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Mon Nov 28, 2016 1:38 pm
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Gravity says...



Maeve Walsh

I had risen early that morning, just as I had every morning before that, the sun barely peeking out from between the trees and the ashy fog that seemed to rest permanently over the town of Inverstadt. As a result, I could never quite feel the rays of the sun upon my pale skin, and I drew my cloak around me with a shiver.

I strolled down the street, ready to get that morning's edition of the paper on the presses. But something I saw stopped me.

There were a few carriages lined up haphazardly outside the inn, officials exiting them and running inside. The gears of the clockwork horses ground to a stop as they were abandoned outside, their hooves pausing mid-step. My eyebrows immediately shot up to my forehead and I brushed my wild curly hair out of my face. What in God's name is going on?

One of the guests was outside, clothed in nothing but a thin tunic and leggings, he had undoubtedly been asleep.

"You, sir, what's going on in there?" I addressed him, standing tall.

"Th-th-there's a body," he said pointing, his teeth chattering. I could feel it there, in the pit of my stomach: the roots of a great story.

"To whom does it belong?" I asked.

"I'm n-n-n-not s-s-upposed to s-s-say," he chattered on, crossing his arms.

I held up a few coins, a sizable amount for anyone of his income. He wasn't exactly staying in a palace.

He took them and then he gave me the chilling name, a name that had been heard across town for several days.

"August Schulz."

***************************************

"Care to explain this?"

The paper dropped on the mahogany desk with a thump, the headline blaring out at me from the front page. Murder! Traveling delegate found stabbed in the cellar of Elliot Inn

"It's a perfectly normal newspaper sitting on a perfectly normal mahogany desk. What else is there to explain?" I tried not to let my unease show through as I stared at the clockwork duck waddling to and fro across the desk, it's miniscule gears fueling the repetitive movement.

"Look me in the eye and say that," demanded Ephraim Frankford, editor in chief of The Interstadt Inquisiter. A.K.A. my boss.

I forced myself to meet his piercing blue eyes. "I'm sorry sir, I saw the opportunity as I was passing by and I had to take it."

"Yes, but to change the front page article without my consent," he fumed, "I'm the editor in chief, Maeve Walsh. I know you've been after my job from the start, but that gives you no excuse to change the front page article without doing me the courtesy-"

"With all due respect, sir," I spat, "You were cozied up in your bed while I came early to make sure this edition would be on the press and ready to go by the time you stumbled in. This is the biggest news this town has seen in years. Did you really expect me to let the rumor mill fuel this story?" When I finally finished speaking, I realized the severity of what I had just said. My job was on the line and I was letting my temper get the best of me.

"Very well then," the graying man spoke, wiping his forehead with a hanky, "this is your story."

My mouth dropped open so far, I was afraid my chin would hit the floor. "What?"

"You're partially right. This is big news. But now, you get the hassle of getting a room at the inn and following this story. I expect to hear about every single little detail. And, if you intend to keep your job here, you will receive half the commission you normally get for your articles."

I glared at him from underneath my hair.

"Good luck, Miss Walsh. If at any time you decide you can't handle it, feel free to let me know. I'll give this groundbreaking opportunity to somebody else."

Without another word, I stormed out of the publication office of The Inquirer, across the street and into the bookshop.

"Filthy, ancient, dusty old man," I muttered underneath my breath, putting on my apron as I began to shelve books, "I hope he goes to hell," I couldn't afford to receive half the commission I normally got, nor did I have the time with my job at the bookstore to keep tabs on this story. I wanted it, yes. Desperately. this opportunity could pave my way into the world of journalism and define my career.

I just wasn't sure how I could make it work and not starve.
And the heart is hard to translate
It has a language of its own
It talks in tongues and quiet sighs,
And prayers and proclamations

-Florence + The Machine (All This and Heaven Too)





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Thu Dec 01, 2016 2:12 am
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Megrim says...



Vincent Haas - Elliot Inn

Vincent removed his hat and held the brim between fidgeting fingers as he waited at the Elliot Inn bar. A slight wave and quiet exchange with Miss Leslie, and he'd arranged to speak with Mr. Elliot shortly. She'd offered him a drink on the house, and given the day's events he was half-tempted to accept, but he thought resentfully of his empty pill bottle and considered that alcohol and joint fatigue probably wouldn't be a good mix.

Instead, he sat at the bar with his hands cupped around a chilled mug of honey-milk. Expensive enough for a town like Inverstadt, but he couldn't help feeling foolish holding a child's drink. Especially with the gargantuan, half-bionic foreigner seated at the opposite end of the counter, forking sausage down his throat as if they'd just come out of a famine. Vince watched him eat out of the corner of his eye, noting the intricate needlework of his patterned vest and the unusual logo etched on the brass of his clockwork. The only visitors wealthy enough for such accoutrements would be the delegates. The non-murdered ones, that is.

