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Fri Feb 17, 2017 2:01 am
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SirenCymbaline says...



Leslie Badger, Elliot Inn

Leslie was washing some glasses in the sink behind the bar, when she heard a voice from behind. ''Hey, Lessie!'' She turned to see Octavia standing there.

''Oh, Miss De Laar. What can I get you?''

''A can of oil, if you have any.'' she smiled brightly.

''Oil.'' Leslie blinked, and screwed up her face in thought for a moment.
''Yes, I've got some. But don't you usually have a can with you?''
She bent down to open the second drawer in the bar cupboard. There was an oilcan in there for the inn's automatons.

''It ran out. I had to give some to the trog at the bridge so I could pass.''

Leslie came up with the can. ''Don't you mean a troll?''

''No, I mean a trog. Only babies believe in trolls.''

Leslie shrugged, and smiled. ''Sure, why not.'' she handed over the can.
''Try not to use it all. What're you workin' on?''

Octavia took the can, and brought out a clockwork mouse from her bag.
''I found him broken in the street. Sad thing.''
Then she took the mouse and the can, and scurried off to find a corner.

Leslie found her again, still there, just half an hour before closing time. The inn's bar was almost completely deserted. ''Hullo, how's the little fella doing?''
Octavia was sitting at a table in the corner. The mouse was on the table, fixed and then forgotten. She was now playing with a little music box, about the size of a tobacco tin. It was painted maroon, with swirly vines painted over it.
On closer inspection of the box, it was actually a real tobacco tin that was repurposed into a music box.

Octavia looked back up at Leslie. ''He's fine. And his name is Otto. Otto McCaliber Deveraux Samson Au Cavalier. But he doesn't like the formality of the whole thing, so he's just Otto.''

Leslie smiled one of her crooked smiles. ''I like that name.'' she paused.
''Say, is that song- Blimey, I can't remember what it was called- it was some old cabaret song my mum used to sing.''

Octavia lit up. ''Piracy and Prejudice. I've seen it onstage. The song was 'Old Bonnie Bonebreaker.' I loved the dance that they did with it. I could teach it to you.''

Leslie's smile became a little nervous. ''Gee, that would be sweet, but it's almost closing time now. Why don't you catch me on a Sunday, then we'll talk.''
Chasing the coattails of Saint Lennox.
  





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Rydia says...



Admiral Dunagan Cornelius Pentecost

As night settled over the inn, Admiral Dunagan felt an uneasiness settle in his gut. Or perhaps it was the red liquid, though alcohol usually did nothing more than fire up his endless bounds of energy and cheerful sense of duty to his God. Whatever it was, Dunagan found that sleep would not come and so he stole out of his lodgings and down the staircase, not making any attempt to hide the clomping of his feet on the steps.

The world was too still; what he wouldn't give for a deck below his boots and a sea breeze in the air. It felt wrong for the Elliot Inn to be so calm only days after the incident and Dunagan couldn't push away a moment's doubt as to his continued interest in the place. Why hadn't he found other lodgings? Did staying here harm his political position? Should he in fact be distancing himself from the murder and resisting the urge to revel in its chaotic path? Except it was hard to see the chaos in the stillness of the night and Dunagan worried - not for the first time - that he was far better suited to the upheaval of disaster than he was the calm sense of order which his religion insisted was their primary goal. Was he unworthy of Mortem's favour? No. He was but an instrument and if he was required to be an instrument of war then so be it; through chaos he would cleanse this world and perhaps that would mean cleansing himself as well, eventually.

Without even meaning to, Dunagan found himself in front of the door to the cellar - the door which was open but barred by a thick line of rope, the kind of rope which said only law people should be standing on the other side, but only lawful people bothered to abide by such nonsense.

Dunagan lifted the rope with his mechanical arm and ducked under but apparently he wasn't the only sleepless inhabitant of the inn tonight - or the only unlawful one. Standing at the bottom of the cellar stairs was Leslie the Bartender.

