SteamNES
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
flyingchicken
Deity
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2007
- Messages
- 3,783
It was a typical summer day in Nihojon, the skies clear and the breeze refreshing. In one of the high and dry hills of Nihojon, a small team of engineers was testing a prototype of some strange contraption. In any other country, this would not have been too unusual. However, this was Nihojon, a backwards land ravaged by centuries of feudal warfare and repressive traditionalism.
Among the men and women, one stood out as being the leader of it all. The man had the look of a stern father, and in many ways acted like one. With a wave of his hand, the others followed. With every word that escaped his mouth, the others listened. He was no noble despite his authority, however: He was Dr. Akira Light, director of the Special Research Team developed by Lord Seichiro Yamamoto, governor of the Capitol.
"Test commencing in five," said Dr. Light, his voice loud and clear through the sound amplifying cone (something some people called "megaphones") he was holding in front of his mouth. He was staring intently at the great pendulum clock which stood haphazardly in a shallow hole. "Four...three...two..."
A few meters in front of him and his colleagues stood a man covered from head to toe in thick steel, with a large metal back-pack that was intimately entuwined with the armor. Dr. Light thought he looked like one of the "knights" of Western lore, though his knowledge of the West is shaky at best. He wished he could travel more, bujt he knew his duties lie at home, in Nihojon.
When the clock ticked one more time, Dr. Light said "Zero." Suddenly, huge jets of steam burst forth from the several exhaust shafts of the armored man's back-pack. Within moments, the man had collapsed. The rest of the team frantically scrambled to bring bucket-loads of water towards the collapsed "knight," hoping that they could cool him off on time.
"Another failed test, Akira," came a deep voice from behind the doctor. When Akira turned to see who it was, he saw the hard, square face of Akihito Saito. It was smug, but Akira did his best to ignore it.
"There are no such things as failed tests, Akihito," replied Akira. He turned back to his megaphone and idly called back his followers while rapidly jotting down notes on his thick, wooden-bound notebook. "These 'failures,' as you call them, only adds to what we already know."
Akihito decided not to pursue the matter. Instead he said, "Lord Seichiro demands that you dine with him tonight with his family." His tone was slightly bitter, but being the high-ranking military officer that he was he retained a high degree of professionalism.
"He also requested an objective report on the state of the project," Akihito continued, giving slight emphasis on the word 'objective.' He then took out a small writing pad and an expensive fountain pen. "Through me, Akihito Saito, Head Lieutenant of his honor, Lord Seichiro Yamamoto."
"Well, write down what you will, but make sure to consult with me or any of my apprentices before going into technical details," said Akira as he reviewed his notes. Akihito looked as though he took it as sort of an insult, but Akira failed to notice.
"Will do, Light," he replied stiffly as he turned to begin his inspection. By then Akira was orchestrating another round of tests and adjustments, and Akikhito found that he had to wait a while longer before he could begin interviewing anyone of import.
Among the men and women, one stood out as being the leader of it all. The man had the look of a stern father, and in many ways acted like one. With a wave of his hand, the others followed. With every word that escaped his mouth, the others listened. He was no noble despite his authority, however: He was Dr. Akira Light, director of the Special Research Team developed by Lord Seichiro Yamamoto, governor of the Capitol.
"Test commencing in five," said Dr. Light, his voice loud and clear through the sound amplifying cone (something some people called "megaphones") he was holding in front of his mouth. He was staring intently at the great pendulum clock which stood haphazardly in a shallow hole. "Four...three...two..."
A few meters in front of him and his colleagues stood a man covered from head to toe in thick steel, with a large metal back-pack that was intimately entuwined with the armor. Dr. Light thought he looked like one of the "knights" of Western lore, though his knowledge of the West is shaky at best. He wished he could travel more, bujt he knew his duties lie at home, in Nihojon.
When the clock ticked one more time, Dr. Light said "Zero." Suddenly, huge jets of steam burst forth from the several exhaust shafts of the armored man's back-pack. Within moments, the man had collapsed. The rest of the team frantically scrambled to bring bucket-loads of water towards the collapsed "knight," hoping that they could cool him off on time.
"Another failed test, Akira," came a deep voice from behind the doctor. When Akira turned to see who it was, he saw the hard, square face of Akihito Saito. It was smug, but Akira did his best to ignore it.
"There are no such things as failed tests, Akihito," replied Akira. He turned back to his megaphone and idly called back his followers while rapidly jotting down notes on his thick, wooden-bound notebook. "These 'failures,' as you call them, only adds to what we already know."
Akihito decided not to pursue the matter. Instead he said, "Lord Seichiro demands that you dine with him tonight with his family." His tone was slightly bitter, but being the high-ranking military officer that he was he retained a high degree of professionalism.
"He also requested an objective report on the state of the project," Akihito continued, giving slight emphasis on the word 'objective.' He then took out a small writing pad and an expensive fountain pen. "Through me, Akihito Saito, Head Lieutenant of his honor, Lord Seichiro Yamamoto."
"Well, write down what you will, but make sure to consult with me or any of my apprentices before going into technical details," said Akira as he reviewed his notes. Akihito looked as though he took it as sort of an insult, but Akira failed to notice.
"Will do, Light," he replied stiffly as he turned to begin his inspection. By then Akira was orchestrating another round of tests and adjustments, and Akikhito found that he had to wait a while longer before he could begin interviewing anyone of import.
germanicus12
First Citizen of Rome
Octavian walked over to the local high school and several students hanging around the school and struck up a conversation with them,
"Hello boys! Skipping school I see."
"And whats that to you, fool!" Replied the leader.
"Nothing, I just figured you might would like to miss school for good. You will be paid alot for just missing school. What do you think?"
"And why would you pay us for missing school?"
"Maybe becuase you will be helping me take over the world as my generals?"
"General of what?" scoffed a boy.
Octavian smiled, a loud clunk was heard followed by a boom. The boys dived to the ground and cursed their mouth off.
"What the heck was that?!"
"That boys, will be your soldiers." Octavian smiled.
"Cool. What is the catch?" Replied a boy, who seems to be the only smart one in the group.
"Nothing, all you need to do is recruit slaves who will build your soldiers so we can march on the throne and take the kingdom of Pjolaka!" Octavian laughed.
The boys stared at each other trying to figure out what they want to do. Finally a boy spoke,
"What is our pay?"
"Ahh, what do you say to 5,000 a month? Twice as more than what your parents make combined."
The boys whistled, and looked at each other again, before another question was brought up,
"Who are you and why are you trying to rule the world?"
"I am Octavian Germanicus, my name should suffice and I just want power and glory! And by joining me as my commanders you too will have your share of power and glory, and dare I say, wealth and girls?"
That did it, the boys eagerly nodded and shook hands,
"Remember, recruit people to build the machines to help us rule the world." Octavian chuckled evilly as he watched the boys scatter away to recruit friends, nerds, idiots, whoever.
Octavian turned to Julius, who the boys apparently missed and said, "Well Julius, we shall have an army that should take the throne in oh.... 12 months."
Julius grinned, it was probably the most evilest grin ever seen on earth.
"Hello boys! Skipping school I see."
"And whats that to you, fool!" Replied the leader.
"Nothing, I just figured you might would like to miss school for good. You will be paid alot for just missing school. What do you think?"
"And why would you pay us for missing school?"
"Maybe becuase you will be helping me take over the world as my generals?"
"General of what?" scoffed a boy.
Octavian smiled, a loud clunk was heard followed by a boom. The boys dived to the ground and cursed their mouth off.
"What the heck was that?!"
"That boys, will be your soldiers." Octavian smiled.
"Cool. What is the catch?" Replied a boy, who seems to be the only smart one in the group.
"Nothing, all you need to do is recruit slaves who will build your soldiers so we can march on the throne and take the kingdom of Pjolaka!" Octavian laughed.
The boys stared at each other trying to figure out what they want to do. Finally a boy spoke,
"What is our pay?"
"Ahh, what do you say to 5,000 a month? Twice as more than what your parents make combined."
The boys whistled, and looked at each other again, before another question was brought up,
"Who are you and why are you trying to rule the world?"
"I am Octavian Germanicus, my name should suffice and I just want power and glory! And by joining me as my commanders you too will have your share of power and glory, and dare I say, wealth and girls?"
