A subtle cut there, the carved upturned lips here, the coloration of the eyelids -- all this and more provided a dozen context clues as to the identity of the person wearing it. And that, of course, was without even discussing the nature of the materials that had been used to make the mask in question, which told you even more about a person’s priorities or financial situation. Oh yes, Varenholt masks were fascinating to many, and untold reams of paper had been spent on documenting the differences in style and substance over the past century. In many Eiren countries, it was now the fad to replace the fantastical and mythological creatures common to masquerades with elaborately carved and elegant Drachenvolk masks -- no longer would they become unthinking creatures, but instead they would adopt the identity of some Drachenvolk or Varenholt, slipping with ease into the shoes of a common farmer, sailor, or merchant.

To those that did not know anything about the masks, the effect was rather unsettling. The hardened nature of the masks - the “second face” as academics were wont to call it - created a rather alien tone to every interaction. Talking with a servant was perhaps even more unsettling, as the smooth surface of their ever-smiling masks was marred with large carved symbols of the hotel on their forehead. The entire effect was not unlike that of a brand upon a Pahadan slave.

Not more than a minute or two had passed after the concierge had pulled the wires before a servant’s door to the right of the desk opened, revealing the neutral faces of a half-dozen maids and porters, smoothed horns marking the men from the women. The two women approached the desk and turned to the concierge in sync, while the men passed by Mireille to approach the rest of the party, splitting even as they did. Two bowed deeply to the group, before politely asking them to follow, while the remainder went to Faical’s servants, and, grabbing a piece of luggage themselves, bid the servants to follow to their accommodations.

“Madam Mireille,” the concierge said with a dip of his head that may or may not have been the equivalent of a smile, his horns gleaming in the electric lights above the desk, “may I introduce Ragna Olsdatter? She will serve as your, ah, chaperone during your visit here. You may rest assured that she, and the rest of the servants, will do their utmost to ensure your privacy and modesty remain unchallenged, and that nothing will cast even the slightest doubt upon your honor. That is, of course, the guiding principle behind the Klippen-Muninssen.. If you so desire, she will also be available to accompany you outside of the hotel at no additional fee, should you desire feminine company of unimpeachable virtue and integrity.” Another dip of the head, before the mask turned to the woman he was introducing. “Madam Mireille is residing in the seventh room on floor three; the Haruspex suite.” The shrill ringing of a telephone echoed throughout the foyer like a harsh buzzing noise as the phone on the counter behind the concierge rattled slightly. With one last nod, he turned to pick up the receiver and began a hushed conversation, pressing the receiver to the mouth of his mask.


Ragna, her black mask partially obscuring the carved symbol of the hotel on her forehead turned to Mireille and nodded respectfully. “If Madam will follow me,” she said, her voice sounding kind and matronly, “then I shall escort Madam to her rooms, and then, perhaps...a bath, Madam? You must be tired from your travels. I shall have one of the other maids draw a hot bath while I unpack your luggage and hang your dresses. Would Madam care for some food, as well? The kitchen prepares a delicious --”

“Madam Mireille.” The concierge interrupted, and Mireille and Ragna turned back to regard him. He stood in the same place, but now his arm was outstretched across the polished counter, holding the polished mouthpiece. The phone itself, which had been on the wall behind him, now stood on the counter between Mireille and the concierge. “It’s for you, Madam,” he nodded at the receiver, urging her to take it. As she did so, the metal oddly cold to the touch, the concierge and Ragna withdrew to a respectful distance, allowing her to take the call in peace. Nestling the transmitter by her ear, she raised the phone to her lips. “Hello? Who is this?” She said in Cynfel.

Long seconds passed, interspersed with the crackling of a poor connection, before a voice echoed back up the line at her. “Mireille!” Jackson Elias said, an uncharacteristic but slight tremor in his voice. “Is that you?”