"Well, they do say that criminals always return to the scene of the crime," Dunagan called out in a rather jovial tone. The small girl jumped and spun around, lifting a candle higher into the air to get a better look at him. Dunagan shielded his eyes against the light and only then realised that he'd made his way down the stairs in the dark and probably looked very intimidating standing at the top of the stairs with his mechanical arm and no light source of his own.

"Oh- Admiral. Blimey, ya gave me a fright. I was just- just checking the ale we have in storage." Leslie laughed nervously and Dunagan wondered if it was him making her nervous or something more, something like the obvious lie she'd just told.

"Of course," Dunagan replied dryly. "Me too. I got thirsty so I thought I'd inspect your ale."

Leslie's eyes narrowed slightly and her brow wrinkled in thought - he could practically see the cogs turning in her head as she asked herself what he was really doing down here. Why had he crossed the rope? Why was he not acting guilty? Dunagan found her expression quite delightful though he no more knew the answers to those questions than she did.

"Why don't you roll one of those barrels up here and we can have a toast to good fortune and not talk about why we both find ourselves with wandering feet." The Admiral turned away from the entrance to the cellar and ducked back under the rope as he retreated to a seat at the now empty bar.
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SirenCymbaline says...



Leslie Badger
The Most Incriminating Spot She Could Be Found In


Leslie stood frozen on the last stair before the cellar door.
Why, why did I come back again, she thought. I've already checked the cellar, twice now. I've left no clues I was in there that night. I can't keep coming back.

She heard a loud, cheerful voice. ''Well, they do say that criminals always return to the scene of the crime.'' She jumped, then turned around, holding up her candle to see who it was. The candlelight, shaking in her hand, revealed Admiral Dunagan at the top of the stairs, towering and impressive.

She made up an excuse almost as it came out of her mouth.
"Oh- Admiral. Blimey, ya gave me a fright. I was just- just checking the ale we have in storage." she topped it off with a feeble, nervous laugh. Nailed it.

"Of course," Dunagan replied dryly. "Me too. I got thirsty so I thought I'd inspect your ale."

What was he really doing there? Was he mixed up in this too? Leslie wondered how he could be, but decided that the more important thing was what to do now that he'd seen her at the cellar door. No-one could ever know she was at the cellar door.

"Why don't you roll one of those barrels up here and we can have a toast to good fortune and not talk about why we both find ourselves with wandering feet."
Leslie perked up immediately. If she could get him drunk enough, maybe he would wake up in the morning with no memory of where he met her. She saluted.
''Sounds like a plan, Admiral.''

The cellar door stood tall, solid and imposing in the dark. Leslie fumbled for a hairpin in her pocket, and picked the lock. She cringed at the creak it made when she swung it open. Light spilled out into the room, revealing crates of bedding and kitchen supplies on one side, and barrels of alcohol on the other.
And in the middle of the open floor, a great dark stain with a white chalk outline drawn around it. Leslie twitched at the sight. Then she forced herself to walk around it, and find a barrel of ale small enough to go under the rope.

''D'ye have any tales of sea adventures to tell? I'd love ta hear 'em.'' she asked the Admiral cheerfully as she took the barrel up to the bar.

An eager grin spread across his face. Did he not get many chances to tell stories?
Leslie was surprised at the idea. Even if she was getting him to talk to distract him from her goal, she was interested in what he had to say.
''I was once tasked with escorting a countess and her treasure across the Cerulean Sea, but it so happened that an old enemy of mine caught wind of this plan.
Casket Jones, a pirate. After a short exchange of cannon shots, he boarded, and we began to fight. Then the tempest began.''

''Tempest?''

''There was a violent windstorm.''

''Ah.''

''But old Jones had an older enemy booking a date. The Igthursth. Great squid, big enough to eat a polar bear, with strange pearly eyes. It had been tracking him, and it just so happened to find him while we were crossing swords. On my ship. In heavy rain.''
He was really getting into it now, punctuating the fights with sweeping gestures, and taking swigs of ale in between every other sentence.