That did it, the boys eagerly nodded and shook hands,
"Remember, recruit people to build the machines to help us rule the world." Octavian chuckled evilly as he watched the boys scatter away to recruit friends, nerds, idiots, whoever.
Octavian turned to Julius, who the boys apparently missed and said, "Well Julius, we shall have an army that should take the throne in oh.... 12 months."
Julius grinned, it was probably the most evilest grin ever seen on earth.
Kozmos
Jew Detective
The drydock was crowded, various workers were running around, doing their best at following Gabriel's strict instructions. He was going in circles around the Sea Turtle inspecting each nook and cranny too see if it was up to specification. At first he thought about making a wooden warship plated with iron, but instead opted to make a ship entirely of steel.
The cost was high enough to be sure, but once it proves that is superior to all other ships money will no longer be a problem. It's armor was of top notch quality and it's armament was nothing to scoff at either. While featuring standard naval guns of particular interest was the single large caliber fully rotational turret. Foes will have a tough time staying out of the firing range of the Sea Turtle.
"Right-o. I have left you unenlightened greasemonkeys with detailed, precise plans on how to complete the ship. While I would never dream of putting such an enormously important task in your incapable hands, my presence is required elsewhere. If somehow you manage to botch up my ship, you will be used as fuel for it's steam engine. Roger, hurry up with my coffers. We have a train to catch."
"Right away milord."
The trip back to mansion was rather uneventful, save for an inquiry by Roger on his ship designs and other blueprints.
"So you would propel a ship by lighting a bonfire under her deck? That is nonsense milord."
"Well I wouldnt expect a peasant to understand the intricacy of my brilliant designs. It will work, you will see."
That raised his eyebrow, his last servant died under mysterious circumstances and strangely Gabriel wasnt responsible for it. Could Roger be a spy, out to steal his plans in service to some other power? He couldnt take that risk.
"Milord, I am honoured you decided to let me into your workshop."
"Well yes, I had noted you have taken an interest in my steamship so I wanted show you the steamjack my father made."
"Steamjack?"
"It's a magnificent technical construct, when fueled up and fired it also has a mind of it's own. It can take relatively simple orders, but that is useful enough."
"What? A thinking machine? You kid milord surely?"
"No. You see, I was trying to create another, but my father never left any blueprints. I kept failing in creating a cortex. Brains, that is. Modified with some chemistry, submerged in liquid and sealed in a sphere inlaid with many copper and a few silver bars. I've tried brains of various livestock. They were all failures. However there is one avenue that I haven tried..."
"Fascinating. Do you have that in writing somewhere perhaps? Errm milord, why are you holding an axe and smiling like a deranged killer? YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAARRGHH!!"
The cost was high enough to be sure, but once it proves that is superior to all other ships money will no longer be a problem. It's armor was of top notch quality and it's armament was nothing to scoff at either. While featuring standard naval guns of particular interest was the single large caliber fully rotational turret. Foes will have a tough time staying out of the firing range of the Sea Turtle.
"Right-o. I have left you unenlightened greasemonkeys with detailed, precise plans on how to complete the ship. While I would never dream of putting such an enormously important task in your incapable hands, my presence is required elsewhere. If somehow you manage to botch up my ship, you will be used as fuel for it's steam engine. Roger, hurry up with my coffers. We have a train to catch."
"Right away milord."
The trip back to mansion was rather uneventful, save for an inquiry by Roger on his ship designs and other blueprints.
"So you would propel a ship by lighting a bonfire under her deck? That is nonsense milord."
"Well I wouldnt expect a peasant to understand the intricacy of my brilliant designs. It will work, you will see."
That raised his eyebrow, his last servant died under mysterious circumstances and strangely Gabriel wasnt responsible for it. Could Roger be a spy, out to steal his plans in service to some other power? He couldnt take that risk.
"Milord, I am honoured you decided to let me into your workshop."
"Well yes, I had noted you have taken an interest in my steamship so I wanted show you the steamjack my father made."
"Steamjack?"
"It's a magnificent technical construct, when fueled up and fired it also has a mind of it's own. It can take relatively simple orders, but that is useful enough."
"What? A thinking machine? You kid milord surely?"
"No. You see, I was trying to create another, but my father never left any blueprints. I kept failing in creating a cortex. Brains, that is. Modified with some chemistry, submerged in liquid and sealed in a sphere inlaid with many copper and a few silver bars. I've tried brains of various livestock. They were all failures. However there is one avenue that I haven tried..."
"Fascinating. Do you have that in writing somewhere perhaps? Errm milord, why are you holding an axe and smiling like a deranged killer? YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAARRGHH!!"
e350tb
Stupendously Illogical Englishman
OOC: Get ready...for the first stone to be dropped...
Peter Williams had planned this from the beginning, but he couldn't help but feel nervous as the Prime Minister entered to examine his workshop.
"I hope this sees results, Williams, I am seriously considering ending the funding of the Steamhulk," the PM exclaimed.
"It will," Williams smiled.
"You pompous git," he added under his breath.
Williams, Bob and the Prime Minister entered a small office, which had a window to the Steamhulk's workshop.
"That's it, then?" asked the PM.
"You expected more?"
"I EXPECTED LESS!" the PM yelled, outraged, "YOU HAVE BEEN WASTING MONEY ON THIS...THIS...MONSTROCITY, MONEY THTA COULD BE USED TO..."
"Fill your pockets, I suppose," Williams remarked, "You see, I have no intention on giving the Steamhulk to your pathetic rabble of an army. I do not need your administation anymore."
The window suddenly shut, and a door opened. The robotic Private Jenkins marched in.
"Is this some kind of joke?" the PM exclaimed.
"I am afraid not, Prime Minister," Williams replied cooly, "Private Jenkins...kill him."
Jenkins moved his hand. His fingers were grooved on the edges...like a saw...
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Jenkins marched out as quickly as he marched in, and the window re-appeared.
Williams looked down at the mess on the floor.
"Hmm...a little less blood next time, maybe?"
"Maybe, sir."
"Oh, and Bob," Williams remarked.
They were cut short as government officials ran in.
"What on Earth?" one yelled.
Before Bob could say anything, Williams began.
"He killed the Prime Minister! He'd have killed me too, had you two not arrived!"
"Wha', wha'?" Bob stuttered.
An official held up a rifle.
"You're coming with me."
"You maniac," Bob screamed, "You're ou' of your mind!"
"No Bob...you are."
Bob looked, almost sadly, at Peter Williams, before making a desperate lunge for the window. As he jumped, the offical fired, and hit Bob's heart, before he fell through the glass and down below, dead.
"Mr Williams, I guess that ends a trial..."
"I do indeed, he could be labelled insane, cheerio gentlemen."
The officals left, as Williams made his way down to the body below.
"I had to do it Bob," he sighed, "Private Jenkins won't last forever...but the next prototype will..."
Peter Williams had planned this from the beginning, but he couldn't help but feel nervous as the Prime Minister entered to examine his workshop.
"I hope this sees results, Williams, I am seriously considering ending the funding of the Steamhulk," the PM exclaimed.
"It will," Williams smiled.
"You pompous git," he added under his breath.
Williams, Bob and the Prime Minister entered a small office, which had a window to the Steamhulk's workshop.
"That's it, then?" asked the PM.
"You expected more?"
"I EXPECTED LESS!" the PM yelled, outraged, "YOU HAVE BEEN WASTING MONEY ON THIS...THIS...MONSTROCITY, MONEY THTA COULD BE USED TO..."
"Fill your pockets, I suppose," Williams remarked, "You see, I have no intention on giving the Steamhulk to your pathetic rabble of an army. I do not need your administation anymore."
The window suddenly shut, and a door opened. The robotic Private Jenkins marched in.
"Is this some kind of joke?" the PM exclaimed.
"I am afraid not, Prime Minister," Williams replied cooly, "Private Jenkins...kill him."
Jenkins moved his hand. His fingers were grooved on the edges...like a saw...
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Jenkins marched out as quickly as he marched in, and the window re-appeared.
Williams looked down at the mess on the floor.
"Hmm...a little less blood next time, maybe?"
"Maybe, sir."
"Oh, and Bob," Williams remarked.
They were cut short as government officials ran in.
"What on Earth?" one yelled.
Before Bob could say anything, Williams began.
"He killed the Prime Minister! He'd have killed me too, had you two not arrived!"