He'd just about resolved to strike up casual conversation when the inn's door banged shut and a straight-faced, no-nonsense woman stalked toward the delegate. If Vince had thought the delegate stuck out as from out-of-town, this woman could have been from the moon. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin--but more than that, she carried none of the small-town openness and cheer that Inverstarians shared with each other. Like a storm cloud sweeping into town, part exotic beauty, part frightening unpredictability.

Vince's resolution quickly changed to that of removing himself from the situation as quickly as possible. He swept his mug up from the counter--careful to tilt it so the others couldn't quite make out its pale contents--and scurried to an empty two-seater by the window. Unfortunately, he was so busy being careful about his drink, he failed to take the same care with his surroundings, and crashed straight into the only other person moving around in the entire restaurant.





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Thu Dec 01, 2016 3:42 pm
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Ljungtroll says...



Gideon Deering--Elliot Inn
Gideon watched as the woman took the delegate aside, eyes glittering with interest and wariness. She was definitely from out of town; he would have remembered seeing her before. Her dark skin, eyes, and hair suggested an origin from a southern country, and her manner suggested she was someone of importance, which, Gideon supposed, she was. He'd heard there had been a foreign detective called in, but he hadn't expected a woman. Not that he was sexist. In fact, Gideon had great respect for women; they found ways to be smarter than men and make their life hell at the same time.
He rose, paid for his meal, and headed for the door. He wanted to finish the beetle before nightfall.

As Gideon strode down the street, umbrella in hand, he pondered the Admiral's contempt for Delegate Schulz. He hadn't hidden that he disliked Schulz, even going as far as to say the man deserved what he got. That made him a possible suspect for the murder....Gideon shrugged. He was a tinkerer, not a mystery-solver. Leave that stuff to the detective.
Gideon entered his shop and shrugged off his coat. Removing his hat and hanging it on the stand, he rolled up his sleeves and headed into the workshop. There was work to do.
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin

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Fri Dec 02, 2016 7:18 pm
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Lael says...



Aidan Elliot - Elliot Inn

Aidan turned as he heard Lyn's voice calling his name from the base of the stairs. He walked back down, but slowly.

"Aidan, what took you so long?"

"What did Mr. Haas want?" asked Aidan, spying the man sitting alone at the bar.

His sister sighed. "He requested to see Father, but never mind that. I need you to help me out." She glanced over at the pub, where an exotic-looking woman was speaking to Admiral Pentecost--another delegate--with their heads bent slightly. "Leslie just came and told me that the lady over there is our detective. Detective Aleja."

"Oh," replied Aidan. "So she'll try to find out who killed Mr. Schulz, then?"

Lyn nodded. "She needs a room, and I've already seen to arranging one for her. We have a good amount of rooms, after this whole incident," she muttered bitterly.

"Lyn, you shouldn't worry so much. You're getting married and leaving here soon."

"I know, but I am and always will be an Elliot, just like Rae. This inn is our family's pride and legacy!" She shook her head and swiped at an eye. "Anyways, what you need to do is talk to Father about clearing one of those back rooms. The detective needs one . . . I suppose for an investigation room. Father's probably in his office. Maybe you should also have him meet with the detective later."

"It would put him at ease, I'm sure," murmured Aidan, nodding. He sighed inwardly. "I'll go and talk to him now."

"Actually, wait," said his sister. "I think he's talking to the sheriff right now, handing over the cellar key, or something. You should hold on for a while."

"Cellar key," Aidan murmured to himself.

"What's that, Aidan?"

"Hm?" Aidan blinked. "Oh, nothing. I'll speak to Father for you later."

"Thanks, baby brother." Lyn gave him a peck on the cheek. With thoughts now elsewhere, he absentmindedly returned the kiss and hugged her briefly before she hurried off, probably to the kitchens, and he headed back towards the pub, casting a glance down at the bar as he walked.

His gaze flickered over Miss Badger and then Admiral Pentecost and Detective Aleja, who were still speaking in hushed but obviously strong tones. Was this outsider, though imposing and well-put-together as she seemed, really capable of solving this case?

He seriously wondered if anyone was.

Then, he collided with someone, and a warm, sweet-smelling, goldish-white drink splashed all over the front of his shirt, vest, and trousers. Aidan's shoes could not avoid the same fate, either. Honey-milk?

As he stared at his clothing, dripping, the restaurant grew quiet and he could feel the eyes of all of the customers on him, and his pale cheeks colored slightly. He was glad that, at least, he wasn't standing openmouthed like a fool, or showing too much emotion.

"Oh, I do apologize!" said Vincent Haas with perhaps the most embarrassed face Aidan had ever seen. "Are-are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm . . . fine," said Aidan, mustering a faltering smile. "I'm sorry for running into you." He stepped around Mr. Haas to the bar, picking up a cloth napkin to sop up as much of the drink as he could from his clothing. It was all he could do to save face, but it was also all he could think of to calm down his heart rate. It would be a terrible time to suffer a round of his illness with the murder investigation starting soon.

