[IC] The Chambers of the Sea

[Ataraxian]

11 am, Wednesday, 25 May 1884: offices of McCaffrey's Illustrated Weekly

Manus: Willis McCaffrey is beaming at you, his expression guileless and jovial. A plump man with impressive mustaches, he resembles a walrus in a morning coat, and you happen to know he is rarely jovial. Moreover he hates Wednesdays, mornings, and Wednesday mornings most of all. The smile, therefore, means he wants something.

"How do you do, my boy?" he asks, "well, I trust? Quite well? Good to hear it! I have an excellent lead this morning-- far too good for Bryce, you understand-- but I'm sure you can do it justice. I was out last night with one of Sir Benjamin's engineers-- of course I rarely take a drink, but with men of distinction, you understand... and he told me a rather queer story about one of his foremen. Fell off the bridge, he says, on a clear day without any wind. And quite an experienced man, too. Says the bridge is getting to be rather dangerous of late. You'll look into it? Good man!"

"And this--" he gestures to a tall young man perched tentatively on one of the newsroom's ramshackle chairs-- "this is my good friend Lord Edward. Up from the city, you understand. Wants to see how we journalists do our work. An excellent fellow, I'm sure you'll get along swimmingly."

So this is the favor he wants: taking this man Edward around for a couple of days.

Edward: You met Willis McCaffrey last night; his sudden transformation into your very best friend has more to do with his character than anything you actually did together. As far as you can recall, you said a few words about your love of mysteries and curious circumstances, then listened while he talked enough for three men and drank enough for four. Of course, you were drinking as well... as your pounding head gives you cause to remember... and the details aren't clear. You're not sure how you managed to wake up this morning, let alone find this grubby little office filled with ink-smeared writers, reeking of cheap paper and hot metal from the presses.

McCaffrey is suggesting you team up with one of his reporters, a man named McAllister.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The young Scot extends a hand toward his newfound acquaintance. "Pleased to meet you, m'lord" he says. Looking between the two men, Manus tries to piece together how they might know each other. He conjures up a few fanciful possibilities, but abandons them quickly. Instead, his mind is racing with the possibilities of a scoop.

"If you're asking the likes of me to investigate," he says with a sly smile, "I'm guessing the fella less fell and was more pushed. After all, no story in an accidental suicide, is there? So, Lord Edward, what say we go give it the old look-see?"

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward winces at "Lord Edward". "Please, call me Edward. I think that's easiest for all of us," he says waspishly.

Then, thinking better of his tone, he shakes Manus' hand. "I'd be glad to have a look. Perhaps the fresh air will make me feel a little better. I've recently recovered from a touch of influenza, you understand," he adds, unconvincingly.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

"Aye," Manus halfheartedly sighs, just as unconvincingly as Edward, "heard there's been a bout of that about. Let's step outside, then. Willis, draft by Monday fits ya, brutha?" The reporter doesn't wait for the editor's answer; he'd slap out what hazy bits of a story he could see through his hangover at some point over the weekend and it would go to print with nary a proofreading. The Weekly was a publication of quantity over quality, and it showed from the fine print on every page to the building that bore the presses themselves.

From the outside, the building looks just as ratty and ink-stained as it does from the inside. The gables of the two-story office seem impossibly tall and thin, almost as if they're an image of a home snatched out of the rollers before the last of the ink was on the page. Manus glanced from one side of this foreboding edifice to the other and, confident that nobody was on his tail, reached into his pocket as if to retrieve a prized artifact. He pulled out a small pipe already packed to the gills with tobacco and a booklet of matches. With the quick wrist and effortless motion of a professional, he lit his pipe and tucked the booklet back in his jacket. "Ah, fresh air," he grinned as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "Now that we're out of the office, you don't have to play coy 'bout the hangover. Learned myself that the only way to beat one is embrace it, kiss it on the lips, and chase it with some whiskey. So, headache and all, looks like we're on the trail. Any no-name columnist out there would probably start you at the library with a stack of contextual research taller than a Norseman, but not ole Manus, brutha. I'm taking you to the meat--let's sniff out some eye witnesses! That's where the real crazy comes on like strong perfume. What do ya say, Eddie?"

Once again, the reporter fails to wait for a reply before hopping away with enough of a lilt in his step that he was almost skipping. This man was a far cry more giddy than the one met in McCaffrey's office. Whether it was due to the thrill of a story, freedom from the publishing house, or the contents of his pipe was unknown.

[roll0]
[roll1]

[ValhallaStreet]

Rolling his eyes at the overly familiar Scotsman's back, Edward produces a cigarette case from his coat pocket. Tapping the cigarette on it's case, he places it in his mouth and strikes a match on the wall of the office, gratefully lighting his cigarette.

Puffing his cigarette, he strides after the reporter. "My dear fellow, as much as I enjoy a good read, I'm inclined to agree with you. Nothing like a good crime or suicide to bring out the most fascinating of people. Assuming it's not something dreadfully dull like a series of accidents. What a pity it would be if this were solved by simply making the bridge safer. Now, be a good boy and come here for a moment."

He signals to a man sitting nearby on the box of a carriage and waits for the man to bring the carriage around.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

As the carriage pulls around, Manus can't help but whistle through his pipe. "Look at us," he laughs, "riding in style like two proper gentlemen. Please tell me this deathtrap is stocked with accoutrements that can be stored in flasks..."

[ValhallaStreet]

"I'm shocked at the very suggestion. Now, tell the driver where you wish us to go, and we'll see what we can find. Mind you don't drive too fast or unsteadily," he tells the driver with a wry smile.

After waiting for Manus to seat himself in the carriage, he climbs aboard and removes a bottle and two glasses from a compartment. He pours the drinks, and passes one to his new acquaintance, then settles back with a satisfied sigh into the black velvet seat.

[Ataraxian]

all: The carriage rolls out of Edinburgh, factories and tenements giving way to estates and wooded parkland as you direct the driver up the Queensferry road. It's about a ten mile journey. Your destination is obvious long before you arrive; the partly-built bridge looms over the countryside, visible even through today's light fog.

As you near the building site, you get a better idea of the ground. Queensferry itself is small and picturesque. There are a few pubs (probably empty this early in the day) and grocers' shops, but not much else. There are a few people making their way from the railway station to the ferry docks or vice versa, some with goods, others probably tourists.

Most of the activity here centers around the unfinished bridge. There are great heaps of granite, coal and steel, all surrounded by navvies loading and unloading. Smoke rises from a few small furnaces. Work crews strain to haul girders and equipment onto the bridge's rising superstructure, while boatmen flit about in the water, shuttling people to and from the unfinished support piers being built in the middle of the Forth. Perched at makeshift-looking desks under a couple of wooden awnings, a few clerks scribble away at ledgers, and here and there, you can spot an engineer in a gentleman's coat, directing the bustle.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward has been quiet on the journey, responding to any questions with only short, non-committal answers. His attention has been wandering between the countryside and his companion. The latter he has been eyeing between narrowed eyelids, a small smile on his lips, while he puffs on his cigarette.

As Queensferry comes into view, Edward makes a noise of appreciation, evidently pleased by the interestiing contrast between rural and industrial. "It seems we're at our destination. Are you intending to to talk to someone in that quaint little town, or should we have a look at the bridge itself?"

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

"All in good time, brutha," Manus laughs. "The bridge won't tell us much of anything about anything, but the people...get enough liquor in 'em and they'll tell you anything you want to hear. They're all busy now, though, so we need be patient." He takes a pull on his beverage and continues, "Can I ask you a question? How is is that you have a title, but fear to flaunt it? Most gentried folks I know don't pass up an opportunity to remind you."

[ValhallaStreet]

"Why do I not consider myself subordinate only to the Queen and God? My dear boy, I consider myself subordinate to neither," he says with a wry smile.

"The Peerage is simply a tool to be applied at the right time, like any thing or person. I am not proud of my position, it is simply something useful that has helped me have the sort of life I want. Should we meet somebody who is easily impressed, you shall certainly see some flaunting."

"Ah, but here my man has brought us into the town, now. Let's disembark and view this dear little place."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

"Fair enough, brutha," the reporter says with a shrug. "Maybe we can start by nipping off into one of these pubs for a bite to eat and to see what kind of witnesses we can kick out from the bushes, yeah?"

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward looks positively nauseated at the thought of 'pub grub', but says only, "We can certainly find try to find somebody interesting to converse with, at any rate."

[Ataraxian]

all: Queensferry's largest and brightest pub is called the Burry Man; the sign outside shows a green, humanoid figure with no face. The inside is spacious and clean-looking. As you guessed, it's mostly empty this early in the day, although a few railway passengers are killing time here while they wait for the ferry to return. The barman, a burly, middle-aged Scot, says he is earning much more than usual from serving the bridge workers, but worries that when the bridge finally opens it will kill off the ferry trade-- "but perhaps with all the accidents they seem to have, they cannae build it as quick as they thought".