"Wha', wha'?" Bob stuttered.
An official held up a rifle.
"You're coming with me."
"You maniac," Bob screamed, "You're ou' of your mind!"
"No Bob...you are."
Bob looked, almost sadly, at Peter Williams, before making a desperate lunge for the window. As he jumped, the offical fired, and hit Bob's heart, before he fell through the glass and down below, dead.
"Mr Williams, I guess that ends a trial..."
"I do indeed, he could be labelled insane, cheerio gentlemen."
The officals left, as Williams made his way down to the body below.
"I had to do it Bob," he sighed, "Private Jenkins won't last forever...but the next prototype will..."
das
Regeneration In Process
This is all certainly nice, very nice; am brainstorming for the story right now. One turn=one month, by the way, correct?
Daftpanzer
canonically ambiguous
Nikolai woke up to the overcast mid-afternoon gloom and a feeling of nausea. He didn't get headaches when he drank, but if he drank enough, he still felt ill.
He aimed a trickle of dark yellow fluid into the chamber-pot. Too dark, he thought to himself, a sign of dehydration. But he didn't feel like drinking anything, for fear of disturbing his stomach further.
He collapsed back on to his bed. He listened to the cow-bells and the contended mooing sounds which drifted in from the fields. He realised the side of his face still hurt from where the lovely barmaid had hit him. He realised he couldn't remember what he had said to her to cause such a reaction. He also realised he had a project to work on. A project upon which his destiny was balanced. A project that was already much delayed...
It took the best part of an hour for Nikolai to summon the will to get up, get dressed, go downstairs for a few sips of milk, and finally to step out into the barnyard. He felt another wave of dizzyness and nausea as he grappled with the barn door. It soon abated, and he ventured inside. A trio of chickens clucked resentfully at him. What were they doing in here? This was his domain, he asserted to himself.
The armoured steam carriage was still there, good good. He had resisted the urge, whilst drunk, to invite certain ladies for a test drive. Hopefully, he had also resisted the urge to brag about his creation to that mysterious bearded stranger who was most likely a spy from Allemany. Or maybe from the outlawed Sankt Kyrillas political faction...
At one point in the past, Nikolai had considered, for a brief moment, throwing in his lot with the underground liberalists and reformists. But somehow, even to think about betraying the Czar seemed dangerous. And it was likely he was continually being watched and monitored by the Czar's own agents. In any case, the Czar was the only one who could provide the resources he needed. That is, if he could regain the Czar's favour.
Nikolai headed to the back of the barn, ignited the large overhead lamp - a fire safety design he had created himself - and then pulled away the dirty linen sheet which covered his 'project of destiny'. The steam carriage was just the start. His next project was sure to give the Czar the military edge he so eagerly wanted. It was a large armoured vehicle with an unusual mode of travel, 'tracks' as Nikolai called them. They would surely prove much tougher and provide better grip than flimsy wheels. Not only that, but the vehicle had a mounting for a large cannon on top of the hull. Perhaps even a rotating turret, if he could find away around the various cogwheels and steam pipes which jutted up from the rear of the vehicle.
Yes. This was it. The great 'panzer-wagon' in all its glory. Of course, it was only a scale model at this point, barely two feet tall. But he used a torch to ignite the little engine, and it reassuringly whirred into life, nudging excitedly into his shin. All he had to do now was build the real thing. Several months work, perhaps, and all his remaining coins to buy the materials. It was time to contact his assistants again. There was much work to be done!
Yes, this was it. He would regain the Czar's favour, and then be free to pursue his real dream, a device which could travel up to meet the stars in the night sky. Perhaps he would even cut down on his drinking too, and maybe finally meet the right woman....
He aimed a trickle of dark yellow fluid into the chamber-pot. Too dark, he thought to himself, a sign of dehydration. But he didn't feel like drinking anything, for fear of disturbing his stomach further.
He collapsed back on to his bed. He listened to the cow-bells and the contended mooing sounds which drifted in from the fields. He realised the side of his face still hurt from where the lovely barmaid had hit him. He realised he couldn't remember what he had said to her to cause such a reaction. He also realised he had a project to work on. A project upon which his destiny was balanced. A project that was already much delayed...
It took the best part of an hour for Nikolai to summon the will to get up, get dressed, go downstairs for a few sips of milk, and finally to step out into the barnyard. He felt another wave of dizzyness and nausea as he grappled with the barn door. It soon abated, and he ventured inside. A trio of chickens clucked resentfully at him. What were they doing in here? This was his domain, he asserted to himself.
The armoured steam carriage was still there, good good. He had resisted the urge, whilst drunk, to invite certain ladies for a test drive. Hopefully, he had also resisted the urge to brag about his creation to that mysterious bearded stranger who was most likely a spy from Allemany. Or maybe from the outlawed Sankt Kyrillas political faction...
At one point in the past, Nikolai had considered, for a brief moment, throwing in his lot with the underground liberalists and reformists. But somehow, even to think about betraying the Czar seemed dangerous. And it was likely he was continually being watched and monitored by the Czar's own agents. In any case, the Czar was the only one who could provide the resources he needed. That is, if he could regain the Czar's favour.
Nikolai headed to the back of the barn, ignited the large overhead lamp - a fire safety design he had created himself - and then pulled away the dirty linen sheet which covered his 'project of destiny'. The steam carriage was just the start. His next project was sure to give the Czar the military edge he so eagerly wanted. It was a large armoured vehicle with an unusual mode of travel, 'tracks' as Nikolai called them. They would surely prove much tougher and provide better grip than flimsy wheels. Not only that, but the vehicle had a mounting for a large cannon on top of the hull. Perhaps even a rotating turret, if he could find away around the various cogwheels and steam pipes which jutted up from the rear of the vehicle.
Yes. This was it. The great 'panzer-wagon' in all its glory. Of course, it was only a scale model at this point, barely two feet tall. But he used a torch to ignite the little engine, and it reassuringly whirred into life, nudging excitedly into his shin. All he had to do now was build the real thing. Several months work, perhaps, and all his remaining coins to buy the materials. It was time to contact his assistants again. There was much work to be done!
Yes, this was it. He would regain the Czar's favour, and then be free to pursue his real dream, a device which could travel up to meet the stars in the night sky. Perhaps he would even cut down on his drinking too, and maybe finally meet the right woman....
The Strategos
Thanatos
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2002
- Messages
- 1,175
Now why are you pouting over here in the corner during my marvelous party? Perhaps a little self-conscious? I looked up, immediately recognizing the voice as belonging to the Lady Lucretia Collatinus, the lady of the house. She was beautiful, in that rare beauty prized by the nobility, in other words, she had a title and was covered in expensive jewelry. Unfortunately for her, neither her title nor her jewelry were hers by right, a fact that caused a considerable number of her present guests to look down upon her, even as they happily consumed her exquisite wine. She got both her current title and her wealth from her late husband, Valerius Collatinus, the head of one of the oldest noble families in Magnatae. At the time she had been an amusement for the elderly Collatinus, a very young and very minor member of a lesser noble family from the north. Collatinus was allowed this indulgence because of his son and heir, who had been properly born of true nobility, Collatinus and his first wife, a member of the ancient Poplicola family. Then, tragically, the younger Collatinus died in a hunting accident after being thrown by his horse which had been spooked by a snake, and the elder Collatinus died soon afterwards of old age and a broken heart. This left the Collatinus name and fortune to the young bauble of a wife.
Of course, this state of affairs caused every warm bodied person with a drop of Collatinus blood in them to start sniffing around, hoping to wrest both the title and wealth away from her. Thats when the Lady Collatinus came to me. It was a perfect match, she, with wealth, but no influence, me with influence but no wealth. It was not hard for one of my stature backed by her wealth to send all those vultures away. Naturally, in gratitude, she became my financial patron, allowing me free reign with her riches, knowing that it was only by my protection that she enjoyed any of the wealth at all.
I tugged at the wide brim of the hat I was wearing, pulling it further over my eyes as I bent down to kiss the proffered pale hand. I dont know what you are talking about my Lady, I have nothing to be self-conscious of.
Then why dont you take off the hat, I bet its hot. Here, Ill get one of the servants to hold it for you.
