Perdita, the Once-Illustrious BaronessAfter a few hours ride of carriage, I finally arrive at my destination. I am deposited before an immense mansion; there is nothing else for miles, here. Dark and silent, the only sound I hear is of the carriage trundling away.
The house has certainly seen better times. Despite its grandeur, its facade is tarnished; one would almost consider it abandoned, if not for the glints of light I see in the upper windows. When I reach for the knocker, the door creaks apart by itself; and I am greeted by a clay face, impassive in its regard, beckoning me forward with thickset fingers. |
Raistlyn, the Larvate LibrettistIt takes some time to find, secreted away in a distant corner of the twisting alleys of Veilgarden; the bookshop whose name I have scribbled haphazardly onto a rumpled scrap of paper. When I do arrive, it seems no different than to any of the dozens other bookshops in London; complete with un-oiled hinges and shelves stacked to the brim with yellowed tomes. Yet when I cough into my kerchief, eyes watering from the dust, it is the pale green hand reaching forth to support me that provides a startling reminder of this bookshop's irregularity.
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Nocerius, the Allegiant ValetFor months I have toiled away at Zee, weathering its hardships, suffering through soul-wracking illness and the attack of terrifying beasts. Yet at the end of all hope, the captain finally stops at an island; plying me with reassurances that this indeed is what I seek, despite its nondescript appearance. I swallow my misgivings, for it appears they will not reclaim me, and gaze at the disappearing figure of the ship, speeding far away to the distance. A branch cracks behind me. I spin round to find, amongst the shrooms, a devil; silently considering my woeful state with dark, empty eyes.
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Rufus, the Effervescent HabituéThe streets here are clean, and well-maintained; I nod at a passing constable, admiring the architecture of the neighborhood, all stately brick and gleaming glass. Checking the address I have written in my pad, I pause, and knock upon the door. There is no response. I wait for some time, and attempt again. Still I receive no response, and I ponder the neatly trimmed rosebushes, wondering if I should return at some other time. Finally, I attempt one last time; yet still the door goes unanswered. I turn to leave, yet a noise gives me pause. Glancing sideways to ensure I am not being observed, I tread onto the glistening lawn, and peer into a window. There inside, I observe a lanky man, mouth agape and snoring, slid halfway down a sofa with a - let us say he was indecent, and leave it at that.
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Basilicus Crowe, the Artless EntertainerOnce this street may have bustled with commerce; but now, before me, stand countless monuments to the brutality of advancement. Shop after shop of once-bright windows, now dark and shuttered, adorned with molding signs, their walls plastered with decade-old advertisements. The lamps burn by themselves, alone in a sea of silence; so present is the quiet that it is almost audible. I knock once more upon the door before me, as dark and shuttered as the rest - and through the door comes a sigh; a click; and a long yet rhythmic series of mechanical unraveling.
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Rosalind Carlisle, the Ivory ChanteuseI shoulder my way through the elegantly dressed crowd, ignoring the pointed glances, the cutting remarks. I am dripping with sweat when I finally break free into a small corner of the room. Glasses tinkle, shimmering with wine, and I hunch down, steeling myself against the of clouds of perfume. Attempting to peek over the immaculately styled heads, I pick up a clear laughter, ringing above the chatter of the room. I spin round, and it is there, clustered tightly within the heart of the salon, that I find the glance of ivory amongst the greys.
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