He doesn't know many details, but he's seen more than one wake for a dead or mutilated worker. The last one was just a few days ago. The dead man, "Willie someone-or-other", didn't drink here, but his friends do, and they raised more than a few glasses in his honor. They seem to be an unusually accident-prone crew, he says, shaking his head, and one or two other men have stopped drinking when they buy rounds, in case their bad luck is catching. As he answers your other questions, he pours out pints of McEwan's and brings Manus a plowman's lunch of bread and cheese.

As you finish up, there's a knock at the door. The barman leans out to answer, and over his shoulder you see a youngish woman dressed in neat but inexpensive clothing. She's asking after someone named Patrick, growing increasingly distressed as the barman explains that he hasn't been in since last week.

Edward: She has red hair. Her figure is pretty good, but the dress doesn't flatter it; her face is unremarkable.

[ValhallaStreet]

Without asking, Edward helps himself to some of Manus' bread and cheese, and sips delicately at the beer. Noticing the woman growing upset over the barman's negative answers, Edward watches the exchange for a while, then with a bored shrug, he finishes his handful of food, then strolls over casually.

Taking the woman aside, he does his best to appear sympathetic. "My dear lady, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with this innkeeper. I understand you are having trouble finding someone dear to you? A brother, perhaps?"


Fast talk, if necessary.
Fast talk:60% [roll0]

[Ataraxian]

Edward: The woman nods reflexively at your question. "He's been gone since Saturday."

"One of that crew," adds the barman. "You wouldn't know him, sir", she says, sizing up your clothing and English accent. (Her own, now that you listen, is pure Irish.)

There's a bit of an awkward pause; the barman finally breaks in. "Well, wherever he is, he hasnae been here." The woman looks up at him, frustrated at the dead end she seems to have reached.

[both go ahead and read this]

Edward: Failed roll, no skill check for you. You can both keep trying though (better rolls or more convincing chat, up to you).

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The reporter nods and waves on Edward, encouraging him to share in the quick lunch he's devouring ravenously. Gauging the barman's reaction to Edward, Manus plays up his Scottish accent almost to the point of affectation in order to show that he is "one of them." He takes a quick pull of McEwan's before joining the conversation. "Ma'am, we're a paira investigative reportahs trynna get to the bottom of what foul fate befell poor Willie...inquest came right from Sir Benjamin himself, it did. Any help you can lend may not only aid our story, but help ya find yer Patrick. After it all, we're just trynna help these boys stay safe. Whattayasay?"

[roll0] vs a skill value of 63, so I believe that's a success?

[Ataraxian]

Manus: "Reporters?" New hope brightens the woman's face. "Well, I'm afraid I don't know anything about Willie MacDonald... Patrick said he asked to work with a different crew a few weeks back.

"But if you work on the newspapers, can you see if they can print a description of Patrick? Patrick Callahan. He's about five foot and a half, ten stone, red hair like me..." She seems willing to go on for quite a while in this vein-- if you had the patience, you suspect you'd find out his favorite foods and what color thread his socks are darned with.

A few more questions, though, yield some more pertinent information. Her name is Moira; they're both from County Clare, and came over looking for work. They live in the north of the city, near the port district of Leith. Patrick has been gone since sometime Saturday.

As she answers your and Edward's other questions, she keeps dropping in little anecdotes and memories of her brother. It's clear they are very close, and she seems worried about him. "Do you work for the Scotsman? Can you put his description in tomorrow's paper?"

(both read)

Manus gets a check for his persuasion skill. All the skills you use successfully in one 'chapter' of the game get a check; these skills will have a chance of increasing when the chapter is over. You should keep track of which skills are checked on your character sheet.

[ValhallaStreet]

"My dear lady, you mentioned that you hadn't seen him since Saturday? Did he normally work on Saturdays? Could he perhaps be with a lady friend, or carousing somewhere?"

"He sounds like a responsible and honest sort," Edward hastily adds, "but as reporters we naturally have to think of every possibility."

"As for putting his description in the Scotsman, normally the paper does charge for notices, but I'll see that such a fee will be waived this time. And I'll certainly try my best to convince Mr. Cooper that an article on your Patrick is in everyone's best interests. I think we have enough on his appearance and personality, but is there anything more you could tell us on his habits and so forth? Is there anywhere at all that he frequents, besides here and his place of work?"

So that's what those checkboxes are for. Anyway, according to my research, the 6 or 7 day work week was mostly out by 1850, though construction can be a bit different I guess. We can put any confusion down to Edward's background.

I'm thinking we might want to keep the name "McCaffrey's Illustrated Weekly" to ourselves for the time being. She might not react too well to that one.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: Moira has been doing an admirable job keeping her emotions under control, but when you say you'll put an notice in the Scotsman, she almost melts with gratitude, thanking you so effusively you need to repeat your requests for information to get her back on track.

The bridge workers are off Saturday as well as Sunday (the modern system is grand, isn't it?) and she and Patrick have found various ways to enjoy their free time. He's a great supporter of the Hibs-- Leith's Irish-Catholic football club-- but Moira thinks they're playing away this weekend. He could be with a lady, she says doubtfully, "but I haven't heard he was stepping out with anyone, and surely he'd have told me?" From the look in her eyes, she was perfectly sure... up until you suggested it. He's been restless lately and hasn't been at home as much as he used to. But he said he was just taking long walks, soaking up fresh air after his work on the bridge foundations-- often in the Royal Botanics, she thinks he mentioned, he liked the steamy warmth of the greenhouses.

"But then he'd still have come to Sunday Mass, wouldn't he?" On this point Moira seems more confident. The two of them attend Stella Maris, in Leith. This week Patrick wasn't at early or late Mass there; she asked Father Flanagan to make sure.

[ValhallaStreet]

"The Royal Botanics, you say? Did you often take walks together there, or was it something he preferred to do alone?"

Edward is momentarily at a loss for what else to ask. He adds, "Good woman, might we know where to call upon you? As our investigation continues, I have no doubt you'll be able to help us further. And should we have any news of Patrick, we'll know the best way to get word to you quickly."

[Ataraxian]

Edward: Moira has been to the Botanics, but this recent fascination with them was Patrick's alone. He got here to come with him a few times; the flowers were pretty, but she finds the greenhouses oppressive, while he seemed willing to sit there for hours, surrounded by ferns and mosses she found totally nondescript. "He said it reminded him of somewhere," she said, "but anything less like Ireland I can't imagine. He said he saw it in a dream."

"We stay at Murphy's boarding house," she adds, giving an address that means nothing to you, although you imagine Manus will be able to find it. She's still saying "we"; even after four days, she wants to believe he's coming back. As if the thought reminds her, she looks up to gauge the watery sunlight. "If you've no other questions, it's about time I was back. He usually gets home about this time, and I like to wait for him, in case..." You can hear her decide there is no good way to finish the sentence; instead, she curtsies politely and wishes you a good day.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

"Aye, we'll do our best to get the word out and find your brutha," Manus says with a small. "Off to the Botanics, we are," he adds. The reporter plunks down a few dollars (plus tip) for the lunch, grabs his hat and coat, and is out the door. Once the two of them are a sufficient distance away and hopping into the carriage, he whispers to Edward: "Something we try to avoid in this practice is writing checks that our arses can't cash. Promising publication in the Scots? I'm afraid we're a bit hard up on that one.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward climbs into the carriage, and smiling to himself, inspects his fingernails. "Publication in the Scotsman? I don't recall promising that. I remember something about a notice, but as far as I recall, that should only be a shilling at most. In any event, we need only do so if we require something from the girl."

"As for this brother, I suspect that we may have as much luck looking in some den, or the asylum, as these gardens. From the sister's description, he has been rapidly deteriorating. Something has certainly been at work on the lad."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The reporter scratches his chin and points at Edward with a smile. "I like the cut of your jib, brutha! I can read the headlines now...'Construction Destruction: The Evil that's Working our Lads to Death!' Since you seem to have a knack for this investigative business, let me ask: where would you like our adventure to take us next?"

Manus kicks up his heels on any outcropping of the carriage body that he can find and lights his pipe back up. From his quick headline to his devil-may-care attitude, the young man gives off the impression that he is less concerned with discovering the truth and more involved in spinning a good yarn. "Hmm," he muses to himself, "alien overlords using mind control? Nope, that was already in the June issue...Local pillar of society is actually a hypnotist? No, no, that was last September..."

[Ataraxian]

all: Back into the carriage, and you ride out of Queensferry trailing a cloud of pipe smoke and implausibly sensational headlines. The fog is rising, revealing a sky as flat and gray as a sheet of fresh newsprint. Eventually, you arrive among the neat Georgian shops and townhouses of the New Town, and then beside the ornamental wrought-iron gate of the Royal Botanical Garden, a trellis of metal leaves and flowers.

It's about three o'clock in the afternoon. There are a few gardeners, ladies strolling arm-in-arm, and an elderly gentleman with a magnifying lens peering intently at a shrub. But for the most part, you have the place to yourself. Remembering Moira's directions, you pass by signs for European formal gardens, Scottish wildflowers and exotics from various parts of the Empire. Instead, you make your way to the greenhouses, select the one which contains ferns, and step inside.