Fashion always trumps comfort my dear. I said with a condescending air that could only come from a member of the ancient nobility. Gracefully I marched past her, my assumed air of dignity trying to mask the fact that I was beating a hasty retreat. My strategy, of course, did not escape the notice of the Lady. She was quick, that one, perhaps smarter than her own good. Fortunately for me, she decided she had enough fun at my expense and decided to bother another of her guests.
Relieved, I slunk away, liberating a glass of wine from a footman as he passed. I was still slightly sensitive since the accident. A couple of months ago I had come across a promising lead in my pet project in an antique store, a copy of The Fountain by an ancient alchemist by the name of Bernardus Trevisanus. From that manuscript I had developed a recipe, which I had high hopes of using to create the legendary Philosophers Stone. Unfortunately, midway through the creation process, the mixture exploded, taking away most of my hair and replacing it with several burn marks. Since that day, I had taken to wearing a large wide brim hat in order to cover the damage I had received on that day.
During my escape from the taunts of Lady Collatinus, I happened to wander towards a group of four men lazily talking, while keeping one eye on the dance floor and the unoccupied women. Too late I noticed them, as the group was comprised of no one I particularly liked and two I privately detested. As I tried to turn away, however, the group hailed me, forcing me to turn aside and acknowledge their presence.
I heard the commoner is having some trouble with the design you gave him. Only in a gathering like this would the Emperor be referred to as a commoner. The reason for their distain was because the Emperor could only trace his noble heritage back ten generations, which clearly made him barely above a peasant. I briefly thought about punching the speaker for his arrogance, then thought better of it, since I didnt really like the Emperor either.
So instead of starting a brawl, I merely shrugged. Im only the designer, not the builder. It is no longer my problem. The Emperor had come to me because of the colonials, which was the common Magnataen description of anyone from Anglia, Lusigal, Espan, Gallia and Rabiyya. Of course, to my knowledge, these territories had never been colonies of Magnatean, but we were never ones to let the truth ruin a good slur. According to the Emperor some of these countries were developing a ultimate war machine, and he wanted me to build a better one. I could care less about his request, not caring the least about war and war machines, but he was depressingly persistent in his demands. When some of the older noble houses joined his clamoring, I made a compromise, I would design it but someone else would have to build it. So I dutifully submitted a design and washed my hands of the entire thing. Of course, the Emperor would be furious if he found out that I had reneged on my end of the bargain. Instead of making a design myself, I merely stole a design I had found from an old alchemist from Vinci, named Leonardian. I had no idea if his ancient design would work, nor did I particularly care, since I had bigger concerns.
Since my accident, I had realized that code that The Fountain was written in was to tough for me to unravel by myself. Fortunately, there was still an important clue.
Resolved to search and travel every Land
The Globe had ever shown, At length I came
To golden Ganges in ye Land of fame,
And Appeleia is ye Citys name.
According to his own admission, Bernardus Trevisanus did not discover the secret behind the Philosophers Stone until reaching the city of Appeleia. If I too could travel to Appeleia perhaps I could receive the same inspiration Bernardus received. The problem, of course, was the location of Appeleia. After spending many consecutive days at the docks, talking to every sailor I met, my only lead was that it was probably on the other side of Rabiyya.
For the last several months, then, I had been building a craft that would allow me to travel, in order to search for Appeleia. However, I did not know whether I could reach Appeleia by sea, so I could not trust a boat to get me there. Thus, I decided to travel by something I was assured would always be available to me, no matter the location of Appeleia, air. For several months, now, I had been building on my ancestral lands, funded by the wealthy Lady Collatinus, a device which would take me anywhere I wished in the luxury befitting one of my stature. Currently the only thing I was waiting for was its completion, so that I could set off on my journey to Appeleia and find the recipe to make the Philosophers Stone.
Of course, this state of affairs caused every warm bodied person with a drop of Collatinus blood in them to start sniffing around, hoping to wrest both the title and wealth away from her. Thats when the Lady Collatinus came to me. It was a perfect match, she, with wealth, but no influence, me with influence but no wealth. It was not hard for one of my stature backed by her wealth to send all those vultures away. Naturally, in gratitude, she became my financial patron, allowing me free reign with her riches, knowing that it was only by my protection that she enjoyed any of the wealth at all.
I tugged at the wide brim of the hat I was wearing, pulling it further over my eyes as I bent down to kiss the proffered pale hand. I dont know what you are talking about my Lady, I have nothing to be self-conscious of.
Then why dont you take off the hat, I bet its hot. Here, Ill get one of the servants to hold it for you.
Fashion always trumps comfort my dear. I said with a condescending air that could only come from a member of the ancient nobility. Gracefully I marched past her, my assumed air of dignity trying to mask the fact that I was beating a hasty retreat. My strategy, of course, did not escape the notice of the Lady. She was quick, that one, perhaps smarter than her own good. Fortunately for me, she decided she had enough fun at my expense and decided to bother another of her guests.
Relieved, I slunk away, liberating a glass of wine from a footman as he passed. I was still slightly sensitive since the accident. A couple of months ago I had come across a promising lead in my pet project in an antique store, a copy of The Fountain by an ancient alchemist by the name of Bernardus Trevisanus. From that manuscript I had developed a recipe, which I had high hopes of using to create the legendary Philosophers Stone. Unfortunately, midway through the creation process, the mixture exploded, taking away most of my hair and replacing it with several burn marks. Since that day, I had taken to wearing a large wide brim hat in order to cover the damage I had received on that day.
During my escape from the taunts of Lady Collatinus, I happened to wander towards a group of four men lazily talking, while keeping one eye on the dance floor and the unoccupied women. Too late I noticed them, as the group was comprised of no one I particularly liked and two I privately detested. As I tried to turn away, however, the group hailed me, forcing me to turn aside and acknowledge their presence.
I heard the commoner is having some trouble with the design you gave him. Only in a gathering like this would the Emperor be referred to as a commoner. The reason for their distain was because the Emperor could only trace his noble heritage back ten generations, which clearly made him barely above a peasant. I briefly thought about punching the speaker for his arrogance, then thought better of it, since I didnt really like the Emperor either.
So instead of starting a brawl, I merely shrugged. Im only the designer, not the builder. It is no longer my problem. The Emperor had come to me because of the colonials, which was the common Magnataen description of anyone from Anglia, Lusigal, Espan, Gallia and Rabiyya. Of course, to my knowledge, these territories had never been colonies of Magnatean, but we were never ones to let the truth ruin a good slur. According to the Emperor some of these countries were developing a ultimate war machine, and he wanted me to build a better one. I could care less about his request, not caring the least about war and war machines, but he was depressingly persistent in his demands. When some of the older noble houses joined his clamoring, I made a compromise, I would design it but someone else would have to build it. So I dutifully submitted a design and washed my hands of the entire thing. Of course, the Emperor would be furious if he found out that I had reneged on my end of the bargain. Instead of making a design myself, I merely stole a design I had found from an old alchemist from Vinci, named Leonardian. I had no idea if his ancient design would work, nor did I particularly care, since I had bigger concerns.
Since my accident, I had realized that code that The Fountain was written in was to tough for me to unravel by myself. Fortunately, there was still an important clue.
Resolved to search and travel every Land
The Globe had ever shown, At length I came
To golden Ganges in ye Land of fame,
And Appeleia is ye Citys name.
According to his own admission, Bernardus Trevisanus did not discover the secret behind the Philosophers Stone until reaching the city of Appeleia. If I too could travel to Appeleia perhaps I could receive the same inspiration Bernardus received. The problem, of course, was the location of Appeleia. After spending many consecutive days at the docks, talking to every sailor I met, my only lead was that it was probably on the other side of Rabiyya.
For the last several months, then, I had been building a craft that would allow me to travel, in order to search for Appeleia. However, I did not know whether I could reach Appeleia by sea, so I could not trust a boat to get me there. Thus, I decided to travel by something I was assured would always be available to me, no matter the location of Appeleia, air. For several months, now, I had been building on my ancestral lands, funded by the wealthy Lady Collatinus, a device which would take me anywhere I wished in the luxury befitting one of my stature. Currently the only thing I was waiting for was its completion, so that I could set off on my journey to Appeleia and find the recipe to make the Philosophers Stone.