''So there we were, fighting the great party crasher. It took Casket Jones and swallowed him up in one gulp, leaving me to take it on. I cut off some of its tentacles, others curled around my leg as I sprang forward to finish it- but then Jones' cutlass seared through its brain from the inside!''

Leslie's eyes widened in excitement. She took a long, slow sip of ale.

''So I had to fight him again. Persistent old bugger.'' the Admiral chuckled softly.
''Old Casket nearly cut off my other hand, but I beat him in the end. And we made it to port, we were going to stay overnight, but then I caught wind of a rumour the Countess was going to propose to me, so I... left port at the next good wind so she couldn't catch me in the morning.'' He was blushing at the end.

Leslie put her hand over her mouth, laughing a little, and shook her head.
''Aw, I don't blame ya. Pretty women- they're hard to talk to. I make a fool 'o myself every time.'' she said sympathetically.

Dunagan frowned in confusion. ''You're a woman. Doesn't that make it any easier?''

She sighed, looking wistfully into the distance. ''It doesn't.''

Dunagan raised an eyebrow, and stared for a moment. Then he shrugged, took another sip of ale, and carried on. ''I've been avoiding that port since. And my men are still joking about it to this day. Hang on,'' he said. ''Did you leave the candle down in the cellar?''

Leslie coughed into her ale. ''I did. I needed both hands for th' barrel. Don't worry, I put it out first.'' She stared intensely into her mug. The Admiral's blush hadn't entirely gone away, so the ale had been doing its job. But he wasn't quite as drunk as he'd need to be to forget about the cellar in the morning. Leslie knew it was time to pull out a secret weapon.

She opened up the alcohol cabinet she was almost too short to reach, and retrieved a fancy glass bottle, filled with a pale green liquid.
''Now, have ye ever tried absinthe? Just got some in yesterday. It's among the strongest spirits I've got, mind.''

He frowned in confusion. ''Isn't absinthe illegal?''

''It is in Harenam, but not in Inverstadt.'' She winked.

He laughed. ''Well, I'd best take the opportunity while I'm still here, then.''

Leslie opened some drawers, and took out two glasses, a silver absinthe spoon, and two sugar cubes, and a jug of cold water. A wicked glint shone in her eye.

Dunagan looked on as Leslie filled one quarter of the glass with abinsthe, and placed the spoon on top of it. She then put a sugarcube on top of the spoon, and slowly poured the cold water onto it, filling the rest of the glass. The cold water mixed with the absinthe and turned the clear green into a cloudy pale green.

''Is it necessary to dilute it that much?'' asked Dunagan.
''I told ya, it's strong. Now try.'' Leslie said brightly.

Dunagun took a sip, and his eyes widened for a second. Then he paused. ''Well done. Is there aniseed? I think I taste aniseed.'' he mused.

Leslie glowed with pride as she repeated the process with her own glass.
It wasn't just pride she was glowing with. The ale had worked its job on her too.
But another thing she prided herself in was having a moderate to high tolerance.


For the next minute, Admiral Dunagan spoke of more adventures with pirates and sea beasts, smugglers and nobles. Of course nobles took a backseat to the other, more interesting things, It seemed Dunagan never set foot in their world more than he could help it.

Leslie was glad to hear that not only were his stories fascinating, but his words were slurring. It looked like he might forget the cellar door after all. She smiled.

''Say, Admiral, would ya mind tellin' me the story of your metal arm?''
Last edited by SirenCymbaline on Sun Apr 16, 2017 12:21 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Wolfical says...



Nilima Kelsey - The Lava River

Life without a watch was weird. It's one of those little things that you don't really appreciate until you lose it.

When their evening shift ended, Nilima and Suji walked to the Elliot Inn. Nilima didn't always go with Suji to buy dinner, but she wanted to go that night because she hoped it would make her seem less suspicious. What murderer revisits the scene of the killing so soon?

