… the Lady stands shivering in her cloak, holding the lantern for the engineer. It is but a few minutes of inspection before he turns a little brass wheel, the sound of gas sighs through a pipe, and the lights round the dark garden spring back into life.
“The last dood that came out put inna new line a’ready. He just diddint turnnit on.”
At last the beaches of Phillip helped me to remember why I am no longer quite fond of beach parties; the sand gets EVERYwhere.
Miss Kiralette didn’t care; she had at last been reunited with her darling Gnarli, or at least had been until her adventurous beau took off into the jungle. Forest, thing. I’d've raised an objection but when he left I thought surely he was just availing himself of the privacy of the sheltering branches. When neither Kiralette followed him whistling innocently, nor he returned to the beach, I realized he’d be long gone. As I watched from under my black lace parasol, she was fishing whilst singing silly tempting songs to colourful (and likely inedible) fish, barefoot again.
The Baron didn’t mind the sand; he’d gone to sleep (again), waiting for us to set up camp. Well. He’d looked asleep, but when I walked past him, he cracked open one eye and quietly asked me to refill his coffee mug. The one with the little stick figures doing violent but incomprehensible things to each other. I replaced the sand and ash with a hazelnut cappuccino, extra dry and didn’t ask him to help with erecting the tents.
Elsewhere… the Strongman and the Pixie go on holiday by balloon on
Zealot Benmergui, Baron of BardHaven, cheats at cards, even when they’re Tarot cards. No, he doesn’t do so in the conventional sense; there are no Death cards up his sleeve, and certainly he hasn’t managed to mark my own deck. But he can be very … distracting … and make a girl forget what she was about to do. Or what game is actually being played.
“Go fish,” he smirked.
“But I– I t’ought I had a straight flush!”
“I think, my dear, the only straight one on this barge is Sputnik. And evenso, he is a Commodore in the Navy, is he not? Have you ever seen him dancing with the other sailors, mmm? Perhaps before he aged so rapidly?”
“I… euh… I don’ remember…” I drew a card from the top of the deck. The Page of Swords. “Ehm… yeh may have a point…”
Mister G. Abel: Into the Jaws of Adventure (MIND the nose!)
Lady Eva: A Journey of Titanic Proportions
BardHaven’s Story: Part 3, in which the Expedition Accosts Phillip (with a Crash)
Lady Amber: Sea Voyage and Arrival at Phillip
“the Executives” - Summer Pilots
The Lady of the Grove stands alone on the bridge in the twilight. It is l’heure bleu, that time when all is painted in the indigo violet fog of falling night. Her clothing is dark, her hair and eyes dark, but her skin is pale, and faintly transparent. As she holds her hand out over the water, the gleaming Venus-star can be seen through her flesh; her hand trembles and she pulls it quickly beneath her cloak.
She then begins to sing, so softly that the sounds of the water lapping at the shore or the wind rustling in the trees might snatch the words away…
A hundred thousand blessings before you!
Tonight we have had our 1000th visit to this grove since opening twelve days ago.
Thank you, friends and visitors, for bringing your light into the darkness.
~ Darkling Elytis, the Lady of the Grove
The cute little bluebird fluttered down from the sky, wings laden with volcanic ash, a large official-looking envelope clutched in its’ wee talons. It had flown here to Caledon Cay all the way from my home in Tanglewood, valiantly braving disorienting sim border-crossings, cleverly avoiding the airspace above no-fly and dangerously full parcels, deftly dodging barely-controlled airships and gravity-defying skyboxes. It alighted upon the apple barrel that secreted the kittygirl, Miss Kiralette, shook some of the soot from its’ wings, and twittered adorably at me, so very proud that it had completed its’ mission. I took the envelope from its’ grip, patted it lightly on its’ little feathered head, and broke the seal of the Royal Society for the Advancement of Knowledge in the Natural Sciences. I found within exactly what I had hoped for: an invitation to join the expedition to explore the dangerous volcanic island Phillip, the newest and most unwelcome, (aside from the recently-retired casino magnate, Biff Hardshaft), addition to Caledon.
Here in my fey grove, the trees sway in the soft breeze, singing Baudelaire’s old poems of wicked flowers:
… hidden in the gloom, the sun pours down
on us a daylight dingier than the dark.
(Spleen (Quand le ciel bas et lourd))
Tears are an advantage to the face,
as streams enhance the meadow’s mystery
and rains refresh the rose.