LittleBoots
The Bloody Banner
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2006
- Messages
- 1,979
Bring not uncleanliness upon thyself, nor upon thy house, for all that is unclean must be purged from the righteous with purifying flame and sharpened iron. Taint not thyself with foreign ways, nor give thyself over to gods not of your House, for is there any god but Allah? No, there is no god but Allah, and His House is the House of Peace. Those who are not of His House reside in the House of War, and shall know no peace. - Reflections of the Archangel Mikael
(Just a snippet until I can free up some time.)
(Just a snippet until I can free up some time.)
Crezth
i knew you were a real man of the left
OOC: Sorry for the incredible length, it started small but just exploded. This post was meant to set up a lot of things while also explaining several other things.
A pot of tea was put on to brew by Simon while Ryan stared with disbelief at the newspaper. For the last few months the two have become engaged in an economic partnership. Simon is not a scientific sort, but his one feature which makes him a valuable ally is his repertoire of common sense. This is something which Ryan lacks due to his incredible naivety, but Simon doesn't mind. The two have been friends for a long while and the tavern was their place of frequence. Simon had only recently been out of work, and while Ryan was but a meager wage slave down at the railroad station, he made enough spillover to hire a small assistant. At any rate it made sense to bring on a boarder, and Ryan was certain that with time his - and by extension Simon's - luck would turn around.
Ryan's pride and joy was his Ryanbot, a steam-powered bolt-firing turret which he stationed by the front door. It was located such that the turret would be able to skewer any invader, and it aimed and fired by the virtue of a complex series of tripwires, levers, and pullies. While the efficiency of the massive setup was terrible, the Ryanbot itself was a work of mechanical genius. It rarely ever broke down, and the movements were fluid and quick. It could unload a five-clip of automatic crossbow bolts in 14 seconds, with enough kick behind the high-tensile bow to punch through brick. Ryan lamented its purpose being to kill, but ever since a rather unfortunate robbery a few years back Ryan has been extremely sensitive to the issue of security.
The steam-powered turret was powered by the subterranean steam engine which ran the heating for the entire house: something Ryan called with great affection Hephaestus. Hephaestus basically consisted of a giant boiler attached to a massive steam engine which had the triple-purpose of running the stove upstairs, providing a fireplace in another room, and running the turret. Although its workload was relatively small, Hephaestus was a remarkable engine. While Ryan never really acknowledged its strength as a mule of pure efficiency, he did admire his own handiwork, to some humble degree. Hephaestus required constant maintenance, however, and every evening when something went wrong Simon would, without breaking stride, shout "Hephaestus!" and Ryan would go fix it. Usually a valve missing its mark, or a piston which wouldn't go all the way. It was tiring work and generally dangerous, because the temperature in the boiler room averaged one-hundred degrees and the boiler spewed flame like it were a monstre at the end of the worlde, but it was on average pretty satisfying. To Ryan, at least; on multiple occasions Simon commented how Hephaestus could be better served running more than a turret which never got visitors, but for the most part Ryan shrugged this off.
Ryan stared incredulously at the newspaper, as Simon stirred up the tea. It was his job to be Ryan's butler first, and friend second, though this was a relationship which was never enforced to the T. Ryan usually didn't care, and Simon only acted as he "should" because Ryan was the sort who wouldn't bother with any of it anyway. It was, to Simon, in his own best interests to keep Ryan focused on the whole invention schtick in the hopes that they might strike it gold someday. This was a fool's hope, however, because Ryan's daily schedule usually consisted of tea, newspaper, wage-work, and Hephaestus. Ryan had a generous amount of free-time in his off-hours due to his habit of sleeping while on the job (and although this was typically frowned upon, any rule contrary never followed through. everyone slept at this rail station but got paid the same wage as the suckers in London) and he ended up doing a lot of "work" (by which it is meant, newspaper-related) when normal people might sleep.
Today, however, was the Sabbath, and it was a happy tradition that the rail station pretty much run itself for in this small town the world wouldn't end if someone didn't open and close the gates at the boarding station. The few passengers who did stop off usually knew their way around anyway, so nothing was lost.
So for the third time I will state: Ryan stared incredulously at the newspaper, continuing to do so all throughout the three cycles of the tea: Boil the water, jiggle the bags, stir. Once the tea was served him he picked it up, did not drink, and set it down. Chamomile today. Yesterday was Earl Grey.
"I can't believe this!" Ryan stated incredulously, "It's incredible!"
"And what might that be?" replied Simon, his Scotan accent ever present.
"Well, look at this. The Prime Minister - yes, of Anglia! - was murdered by, ah, means of knife, apparently - yes, no, murdered! Murdered by the assistant of the railroad tycoon Peter Williams. Peter Williams..."
"Your employer. Also a spark, apparently," refreshed Simon. It had become a habit of his to fill in the blanks, as Ryan had a tendency to short-term memory.
"I knew he was a spark," said an indignified Ryan, "He's my employer? Hm, I suppose so. Ah, well, I'd better read you the whole article:"
"...Prime Minister of England, was reported dead after severe stabbing and slicing wounds in railroad tycoon and steam inventor Peter Williams' invention house. Despite usually tight security, the assistant of Mr. Williams', known only as Bob, managed to stab and kill the Prime Minister right before the eyes of Mr. Williams and his automated soldier. Too slow to react, Mr. Williams managed to call security and the police pursued Bob to his death, after being shot in the heart and then falling two stories out of a window.
Mr. Williams expressed extreme sorrow at the incident. Private Jenkins, also on the scene, was unavailable to comment.
Close friends and acquiantances of Bob's claimed they never thought him capable of such violent actions, and never in their life considered he could possibly have been a terrorist.
The Prime Minister's funeral will be held next Wednesday in Oxford, where he was born."
"Oh, poor Williams! Hopefully with the advent of we sparks, such violent events can end..." Ryan sighed heavily at the gravity of the event. He was deeply affected, even though he never showed any affection for the Prime Minister.
"Yes, hopefully the sparks will end world war," repeated Simon, "Ryan, you don't suppose...?"
But before he could finish an alarm went off. Dinga-ling. Thwack. A dull thud was heard following the twang of a high-tensile bow. The two sprang to their feet.
"The front door!" shouted Ryan as he and Simon dashed to the source of the commotion.
The turret had already reloaded another bolt and the complex system of pulleys had aimed it at the writhing figure on the ground. The tripwire had been activated and was still being stressed by his prone body. The creation of the Ryanbot meant that it would keep firing until it ran out of bolts, or the tripwire stopped being stressed. Ryanbot fired again, ceasing the figure's movements. Ryan shouted out in horror as Simon dragged the figure out of the hallway. Like the heartless killing machine it is, the turret was reloading with whirrs and clicks as the handle rose above it and the bolt shifted into position. The gears turned and the string was set once more. It aimed once again at the door, and ceased activity.
Simon checked for a pulse, the result of which was grim. "It's very faint. He's sufferin' rapid blood loss," said Simon darkly, "I'm no doctor, but I know a thing or two about bandages..."
Ryan was panicking and had already produced a massive variety of cloths, from which could be found towels and coats and handkerchiefs and socks, but Simon paid most of it nevermind. He ripped at the nearest cotton bit he could get his hands on and began fashioning bandages, being careful to remove the iron bolts from the person's body. "Thank god it wasn't the poison click." Ryan moaned.
A few minutes later Simon finished his work and pronounced the patient to be in stable condition. He laid the fellow down on a nearby bit of furniture before sitting opposite Ryan in the kitchen, where Ryan had begun writing plans for something on a blueprint.
Panic attack obviously over, Simon inquired into the nature of the blueprint. "You've got to be bleedin' joking me. You nearly killed a man and now you're workin' on somethin' else? You were a wreck three minutes ago."
"Quiet, MacTavish," said Ryan sternly, using Simon's last name, "I finally figured it out. A stroke of inspiration, if you will, by means of a variety of events."
"Oh really? What, you're going to sell these turrets for home defense? Get real. Nobody will buy 'em - they're too high maintenance. Not everyone has a Hephaestus."
"Nonono, the turrets are for my use only... and anyway the pulley system has proved itself obsolete just now... good god, I need to make it identify light. Anyway, you're distracting me. My new idea is revolutionary, really it is."
"Revolution'ry better not involve another stupid idea f'r indoor plumbin' again."
Ryan stared at his paper for a few seconds, and looked up at Simon. "It's all about transportation. I was thinking about Mr. Williams. Yes, true, he dominates the rails, the ground, and the sea is not an option. But there is yet one more dimension."