What a wonderful day, he thought dryly with a small sigh, for Mr. Schulz's body to have been actually discovered, making Father so stressed. And for me to have a drink I haven't had for at least ten years to be spilled on me by a landowner in the middle of the pub, with the detective and foreigners present. I should have just locked myself in my room to practice.
"And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
Philippians 4:7





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Sun Dec 11, 2016 6:08 am
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Wolfi says...



Nilima Kelsey - Winterborough Glassblowing & Co.

"Isn't it your break time?" Suji asked.

Nilima paused from polishing a mundane goblet and looked at her watch. "No, I still have an hour left." Today had been a long day.

"Since when is your break at noon?"

"What do you mean? My break's at eleven, as always. It's ten right now." Nilima tossed the sandpaper belt aside, irritated.

"Is your watch broken? It's eleven."

Nilima squinted at the wall clock across the room. "Oh." She set the goblet on the table and picked up her satchel. "Guess I know what to do during break, then."

She slipped out the back door of the glassblowing shop and into the dilapidated alleyway, where a single shaft of sunlight squeezed through the tattered rafters. The sudden light stung her eyes, but the soft warmth felt good as it settled into her skin. She shut her eyes and leaned against the splintered wall of the shop, delighting in the gentle breeze that ruffled through her hair.

Suddenly, the orange light that filtered through her eyelids disappeared. Her heart dropped. A phantom-like wind slithered into the alleyway and surged before her flapping apron, peppering her arms and legs with goosebumps. She hunched forward, hugging herself, and glared at the lethargic monster of a cloud that had inched in front of the sun and taken away her contentment.

The wind soared and corkscrewed and dipped, taunting her as she wandered through the alleyway into the street. She took the long way to Deering's Tinkerer shop so that she could walk by the warm trail of the lava river. A light rainfall picked up and stopped again in two minutes, a time during which she could hear the raindrops sizzle when they smacked against the molten snake's scales.

She entered Deering's shop with violet hair lightly drizzled with rain and her apron dotted with wet spots like a leopard's. She kept her eyes downcast as she approached the counter, undid her watch, and slid it onto the table.

"It's broken," she said.

Deering picked it up. She didn't look up at him but could hear him pop open the back of the watch and reach for something in a drawer.

"Might cost you less just to buy a new one," he said. "This thing is shot. How old is it?"

Nilima shrugged. "Five years?"

Deering gestured toward the glass counter display of glittering watches. "Take a look at these."

She sighed and sidled over to the display, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her apron. She skimmed over the prices, and saw that she could realistically afford none of them. "Do you have any used ones?"

Deering turned and opened a cabinet. He cradled three watches in his hand and laid them on the glass counter.

Then she saw it.

A vicious chill arrested her veins. "Oh Hephaestus," she whispered, staggering backwards and bumping into a grandfather clock. She spun away and dashed out the door.

The sun was out again and again it stung her eyes. But this time, the sweet orange-gold blush that penetrated her eyelids was overshadowed by a haunting ghostly image of her cruel master of old, the one whose watch she had just beheld.

Crying bitterly, as if her tears were trying to wash his presence away, Nilima ducked into an alleyway adjacent to the Deering's shop and waited for herself to calm down. When she had dried her face in her apron, she went in the shop again and wordlessly pocketed her old watch. Then she followed the nearby pillar of smoke to the sacrificial urn of Hephaestus the Forger.

Uttering a silent prayer of thanks for the justice done with the death of August Schulz, Nilima tossed the tattered watch into the copper flame.
John 14:27:
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Do not let your hearts be troubled
and do not be afraid.





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Sun Dec 11, 2016 3:31 pm
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Ljungtroll says...



Gideon Deering, Tinkerer's Shop
Gideon watched Nilima's reaction to the watch with surprised interest. Never had he seen someone so afraid of a memory--at least he thought it was a memory. Fingering the watch the glassblower's eyes had beheld with such terror, he stroked his chin.
"Strange," he muttered to himself, slipping the watch into his pocket and returning to his workshop.

Picking up the beetle, Gideon took a spring from the counter and pushed it into place in the beetle's mechanisms. Smiling to himself, he tightened a few screws and began to whistle a tune. It was a tune from his childhood, one he remembered his father singing to him during the heavy ashfalls. The song was about a jolly old innkeeper with a beautiful daughter and terrible wife. The innkeeper let a stranger into his home, a man offering to work for little pay. Eventually the man began to court the innkeeper's daughter, and over the months they became inseparable. Then one day the innkeeper went down to the well to fetch some water. When he threw the bucket in it bumped against something, and lo and behold, it was his daughter, drowned. The stranger was gone, and so was their money and a horse.
Gideon chuckled darkly as he picked up the beetle's abdomen plate and secured it. Then he took a deep breath and pressed a small button positioned within the workings of the beetle's mouth, using a pin to reach it. The beetle clicked to life, flipping itself out of Gideon's hand and scuttling away. With a whoop, Gideon clapped his hands eagerly. He had just created the first automaton ever to run on random gears. This meant the gears were set so they would move in random ways, causing the automaton to seem as if it had personality and decision, developing tendencies, and acting like a live animal.
The beetle, now at the edge of the worktable, spread its wings and flew into the main part of the shop, landing on the counter and crawling towards Gideon's ledgers. It tapped curiously at the leather covers, the flew up the stairs. Gideon smiled. This was the beginning of great profit, he was sure.
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin

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Mon Dec 12, 2016 1:53 pm
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Gravity says...