As usual, they walked by the lava river on their way there. The river was thinner than usual, but the dim red glow illuminated their faces nonetheless.

"Why didn't you get a new watch?" Suji asked.

Nilima blinked. Was Suji actually attempting to start a conversation?

"Too expensive," she mumbled.

"I don't think that's all," Suji said. "You've been acting weird since you got back. What... happened?"

Oh Hephaestus. Nilima swallowed.

"I asked to see the old watches," she whispered. Dammit, tears were already welling in her eyes. "Then he showed me my old master's watch."

"So?"

She wiped at the tears with the back of her glove. "My master. He was a cruel, cruel man."

"Did he..."

"Yes. More than once." Nilima hugged her chest and glared at the ground. "Thank Hephaestus August Schulz is dead."

"Woah," Suji said, stopping. "What does he have to do with this? Was he your master?"

"No. But he's the reason why I was stripped from my family and handed over to be abused and raped. If it weren't for him, I'd have a completely different life. But here I am, like a filthy rat trapped in a maze of misery."

Suji was silent. Then she kept walking, and Nilima followed.

"I didn't know that," Suji said, finally.

Nilima felt sick, and going inside the Inn didn't help. She ordered a cheap cup of soup and sat with Suji at a table silently, poking at it miserably. When Suji finished her meal, she left Nilima wordlessly and retired to her room.

"I heard that you're glad August Schulz is dead," a woman said, sliding into Suji's empty seat.

Nilima jumped and accidentally spilled her scalding soup over. She yelped when it splashed onto her thighs. "Sorry?" she asked, her heart hammering, as she righted the soup cup and scanned the inn for a napkin.

"Here." The woman handed her a cloth napkin. Her skin was copper-colored. She didn't look familiar.

"Thanks," Nilima said. She pressed the napkin to her lap and tried to sop up the soup.

"My assistant overheard you by the lava river," the woman said, frankly.

"Oh. I think I remember saying that. She must have heard it out of context."

"She heard the whole thing." The woman looked into Nilima's eyes intently, but sympathetically. "I'm sorry about your past."

Nilima swallowed.

"But even so, it was wrong of you to murder Mr. Schulz."

Nilima's eyes flew open in incredulity. "I didn't kill him!" she cried. "I might not like him but I didn't kill him. What good would that have done, anyway? The past is the past. Killing him can't undo what happened."

The woman nodded and rose, but Nilima could see it in her eyes that she wasn't convinced. "Would you like me to buy a fresh cup of soup for you?"

"No, no," she said immediately. "Thank you, though."

The woman smiled and left.

Who was that?

Nilima supposed she should have asked. Perhaps some sort of foreign detective?

Her body shaking, she hurried out of the inn, eager for the stifling warmth of the glassblowing shop.
Romans 12:2:
Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but
be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

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Rydia says...



Admiral Dunagan Cornelius Pentecost
In the Lost Realm of Hangover


Alcohol usually did nothing more than fire up his endless bounds of energy and cheerful sense of duty to his God but curse Mortem, this morning was different. The Admiral didn't so much as wake up as he was rudely dumped into the land of the living with a head that felt like the Seven Dwarfs' mine and a throat dryer than the Sunspear Dessert. Dunagan flopped out of bed and crawled to the little sink in the room where he threw his head under the tap and had a drink and a face bath.

The Admiral stayed like that for ten minutes and then finally righted himself, now feeling both bloated and not more than a little bit nauseous. He needed food but unfortunately he needed to keep up appearances as well.

It took twice as long as normal for Dunagan to wash himself, dress himself - the impossible seven sided dice with eight pips on his chosen shirt almost made him dizzy - and to see to his mechanical arm. Snatches of the previous night came back to him as he did:

''Say, Admiral, would ya mind tellin' me the story of your metal arm?''

"Well, thah's the one they all wants to hear isn't it?" Dunagan remembered the pull of the sadness, even now through his splitting headache he could feel the dullness of it.