Ryan paused for dramatic effect. Simon blinked. When it became clear Ryan would not go on until Simon played along, Simon coughed and said "Up?"
"Exactly! Up! What a brilliant idea this is... I know it's possible to create lighter-than-air craft, it must be... that was my original idea for exploring the world. But you're always going on about commercial value of inventions... well, who wouldn't pay to fly to Gallia, rather than take a train and a ship there?"
Simon was dumbstruck. Every now and again Ryan gets a stupid good idea. Simon opened his mouth and closed it again. This went on for a minute or so, but then he finally said:
"You'll need money."
"No I don't. That man in there? That's Prime Minister-to-be Winston Brown."
A pot of tea was put on to brew by Simon while Ryan stared with disbelief at the newspaper. For the last few months the two have become engaged in an economic partnership. Simon is not a scientific sort, but his one feature which makes him a valuable ally is his repertoire of common sense. This is something which Ryan lacks due to his incredible naivety, but Simon doesn't mind. The two have been friends for a long while and the tavern was their place of frequence. Simon had only recently been out of work, and while Ryan was but a meager wage slave down at the railroad station, he made enough spillover to hire a small assistant. At any rate it made sense to bring on a boarder, and Ryan was certain that with time his - and by extension Simon's - luck would turn around.
Ryan's pride and joy was his Ryanbot, a steam-powered bolt-firing turret which he stationed by the front door. It was located such that the turret would be able to skewer any invader, and it aimed and fired by the virtue of a complex series of tripwires, levers, and pullies. While the efficiency of the massive setup was terrible, the Ryanbot itself was a work of mechanical genius. It rarely ever broke down, and the movements were fluid and quick. It could unload a five-clip of automatic crossbow bolts in 14 seconds, with enough kick behind the high-tensile bow to punch through brick. Ryan lamented its purpose being to kill, but ever since a rather unfortunate robbery a few years back Ryan has been extremely sensitive to the issue of security.
The steam-powered turret was powered by the subterranean steam engine which ran the heating for the entire house: something Ryan called with great affection Hephaestus. Hephaestus basically consisted of a giant boiler attached to a massive steam engine which had the triple-purpose of running the stove upstairs, providing a fireplace in another room, and running the turret. Although its workload was relatively small, Hephaestus was a remarkable engine. While Ryan never really acknowledged its strength as a mule of pure efficiency, he did admire his own handiwork, to some humble degree. Hephaestus required constant maintenance, however, and every evening when something went wrong Simon would, without breaking stride, shout "Hephaestus!" and Ryan would go fix it. Usually a valve missing its mark, or a piston which wouldn't go all the way. It was tiring work and generally dangerous, because the temperature in the boiler room averaged one-hundred degrees and the boiler spewed flame like it were a monstre at the end of the worlde, but it was on average pretty satisfying. To Ryan, at least; on multiple occasions Simon commented how Hephaestus could be better served running more than a turret which never got visitors, but for the most part Ryan shrugged this off.
Ryan stared incredulously at the newspaper, as Simon stirred up the tea. It was his job to be Ryan's butler first, and friend second, though this was a relationship which was never enforced to the T. Ryan usually didn't care, and Simon only acted as he "should" because Ryan was the sort who wouldn't bother with any of it anyway. It was, to Simon, in his own best interests to keep Ryan focused on the whole invention schtick in the hopes that they might strike it gold someday. This was a fool's hope, however, because Ryan's daily schedule usually consisted of tea, newspaper, wage-work, and Hephaestus. Ryan had a generous amount of free-time in his off-hours due to his habit of sleeping while on the job (and although this was typically frowned upon, any rule contrary never followed through. everyone slept at this rail station but got paid the same wage as the suckers in London) and he ended up doing a lot of "work" (by which it is meant, newspaper-related) when normal people might sleep.
Today, however, was the Sabbath, and it was a happy tradition that the rail station pretty much run itself for in this small town the world wouldn't end if someone didn't open and close the gates at the boarding station. The few passengers who did stop off usually knew their way around anyway, so nothing was lost.
So for the third time I will state: Ryan stared incredulously at the newspaper, continuing to do so all throughout the three cycles of the tea: Boil the water, jiggle the bags, stir. Once the tea was served him he picked it up, did not drink, and set it down. Chamomile today. Yesterday was Earl Grey.
"I can't believe this!" Ryan stated incredulously, "It's incredible!"
"And what might that be?" replied Simon, his Scotan accent ever present.
"Well, look at this. The Prime Minister - yes, of Anglia! - was murdered by, ah, means of knife, apparently - yes, no, murdered! Murdered by the assistant of the railroad tycoon Peter Williams. Peter Williams..."
"Your employer. Also a spark, apparently," refreshed Simon. It had become a habit of his to fill in the blanks, as Ryan had a tendency to short-term memory.
"I knew he was a spark," said an indignified Ryan, "He's my employer? Hm, I suppose so. Ah, well, I'd better read you the whole article:"
"...Prime Minister of England, was reported dead after severe stabbing and slicing wounds in railroad tycoon and steam inventor Peter Williams' invention house. Despite usually tight security, the assistant of Mr. Williams', known only as Bob, managed to stab and kill the Prime Minister right before the eyes of Mr. Williams and his automated soldier. Too slow to react, Mr. Williams managed to call security and the police pursued Bob to his death, after being shot in the heart and then falling two stories out of a window.
Mr. Williams expressed extreme sorrow at the incident. Private Jenkins, also on the scene, was unavailable to comment.
Close friends and acquiantances of Bob's claimed they never thought him capable of such violent actions, and never in their life considered he could possibly have been a terrorist.
The Prime Minister's funeral will be held next Wednesday in Oxford, where he was born."
"Oh, poor Williams! Hopefully with the advent of we sparks, such violent events can end..." Ryan sighed heavily at the gravity of the event. He was deeply affected, even though he never showed any affection for the Prime Minister.
"Yes, hopefully the sparks will end world war," repeated Simon, "Ryan, you don't suppose...?"
But before he could finish an alarm went off. Dinga-ling. Thwack. A dull thud was heard following the twang of a high-tensile bow. The two sprang to their feet.
"The front door!" shouted Ryan as he and Simon dashed to the source of the commotion.
The turret had already reloaded another bolt and the complex system of pulleys had aimed it at the writhing figure on the ground. The tripwire had been activated and was still being stressed by his prone body. The creation of the Ryanbot meant that it would keep firing until it ran out of bolts, or the tripwire stopped being stressed. Ryanbot fired again, ceasing the figure's movements. Ryan shouted out in horror as Simon dragged the figure out of the hallway. Like the heartless killing machine it is, the turret was reloading with whirrs and clicks as the handle rose above it and the bolt shifted into position. The gears turned and the string was set once more. It aimed once again at the door, and ceased activity.
Simon checked for a pulse, the result of which was grim. "It's very faint. He's sufferin' rapid blood loss," said Simon darkly, "I'm no doctor, but I know a thing or two about bandages..."
Ryan was panicking and had already produced a massive variety of cloths, from which could be found towels and coats and handkerchiefs and socks, but Simon paid most of it nevermind. He ripped at the nearest cotton bit he could get his hands on and began fashioning bandages, being careful to remove the iron bolts from the person's body. "Thank god it wasn't the poison click." Ryan moaned.
A few minutes later Simon finished his work and pronounced the patient to be in stable condition. He laid the fellow down on a nearby bit of furniture before sitting opposite Ryan in the kitchen, where Ryan had begun writing plans for something on a blueprint.
Panic attack obviously over, Simon inquired into the nature of the blueprint. "You've got to be bleedin' joking me. You nearly killed a man and now you're workin' on somethin' else? You were a wreck three minutes ago."
"Quiet, MacTavish," said Ryan sternly, using Simon's last name, "I finally figured it out. A stroke of inspiration, if you will, by means of a variety of events."
"Oh really? What, you're going to sell these turrets for home defense? Get real. Nobody will buy 'em - they're too high maintenance. Not everyone has a Hephaestus."
"Nonono, the turrets are for my use only... and anyway the pulley system has proved itself obsolete just now... good god, I need to make it identify light. Anyway, you're distracting me. My new idea is revolutionary, really it is."