The atmosphere within is hot and so humid it's difficult to breathe for a second; you feel the itch of incipient sweat behind your collar. You are surrounded by plants you don't recognize, a neatly-lettered placard in front of each one bearing a name you also don't recognize. But they look unlike the oaks and beeches you're used to-- visitors from a different place, or time.

As you follow the path through the plants, you catch sight of a bench tucked away at the rear of the building, out of sight of the entrance. There's a man sitting on it-- a pale, red-haired man, dressed in what could, four days ago, have passed for a suit of Sunday churchgoing clothes. He's curled up awkwardly, one foot up on the bench and his arms around his knee. You can't see his face, but you can hear him muttering quietly to himself.

(listen check to read this)

His accent is definitely Irish; he's speaking in a slow, inflectionless monotone: "told me going to burn but I had to father I can't get it back so I had to I'm going to burn I can feel it waking up"

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Manus finally finds a reason to snuff out his pipe; the oppressive humidity of the greenhouse causes him to stow his smoking gear and unbutton the top button of his Oxford shirt. Loosening his tie, he is paying rapt attention to the flora. "Would you take a gander?" he says to nobody in particular. "Looks like deepest darkest Africa in here, eh Ed?" Lost in the alien look of the place, Manus entirely misses the presence of another person in the greenhouse.

[roll0] success on a 25 or lower

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward strolls casually along through the gardens. Though he's no gardener, he does enjoy the artistic merits of a good scene. He even snuffs his pipe in order to enjoy the clean air. Then upon entering the greenhouse, he immediately notices the Irishman.

Edward quietly shushes Manus, then directs his attention to the sitting man. He quietly listens to his words for a few moments, then whispers to Manus grimly, "It seems we've found our man. And look, I was right, he's definitely suffering from excessive vice."

He shakes his head sadly. "Some people just don't know when enough is enough."

Edward tries to get close enough to him to smell his breath or clothes without alarming him.


Not sure exactly what is appropriate, but:

Sneak (skill 15): [roll0]
Pharmacy (skill 26): [roll1]

I assume he wouldn't smell any drugs or alcohol anyway, but Edward is still convinced it's opium or the like.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: You step forward slowly, and if your shoes crunch gently on the graveled walk, the man in front of you is in no condition to hear it. From a few feet away, you eye him more closely. And you spot something-- there's a little bottle under the bench, the kind a cheap apothecary store might sell, about a quarter full of a gray-white powder the same dull color as the sky. The label isn't all visible, but you see an A...

all: The man turns his head to the side, and you both catch a glimpse of his face. The resemblance to Moira is unmistakable, but that only makes the signs of strain more obvious; Patrick is pallid and drawn, his eyes bright with delirium and lack of sleep. He doesn't seem to notice either of you. He moans in pain, rolls off the bench and vomits onto the ground in front of him, practically at Edward's feet. The smell is acrid and sour, and the fluid he brings up is streaked with bright blood.

(Edward)
You've seen this before. It's not most peoples' drug of choice, but it is sold in pharmacies, sometimes to people who've tried, and tired of, all the usual thrills. It acts as a stimulant... in small doses. Very small, carefully measured doses. It's arsenic. If Patrick Callahan has taken most of this bottle, he is about to die slowly, in very great pain.
(sanity, 1/1d4)

[ValhallaStreet]

Though Edward had seen drug overdoes before, something about this particular case shocked him deeply. Perhaps the naïve innocence of the Irish girl in contrast with Patrick's painful fate had touched even his jaded heart.

He recoils for half a minute, staring at Patrick with horror. Then, remembering what he knew about arsenic, he waves Manus over.

"Manus!" cried Edward. "Come, help me get him back to the carriage. He has but a few hours. There is a slight chance the doctors may be able to save him, and if not, he should be where his sister can spend some final moments with him."

Capping the bottle, he snatches that up to give to the doctor.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The young reporter nods and assists in moving Patrick, but his callous desire for a scoop has him cursing his luck. "Local Man Overdoses on Narcotics" wasn't a story at all...it was just news. Still, the reporter complies; he had been through his share of binges and benders, and tries to offer up a remedy. "Should we force vomiting to make him spit up whatever he's put down? I'm worried about the blood if we do that."

[roll0] 47 or lower is a success.

[Ataraxian]

all: The next few minutes are busy ones. You lift the Irishman to his feet; he thrashes feebly, but offers no serious resistance as you half-march, half-drag him the length of the greenhouse. As you open the door and manhandle him back into the fresh breeze of a May afternoon, he stirs for a second. "It didn't use to be like this," he says clearly, and slumps into unconsciousness. This simplifies the journey back to the entrance-- by the time you reach it, you've collected a small cloud of concerned groundsmen and onlookers, but none of them know what to do any better than you do, so they seem content to let you take care of Patrick on your own.

You haul Patrick into the carriage and Edward shouts to the driver, who whips up the horses and makes for the Royal Infirmary, about three miles distant. Manus, meanwhile, is forcing his fingers down Patrick's throat-- a distasteful task, and the inevitable results will require a thorough cleaning when this is over. The operation does restore Patrick to consciousness, and a moment or two of what looks like lucidity. He might be able to answer questions.

(Manus)

While unbuttoning Patrick's collar and turning his head in various directions, you notice he is wearing two coin-sized medallions on a chain around his neck. One of them is a St. Christopher medal; you don't recognize the other at a glance. His throat bears four dark bruises, probably a day or two old: one on the right, three on the left.

(Also, now that you're involved, sanity check 1d3.)

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

As soon as Patrick is done retching, the reporter is already at work. "Hang in there and try to focus, brutha," he says to Patrick. "Moira says 'ello, but we need you to answer a few questions 'fore you're back to her. What's the other medal besides your Christopher's, and how'd you get those bruises?"

[roll0] vs a Sanity score of 80

[Ataraxian]

Manus: Patrick looks at you, his eyes focusing as if he's finally aware of his surroundings again. "Don't," his words catch in his much-abused throat, and he clears it with a horrible hacking noise, "don't tell her what I... don't let her know I'm going to burn."

He lifts a hand as if to finger the medal around his neck, but he can't find the strength, and it drops limply to his side again. "This? 'S an old coin. We found them under the river."

Patrick takes a second to absorb your next question, and his eyes go unfocused again with the effort of memory. And then he starts speaking, and his hoarse whisper gets louder and faster, the words coming out flecked with blood. "How did... I couldn't get it back! Her servant, he's not-- oh God I couldn't get it back he wouldn't let me I couldn't!" He slumps back again, shivering erratically, his eyes screwed tightly closed. It seems your moment of lucidity is at an end.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward looks grimly at Manus, then shakes his head. "I fear he will have little else to say to anyone. I was considering sending a runner to fetch his sister as soon as we arrived at the hospital, but his words give me pause. He mentioned burning previously, you recall? I suppose that must mean this was intentional, and he fears the fire and brimstone of hell, or whatever nonsense is supposed to occur when one takes one's own life. Perhaps she would be better served with some half truth or outright lie, after the fact."

Edward fetches a deep sigh, and his eyes unfocus, as if remembering something. "A...friend of mine was lost this way. Even the dens we would spend our days in lost their fascination for him, and he decided to try new things. I spent his final hours with him..."

Edward shudders, in revulsion or fear, then changes the topic quickly. "You mentioned a medallion? A coin, apparently? Probably just some old Roman coin that found it's way up past old Hadrian's Wall, eh? Let's have a look at it while he's not able to object. It may be worth a few pounds."

[Ataraxian]

Edward: You slip the coin from its chain around Patrick's neck and examine it. Roman, just as you thought. You and Manus lean in to look closer.

(either of you: history check; Edward can have art instead if you feel he would know this kind of thing)

It's a sestertius of Vespasian, dating to the first Roman invasion of Scotland in about 70 AD. The Romans bought off the local Votadini tribe and built several forts in the area, including on the islands of Inchgarvie and Inchcolm near the present-day site of the bridge.


The driver knocks against the carriage wall, announcing your arrival at the Royal Infirmary. You run in and fetch the surgeon on call, a young man with a prodigious set of whiskers who looks new to his job; he blanches at the sight of his patient, blood-smeared, semi-conscious and deep in shock. But he masters himself, calling orderlies to haul Patrick into one of the surgeries and running off to consult with a more experienced physician.

The older man, by contrast, is unshakable. One look at the mostly-empty bottle is enough to convince him of the inevitable outcome. "No use giving laudanum for the pain, either," he says flatly. "Stomach's wrecked by now, won't absorb it. Get the chloroform, Renfrew, and see if you can't put him out for a while. And if you two gentlemen aren't the next of kin, is there anyone we ought to fetch? Not that it'd comfort most people to see this, mind..."

Patrick quiets at first as Renfrew administers the anaesthetic gas. As he sinks deeper into unconsciousness, though, you hear him start to scream. Renfrew rushes from the room. "Good God, he must be out by now! I dosed him myself!"
"Some people see things in their sleep," answers the older doctor. "I've seen cases in my time..." And then the screaming stops. He pulls his watch from his pocket. "Five past six, Renfrew. Take a note... for the records, you know."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

[roll0] vs a skill rank of 69.