(Madrigal Triste)
… forgotten by the world,
and whose fierce moods sing only to the rays of the setting suns.
(Spleen (J’ai plus de souvenirs))
we shall have richly scented beds, couches deep as graves
and rare flowers on the shelves will bloom for us beneath a lovelier sky
(La Mort des amants)
It was Baron Grayson who grew these flowers, these relics, into trees, fed them on such sweet sorrow. I taught them to continue their sad lovely songs; now they bloom here as richly as they did in his own garden. Some day I hope to grow something for him, to return in thanks.
It is dark, the sky overhead heavy and soft like a thick cloak. I am alone, as I almost always am, in the company only of my trees and my thoughts.
I stand on the bridge over the water, watching it slide and flow beneath me. The sun is on the horizon, the moon too, on the opposite horizon, both full and crimson red. I do not know if it is sunset or sunrise. I don’t suppose it matters, here.
I was sleeping just moments ago, and I feel those tendrils of dream still clinging to me like smoke. I was not alone in my dream, as I almost never am. It is always people I dream of. There were no words, however, no images, only the feeling of sharing a safe, sighing sanctuary.
The great fey blooms of the bridge glow softly by my head, softly because I have asked them not to rival the sun and the moon. They shiver and sigh in the breeze sliding off the placid ocean, and I realize it is cold. But the warmth of my dream, of my bed, still sustains me, my core still warm as if wrapped up in that softest flannel. I can feel the cold on my skin as only a sensation, another thing to note and enjoy.
The silent fire of the sky deepens a note, as the sun sinks by imperceptible degrees. Ah. Sunset, then. The light from it is like the red smoulder of a fire that will never go out but is only resting in coals. The light as it reflects off the moon is like bright blood; the river turgid and slow like heavy crimson-black blood. It fascinates me, this quiet cool river of blood flowing out to sea. I watch it and wonder at the wound from which it flows. I wonder if anyone but you would understand my enchantment with it, would care to read my thoughts now.
The great and epic tale! in the words of my fellow adventurers…
Mister Gnarlihotep Abel: the March to BardHaven
Amber Lady Palowaksi, Part the First
Miss Kiralette: What a Way to Go!
Baron BardHaven’s Story: Part Two
Mister G. Abel Reaches the Cay, Longing for his (absent?) Kitty
Caledon Cay was a carnival by the time I arrived. They had named the island Phillip, which seemed awfully naughty, even if our Avatar Overlord was often spectacularly wrong. The shores were swarming with gawkers and land speculators, ashen gray had become the new black, and I did indeed find an adventurous meal of a thick, meaty Phillip-burger and a pint of Lava-lager. After a few bites, however, I had to return to the burger-seller and threaten him with my wand.”Yeh said there was no Tiny in this!”
“There isn’t! ‘Tis Tiny-free, my lady! Medium-sized woodland creatures graciously provided their meat for it!” The sweat standing out on his brow was not due entirely to volcanic heat.
“Did these woodland creatures perhaps wear clothing? Or speak?”
The greasy half-wit stammered unintelligibly and tried to back away, so I had to tie him in my golden lasso. He wore the attached shackles with terrified style. Ah, Caledon! e’en your dregs look elegant in leather! After more questioning, he did admit that while he saw none of the creatures in clothing, someone else might have stripped them first.
“But they didn’t speak!” he wailed. “… English!”
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The poor little teacup was trying so very hard not to cry, but she was an awful mess. China shards everywhere, hot dark tea splattered across the floor of treeglass, leaves scattered beyond any reasonable hope of divination. She looked up at me and sniffled through her handle.
“Do yeh… do yeh see that too?” I was still staring through the windowalls, my mouth hanging open in shock, my hand still held out as if the teacup hadn’t just slipped from it and shattered on the floor.
She shifted a bit with a subtle sound of china scraping glass, peering through the wall before us.
“Yes, mistress, I see it too.” Sniffle.
“Tha’… that big hot red spewy smokey ting in teh water, where but a few minutes ago t’ere was only ehm, water?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Tha’ ting off teh coast o’ teh Cay, where no Duchy yet should be?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Do yeh tink it’s a glitch?”
“Well… it could be a glitch, mistress.” She paused, both of us marshalling our distressed thoughts. “I suppose it’s why you don’t love me anymore.”