"Revolution'ry better not involve another stupid idea f'r indoor plumbin' again."
Ryan stared at his paper for a few seconds, and looked up at Simon. "It's all about transportation. I was thinking about Mr. Williams. Yes, true, he dominates the rails, the ground, and the sea is not an option. But there is yet one more dimension."
Ryan paused for dramatic effect. Simon blinked. When it became clear Ryan would not go on until Simon played along, Simon coughed and said "Up?"
"Exactly! Up! What a brilliant idea this is... I know it's possible to create lighter-than-air craft, it must be... that was my original idea for exploring the world. But you're always going on about commercial value of inventions... well, who wouldn't pay to fly to Gallia, rather than take a train and a ship there?"
Simon was dumbstruck. Every now and again Ryan gets a stupid good idea. Simon opened his mouth and closed it again. This went on for a minute or so, but then he finally said:
"You'll need money."
"No I don't. That man in there? That's Prime Minister-to-be Winston Brown."
William Weir sat alone in his workshop, finishing plans on an extremly simple mobile shield for use against Guns. A portable wall of steel, not hard to create and think of, hard to move around because of its weight.
Williams doubted its use in combat, the curtailment in mobility was just too much, for riots and the like however...there it would surely have some use, the gun pivot set in the centre of the shield was a nice addition too. He would try and contact a friend in the Metropolitan police, see what he could use it for. Although he had become a bit more distant to his company, the recent death of the Prime minister had cast suspicious eyes towards Sparks everywhere in Anglia.
He continued work on his prototype Walker, he had named it the bucket, simply because it was just that, a walker inside a metal sheathing, nothing special about it.
The Stomp Stomp of his Sharp Dressed Man alterted him to the time, 11 o'clock sharp. The Robot set down a tea cup, and poured hot water into it. William reminded himself that he must send someone to go shopping, he had no human servants at his Scotan estates, and his robotic friend was not exatcly best suited to getting food from the Shop, having a tendancy to scare away the locals.
"Maybe once I've finished the work here" he exclaimed out loud. Being alone for long stretches of time can do funny things to the brain, sometimes it helps and sometimes it hinders.
The design was completed, a few kinks to work out but then he could go produce it. Something was to be said of taking new directions, the arms...well they were of little use at the moment but they did indicate the direction he was exploring.
Williams doubted its use in combat, the curtailment in mobility was just too much, for riots and the like however...there it would surely have some use, the gun pivot set in the centre of the shield was a nice addition too. He would try and contact a friend in the Metropolitan police, see what he could use it for. Although he had become a bit more distant to his company, the recent death of the Prime minister had cast suspicious eyes towards Sparks everywhere in Anglia.
He continued work on his prototype Walker, he had named it the bucket, simply because it was just that, a walker inside a metal sheathing, nothing special about it.
The Stomp Stomp of his Sharp Dressed Man alterted him to the time, 11 o'clock sharp. The Robot set down a tea cup, and poured hot water into it. William reminded himself that he must send someone to go shopping, he had no human servants at his Scotan estates, and his robotic friend was not exatcly best suited to getting food from the Shop, having a tendancy to scare away the locals.
"Maybe once I've finished the work here" he exclaimed out loud. Being alone for long stretches of time can do funny things to the brain, sometimes it helps and sometimes it hinders.
The design was completed, a few kinks to work out but then he could go produce it. Something was to be said of taking new directions, the arms...well they were of little use at the moment but they did indicate the direction he was exploring.
das
Regeneration In Process
It would seem that I have won myself some more enemies as of late. The start of all this was several months ago, in April, when the first assassin attempted to eliminate me.
---
A young man of medium height, with pale (though still slightly touched by the sun) skin and aristocratic features, sat at his desk. In his thin, precise fingers - characteristic as much of a nobleman as of a craftsman - there was a pencil (in the right hand); the left hand lied on a sheet of paper on the desk. The man was humming some depressing romance, while looking somewhat detachedly at the drawings on the sheet. There were some equations done in fairly poor hand-writing on the edges of the paper, and in the middle there were all kinds of schemes, some, like the very vaguely humanoid clockwork man, were fully drawn, others, like the strange wheeled platform, were apparently incomplete. After several minutes of trying to concentrate, the man stood up in frustration and started pacing back and forth. Then he went to a different part of the quarters and made himself a cup of tea; he never trusted that to servants, being unused to them in any case.
And incidentally, it was in the middle of the night, although he was not sleepy at all. This was, perhaps, quite fortunate; for just as the inventor sat down at his desk again and, having sipped some tea, once more looked at the design of the copiously-armed thin-limbed machine (entitled "Janissaire"), there came a sudden noise from the window.
Gregor Angarine grasped for his sword; sadly, it was nowhere near, and he hadn't thought to get any other weapons here. Cursing himself, he looked at the window - sure enough, there was a silhouette there, although it seemed somewhat startled and uncertain. There was, as Gregor swiftly reminded himself, no time to think, or to look for the sword; running would just give the assassin (as it was almost definitely an assassin; thieves were wary of going after wealthy Europeans living in buildings of major government officials) time to get his act together. So, cursing himself for carelessness and a thousand other things on the way, he rushed towards the window, hoping that he still remembered the vulgar way of fighting that he picked up while in Pjolaka.
He stopped just in front of the assassin's limp body, the intruder's neck being held firmly by a mechanical arm that dug well into it. The Mamluk stood at the window, silent but alert; the machine was programmed well. Gregor felt immense relief. Then he frowned.
---
That was, I must sadly admit, more unexpected than it should have been. I had gotten careless with my attempts at establishing my position and ascertaining that of other courtiers; I should have been more wary at this Romanine court, though I was not quite sure as to who was behind this back then. There certainly were many other advisors, nobles and ministers, quite polite to me in private, that would have found some reason to try and remove me. In any case, I have not panicked; the idea of running away from Khur seemed to be ridiculous even on that night, though I was quite worried about my immediate wellbeing in the hours that followed the assassination attempt. Having survived the night, I grew in my confidence and decided that, if anything, I should press on now; and the assassination attempt provided me with a good opportunity to confirm my influence with the Shah.
Now, I must mention that while I was never good at socialising, I seem to possess either serious skill or extreme luck with regards to winning over the powerful when necessary. I am not inclined to believe in luck; but lately it seems to be the more plausible explanation.
---
The sun was up, it was early day and the city was already half-awake. Shemran was, as much as the Khuri court, a paradox; on one hand, a typical dirty crowded Asiatic city, on the other - a huge, magnificent and well-planned imperial capital, though the glory of the days in which it was built had perhaps passed. Not for ever, though. There was a fair amount of people in the city who believed so, and several particularly well-informed and empowered persons that, for one reason or another, actively worked towards making sure it was indeed not so.
One of them now came to request audience to another, but was promptly stopped by the guards.
"I have the right of audience." - Al-Shamdli said in lightly-accented Khursi, looking somewhat condescendingly at the guards - "Why, your fellow guards allowed me through without any trouble four days ago!"
"True enough, Wise One," - replied one of the guards with unexpected politeness - "But surely not even you could not bring a corpse into the palace. And that... metal man of yours, surely you could not bring it through either!"
"I have brought him there on several occassions; the Shah is surely not opposed, and his will is supreme." - the foreigner looked somewhat annoyed now.
"Well, fair enough," - the guard conceded - "But you still cannot bring through a corpse!"
Al-Shamdli looked back at the robot with the corpse of the assassin. Perhaps there was some point to it, the corpse was not really very useful. Probably. Still, it was a matter of principle.
"Should I leave it here, then?" - and swiftly added, in fear of the savages not understanding the sarcasm - "It is an important corpse!"
The other guard looked at him strangely (accusingly?).
"You should indeed leave it here, we will guard it well." - the first one spoke after a pause.
"Ah, surely that is too ridiculous. Guarding a corpse?"
"An important corpse!"
"Bah!" - Al-Shamdli suddenly lost his patience - "I am in a hurry here, this is an urgent matter of the state, and this corpse is important as well!"
"I have gathered as much." - smirked the guard.
Al-Shamdli was out of arguments, and was about to agree to leave the corpse when an officer - whose small, pointy black beard and similarly thin moustache seemed somewhat familiar - came up.
"What is all this nonsense about? Al-Shamdli!" - shouted the officer suddenly, then arched his eyebrows and turned towards the guards again - "You are keeping such an important man away from the Shah?! I should have you hanged for this!"