"Seen these before," the redhead notes of the coin. "The Romans used these to buy off the local tribesman when they extended the tendrils of their Empire into Scotland. Makes me wonder if the boys back by the pub didn't uncover some ancient ruins when digging for that bridge. Now there's a headline: Ancient Vesuvian Magic Coins Bring Fortune and Foibles!" He recognizes that the silence he receives in return is not awe, but Edward keeping his focus on Patrick and the driver trying to get to the Infirmary as quickly as possible. He suddenly realizes the gravitas of the situation and falls silent for the rest of the ride and most of the treatment.

"No use sugar-coating it, doc," Manus says grimly. "I've heard plenty a time of death announced. Aside from the arsenic, any idea what could have put him in such a state? I'm especially intrigued by the bruises." He flips open his notepad and expectantly awaits an answer, hoping the doctor would provide one before asking to see any of the credentials the reporter doesn't have.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward swallows deeply at the scene. He trembles slightly, and a bead of sweat makes it's way down his brow. Taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabs delicately at his brow.

"No, we're not the next of kin. You can find his sister, Moira, at... What was the address the young lady provided, Manus?"

As Manus answers, Edward nods. "Yes, I believe that is correct. Doctor? I have a request. The young lady and her brother here were devout Christians, I gather. I'm not sure whether this was an accident, or he has done this to himself intentionally, but should it be the latter, I'm sure you understand the implications. I'm sure she would be much happier if she believed it to be an accident."

[Ataraxian]

Manus: Renfrew looks a bit sheepish. "Bruises? On the throat? I'm afraid I had to... that is, the gentleman struggled quite a bit when we were giving him the chloroform, and he had to be strapped down." So much for that idea.

Edward: Renfrew listens to your suggestion with a look of increasing disgust. He is just drawing himself up to say he'll do nothing of the kind when the older doctor interposes. "Don't posture, laddie, especially not after you had to strap the man down by the throat. The oath says you help people, not make them suffer." Renfrew shakes his head at the unfairness of it all and stalks off.

The older doctor, a thin, balding man, introduces himself as Matthew Sullivan. "He'll learn someday," he says with a shrug, "but there's no set of whiskers can make a boy into a man."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The Scotsman collects Patrick's personal effects from the hospital staff. He pockets the coin and mutters something under his breath about a finder's fee, but feels the weight of the St. Christopher's medal in his hand before pocketing it. "Guess we should at least take this back to Moira, eh brutha?" he asks Edward. "Irony of it is, he needs to be watched over by the Travelers' Saint now more than ever, crossing the Styx as he is." He flips back through his notepad at Edward's request and rattles off the address.

"Doctor Sullivan," he says to the older gentleman, "we appreciate your assistance and will be out of your hair in a moment. I know you're no detective, but did anything about Patrick's case strike you as anything but an overdose? I've seen my fair share of drooling, glaze-eyed junkies, and something about this sits wrong with me. They usually don't feel anything, but he kept mentioning feelings of guilt--though I recognize you're no priest either. Last question: would you be able to provide a list of the side effects of arsenic? Poor soul kept mentioning something 'bout burning, and I can't figure whether it was a physical or psychic pain."

[Ataraxian]

Doctor Sullivan takes a moment to ponder. "The physical symptoms were all correct for arsenic poisoning. Pity there's a next of kin, or we could do a full dissection and chemical tests." He smiles wryly. "But I think we can be pretty firm on the cause nonetheless."

"I can't speak to the man's psychology. He must have been in great pain, and I suppose it might have presented as a burning sensation-- but if this was a case of self-murder, I think the religious explanation is probably the correct one."

[ValhallaStreet]

"Manus, I think we can send a courier to the young lady with the personal effects, don't you? I really must get out of these filthy clothes and clean myself up. This has been a rather trying day. After that, won't you join me for a nightcap?"

After his shock, Edward seems reluctant to spend any more time at the hospital or with Moira. While he's obviously trying to seem like he has already made a decision, he looks at Manus uncertainly.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

For a moment, the reporter doesn't know what to say. He fires up his pipe again to break his stunned silence and takes a long, thoughtful pull. When he speaks, it is with a surprising amount of compassion. "Nay, brutha," he shakes his head and sends small clouds of smoke spiraling around his face. "There are some things we must do ourselves, no matter how unpleasant. You can get cleaned up, but then we find Moira. We sit her down and tell her what needs to be said, nothing more. After that, we listen. Whatever she has to say, or however long she's silent, we owe a human life at least that much."

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward stares at the ground for a long moment, shoulders hunched. Then he straightens up and looks at Manus.

"Perhaps you're right. I think we should both at least get some new apparel, however, before we call on the young lady. I'm staying not too far from here, and I think my man Henri should be about your size. After that, we can go on directly to Moira's lodgings."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Never one to pass up the opportunity for a handout--even in the face of human tragedy--he claps his hands and inhales deeply from his pipe. "Onward, then!" he says to Edward as smoke billows from his nostrils, "let's make ourselves presentable before we break the poor lass' heart."

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward's lodgings are perhaps somewhat modest for his station, but they are clean and spacious, and are decorated mainly in the French style with a few odds and ends which Edward has brought up from London.

Henri is a dignified, dark-skinned man, around fifty years old. Edward and Henri converse for a little while in French; Henri in obviously flawless French, while Edward struggles somewhat. Henri seems to be patiently explaining something, while Edward tries to change the subject airily.

Eventually, Edward cuts Henri off mid-sentence and turns to Manus with a pained expression. "Henri, as you can see. My father picked him up while on business in Senegal or somewhere, I believe, and gave him employment. He's been with the family longer than I have. The poor brute doesn't understand a word of English, of course, but he speaks French passably well." Henri rolls his eyes at this point, then steps into one of the bedrooms adjacent to the main room.

"In any event, I've explained to Henri that you require a change of apparel, and I'm sure he'll be happy to help you in that regard." Edward enters the other bedroom for a while, and Henri returns with another old-fashioned suit, handing it to Manus with a sympathetic smile while showing him to a wash basin. After some time, Edward returns, impeccably dressed and looking much more at ease.

"Shall we depart, my friend? I'd like to move on as quickly as possible, if you don't mind."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Manus can do nothing but nod politely to Henri as the suit is offered, since the Scotsman doesn't speak a lick of French. They had always pushed it on him in University, but he saw it as a language of those who wished to be considered as artists and lovers more than the language of those who actually were. That, and the fact that it would have cut three hours a week off of his drinking time. He shaves off his encroaching stubble before stepping into the dressing room to change into the suit. He emerges, hairless and ill-fitting, looking very much like a young boy playing pretend in his father's churchclothes.

"That makes one of us, brutha," the reporter replies to Edward humorlessly as he rubs his freshly shaven face in the mirror. "Could ya toss me that flask over there?" he points absent-mindedly to his canteen resting on a nearby chair, filled to the brim with whiskey. He grabs it from the air, uncorks it, takes a pull, plugs it, and tucks it into his jacket pocket all with the blank, expressionless face of a sleepwalker. Manus fidgets with his suit in the mirror, playing with the collar that at once felt too loose and yet too tight--must be the nerves. He picks up Patrick's St. Christopher's medal from beside the basin and tucks it in his pants pocket. Patting it securely, he sighs and heads for the door.

On the ride to Moira's, Manus is uncharacteristically silent. He tries to spin the situation in his head, but this is one story he can't bring himself to tell, no matter how sugar-coated or honey-glazed. He comforts himself by focusing more on the grammar and structure than the content, but no amount of parsing or denouement analysis makes this feel any less visceral. The silence is broken only by the carriageman somberly informing his passengers that they have arrived. With a long tug on his flask and a short prayer under his breath, Manus steps out of the carriage.

A band of whalers is pulling in the carcass of their latest haul in the nearest dock, and the stench of decay overpowers even Manus' whiskey breath. He clears his throat and walks to Moira's doorstep. Here in the poorer part of Leith's port district, the short, squat, rowhomes resemble rows of gravestones. The Firth of Forth is dark and still tonight, which Manus takes as yet another sign of death's pervasive, skeletal hand. He chuckles to himself and curses Dr. Woodcomb, his constantly paranoid professor of Literary Symbolism in Pedestrian Life. Not every bloody thing has meaning, the redhead reminds himself, but some things just have too damned much. Here goes, Manus. He knocks on the door he's been dreading to open.

Moira answers and her eyes light up upon possible news of her Patrick so soon. Manus looks at her for an eternal moment before he can even will himself to speak. "We found your brutha," is all he can manage to choke out before his hands start shaking. He jams them into his pockets, squeezing the St. Christopher medal as tight as he can. His sleepwalker's face finally awakens into a frown, and he finds tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. There are no more words he can share; he simply shakes his head and stares at his feet. The young Irish woman understands his sentiment just the same, much like a fine china saucer understands a marble floor after toppling from the table. She shatters into Manus' arms, breaking into equal parts tears, questions, and profanities.

[Ataraxian]

Manus: Tears come first-- not the overdone hysterics of a woman who thinks she ought to be crying, but damp, helpless sobbing. You can physically feel the moment when she realizes she is clutching at the front of a male stranger's shirt and pulls herself together, standing up and wiping at her reddened eyes with a handkerchief. "Do you want--" she stops and wipes again, "do you want a cup of tea? Do come in."