Maeve Walsh

"I need a room, please." The girl looked up at me, light reflecting off her glasses as she eyed the coins in my hand. Her face broke into a grin,

"Like the idea of stayin' in a murder 'ouse do ye?" she asked, giving me a wink.

"No," I said curtly and her eyebrows shot up. "I'll just log this in the books then," she said, disappearing for a moment.

When she came back it was with an iron key on a long red ribbon. "You're in room 6. Cheers," she said, flashing me another smile before walking back into the restaurant/pub section of the inn.

I untied the ribbon and then re-knotted it behind my neck. There was no use trying to drag it over my head, it would just catch in my hair. Exhaling, I slung my leather bag over my shoulder and my rucksack onto my back, beginning the trip up the stairs and staggering down the hallway into room 6. I unlocked the door and flung it open, heaving my bags onto the bed.

I unpacked the few blouses, skirts, aprons, and dresses I had. I had maybe 5 outfits all together. I was well aware I had more than many who lived in Interstadt, especially the poor, but all my clothes were stained from the dust and ash and I sometimes wished I had something a little nicer.

"I'll have some hash and a pint of ale," I told the barkeep, "A roll if you've got one." What I really wanted was a fresh glass of water, but that was hard to come by if you weren't wealthy. Most of the water took on a grayish pallor and left a strange taste in your mouth. While the ale was technically alcoholic, it didn't do much for me.

I turned on my barstool, trying to inconspicuously look around the pub of the inn. Although, it was hard to do anything inconspicuously when you had flaming red hair. There were only a few people sitting at tables and I imagined business hadn't exactly been booming since the body was discovered the previous day. The barkeep set my food in front of me and I began picking at the potatoes, making sure it was all cooked through. That's when the glint of metal caught my eye.

I kept my eyes trained on my hash, but subtly glanced at the man sitting a few stools down from me at the bar. He was digging into a pretty lavish breakfast plate and I inhaled slowly, smelling bacon. Most people couldn't afford bacon, it was one of the more expensive cuts of meat and I'd only had it on a few occasions. Without meaning to, I stared at the man, watching as he put each morsel into his mouth. My mouth watered, I could only afford hash but chewy meat and undercooked potatoes wasn't really anybody's idea of a good meal.

"Can I help you?" he asked, turning to look at me suddenly. Once I got a good look at his face, I realized he wasn't from Interstadt. I knew the names of the wealthiest families around here and he wasn't one of them. That must make him...

A Delegate. The word popped into my mind and I couldn't push it away and I needed fodder for my news-story. What if I could somehow charm him into letting something slip?

I turned my back away from him for a split second and loosed the drawstring tied at my collarbone. The slight v of the dress had seemed too "risque" at the time my mum bought it for me, so she had put in a string to hold it closed, once I opened it I understood why. It left part of my chest exposed.

"Yes, I believe you can," I said jumping down from my barstool with my mug of ale. I felt horribly awkward attempting this, but my voice easily turned from rough and grating to smooth and silky. My blue eyes and bright red hair attracted attention and I found my stance leaning suggestively against the bar quite natural.

"I don't believe I've seen you in town before," I inquired innocently leaning forward a little bit to emphasize my slight cleavage. You're such a whore! my brain screamed internally, but I pushed those thoughts away. I needed this story.

"I'm not exactly local," the man admitted, fixated firmly on my face.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Harenam," he replied. The confirmed my suspicions, he was the delegate from the East Coast.

"You must be one of the delegates, then," I said letting my hand fall underneath the bar and onto his knee.

He saw right through me.

"Yes, I am," he said, gently but firmly moving my hand away. He tossed a few coins on the counter, "The stays of your dress are loose." he paused, "Good day, miss."

He left the pub after that and I self consciously fastened the stays, tying the drawstring that held the neck of my dress closed. "Damn," I muttered frustratedly.

I eyed his plate and took the last piece of bacon before going to finish my own meal, which had grown cold. I saved the bacon for last, savoring the crispy, smoky taste as it melted in my mouth.

After I finished eating, I decided to investigate a little bit around the inn. Throwing on my threadbare coat, I shivered as the cool autumn air caressed my face. I made sure to check in the alleys, behind the rubbish bins, anywhere a clue might be concealed. Unsurprisingly, I didn't find anything. Even if there was something to be found, no doubt the detective had already confiscated it. I ended up wandering the surrounding area of the inn. I already knew it like the back of my hand, but I intently watched the passersby and observed their reactions to the inn. Some of them deliberately avoided it, others glanced at it with interest and some just ignored its presence.