"But it isn't one you like to tell?"

"Ah, I didn' say that. I los' more than my arm that day though. 'Tis a sad story, so it be."


Dunagan popped the top button on his shirt as he tried to use the mechanical arm to fasten it so he grabbed a tie out of the closet - already fashioned into a noose - and pulled it over his head to cover the exposed part of his chest. He did the rest of his buttons with his good hand, the echo of conversation still keeping time with the drums in his head:

"The storm was really upon us by then but my father was wrong. He and our men ran from top to bottom of the ship, securing lines and eventually tying themselves down or holding on to anything they could get at. I didn't move. It wasn't faith. I didn't stand still in the middle of the ship because I trusted Mortem to save me, despite my words. Despite-"

Dunagan couldn't remmeber what he'd said next but other memories swarmed into the empty space:

"But Admiral, what if we did nothing? If order truly comes from chaos then shouldn't we do nothing and Mortem will spare us?"

"He's a bringer of change, Dunagan. People are not spared by Mortem. We act for him and sometimes against him for to believe in him isn't always to agree."

"But Admiral - father! Look out!"


How much had he told her? Did he tell the story correctly, tell her he was spared by Mortem because the God found his inaction pleasing/ respectful/ amusing? Or had he told her the truth: that he didn't really know why Mortem spared him. Did he tell her-

"I lost the hand because I betrayed Mortem. I wanted to die. Seeing all the men gone; my father's body; the wreckage of our beautiful ship floating and then the sun - the sun daring to shine down and illuminate the whole scene of blood and death. I threw myself into the water. It was only when the kraken locked onto my hand the I realised I wanted to live."

Dunagan shook his head, trying to order his thoughts and remember clearly - had he really said all that? Mortem curse him. It could be a political disaster if the girl talked and word got back to his people! The Admiral grimaced and lumbered to his feet then started to make his way downstairs. He remembered that night like it was only yesterday. He always remembered that night. The furious kick of his feet to reach the surface, pulling himself onto the remnants of a part of the ship and his blood - so much blood spilling everywhere. But the ship had been on fire and Dunagan had known more clearly what he had to do than if the God himself had spoken to him. Order out of chaos-

"-And into the fire I thrust the stump of my hand and cauterized the wound. I killed most of the nerve endings. Fitting this was a real wonder - how they made it work I'll never understand."

The Admiral stumbled downstairs and hauled himself on to a bar stool. Leslie looked back at him from the other side of the bar, her face as haggard as he felt.

"Food?" she asked.

Dunagan nodded. That green stuff was lethal. Pleasantly, irresistibly and dangerously lethal. He thought about asking for another shot but he had to find out how much the girl remembered first. His own recollection was fuzzy - how had he come to be drinking with her in the first place? He could only hope her head was filled with as many gaps as his own.

Of course, the biggest, most worrying gap of them all was not being able to remember how he got back to his room. The last thing he remembered was the way she'd stroked his arm in comfort and that shock of lightning at her touch. In the light of day and looking out through the dreary eyes of the hangover, Leslie wasn't half as tempting as the reporter or the sheriff but he couldn't dismiss the niggling worry that he might have acted improperly toward the young lady last night. Which was a ridiculous notion since he'd never had any, ah, experience in that area before, but- but his head was silent on the question of how he got back to his room. Or how he got undressed. Or how there came to be a a very recogniseable flat cap on his bedroom floor.

"I'll trade you for this," Dunagan grunted, holding the cap up perhaps a little too boldly. Leslie quickly pulled it away from him and stared at him with wide eyes. Right, no - bad way to start this line of questioning. "I suppose that's a yes?" The Admiral winced as his head played a particularly high note and slumped further in his seat.

Leslie was a darling though - she want away and brought the food back with a tall glass of water and then hovered at his part of the bar.

"How are ya? I can't believe one last drink had us sittin' here trading stories all night," Leslie remarked.