The lodging house kitchen is small and ill-lit; you three are the only ones there at the moment. Moira goes through the motions of boiling water and adding leaves to steep before asking you for details. How he died. Where you found him. Where she can pick up the-- she can't bring herself to finish the sentence. You notice that she is clutching an empty teacup, gripping so tightly her knuckles are white. She hasn't poured anyone any tea yet.

"It has something to do with the bridge," she says finally. "I know it does. Find out what made this happen to him and put it in the newspapers... please."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Manus taps his foot nervously as he sits at the table, waiting for his tea. He is uncomfortable with the idea of being invited into someone's home--into someone's life--so readily. Certainly, he had just come from Edward's, but even then he felt as though he was watching something rehearsed. Here, he isn't simply seeing what Moira wants him to see; he is sharing in her experience. He doesn't know how to defend himself from feeling at least part of her pain, and a chill creeps up his spine at the thought that he might be feeling...compassion?

In his line of work, that could be hazardous. He was a writer of figments, not exposes. He was in the business of providing entertainment, rather than closure. When his subjects came to him with expectations, it made it much harder to dash them with another farcical piece about vampires, werewolves, or other occult nonsense. At his core, Manus had always been nothing more than a teller of ghost stories, and the Illustrated was his campfire. But this? This requires something authentic, a concept which has taken up residence far outside of Manus' wheelhouse. He could try, but then he ran the risk of failure.

For the moment, the reporter returns to the comforting world of truisms, cliches, and half-truths. He can't bear to answer Moira's questions truthfully, so he does the best he can to dance around them. As he speaks, he silently ascertains the validity of each of his statements. "We found him at the Botanicals," true, "doing what he loved." Mostly true. "He had a vicious reaction to something," dear Lord, child, don't ask me what, "so we rushed him to the hospital." True. "The doctors did all they could," so it seems, "but there was nothing they could do...At least he's in a better place now." How the hell do I know that? Manus fumbles in his pocket for the St. Christopher's medal. Sad irony, now's when he needs this most. "He was wearing this," Manus extends the pendant to Moira. "I'm sure he'd want you to have it."

[roll0] vs a skill of 54.

Manus takes the kettle and pours a glass for Moira, then Edward and himself. While it seems helpful, he busies himself only to hide the fact that he wasn't entirely sure of much of anything right now. As he sips his tea, the parts of the story he omitted rush through his mind: the coin, the arsenic, the bruises, the burning. He wonders if any of them are connected, and nods as Moira mentions the bridge. "Mmhm, that bridge is the reason we're in town as it stands. We're looking into some other mysterious happenings surrounding some other crewmen. I don't know if your brother ever told you, but do you know the best person for us to talk to about the project and the crew?"

[Ataraxian]

Moira takes the medal from you, looks at it for a long moment, and folds it away in her pocket, carefully, as it if might have suddenly become breakable. She sips at the tea you poured her. You do the same-- it's stewed, bitter and tannic. She doesn't seem to notice.

"I ought to have tried the Botanics. I... but I thought he'd come home!" You calm her, and somehow bring her back to the point. She didn't know Patrick's workmates too well, but she knows he was working the bridge foundations on the Lothian side-- the south bank. His crew was working in the underwater caissons that rest on the riverbed. She remembers some names: Nixon, Avery, MacSpadden. Avery, she thinks, was a kind of ringleader-- Patrick talked about him more than the others, and lately seemed somewhat frustrated about him. More than a few of the crew have died-- Willie MacDonald, the one you asked about, and before that Rennie, drowned somehow, and Gross. There's no pattern to the deaths that she can tell, but this is why she suspects it has something to do with the bridge.

The sound of your voices brings Mrs. Murphy, the landlady, downstairs to the kitchen. "Now, Miss Callahan, you know the rules on letting strange men in the house," she begins, and you fear that, like the tea kettle, she is merely warming up on her way to boiling point. But after Moira's halting explanation, she doesn't seem to have the stomach for throwing you out. Nevertheless, she hovers at the drainboard, desultorily washing dishes and obviously eavesdropping. Knowing old Irish women, you suspect she wants you to leave before you corrupt the poor girl into a life of sin.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward turns his attention to Mrs. Murphy briefly. "I apologise for the impropriety, good landlady, but it is necessary under the circumstances, and we won't be imposing upon you for very long." He bows his head respectfully.

He takes a sip of tea, then grimaces at the ghastly taste. "Truly, is there anything worse than..." He looks up at Moira, stopping himself just in time.

"Receiving bad news?" he continues smoothly.

"You couldn't have known, my dear lady. And it seems that this infernal bridge claims the lives of all the poor lads who work on it. I find myself in agreement with you that this bridge is somehow the cause, and we are determined to find out what is behind it all. To that end, I'm afraid we simply must ask one or two more questions before we take our leave."

Edward pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He sighes deeply, then continues.

"You mentioned a chap by the name of...Avery, was it? Was he one of the lost fellows? Did your poor brother ever mention the cause of his frustration?"

[Ataraxian]

Moira nods. She seems to welcome the questions-- they take her mind off Patrick for a minute, let her do something helpful.

Avery wasn't the foreman of their crew-- MacDonald was, before he transferred to another job, and now it's a new man whose name she doesn't remember. But she has the feeling Avery was the one they listened to when they weren't taking orders. She doesn't know much about the frustration-- Patrick was closemouthed about work, and they preferred to talk about happier things in their spare time. They liked to think about going back to Ireland someday, living on a hill overlooking the sea and-- she breaks down again.

"There, now, dearie," says Mrs. Murphy, offering a handkerchief. Moira wipes at her eyes for a moment and straightens up again.

"You could probably get his address-- Avery's-- or any of them really-- from the hiring office. They keep track."

Manus: as you know, the hiring and most of the clerical work are done from offices near Haymarket station.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward begins to rise to his feet. "With your permission, we'll take our leave to continue our investigations. With any luck, we'll get to the bottom of this dreadful business within a day or two."

He bows politely first to the landlady, then to Moira. "Again, my apologies for the intrusion. Good day, madame, miss."

Once outside, Edward looks at the surrounding buildings and shivers. He draws his coat around him tightly, then places his hat back on his head, tilting it slightly forward as if to hide from scrutiny. He turns to Manus once more. "It seems we have a few more clues to this little mystery, my good fellow. This Avery chap, for example, seems to play a central role, and it would make sense to look into him. Yet..." Edward pauses for a moment, thinking hard.

"This coin we received from the young man...It seems to have been tugging at my mind for the last hour. Would you, by chance, happen to know any dealers in rare antiquities we could talk to about this curious coin?"

[OMG PONIES]

"It seems we have a few more clues to this little mystery, my good fellow. This Avery chap, for example, seems to play a central role, and it would make sense to look into him. Yet..." Edward pauses for a moment, thinking hard.

"This coin we received from the young man...It seems to have been tugging at my mind for the last hour. Would you, by chance, happen to know any dealers in rare antiquities we could talk to about this curious coin?"

"Kraussner," Manus says, and a shiver creeps up his spine. "German fellow, trades in antiquities both honest and ill-gotten. Nice enough bloke, but gives me the willies nonetheless." He doesn't add in how the pawnbroker also currently holds the pocketwatch Manus' father gave him, his mother's emerald ring, and a bevy of other personal heirlooms. The reporter must have filled half of the pawn side of the cases with family memorabilia; work had been slow the past few months, but the drinks had still come quickly, and the bills along with them.

He shakes off the shiver and focuses again on the task at hand. "Even still, brutha, the devil you know beats the devil you don't. We'll talk to Kraussner first thing tomorrow morning, then sniff out this Avery chap. Oh, but one last thing--when we talk to the German, don't ask him about his past. He doesn't like to say much, and something tells me we wouldn't want to know." The reporter hops in the carriage and takes another hard-earned pull at his flask. Telling Moira was the right thing, he coaches himself, even if it felt so bloody wrong.


Edward suddenly notices the darkening sky, and shudders. "Looks like it's going to be a dark night, my friend. Fortunately I have a decent Scotch put away at home, and I'm sure that's not an offer you can refuse. After that, the settee should be more than comfortable." His smile is friendly, yet there is something forced and even desperate about it.

Back at Edward's lodgings, Henri has obviously decided to drop whatever topic he was trying to discuss with Edward, and is the consummate manservant, attending to Edward's and Manus' needs almost before they are voiced. The furniture and decorations are elegant yet comfortable, and despite the summer, Edward has Henri light the fire, which takes the chill out of the old building.

Dinner turns out to be a fairly simple French meal of Bouillabaisse, but it is well prepared by Henri. Edward smiles, "It's a sin to eat French without wine, I realise. I do have something much better, though, and as a Scotsman once told me, 'Never mix the grape and the grain'." Dinner passes quickly, Edward obviously eager to get to drinking.