I groaned as I saw the admiral walking down the street, back towards the inn. I knew he would see me because of my damn hair. I quickly ducked into a nearby alley and nearly trod on some glass shards.

I allowed the shadows to conceal my pale visage as he entered the inn. I waited a few seconds, and then immediately searched for the broken pieces. Even though the glass trade did well here, glass wasn't a material often wasted. Give it a rest, Mae, I told myself, It's just a bit of broken glass. You need to keep searching elsewhere.

I stopped cold, not moving. The glass shards appeared to belong to a broken figurine of hephaestus. One shard in particular had an unmistakable blood stain.

I quickly sketched the broken pieces, wrapped them in a handkerchief and grinned to myself. I knew what tomorrow's headline would be.

Image

Spoiler! :
And the heart is hard to translate
It has a language of its own
It talks in tongues and quiet sighs,
And prayers and proclamations

-Florence + The Machine (All This and Heaven Too)





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Sat Dec 24, 2016 4:10 pm
Rydia says...



Admiral Dunagan Cornelius Pentecost

The redhead was pretty but Admiral Dunagan believed in propriety so he kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face, which ought to have been pretty enough in any case, especially when framed by the masses of coiling, red curls. She was easily as pretty as the detective, if not quite so exotic, but her insistence on baring her skin to him was somewhat disturbing. Dunagan had never, ah- that is to say women weren't exactly something the admiral had a lot of experience with so he found it easier to brush off their advances than to let himself believe they were interested in anything other than his title.

"You must be one of the delegates, then," the redhead said and the warmth of her hand slid along his knee and sent tiny goose-pimps all the way up his leg. It was all Dunagan could do to keep a straight face and he knew then he had to get out of there.

"Yes, I am," he said, gently but firmly moving her hand away. He tossed a few coins on the counter to pay for his tab. "The stays of your dress are loose." Dunagan paused, wondering if he should say something about Mortem but the young lady seemed chaotic enough already. "Good day, miss."

Dunagan strode out into the cool, crisp air and felt better immediately. He glanced down at his mechanical arm and nodded to himself then set off in search of the right kind of shop.

It turned out that there were a lot of the right kind of shop in Inverstadt but not all of them were quite to his liking. A glance through the window of the first showed many pieces of mechanical equipment in various statuses of repair but on closer inspection, the prices were high and the work was shoddy. A second store seemed more promising but the master metal worker delivered the bad news that he could fix the casing and iron out the dent but didn't have the right kind of bulb to finish the job.

"I'd prefer for it all to be done by one pair of hands," Admiral Dunagan apologised.

"Ah but of course, but of course. You might try this man, a Gideon Deering-" the shop keeper scribbled down an address. "He's a competitor, of course, but you tell him I sent you and perhaps the next time he's out of parts then he'll send someone my way."

The Admiral thanked the man and stopped people in the street to ask for directions until he found himself walking up a dark, haunted looking alley a fair distance from the warm lights of the main street. The admiral didn't feel afraid exactly, even with the one light broken, the blue light cast by his mechanical arm served well enough and he was more than capable of dealing with a few thugs if they thought to send him walking into a trap. But a familiar wariness had crept up his left shoulder and lodged itself in the twist of his spine.

Except, it wasn't a trap. The shop appeared on his right and the Admiral strode in and came face to face with his breakfast partner from that morning.

"Ah, good Sir. If I'd known this morning that you were in the metal trade, I could have saved myself a lot of walking about," the Admiral said with a soft chuckle. The man eyed him suspiciously, perhaps not quite believing in the coincidence but Dunagan knew this was more than coincidence. Ordo ab chao; order out of chaos.

"You're in Inverstadt," he said gruffly. "Nothing but metal and glass."

"Well that's good luck for me! A gentleman at 20 Silver Street recommended you, said he didn't have the parts himself but thought you might." Dunagan lifted his mechanical arm onto the man's workbench with a heavy thud and turned it around to show the broken light, dented metal and shattered glass casing. "I don't like to be without it - would it take you long to fix it while I'm here?"

There was a faint hum, something whizzed by the Admiral's head and his mechanical arm lifted, faster than it looked possible, but before he could swat the insect away, Gideon Deering pulled his arm back onto the workbench.

"I can fix this," he said, perhaps a little too quickly as his eyes tracked the path of the beetle.


It was sometime later that Admiral Dunagan headed cheerily back to the inn and thought he saw a tangle of red curls disappear into a nearby alley. He hesitated but decided against giving chase - it was probably what she was hoping for - and went instead back to the bar for another drink and to engage someone in a discussion about the superiority of his religion.
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Mon Dec 26, 2016 4:11 pm
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SirenCymbaline says...