Was that how it started? He'd wanted a drink? Dunagan supposed he should hardly be surprised after the week he'd had. Mortem burn him if he didn't want to do it again.

"Well it seems you're a fine drinking partner," the Admiral quipped with a pained grin. And he meant it. Blast him but it had felt good to talk to someone who didn't have a hundred other motives behind the conversation.
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SirenCymbaline says...



Leslie Badger/Elliot Inn

It had been a while since Leslie had woken up to the harsh white noise of hangover.
It hung over her thoughts like a fog, obscuring the memories of the previous night.
Though she found that if she tried, the details were still within reach.
Then the white noise became an unholy clamour, and she let the memories lie where they were. Particularly the ones of helping Dunagan to bed.
She felt bad about what she'd done to him. Seeing him later that morning, she found his hangover was far worse than hers. He looked as though he'd swum the rivers of Lethe.


"Well it seems you're a fine drinking partner," he'd said with a pained grin.

''Aw, 'twas my pleasure. It's been a while since I've had such a good time.
You tell good stories. Don't worry, I won't sell 'em to Miss Walsh.'' Leslie said, smiling back feebly.

''About that...'' the Admiral began with a troubled look.

''Don't worry, I keep the personal stories in confidence. Bartender's honour.''
Leslie put her hand over her heart and nodded as she said this, as if swearing a solemn vow.

Dunagan looked relieved. ''Glad to hear it,'' he said. Then his gaze wandered up to the high cabinet that contained the cause of his discomfort.

''No,'' Leslie said firmly, with her hands on her hips. ''Until I'm sure you've recovered from your hangover, it's no alcohol for you. Or caffeine.''

The Admiral began to protest. ''Caffeine makes it worse.'' Leslie said.
Then she took her hands off her hips, and looked at him sympathetically.
''Don't worry, you're a tough gent, you should be right in a few hours. For now, I'll get you something for that hangover.''

''You're...you're a doll, Leslie. Did I ever tell you that?'' he said hazily.


Leslie got out some chopped ginger, honey, a lemon, and a teapot, and got to work. As the tea was steeping, Aidan came around the counter.

''Hullo, Aidan.'' said Leslie. ''What brings ya to my side 'o the bar?''
She hoped he wouldn't notice the effort it was taking to hold up her heavy eyelids.

''The matter requires some discretion.''' said Aidan. ''A barrel is missing from the cellar.''

Leslie stared at him blankly. ''Gee,' she said finally. ''I wonder how that happened.
Maybe the inventory records are a bit off?''

''I would consider that,'' said Aidan, ''But I found a hairpin in the lock, and I find that suspicious.'' He sounded disturbed.

Leslie's face froze in an expression of shock. ''Do you think- do you think the killer is still close by?'' she whispered fearfully.

''Yes, or someone who helped them.'' said Aidan. Leslie got out a cup for Dunagan, and a cup for herself, then poured the tea. ''Ye'd better tell the detective soon,'' she said, avoiding Aidan's eyes.

''I will.'' he said. He turned to leave.

Leslie called after him. ''Um, hey, can I ask you when you'll be playing again?''
He turned around. ''It's been a while, and we've been missing it.'' she said.

Aidan looked ponderous for a moment. ''I hope to, soon. We'll see.'' he said, before he left again. Leslie thought that by how he looked, he was missing the music as well.
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Rydia says...



Admiral Dunagan Cornelius Pentecost | Elliot Inn

Leslie's promise not to spill his stories brought some ease to the Admiral's mind but something still niggled at him. Was it the question of how he got to bed? Which stories he'd told her? Or the inability to remember coming downstairs for just one more drink. Dunagan remembered going up to his room after dinner but no amount of rummaging through his tender head revealed even a glimpse of coming back down.

He attempted a smile when Leslie pushed the hangover cure toward him but it became genuine as he got a deep whiff of the ginger and lemon concoction. Dunagan wrapped his hands around it and went to pour the whole thing down his throat but Leslie slowed him with a raised brow.