The Scotch turns out to be a high-quality, 25 year old Scotch, and Edward smiles as he brings it out. "A gift from an admirer," he chuckles, with a crooked smile. Obviously in the mood for company, Edward invites Henri to take a seat also, and pours the drinks himself. Though Henri does not speak, he is pleasant and friendly company, and it is obvious he is following the conversation, though Edward seems oblivious to this.

Throughout the night, Edward flatly refuses to discuss any of the day's events, instead sticking to pleasant subjects such as the English cricket, his travels in France and Italy, and some of the artwork he is most fond of. Not one to talk only of himself, he takes an interest in the more pleasant aspects of Manus' life. Though Edward's determination to be a good host is a little distracting, the evening is pleasant and does much to distract from the worst events of the day.

Around midnight, Edward finally relents and brings out some sleeping clothes for Manus to borrow, and allows him to have a wash and get changed in the washroom. The settee is indeed comfortable, and the rest of the night passes quietly, though once or twice Manus hears the sounds of whimpering and restlessness from Edward's bedroom. Nevertheless, it seems that Edward slept passably well, as he shares breakfast with Manus in a fairly jovial mood.

As Manus' glass is refilled, so are his spirits. By the end of the night, he has nearly forgotten about the difficulties of the day, as well as other little things like his own name and how to walk in a straight line. He entertains Edward with tales of his life, but the noble can't be sure how many of them are true, how many are exaggerated, and how many are complete fabrication. Did he really spot the monster in Loch Ness? Had Manus actually kissed the Queen?

By morning, the laughing storyteller is replaced by the terse librarian as Manus nurses himself through an inevitable hangover. "Shh!" he scolds whenever Edward attempts to speak, move, or make any sort of sound. "Eggs and coffee first, then maybe we can scrape ourselves together." The Scotsman seems unaware of the fact that Edward is not in the same alcohol-induced misery in which he finds himself.

Breakfast does seem to work wonders for the reporter; after consuming his meal and a quick swig of whiskey, he is on his feet in serviceable condition. The two of them head to Kraussner's pawn shop, following McAllister's directions. When they arrive, he smiles kindly to the staff and politely waves off their offers to open a new pawn ticket for him. "Err, no, but thank you kindly," he stammers as he tries to conceal his poverty from his noble companion, "just need to see Josef about an antique I found. No valuation, just information."

[Ataraxian]

Manus: You wave no thank you to the boy at the counter-- then look back, caught by a detail of the face. It's Kraussner's oldest daughter, Liesl, about a foot taller than the last time you saw her; as she sees you notice, she grins proudly. "Papa," she shouts to the back room, "customers!"

The old man appears from his study. He looks, as always, like the stern Prussian schoolmaster you're glad you never had. What disturbs you about him isn't so much that he doesn't like you, as that you suspect that he does. He ignores most of his customers, but you rarely pass the shop without him taking the time to scold you for your waywardness, and you can't help but notice that your family heirlooms are all kept in the back room, not for sale to the public.

"Herr McAllister," he says, and bows slightly. You have come perhaps to redeem one of your tickets?" The sarcasm in his voice is subtle, but clear nonetheless-- he's needling you. He ushers you both into the study, gesturing at two high-backed wooden chairs beside the work bench. One wall is lined with glass cases of jewelry, statuary, exotic weapons and books in unfamiliar scripts; another holds magnifying glasses, solvents and polishes and a shelf of heavy reference books. As always, the books are alphabetized, the glassware spotless and you strongly suspect that the chairs are perfectly square to the table, as if they had been checked with a ruler.

Edward: The girl behind the counter has good bones and piercing blue eyes, but she's still spindly as a beanpole. She'll probably be quite the heartbreaker-- in five years or so.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward is impressed by the elderly German's gravitas. Guessing, however, that the man was not one to be swayed by flattery, Edward does not stoop to gushing over the man.

"Herr Kraußner, I presume? Edward, Lord Blanchard," Edward says while bowing politely. For the first time since arriving in Scotland, Edward found himself using his title for the sake of formality, rather than as a means of impressing somebody.

Taking one of the proffered seats, Edward sits rather more straight-backed than usual. Though he always preferred literature to non-fiction, he still yearned to examine the books in intimate detail. Though he had only studied French in any detail, foreign languages of every type were a hobby, and he especially enjoyed examining strange alphabets.

Nevertheless, not wishing to attract the acerbic German's ire, he restricts himself to the occasional, unconscious longing glance, waiting for his Scottish friend to mention the business that had brought them.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The Scotsman reaches for his pipe, but thinks twice of it; last time he lit up inside the store, Josef gave him one of those stern, silent glares that was less shopkeeper's anger and more paternal disappointment. It made him feel like a lad all over again, and it was not a feeling he very much enjoyed. Ergo, the tobacco remained in his jacket pocket.

As Kraussner begins to mention Manus' tickets, the reporter fumbles for a way to cover. He settles for a loud cough, hoping that the momentary distraction will catch Edward's ears instead of Manus' need for a pawnbroker. Realizing that his gambit has not been entirely successful, he stammers, "wh-what? Oh, no need, you can keep trying to sell those trinkets." However, in his mind he curses the fact that none of his items had sold. He had barely made rent last month, and his tab at Flannigan's was getting to the point that they were reluctant to tack anything onto it, citing something about straws and camel's backs.

"I know you're busy, Josef, so I'll dispense with the formalities. I need a consultation for a story." He fumbles with the items in his pocket, pushing aside the ill-advised pipe in favor of the old Roman coin. "Anything you can tell me about this that a history text can't, brutha? Think I've got the basics, but do these have any...stranger past?"

[Ataraxian]

Manus: The expression which Kraussner assumes as you casually address him as Josef is so perfectly informative it ought to be photographed for posterity.

Edward: [since this is just a cursory glance, we won't bother with a library use roll]
You skim over the titles you can read-- Vesalius on anatomy, Hutton, Cuvier, Lyell, Richard Owen... the Grimm's massive Deutches Woerterbuch... a collection of sermons by John Knox. If there's a pattern, you can't make it out just by looking.




Kraussner nods briefly at your apology, all the reconciliation you are likely to get. He lays the coin on the work table and scrutinizes it through a lens. "Vespasianus," he says, recognizing the face. "But this you know already, yes? So. Best to brush it with olive oil for a while. Then we see more. Anna, liebchen!"
Another daughter, a chubby girl of ten or so, runs down the stairs. The old man's face softens as he looks at her.
"You remember how I taught you to clean old coins? Can you go brush this one off?"
"Yes, Papa."
"You'll remember to be careful? Don't scrub too hard."
"I'm always careful!" The girl beams at you both unself-consciously.
"Good girl."
She scurries off again.

"In the river, you say. The tribesmen here, the Britons, they worshipped the river as a god. These coins they would throw in-- thousands of them, plate silver, cups, armor, swords-- anything of value. Sometimes a man, you understand? These were harsh times. But if a hoard has been found, it is... what do you British call it? Treasure... [i]trove, that is it. It belongs to the Crown, though at times the finder receives some little of compensation."

"I have a rumor heard, that Corbie had sold something of significance recently. Perhaps that is it... a treasure of the old people. But this is mere speculation-- vapors and dreams. We must attend to facts!"

Anna returns with the coin, now showing a bit of the luster of the original brass. Kraussner smiles warmly and compliments her, before turning again to the coin. It is now possible to make out the image on the reverse, a woman flanked by the sun and moon, holding a phoenix. The goddess Aeternitas, he identifies her... and a legend he can make out letter by letter: "NON MORIAR SED..."

'I shall not die, but...' Ironically, the end of the motto has worn away. Kraussner can't remember seeing this inscription on any other coins or medals.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward takes one last wistful glance at the volumes, then turns his attention to the matter at hand, paying attention to the German's explanation.

"I must confess to being no expert on the Roman culture, but did the Emperor not often become a god upon dying? This goddess...Aeternitas, you said? Sounds like eternity, I suppose it must be the root of the word. Was she related to immortality or the like?

"Was this particular Emperor obsessed with immortality, or did he think of himself as divine? In any event, I imagine that the inscription ends in something along the lines of 'live on forever' or 'as a god' or the like," he finishes breezily.

[Ataraxian]

"Certainly you are right about the cult... and the goddess Eternity. Though I do wonder what you English learn in school, that Latin is too good for you nowadays. This very Vespasianus is said to have joked on his deathbed that he thought he might be turning into a god. You may even about the inscription be correct, that it ends as you say."

He makes a dismissive gesture. "No, the coin is not so strange on its own. More strange that I have not seen one like this before... usually the Roman coins are very standard, but this one is a rarity."

He pulls down a huge book from a back shelf and flicks through it, referring several times to an index. "See, even in Pitt Rivers I cannot find this. It may have been struck near here, perhaps, to commemorate some specific event. If indeed someone has found a hoard in the river, well-- they may know more. But I do not."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus nods to the man, a sign of deference he was clearly lacking before. He thought that, as a regular, he and the broker had established a casual rapport. Apparently this was not the case, though this was not unusual for a German. "You have our thanks, Herr Kraussner. Your daughters grow taller and more beautiful by the day; let me know if you ever need assistance keeping the Scottish boys at bay." He laughs and winks, realizing as he does that the humor may very well be lost on Joseph. "I wish you and your family the best of health and happiness. Until next time, br--" The reporter stops himself from calling the pawnbroker "brutha," sure that it would send steam from his ears.

