Elvira Blake, the Pariah's DoctorI lean against a grimy wall, shuddering with breath; my shirt torn and scraped, after three barely-escaped robberies, two threats of violence, and a singular attempt from a sheepish pickpocket. Here the streets are crooked, and the alleys unending; dark and filthy cobblestones stain my shoes as I venture forward (the stench is too repugnant to describe). In the distance, a beacon of glass and brick beckons me; yet around me the whispers are thickening, punctuated by the occasional bloodcurdling scream. My shirt is already drenched with sweat - what is that scraping behind me?
I kick the streets, and run. |
Anne Meredith, the Disfigured Captain
Smog coils round my throat and neck, its serpentine weight unfurling into the distance. Thick as pea-soup, the slurry of grey deadens even my footsteps. It is with some difficulty that I navigate my path by the almost-smothered pricks of lamplight, wary of my step so as not to tread into the shrouded waters.
But then, lifting above the smog, comes the clear tones of a song. Lilting in the air, it dashes the encroaching tendrils from my mind; and clasps me by the hand, leading me unerringly through the gloom. There, amidst the fog - is that a lock of blonde? |
Celia Ravenscroft, the Soignée Vengeant
Though familiar, I cannot quite place the strong fragrance woven into the air; all I recognize is cinnamon, threaded thickly through the complex scent. The streetlight, filtered pink through the frilly draperies, stain my legs a strange shade of magenta; and I sit alone, amidst a fuchsia landscape of doily-infested paraphernalia, sipping patiently from the small ivory cup presented to me.
Aside from the low ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the room is silent; the masked servant, aside from the single word she has uttered during my hour-long wait, remains still as a statue, staring at me from beside the fireplace. It is not until my eyes are drooping that I hear the steps, quiet yet deliberate, slowly making their way down the stairs. |
Athoth, the Tentacled Assistant
The clinic's usual lights are dimmed; yet the sign within the door still writes OPEN. Pushing apart its well-oiled hinges, I am greeted with the usual scents of fresh cleaning; though a unusual silence greets me as well, empty of the usual chatter, and dreadful moans of the doctor's patients. I pause, peering around the room, and though I see no trace of its usual inhabitant, I instead spy a rubbery man, peering at me curiously from behind a door frame.
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Ashigh Temur, the Withered PreacherRife with whispers, the congregation shifts uneasily; the couple next to me bow their heads. Sat upon rows of small and makeshift pews, the candles flickering in the dim room are enough to illuminate the confusion on their faces; yet the one standing above us all, head held high within the dusty air, does not seem to respond. Eventually, a young man scampers up to him, and whispers in his ear; the bandaged man's singularly visible eye widens, and shoos him back to his seat. With a dry cough, he thumps the tome before him; and with a rattling breath, seems to begin his sermon once again, to a series of low, yet audibly, uttered groans.
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Ignatius O'Mooney, the Inexorable Lawbringer
Hanging ajar on a lone hinge, the door almost falls apart as I push it aside; a strange scent rises to greet me, dark and rich with savory promise. Upon the walls, the wiry candle-wicks lie unlit; as I head deeper inwards, the carpets cling tightly to my shoes, thick with viscous substance. In the darkness, the scent grows stronger; a new undercurrent of sweetness running beneath, sickly pungent in its strength, and as I turn the corner something glints in the shadows and I fall--
I raise my eyes, massaging my bruised limbs -- to find, cut severely from angles of shadow, a face set in imperious regard. |
Astaroth, the Errant PrinceWhat sweet and vibrant scent is that? I spread aside the emerald leaves, rustling through the vegetation. A cerulean python peers at me from the branches; a sable panther brushes against a distant frond. The scent grows savory and rich; I can but taste it, oils dripping from my tongue, and I stride ahead, heedless of the branches carving stinging furrows into my flesh. Yet as I hurry forward, I no longer follow a scent. It is a noise; a note, a buzz, a clash, a ROAR-
I awaken. Through the nails pounding into my brain; amongst the incessant, mind-numbing drone, my eyes focus: and come to realize, looming before me, the monstrous, segmented carapace of a tall and gleaming beast. |
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Journeying to one of my targets of interview I hear the squall of commotion: a clamour of whistling and fluting, unmistakably of rubberies in turmoil. I pause in my step, considering a detour; in a darkened alleyway I find three rubberies huddled together in commiseration, cradling their tentacles to their breasts—and a cloaked figure in the shadowy distance, leaping and bounding away.
It stalks towards a shuttered house. With surprising grace, it compresses itself through the cranny of a boarded window; despite myself, I find my feet moving forward to peer through a dusty pane. Within I find a small, ragged lodging. Its wood-chipped floor is scattered with half-gnawed animal bones; at its centre is what seems to have once been a kitchen. A large, misshapen basin swings over a fire, half-full of a dull gold liquid. With a raspy breath the figure throws in a clump of amber; presumably it’s spoils from the rubberies. Then it sheds its cloak and hat. |
E. Carvel, of the Department of Oneirotoxicology
During my work on an article detailing London’s developing relationship with Arbor almost a year after the establishment of the Embassy - as well as its impact on the populace’s health and sleeping habits - I decided it necessary to consult the specialists at the University’s Department of Oneirotoxicology. As I was preparing the interview questions, consulting the notes of a predecessor of mine - a certain miss Prudence Ward - who interviewed the department’s head shortly after their discovery of the substance we now call attar, I came across something most interesting.
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Augustus Everett Forthington, the Effete Scion
I thread through the clouds of smoke, the thunder of machinery and the stifling air. The clay men nod at me. I return their greeting, and soon it as if I have ceased to exist; clad in their work-stained burgundy uniform, they stand in rows, moving as one, rolling forth boxes of cigars with immaculate precision. Through their hulking forms I squeeze a path through, and arrive at a small door: ornate in form, whorled rich with mahogany. Embossed high upon the centre lies three golden letters: A. E. F.
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Henri Valentin Masqueray, the Demiurgic DivinerI stumble from the shaded room, spectators streaming past me, draped in silk fripperies fit for balls; they chatter, unfazed, as if near-necromancy were an everyday occurrence. I clasp to me a nearby curtain, its sumptuous velvet thick with pungent incense - and such is my preoccupation that I barely hear the footsteps, softened by the carpet, approaching me from behind.
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Ursula Bourne, the Reclusive Maskmaker
The lively murmurs of the usual crowds buzz in my ears as I weave through the labirynth of streets and alleyways surrounding the closest proximity of the Bazaar, the scrap of paper with directions clutched in my fist. Finally, after passing a myriad colourful vitrines, I come across a small shop, surreptiliously wedged between one twisting building and another - as if the product of a frustrated bibliophile trying to fit his collection amongst overfilled shelves. The exterior is hardly memorable, without fancy signs or advertisements, but what lies behind the large window speaks for itself.
A myriad of masks of all shapes and sizes stare back at me, each decorated with an almost inhuman intricacy; ivory, wood, lace and silk - the different materials all carved into shape by the hand of a peerless artisan. |
Jack Russel, the Destitute HunstmanA man knocks into me, and I apologize; he raises his face, releases a gust of beery breath unto me, and stumbles away, chortling all the while. I am jostled from behind; a mug of beer splashes unceremoniously onto my suit, yet when I have wiped it clean, the culprit is nowhere to be seen. In the dim light of the dingy room, roaring shouts fill the air; half-sung shanties struggle to begin, and as I apologize to yet another man (who spares me naught but a deafening burp), there I see him in the corner, slumped over the table, ratty cap half down his head: left, strangely enough, in conspicuous isolation.
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