"It's hot," she warned.

"I'm good with hot things," Dunagan quipped and down his throat it went. Leslie was right, it was hot and the sudden burn was almost uncomfortable, even for him, but it made a welcome distraction from his pounding head and it settled nicely in his belly, on top of the hearty breakfast he'd gobbled up.

"Right. Well, if you're keeping a sound cap on that green stuff then I suppose I'd best be about my business," Dunagan decided, though he made no immediate move to push himself up off the chair. But he felt saying it out loud would help prepare himself for the inevitable.

"You mean the election?" Leslie asked. She kept throwing glances over her shoulder, toward the back room, and seemed a bit on edge. Actually she'd seemed a bit shaky - more shaky - since coming out of there earlier.

"No - I've got someone in town making parts for my arm, but; are you okay?"

"Aw, I'm fine, honestly. I jus', I dropped somethin' back there and I should really go clean it up."

"Want me to keep an eye out for a minute?"

"Oh, no, no-" Leslie held her hands up in protest. "You're a busy man, Admiral. I'm sure you've more important things to do."

Dunagan sighed and gave a half nod, half shrug, then pushed himself up from the bar. "Right you are, though I'd hardly be doing by civic duty if I didn't help a lady out." He cast his eyes about the place and then spotted a likely soul - a gentleman he'd played cards with a few nights before. Dunagan strode over and informed the man that he'd be watching the place for miss Leslie for a minute or two, then he went to tip his hat to the bar girl - realised he'd left it upstairs - and settled for a half bow before swaggering out to the street.


A brisk walk later found the Admiral conversing with Gideon Deering at The Clockwork Raven. The tinkerer was taking measurements and details for the parts he was making; he'd brought out a few prototypes and was making notes on the adjustments required.

"You're a drinking man?" Gideon asked.

"That obvious, huh?" Dunagan flashed a grin and then winced as it stretched the sides of his head too far. "My people consider alcohol to be a purifier of sorts - it makes a man honest."

"Is that so?" Gideon looked up from his work and tapped the prototype thoughtfully against the bench.

"It makes us more primal, takes us back to what we are underneath instead of what we want others to see. It makes the lovesick honest and the cautious brave."
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RavenLord says...



Gideon Deering, The Clockwork Raven

"That's an interesting way of looking at things," Gideon mused. He paused and examined the casing he was working on, then compared it to the place it would go on Dunagan's arm. It didn't quite fit...
"I just need to bend the metal to fit your design and then the casing will be ready," Gideon told the admiral. "It will take a little more time than I'd like, but I can have it ready in two days." He glanced up. "Where do you get these little philosophies of yours?" Dunagan shrugged and fiddled with a few clasps on his arm.
"I simply speak my mind, Mr. Deering. I look to Mortem for answers to my questions, and when He provides me with them I spread His word." Gideon, who was fiddling with the light now, raised an eyebrow. The god of chaos gave the admiral his answers, eh? He doubted that.
"I suppose as a disciple of your god that's only the right thing to do," he murmured. "This light should suffice." He held up one of the prototypes. "Of course, we can't fit you with it until the casing is done." Gideon rose. "That will be all for today, Admiral. I'll see you soon."

When Admiral Pentecost was safely around the corner, Gideon whirled and snatched Genesis from the air. The beetle clicked indignantly as its maker closed his hand around it and placed it in one of the sturdier drawers. The little nuisance had been buzzing around the store for nearly half an hour, and Gideon had only barely managed to keep the admiral from noticing it.
Gideon sighed and headed back into the workshop, firing up the oven to prepare it for the casing's adjustments.
"If you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself
Get a better mirror
Look a little closer
Stare a little longer
Because there’s something inside you
That made you keep trying
Despite everyone who told you to quit." --To This Day
  








Memories, left untranslated, can be disowned; memories untranslatable can become someone else’s story.
— YiYun Li