Once outside, Manus fires up his pipe and seems to be right as rain, not letting the solemn eve or sobering morning effect him. "Well, Edward, we've got a deadline to beat. We need to get to that hiring office before they leave for lunch if we have any hoping of tracking down this Avery bloke."

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward says his farewells to the old German. "Farewell, Herr Kraußner. It was truly a pleasure meeting a man of learning here in Scotland." Edward bows to the man, apparently unaware that he has again insulted his reporter friend's homeland.

Once outside, Edward sighes with a wistful glance back at the shop. "I suppose you're right. I cannot think of anything I'd enjoy more than spending time with labourers and tradesmen. Much more interesting than looking at a bunch of old books and artefacts." Edward rolls his eyes ironically.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: You emerge from Kraussner's shop into one of those Edinburgh mornings you don't think you'll ever understand-- rain falling from a clear sky, and the brilliant arc of a rainbow rising over it all. You might have seen the effect in a painting somewhere, a Turner, maybe-- the brightness over everything bringing the drab streets suddenly to life.

The rain lasts only minutes, tapering off as you pull up near the hiring office, a tiny concern near Haymarket rail station. It should be easy enough to get the information you want-- most of the workers must be at the actual bridge site at this time of day, and there's only one person talking to the clerk inside; no doubt he'll be finished soon.

Manus: The man in the office finishes his business with the clerk and turns, catching sight of you as you enter the office. Bryce O'Keefe is short and slim, his clothing neat, his face scrubbed and perpetually beaming.

"Good morning, McAllister," he says brightly. "Hot on the trail of the bridge deaths, are you? Do tell me your theory. Your ideas are always so original!"

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The reporter takes a deep breath of the wet morning air and a smile creeps across his face as his hangover is wearing off. "Brilliant morning, isn't it, brutha?" he asks, blithely unaware of Edward's slight to the great land of the Scots. "Only thing that would make it better is some fresh air," he says as he retrieves his pipe from his jacket. "Now that has it," he says with a grin as a plume of smoke frames his face.


The man in the office finishes his business with the clerk and turns, catching sight of you as you enter the office. Bryce O'Keefe is short and slim, his clothing neat, his face scrubbed and perpetually beaming.

"Good morning, McAllister," he says brightly. "Hot on the trail of the bridge deaths, are you? Do tell me your theory. Your ideas are always so original!"

The joy drops from Manus' face as soon as he sees his rival emerging from the office. "Ach, hell's bells," he mutters under his breath before flashing a toothy grin to the "respectable" journalist. He had played this game before; anything useful he had would be poached by Bryce for his own story, while anything too fantastical would get little more than a scoff. Manus holds back his urge to tell Bryce about Patrick and the coin, instead sticking to the sardonic banter that passed for conversation in this business.

"Hmph, morning, Bryce. They demoted you to chasing the Reaper? I thought for sure you'd be covering the newest scandal in Holyrood. I'm actually here with a visiting nobleman, Lord Edward here. M'Lord, this is Bryce O'Keefe, a former classmate and colleague of mine. Used to be one of the best." he nods to the Brit. "What subtle irony," he clucks from behind his pipe, "They've got you telling ghost stories and me hobnobbing with the House of Lords. How about that role reversal? Well, best of luck to ya, brutha. Anything interesting?"

He hopes that Edward's presence is enough for Bryce to buy the story, but knew it wouldn't hold much water. After all, O'Keefe was an investigative journalist, known for ferreting out the truth when Manus was more amenable to ignoring it in favor of a decent story. If he could even impress Bryce, Manus would consider the interaction a personal victory.

[roll0] versus a skill of 54 (or 63 if Persuade is more fitting).

[Ataraxian]

Manus: Bryce doesn't seem impressed. "What they have you doing, I'm sure I don't know, although I can only hope it's worthy of your particular talents. But I am about to blow this whole story wide open."

He nods to you. "Good day... and my Lord," he bows to Edward, the words and gesture just a bit too overdone to be sincere. He walks up the street, waving for a cab.

[I think it was fast-talk]

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward gives the man a polite gesture of dismissal. Naturally, the gesture fairly exudes sarcasm. He watches the man depart, smirking. Once he is out of sight, he turns to Manus.

"Why, Manus, my dear fellow, I must say I'm a little shocked to find that you are hardly a respected figure within the journalism community! Imagine my surprise. I suppose next I'll be hearing from one of your charming friends that you've penned some piece entitled, let me see...aha! 'Bat Boy Found in Cave,'" Edward's voice reverberates dramatically.

Having had his sport, Edward takes on a serious mien. "Still, it's rather unfortunate that one of your rivals is now researching the same story. We have a few advantages, though, I suppose. Perhaps we should continue with our researches here? With any luck, we are not researching the same lead as your friend, and we can soon find our man."

With that, Edward approaches the clerk with a friendly smile.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: The clerk looks you over, sizing up the cut of your coat and your general demeanor. "Ten bob," he says flatly, "and ye can see everything the other fellow saw, if that's what you're after. I'm sure I don't care which of you breaks the story first, not if you make it worth my while."

[to save you looking it up, that's half a pound]

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward is a little taken aback by the exobitant price, but quickly recovers his composure.

"My dear fellow, we are both men of the world, are we not? Can we not come to a more equitable price? You must realise that the information cannot be worth more than five shillings. What say you? That can certainly buy you a few pints in the local tavern."

Bargain (60): [roll0]

According to a calculator, he's asking for the modern equivalent of £40, right? I know we're not using money per se, but I doubt Edward would be willing to part with 10 shillings just like that.

[Ataraxian]

The clerk shrugs. "Worth a try, eh? Five it is, then." He shoves a set of hand-written files across the desk. "Let me know if you need any other ones."

There are records here for the dead men MacDonald, Rennie and Gross, and for Avery, Callahan, and several others who must be connected to the same work crew. Each file has an address, mostly of boarding houses in Leith or Granton. Callahan's file hasn't yet been updated with news of his death.

[accounting]

The crew is being paid as unskilled laborers, with an increment for hazard pay because they're in the caissons. Recently, nearly a third of them have either given notice or been frequently absent from work. One or two of the ones who have shown up were reprimanded for insolence. Avery hasn't shown up at all for about two weeks.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus smirks at Edward's playful chiding; if only the noble realized the truth in his words. "Ah, so you read last year's Week 34 issue?" he asks.

* * *

As Manus peruses the file, attempting to make heads and tails of all the scribbles on the files, he slides another shilling onto the table. "Hey brutha," he asks, "that other fella coming back here for any more information?"

[Ataraxian]

"Well," says the clerk, looking sly, "if it comes to that, he said I should be sure to tell him if Callahan came by for anything. Said he hadn't shown up to work for a few days, and that had to mean he was hiding at home working on some devious plot. But don't tell him you heard it from me."

[ValhallaStreet]

Flicking through the accounting papers, Edward quickly gives up in boredom.

At the clerk's mention of Callahan plotting, Edward arches his brow in surprise. "Plotting something, you say? Did he have a reputation amongst the workers? From what I had heard, Avery had something of a reputation himself."

Edward leafs through the papers, taking a look at Callahan's section, before moving on to Avery's details. He takes particular care to look at his address, and any special notes on any discipline or behaviour.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: There's nothing in poor Patrick's section that you don't already know. Perhaps Bryce's suspicions are simply based on the man's nervous behavior and abrupt disappearance.

Avery lives in a tenement in St. Leonard's, one of the grimier areas of the old town. His section notes he's been absent from work, on and off, for about two weeks. That's at the front of the file; after a few more lines of tight, abbreviation-laded handwriting, you decide not to read the rest.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister


"Well," says the clerk, looking sly, "if it comes to that, he said I should be sure to tell him if Callahan came by for anything. Said he hadn't shown up to work for a few days, and that had to mean he was hiding at home working on some devious plot. But don't tell him you heard it from me."

"Appreciate it, brutha. Speaking of Callahan..." he pauses for an awkward moment. "I don't know if anyone's notified you, but he's passed." The reporter slides another shilling across the table. "This is to insure that you don't breathe a word of this to the other chap...and to be sure that you keep him away from Callahan's poor sister Moira. She's broken up enough, no need to sic that fella on her as well."

He turns to Edward and shrugs. "Looks like we got what we came for, eh? Perhaps we should visit Avery's flat?"

[ValhallaStreet]

"Naturellement, mon ami. I must admit to no small amount of curiousity about our Mr. Avery. With any luck, he'll be the key to this whole sordid mystery."

Having said that, Edward leads the way out to the carriage. "That was a fine thing you did, keeping Bryce away from Moira. Of course, it's only a side benefit that it will keep him off the scent, I suppose. Oh, by the way...I spent a few shillings in there. McCaffrey will need to pay compensation, of course."

