[Accursed winter storm weather! It is making my ability to link to a satellite to upload anything nearly impossible! I’ve not been slacking I promise- but bunking down in a secret hidden estate deep in the mountains off the grid does pose it’s own unique technological challenges. Not to mention I haven’t seen my one connection to the living world, my pilot, in over a week. Thankfully my supplies look to be good for a long while. Still, exposure to the elements may cost me a finger or my nose. I’ve taken up residence underground in the snug captain’s stateroom of The Rambler II. Provided this small opening in the thick cloud cover between blizzards is long enough to get the data through I should get you two posts up soon! ~ The Archivist]
Journal Entry: Addy Windrush
Venetian Imperial Court
The only good report I can make about the last ten days is that despite the damage and stains wrought by a certain airship Captain and Medical Officer my new silk gown is salvageable. Though the sight of it brought poor Mistress Grandvanquer to tears when I took it into her. I found our commiseration of the tragedy over tea to be quite cathartic. She is a great confidant. Grandvanquer’s have been the best tailors and dressmakers in Europe for generations. They have inside information on every major family on the continent and the British Isles and Mistress Grandvequer is willing to share her knowledge for the right price. A wonderful friend to have in my line of work. But I digress.
After my meeting with Princess Anneliese in which she confided to me that the Empire was gathering Daedalun Tech, I was rather distracted when I met with my escort for the Grand Gala, Kirk Picard Jr. If he noticed he didn’t point it out. If there is one thing I can count on Kirk for it is that he isn’t nosy. It is mutually understood that we each have our own agendas to keep and the other need not know about it. I can tell you that neither one of us planned on leaving with the other at the end of the night. So long as I leave him with a harem of pretty girls fawning over him, he doesn’t complain. As there was no Robin Swift to compete for the court ladies attentions we both knew how the night would go.
I will not here recount the sappy forced flattery I will write in my review of the event. After awhile no matter how good the food, beautiful the dress and decor, or elite the attendants these events run endlessly on one into another. The only thing to distinguish one event from another in my mind are those matters of intrigue I will not report in my society columns. This event’s intrigue centered around a rather thin man who was so carefully dressed so as to not stand out I might have missed him if my intuition for malice and trouble-making hadn’t been sharpened by my conversation with the Imperial Princess.
There is another thing for which I can count on Kirk Jr.- to let me lead where we are on the dance floor, where we loiter near the refreshments, and which conversations we choose to be near or to be a part until such a time as we silently and mutually decide to go our own ways. As such I was able to get close to the man in question innocuously enough that he did not hesitate have one of his mysterious whispered conversations he had been having all over the room that night in my close proximity.
Never underestimate what can be communicated by a single word given the right circumstances. Auction. Auction, was the only word I could clearly make out and I knew the nature of the underground negotiations that accompanied this Venetian Imperial Social Season. If the Might of Rome was already in the Imperial Palace there was no telling what nefarious things could be on the block for a clandestine auction among the most powerful families and governments in Europe. I didn’t even have to wait to hear where the auction would be taking place. Two floors below the Grand Hall was secondary basement that served as living quarters and war rooms for when Vienna is under attack. Not many know of the secret basement below the basement, it’s one of the few remarkable aspects of the Imperial Palace. Attendees to the auction would gather in a specific drawing room where each was blindfolded and led down a twisting maze into the siege basement.
In the moment when all of this was running through my mind I felt Kirk Jr. place his hand over mine where it rested on his elbow. He gave it a gentle squeeze causing me to look up at him. Giving me a knowing half smile he mentioned going to get some refreshments and left to me to my own devices. You know, for all his foppish bluster Kirk Picard Jr. is quite intuitive. Perhaps one day I should have a serious conversation with him instead of our customary playful exchanges and light pointless discourse.
I was well on my way to one of the secret entrances to the siege basement (the location of which I had managed to pry out of a very drunk lady in waiting on a former visit) when I felt I was being followed. Ducking into a niche housing a suit of armor I waited for the whomever was following me to pass. I could hardly believe that it was Dr. Fenchurch in my pursuit. Then again I barely know the man. I of all people should know that there is no one who is what they seem.