Leslie Badger

''Hullo, there's the Admiral. I'd love to help you out, ma'am, but I'd better get back to my post.'' She left Detective Aleja and hastily made her way back to the bar. Something in those eyes made her feel as though she could read your mind just by looking at you.

She was cleaning some glasses when she heard a splash, and Aidan Elliot came up to the bar with honey milk all over his clothes. He picked up a cloth napkin and begin to mop up what he could.
''Aidan! Let me help you with that.'' Leslie moved towards him with her cloth, but he brushed her away with his free hand. ''No, no thank you, I'm fine.'' he said.
Leslie crouched down. ''At least let me help you with your shoes...''
Once she had started, Aidan didn't stop her. She started wiping his trouser legs too, but once she got to the knee she quickly stood up, blushing a little.
''There, you're almost done. Looking blinding already.'' Aidan looked at her for a moment with his eyebrow raised. ''That's a good thing.'' Leslie added.

She went back to her bartending, leaving Aidan to finish cleaning himself up.
She sorted out a room for the reporter Miss Walsh, and later found Admiral Dunagan back for more. She gave him a smile. ''Nice to see ye back, guv. What's your fancy?''
Bad souls have born better sons, better souls born worse ones -St Vincent





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JuliasSneezer says...



BRINLEY STEPHENS - Elliot Inn

The doors to the inn swung open, letting in a tense-looking sort of figure, clad in a mustard yellow jacket, wearing form-fitting black pants and black boots reaching up to her knees. Her hair was back in a strict bun, and she had a pair of goggles perched up onto her crown, and a leather satchel slung around her shoulder. She clicked over to the counter, her steely silver gaze focused on Aleja.

She stopped beside Aleja, and cleared her throat to get her attention.

Aleja turned around, looking slightly annoyed to be interrupted.

Brinley thrust her hand forward. "Brinley Stephens. Nice to meet you. The town assigned me to assist you for this case."
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Lumi says...



Detective Aleja

Aleja turned her head with a start, bore her teeth, but then recalled the sheer weight of her paperwork testing the integrity of the inn's second floor structure just a dozen yards away. With the bridge of her nose pinched, she nodded and retrieved her Ink Bee from her bag. "This is a dictophone that should capture everything my date and I are about to talk about. You sit here and make sure no nonsense comes of it."

"D-do you mean nonsense of your date...? Or nonsense of the bee...?"

Aleja looked to the bee, to her assistant. Back to the bee, back to her assistant. With her voice hushed, she nodded. "I'm not sure what I expected." A glance over her shoulder as the admiral began to approach a table for a drink. "The bee. Make sure the bee doesn't botch any words."

She composed herself and sauntered past the innkeeps, sliding a savory bribe across the counter to get their attention before she sat with Pentecost. His eyes were much less impressed to see her shimmy into his booth than the first time, and she could imagine a few reasons why. "You know, it's bad press to mix business with pleasure," she admitted, "but I figured that we've both worked our till today, so we deserve a drink or two."

"Or twenty, judging by the redbill you just dropped on the counter."

Leslie sat two small glasses of finer red liquor on the table, and Aleja picked hers up, turning the glass around to get a decent waft of the wood.

"You caught me. You should be a detective." A wry smile. "Salud."

Pentecost picked up his glass and toasted her, and they took their first drink.

"I'd like to know, Admiral, why you're in tow--"

"Ah! If it isn't my favorite two strangers in the whole of Inverstadt!"

Aleja swore a mighty swear in her head so loud the whole town could've heard - it was Maeve Walsh, the chattiest reporter. She sneered. "Come here to get another empty statement on a fearmongering piece, Walsh?"

She sat without warning and forced Aleja to scoot to the window of the booth. "You two are ab-so-lute-ly THE talk of the town, and I just have to know, personally, what your next moves are."

Pentecost cleared his throat. "I think my next move is leaving this booth. Press is bad press."

Aleja grabbed him by the ankle with her boots and clamped on, giving him a glare nothing short of a suicide pact.

"Matron have mercy, Detective! You're causing a scene!"

"Oh, spare me. What kind of image are you trying to protect? Your goddess brings order through cha--..." She slowly nodded. "Excuse me, esteemed dinner guests." She patted the table twice before quite literally crawling onto and over it to get out. "I have order to make."

"Detective Aleja!" Walsh called from the booth, writing furiously. "What's your next move?!"

Aleja fetched her duster from the coat wrack and her assistant from her huddle in the corner. "Detectives Aleja and Brinley have given much chase to the thought, and have determined that, considering the location of the body found, there is reason to believe that further evidence will be found beneath the canals. Therefore, we are petitioning city hall to cease the flow of lava from the volcano effective immediately."

As she turned and left, Brinley spoke up, alarmed. "Detective, there are horrendous repercussions to this decision. Businesses will shut down! The church will see it as an omen! E-even I see it as an omen!"