Edward waves the carriage over. Showing the address to the driver, he climbs aboard, and waits for his reporter companion.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The reporter chuckles. "Mhm, definitely. Just file the request and you'll get it sometime after I get my reimbursement check I requested nine months back. As for Bryce and Moira, I'm afraid you've got it twisted; keeping him off the scent is a happy byproduct of keeping him away from that poor lass. Now, I'm beginning to get uncomfortably sober," he mumbles, fumbling around the carriage for the closest bottle.

[Ataraxian]

Manus: With its location conveniently between Holyrood Palace and Edinburgh's main police station, and its majestic view of Arthur's Seat, you've never understood why St. Leonard's is such a dismal slum. But nonetheless, you're glad you have the carriage, and daylight, so you don't have to face the people looking hungrily at you as you pass. Avery's address is typical of the neighborhood, a sullen pile of grayish brick that manages to appear flimsy and forbidding at the same time.

You have to knock several times before you are admitted by an old man in shirtsleeves, his trousers unbuttoned. He seems put out that you have interrupted him in the middle of what looks to be a long and difficult campaign against sobriety. "Avery," he mutters, "Eh, that his name from upstairs? He disnae deserve friends, up till all hours of the night, keeping decent folk from their sleep."'

He points you toward a narrow staircase at the rear of the house and vanishes back into his room.

You ascend the dimly lit staircase. Oddly, a few feet from what must be Avery's door, you notice the crazed wood of the floorboards is covered over with some kind of thick green carpet.

[ValhallaStreet]

Slightly intimidated by his view of the Scottish underclass, Edward hangs back behind his friend, hoping to go unnoticed by those they encountered. Even in London, most of his time amongst the underclasses had been spent in Grub Street or in the more stylish dens of Limehouse. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by the squalid denizens of this part of Edinburgh.

Near the door, Edward notices the strangely placed carpet. Raising an eyebrow, he delicately scuffs at the material with the toe of his shoe, careful not to spoil the polish of his shoes. Giving Manus a look, he shrugs, unwilling to dirty his hands on the doubtless filthy covering. Gesturing towards the indicated door, he waits for Manus to announce their presence.

[ValhallaStreet]

Suddenly Edward realises that the "carpet" is not just some scrap of material thrown down to cover rotting floorboards, but is rather some plant-like material. His sallow but handsome face twists in disgust, and he scrapes the tip of his boot off on the wall.

"What a vile place! I don't think I've ever been in such a poorly kept building in my entire life. When we're done here, I have half a mind to send the building inspector on over to condemn this disgusting place.

"Come, Manus, let us conduct our business swiftly and then move on. I do not wish to be here any longer than necessary."

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Manus looks around at the squalor surrounding them, threatening to choke the very last luxury from their bones. He recalls a time shortly after University--before McCaffrey's picked him up--where he crashed on many floors of many buildings that looked exactly like this. Whether staying with friends or squatting in an unoccupied flat, this had been his home. Maybe not this building, but this feeling of economic despair. Thank God that old drunk had taken a liking to Manus and given him a job, otherwise it could have been Bryce O'Keefe outside of his moss-infested flat, knocking on his door hastily covered long ago in paint that was now chipping.

The reporter laughs off the thought and suggests, "Better that than some of the other stuff I've seen covering floors. I'll take the lead on this one." He waits for an answer at the door. After a few seconds without one, Manus calls out: "Avery?" Not really knowing what line to cast, he opts for an unusual path for him: the truth. "We're acquaintances of Moira Callahan--Pat's sis. He's passed, and she needs your help. Please, brutha."

[roll0] vs a skill of 63.

[Ataraxian]

No answer. Your eloquence has failed to make an impression-- if Avery is even around to hear it in the first place.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward knocks on the door. He waits for a moment, and presumably receiving no answer, he tries to open the door.

[Ataraxian]

Edward: The latch sticks for a moment, and then jerks free. The door swings open. Inside-- vines, fronds, creepers. The dank, earthy smell of growth and decomposition, the faint buzzing of insects, moss on the floor, on the walls... Ferns spread their leaves like grasping fingers, stalks like giant pipe-cleaners rustle and sway, and a woody sapling reaches improbably up from the center of the room, its feathery crown of leaves brushing against the ceiling.

Underneath the plants, you begin to realize, the room is surprisingly close to intact. The gas lamps are still burning wanly, and a cheap curtain sags across the window, failing to keep out much of the daylight. Under the window, a man lies on a bed, fully clothed. The foliage clusters thickly over him, hiding the details of his appearance. Around the bed, you can make out more pieces of furniture, now camouflaged with ferns or creeping mosses. A cheap deal table sits at the bedside, where one of the sprouting creepers seems to have overbalanced a cup of some dark fluid. In the corner by the fireplace are a chair and a sturdy wooden chest, on which Avery has stacked a toasting fork, a clasp knife, and a pile of dirty tin plates. Patches of pinkish carpet show through the greenery on the floor, torn up in places where, it appears, the sprouting plants simply burst through.

[If either of you enter the room or look around it, please roll spot.]

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

"I'm starting to see a pattern developing here," Manus mumbles to his companion as he eyeballs the improbable scene. He toes at the floor, as if to test a pool of water. Finding that it supports his weight and doesn't send leafy tendrils spiraling around his leg, he enters the room. He glances at the man on the bed--Avery, presumably--and tries to assess whether he's sleeping or...worse.

[roll0] vs a skill of 42
[roll1] vs a skill of 47

[Ataraxian]

Manus: You walk cautiously into the room, and though the floorboards creak, they do indeed support your weight. As you make your way toward the bed, you brush lightly against one of the long vines that crisscross the room. A second after you sweep it out of your way, a tendril snaps out from behind you like a striking snake, so close to you that you feel the air on your cheek as it flicks past.

As the striking tendril withdraws, you follow it back to its source, a large plant clinging to the wall a few feet from the door. Its short, thick trunk sprouts rings of fern-like branches which cover it with their wide brown leaves. The striking tendril is coiling itself under one edge of the covering, ready to lash out again. Between the covering leaves, there are several longer filaments, projecting into the center of the room. It's one of these that you brushed out of your way.

Five or six woody roots splay out from beneath the creature, anchoring it to the wall. As you watch, one of the 'feet' loosens tentatively and reattaches, then another, and the creature steps a few inches towards your side of the room, moving with slow, deliberate grace, like a stalking mantis.

[the room costs 0/1d3 sanity; encountering the creature another 0/1d6]

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

The reporter freezes in place as the tendril snaps past his ear. He waves off Lord Edward as he tries to enter the room. "It only moved when I touched it," Manus calls to him, "not sure if it can see or hear us any other way." He squints and grimaces, knowing that those words would carry sufficient irony as his last. When nothing happens, he sighs; it seems his theory was not complete hogwash.

Manus had spent enough time writing stories about plant monsters that he scolded himself for never paying more attention to all of the botanists he had to interview. He had skimmed over plenty of horticulture guides in the libraries, to be certain, but only looking for images of plants that seemed menacing enough to grace a cover. Never in all his days had he seen something like this.

"I think if I can tiptoe through the tulips," he says, "we should be fine. Think I should try to rouse the bloke on the bed?" Manus is sure of one thing: he doesn't intend to stay in this room for very long. He listens for Edward's advice whether he should try to snag the sleeping Avery or make a beeline for the door.

[ValhallaStreet]

Edward eyes the room and it's contents with disgust, but surprisingly manages to keep his cool.

"Better you than me. Well, if that's Avery, we'd better get the fellow out. Just be careful, I'm not coming in to save you," he stage-whispers to Manus.

Belying his words, he casts about for anything that could be used as a weapon before preparing to enter the room. No doubt the scene had been created using smoke and mirrors, but whoever the illusionist behind the show might be, their intentions were no doubt hostile, and he had no intentions of being caught unawares.

[OMG PONIES]

Manus McAllister

Manus looks down at the sleeping man. He thinks for a moment to rouse him, but thinks of what his general reaction would be if he rose from a nap to find both a stranger and a horrific plant creature at his bedside. Having Avery either attack him or jump from his bed to flee only to be devoured by a tree both seemed like poor options.

He realizes that there's not truly anything but poor options in this scenario. He positions himself to block Avery's movement out of the bed and pokes the sleeping man. As he prods the stranger, Manus calls out, "Avery? Wake up but do not move. I'm here to help."

[Ataraxian]

Manus: You reach out to the sleeping man. He stirs as you prod him, and you can feel his muscles tense through the threadbare blanket. At your words, however, he stops himself from sitting up, instead turning over to face you.

He looks exhausted: hair unkempt, face unshaven, the hollows under his eyes dark against his pale skin. His eyes twitch nervously, flicking from your face to the walls and ceiling, unable to keep still. "----," he whispers. "It's not a dream, is it?"

As you ponder your answer, you feel a gentle touch at your collar, almost a tickle. Avery, already pale, goes whiter than his dirty bedsheets. "Watch out, mate," he says, "it's looking for you. That kind's dangerous..."

The touch probes gently along your shoulders, ruffles the hair on the back of your head, then begins to worm itself between your shirt and your neckline. You wonder, briefly, whether it can feel you breathe.

[Creature passed its active spot check and attack. You can take a dodge roll if you like. Otherwise the creature strikes at you with a razor-edged attack tendril: 3 damage.]