“Are you lost Dr. Fenchurch?”
My sudden appearance startled the poor man so much that he jumped and turned too quickly causing the port in the glass he was still carrying to splash across the skirt of my gown. The man proceeded to stammer and proclaim about his worry for my well being and his suspicions of the thin man. By the time loquacious alchemist grew quiet the shadows had taken on the quality of impending discovery. As it was apparent I would not be rid of his company I told him to stay quiet and stay close.
I cannot decide if it is merely because the good doctor is simply incapable of not speaking for more than a few seconds put together or if it was merely nerves that kept him spouting comments, facts, and observations as we made our way into the siege basement. Either way it did surprise me one bit when I felt the shadows grow strong arms reaching out to fold me into them. I had one of my hidden daggers in hand and took a swipe at my would be captor. The contact was deep and a satisfactory thin line of blood followed the dagger’s wake.
“Addy. . .” the shadow hissed my name.
I have to give the good doctor credit as he pulled some strange vial to throw at the shadow but was too slow. The Alchemist slid unconscious into the darkness. Having no idea what was going on I threw my dagger in to the dark after him hoping to hit his assailant. A hand emerged to catch the blade between two fingers mid flight. There is only one person I know who can do that- Robin Swift. Not that I had time to recognize him before he had me in a vice grip- one hand around my waist the other over my mouth- and pulling me down into the shadows. My face was forcibly buried into his shoulder with one hand holding my head in place and the other holding my waist tight to him. The more I tried to push him away the tighter he held me.
“Bellfire and bellows Addy, stop resisting!” Robin whispered urgently his tone between a plea and an irrefutable demand. “You are going to get us all killed!”
I heeded his request but remained tense in his grasp. My head against his chest I could hear his heart racing. Something had him scared and I don’t know of anything that scares Robin Swift. Even after I stopped resisting and it was apparent I would not pull away he continued to hold me tight as if letting me go would welcome some calamity. In the tense minutes we stood in darkness I was hyper aware of everything- the sound of our heartbeats, the soft breathing of the unconscious doctor, the smell of fresh blood that had been smeared on my face from Robin’s cut hand (I am still not sorry about that). Maybe my hypersensitivity exaggerated the chill that ran through my blood at the sound of that voice at once sweet and full of poison. Instinctively I felt myself pressing deeper into Robin’s shoulder as if I could hide from the sound of terror itself. Robin only drew me further into the black of our hiding place keeping me wrapped up safe.
After the terrible eternity of that solitary minute waiting for the owner of that voice to pass I felt Robin loosen his grip. I looked up to him for some kind of explanation, but he only shook his head and motioned for me to stay quiet. In a single motion Robin threw the doctor over his shoulders (a rather impressive feat I must admit) and grabbed my hand to lead me out of the siege basement via a route I did not know. Emerging into a forgotten garden we both took breaths so deep it would seem that they were our first.
“Who was that . . .”
“What in the name of Arthur and Merlin were you doing down there?”
Robin and I spoke simultaneously. We shared one of our frequent moments were we try to see who is the more stubborn about not having to explain our self first. Our standoff was interrupted by Dr. Fenchurch rousing where Robin had laid him on the grass. The doctor is quite the passionate man when he is upset. Indeed I almost wished that Robin would render him unconscious again. But our dear captain had other thoughts. He promised to explain everything, but first he needed me to take him to Boeseburg.
Realizing that I was not getting anything more out of Robin until I complied, I agreed to take him and Dr. Fenchurch to Boeseburg in my Menaka. (Though she is not really meant to fly three people- that should tell you the seriousness of my intent to make Robin spill about everything.) I changed in record time leaving my poor torn, blood and port stained gown in sad pile on my stateroom floor aboard the Lollygag.
Believe me I didn’t let the matter of Robin’s promise rest until he fulfilled it. . .
[I’ve cut off the entry here in the name of good story telling. . . or as close to good story telling as I am able to conjure. ~ The Archivist]
The Good Airship Lollygag 