Aleja stopped by the street with her hand up, hailing a trolley. "If you see this as an omen and not the dead emissary, then there is something severely warped in your worldview."
I am a forest fire and an ocean, and I will burn you just as much
as I will drown everything you have inside.
-Shinji Moon


I am the property of Rydia, please return me to her ship.





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JuliasSneezer says...



Brinley blinked, looking rather indignant. "I would hardly think that religion should be viewed as 'severely warped' by the patient and considerate mind, Detective."

Aleja faced Brinley, deadpan. "Am I wrong in assuming, Stephens, that your mind seems to be focused on things less important than this case? If we solve this, we could protect countless people from harm. Unless that is not important to you?"

"Of- of course not!"

Aleja nodded, watching a trolley approach. "Good. I am glad that you corrected the impression." She threw open the door and stepped inside, leaving Brinley taken aback, standing on the dirty cobblestone street.

She opened her mouth, realized that she could make no argument, and closed it again, following Aleja into the trolley. The interior was simple, as could only be expected in such a poverty-stricken town. As the trolley rumbled along, a question occurred in her mind.

"Detective, surely any evidence found in the canals would be incinerated from the heat of the lava, correct?"
"When in doubt, improvise!"
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Rydia says...



Admiral Dunagan Cornelius Pentecost

Dunagan was not entirely certain how he ended up in a booth with perhaps the two most dangerous ladies in terms of his career, but somehow it had happened and even the offer of free drinks didn't make him inclined to stay there.

He cleared his throat and put his hands on the table. "I think my next move is leaving this booth. Press is bad press."

Aleja locked his ankle with her boots and gave him a glare which seemed to suggest that any further attempts to leave would require him to leave that leg behind.

"Matron have mercy, Detective! You're causing a scene!"

"Oh, spare me. What kind of image are you trying to protect? Your goddess brings order through cha--..." She slowly nodded and Dunagan wondered what she'd realised. "Excuse me, esteemed dinner guests." She patted the table twice and then crawled onto and over it to get out of the booth. "I have order to make."

"Detective Aleja!" Walsh called after her, writing furiously. "What's your next move?!"

Aleja fetched her duster from the coat wrack and her assistant from her huddle in the corner before delivering a final statement to miss Walsh: "Detectives Aleja and Brinley have given much chase to the thought, and have determined that, considering the location of the body found, there is reason to believe that further evidence will be found beneath the canals. Therefore, we are petitioning city hall to cease the flow of lava from the volcano effective immediately."

Of course, that left the Admiral alone with the temptress redhead for the second time that day. He weighed his options but the glass of red liquid was too enticing so he picked it up and took a drink. Maeve quickly claimed Alexa's glass for her own and they sipped the liquid in silence, each studying the other. Dunagan couldn't help but notice that Maeve was leaning forward in the booth so that her knees pressed gently against his, one arm resting on the table, pen hovering almost casually above her pad as she cupped her glass in the other hand.

"Well, if you don't want to tell me what your next move is, can you give a statement on how this murder affects the election?"

Dunagan shrugged and found the rich liquid had loosened his tongue.

"There's one less delegate to run against and naturally such a messy ordeal is an auspicious omen for myself."

Maeve wrote this down hurriedly, her eyes sparking with interest as she dug for more details: "So you'd say you've benefited rather well from this unfortunate sequence of events."

"Unfortunate?" Dunagan laughed and shook his head. "Miss Walsh, did you ever have the displeasure of talking to the man before he died? My own acquaintance with him was brief but it will be a cold day in hell before he's much missed by anyone around here."

The reporter started writing again and Pentecost frowned deeply and wrapped his hand more tightly around his glass. "Don't let me keep you from asking the same question of the other delegates. I think if we're quite done, I'd like to retire to my room."
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~Previously KittyKatSparklesExplosion15~

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Ljungtroll says...



Gideon Deering, The Clockwork Raven
Gideon sat at his worktable, bent over metal plates and screws. The mechanical arm had been delightfully complex, much like its owner, and he looked forward to designing the replacement parts. It would be a welcome change from straining his eyes over the beetle's miniscule pieces.
He had nicknamed the little automaton Genesis, for it was indeed the beginning of a new era. At the moment the beetle was exploring one of Gideon's grandfather clocks, much to the tinker's chagrin. He'd tried to get it out, afraid that the larger gears would crush the automaton, but Genesis had slipped away just as one of the cogs was coming down, which resulted in a very sore thumb for Gideon.
Gideon adjusted his loupe, twisting gently at a screw so that it held the plate of brass in place, then reached for a spring. It would take a good week to fully construct the parts needed to fix the delegate's arm, which would mean frequent visits from the strange man with the dark eyes. Those eyes betrayed nothing and, despite himself, Gideon felt curious as to what hid behind the cheery demeanor and pleasantries. This was one of those rare people that Gideon felt inclined to speak to, and he intended fully to get to know this man better.
The tinker smiled as he wound the spring around the screw, green eyes twinkling. This would be an interesting project.
"The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." --Ursula K. Le Guin

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crossroads says...



Octavia Van De Laar | mortuary

The third needle she took was the right size. She stuck it into the small space between the gears, her tongue clutched between her teeth in concentration. Just a light push, a spin, and... The gears clicked and moved, and she smiled with triumph. Another music box, fixed. This one was particularly pretty, too: a small masterpiece of metals and colours, delicate yet durable. She couldn't remember the name of the person she was fixing it for -- she had the papers saved somewhere in her bag, she'd check later -- but they'd surely be grateful.

Footsteps, at first quick and confident and then suddenly more hesitant. "...Octavia?"

She popped her head up to see over the table she was sitting behind. She'd taken some of the needles from it and arranged them neatly on the floor next to her, but now Mr Stein seemed to be looking for them.

He adjusted his binoculars as he stepped closer, and looked down at her. He was confused and amused -- his emotions were always the most fun when they rhymed -- at the same time. "Octavia, what are you... how long have you been here?"

She hesitated. Technically, she'd hidden there as soon as news spread about the murder. She wasn't sure what to think about it -- she was his daughter, after all, but it wasn't like anyone knew that, so whom could she talk to about it? -- so she collected a few music boxes that still needed fixing, packed them in her bag together with the notes on people who'd ordered them fixed, and let herself in through the mortuary's back entrance. She'd seen her father's body brought in, and carefully peeked out of the back room while Doctor Stein was examining the body. She'd expected the entire city to be there, but no one came to watch. Perhaps her father wasn't as important as he seemed to think he was?

"Octavia?" Stein was still there.

"Oh... a while." She stood up with a sheepish smile, returned the needles to the table and grabbed her bag in one hand, showing Stein the music box with the other. "I was fixing this, and look, it works."

"That's fantastic," he said, but his voice didn't sound right. Was he tired? He was probably tired.

"I wanted to help you out, but then I got distracted, and time flew so fast." Octavia put the music box down and reached into her backpack for the pile of papers in a file. Several sheets fell as she was pulling them out, and the doctor bent to pick them up. "Oh, thank you."

He was frowning at the one on top. "Order °37," he read and raised his eyebrow at her. "Tell me you haven't taken anything from the mortuary to sell it to someone else."

She stared at him in confusion for a few seconds, trying to remember what Order °37 could've referred to. It dawned on her when she saw the glint of light reflect in his glasses. "No! Of course I haven't, Doctor Stein, I would never." She smiled and reached for the papers. "It must've gotten mixed in with the others-- it's from the smithy, someone ordered some metal... four days ago? Maybe less, or more. I'm not completely sure."

He handed her the papers back, shaking his head with that same amused confusion. Confused amusion? No, that didn't work.
"If it's been a while, you may want to get to it," he suggested.

"Oh, I've sent it off already. I remember that." She unceremoniously stuffed it back into her bag, and shuffled through the others until she found the one she was looking for. "Aha, here it is! Well, off I go."

With that, she grabbed the music box again, gave a quick hug to Doctor Stein, and ran out the door. She was in a better mood now. Perhaps even good enough mood to go home after she delivers the music box.

~


| the Van De Laar mansion

Coming home was a bad decision. And not only for the strange, squishy food that she thought would let out a squeal if she poked it with her fork: worse. Nicholas was home, and he was in a bad mood. And when her brother was in a bad mood, everything was Octavia's fault.

"Where have you been?" He was glaring at her from his seat at the table, his plate just as untouched as her own. She wondered if he could ever be amusingly confused -- the thought brought a smile to her lips. "What?"

She turned serious. "At the morgue, and other places. I saw a frog with a fiddle." She shrugged. "Where I always am."

"Where you are is wasting money and time pretending you belong somewhere."

Nicholas' words could sting. She was used to it -- they'd stung ever since they were little children -- but that never made it any more comfortable.
"There was a murder," she muttered after a while.

"I know."

She poked the fork into her food, a grin breaking on her face as the squishy mass made no sound. "So, did you do it? Is that why you're in such a bad m--"

Her brother's hand was pressing her into the wall before she even registered he'd gotten up. Her plate fell and broke on the floor, and the chair he'd grabbed her from dropped to the side. He was close: she could see her own wide-eyed reflection in his pupils.

She took a shaky breath, expecting him to at least yell at her, but he just let her go.
"Go somewhere else. I don't feel like listening to your weirdness today."

She didn't need to be told twice.

Grabbing her bag again from the hallway, she threw on a random coat and hurried down the stairs. Several people she passed on the street held the copy of the newspaper with the news of her father's murder. She couldn't escape it -- it was everywhere, as if murdering him got his ghost released and the ghost was now possessing the entire town -- so there was no point in running from it.
Perhaps she could find a corner at the Inn where she could repair another music box.
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You'd better wise up, Pony... you get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothing can touch you, man.
— Dallas Winston, The Outsiders