"But..." - the second guard started.
"I do not care for your excuses!"
"He is trying to bring through a corpse; that is hardly advisable." - said the first guard quickly.
"A corpse?" - the officer finally looked at the Mamluk holding the would-be assassin's body - "...still, al-Shamdli probably has good reasons to bring it to the Shah. This probably is important." - he then turned towards the foreigner again - "Do follow me, and I apologise for the behaviour of my guards. They have forgotten their place."
At that point al-Shamdli remembered; that officer was Baba Khan, the Shah's third son. The first son was dead; the second was in the other corner of the country after a particularly stupid effort at a coup d'etat; therefore Baba Khan could be considered heir presumptive. Even without that, he was one of his father's most trusted lieutenants, commanding the palace guard amongst other elite units. This was one of the more powerful men in the Shahdom.
---
Along the way to the throne-room, much to al-Shamdli's gratitude (as he himself no longer could quite remember why did he insist on coming to the Shah with the corpse), none have asked him about the corpse; then again, the palace was somewhat unusually empty, but for the guards. The ministers were in their palaces, weaving webs of intrigue no doubt; the generals, other than Baba Khan, were probably doing much the same or away with one task or another; if no uprisings came there always were border fortresses to inspect and border conflicts to supervise. The servants were in their own quarters; the Shah, much like al-Shamdli, did not seem to make much use of those usually.
Baba-Khan spent the journey through the many halls (where there were some servants; those glanced suspiciously and occasionally backed away, muttering something doubtlessly foolish) and corridors of the palace talking about the latest clashes with the Mavadi, who had forgotten all dignity and gratitude; in the good old days these dogs would have never dared forget a dinar of tribute, not after the ransacking of Varanasi by Samat Shah! Sadly, the Khuri armies were not yet strong enough to re-enact that wonderful event, not with the new-fangled Mavadi fortresses; still, with European-made artillery, they had been able to considerably damage one of those during the previous campaign. The assault failed nonetheless. More troops were needed... and more guns.
Al-Shamdli did listen, but was more concerned with his audience; it needed to be well-planned. Still, he gave some basic answers and, remembering something, offered to help with the artillery; it was not really his area of expertise, but he hoped he could be useful. Before Baba-Khan could reply, they reached the throne room; the guards looked awkwardly at the clockwork man, but after the Shah enquired as to who was it and was told that al-Shamdli had come on an urgent state matter the European was immediately allowed in. The guards dared not hinder the Mamluk either. Baba-Khan saluted and went on his way at this point, claiming urgent business of his own.
The Shah, sitting in the Porcelain Throne, looked somewhat bemused but not at all surprised or repulsed by the presence of the corpse. He allowed Al-Shamdli to explain the matter of the assassination attempt. He did express some shock - or, rather, anger - at the assassination attempt, and promised a swift investigation and a creative execution, but did so in a manner that al-Shamdli couldn't but notice to be somewhat detached and casual. The Shah was sincere, ofcourse, but was not at all surprised; fair enough, this was apparently normal, and the inventor reminded himself once again to get some more weapons, possibly from Baba-Khan.
The Shah was clearly more interested in something else; al-Shamdli knew well enough what. When he mentioned that the Mamluk intercepted and quickly strangled the assassin, a certain glint appeared in the Shah's cruel black eyes, which then moved towards the machine.
"But," - started the Shah, smiling, after his calmly-impassionate promises of retribution - "what luck it was indeed that you have this machine. I do remember it, ofcourse; but I thought it was merely a servant?"
"It is a servant - ought not a servant fight for his master, after all?"
"Still."
"It is a servant and a body-guard." - deliberated al-Shamdli.
"Curious, curious... This could be useful, I do not suppose you could make some more for our use?"
"I beg your pardon, o great Shah-en-Shah, but you already have many great servants and bodyguards..." - the inventor said, suddenly wary. The Mamluk was... valuable to him, simply so, but it was probably unwise to contradict the Shah.
"True enough," - al-Shamdli was probably just unduly worried, but there seemed to be a new, crueler note in the Shah's voice now - "but the military, as my son no doubt told you, could always use some new... contraptions."
"Still, the Mamluk is a bodyguard, not a soldier." - said al-Shamdli; having remembered something he cast away his worries and now spoke smiling and in confidence once more - "What I can offer you, if granted sufficient materials and perhaps the help of some human assistants, is a number of clockwork men that may be far more useful here. I do have some ideas."
"Yes?" - asked the Shah.
"I fear that I do not have the designs with me here right now, but the Janissary, for instance, is a clockwork man armed with numerous blades - swords, daggers, throwing knives and suchlike. I also hope to find a way to equip it with firearms; if done so, it will be able to wreck havoc upon the enemy ranks."
"Yes, yes..." - the Shah now smiled even more widely - "Do continue..."
"There is also the idea for the Bombardier; to put it simply, it is a swiftly-moving machine that explodes with great force, a moving mine if you will." - al-Shamdli did have some vague ideas along those lines, though he hadn't thought to flesh them out properly; still, he was on the move now, himself quite exciting as he always was when in a state of inspiration - "I hear that this may be very useful on the southern frontier."
"Why, yes it would." - agreed the Shah - "Yes... That is wonderful. Al-Shamdli." - he said, calming down the inventor who was about to bring up another great idea - "You have been here for long enough; your expertise has been appreciated, and I did already know that your inventions will be most useful, most useful indeed... I have already given you my word that your requests will be granted; and so it has been."
"Indeed it was so, o generous Shah-en-Shah."
"Indeed, indeed. I must ask you, then, to grant my request: accept the position of Chief Artificer at the court. You would be granted a workshop - or several workshops, if you need, perhaps some assistants and apprentices, access to required materials and resources, a polygon, and so forth..."
"But, Shah-en-Shah..." - the inventor was genuinely taken aback.
"There is no need to worry; you shall also enjoy my protection, and any new attempts on your life will be nipped in the bud!"
"That is not..."
"Doubtless, ofcourse you could defend yourself; but in all due honesty I would preffer not to waste such a good advisor and an excellent asset to the empire." - before al-Shamdli could make another interruption, the Shah stood up and raised his hand in the air, motioning him to be silent - "In any case! What I require is merely that you manufacture assorted contraptions, devices, Golems and whatnot, to benefit the empire... militarily, first and foremost, and assist in the implementation of your inventions. I feel that my realm only stands to gain from your assistance, wise al-Shamdli." - the Shah smiled at the Northerner once again - "So what do you say?"
Al-Shamdli did not like surprises. This was what he came for - this was that and more, this was doubtless quite beneficial to him, and even if it would provoke further assassination attempts that would be nothing serious. Still, still... This was too surprising, time was needed to think this through...
There was no real choice, though, as al-Shamdli reminded himself as soon as the Shah asked his question. Not even between accepting now and accepting later; well, possibly there was, but al-Shamdli felt, once again, that the Shah was best contradicted as little as possible. Therefore...
"Yes, o great Shah-en-Shah, I do ofcourse accept your offer. I would preffer to start the work within next week, until then I need to make some plans."
"Most certainly, and I am most engladdened that you agree. Excellent, then!" - the Shah smiled and laughed - "Oh, and... do find Baba-Khan, tell him I ordered to investigate the assassination attempt and tell him what you told me as well. Give him the corpse, it might be useful too."
---
To be continued (hopefully you won't update before the 18th, Iggy, as this is quite important).
---
A young man of medium height, with pale (though still slightly touched by the sun) skin and aristocratic features, sat at his desk. In his thin, precise fingers - characteristic as much of a nobleman as of a craftsman - there was a pencil (in the right hand); the left hand lied on a sheet of paper on the desk. The man was humming some depressing romance, while looking somewhat detachedly at the drawings on the sheet. There were some equations done in fairly poor hand-writing on the edges of the paper, and in the middle there were all kinds of schemes, some, like the very vaguely humanoid clockwork man, were fully drawn, others, like the strange wheeled platform, were apparently incomplete. After several minutes of trying to concentrate, the man stood up in frustration and started pacing back and forth. Then he went to a different part of the quarters and made himself a cup of tea; he never trusted that to servants, being unused to them in any case.
And incidentally, it was in the middle of the night, although he was not sleepy at all. This was, perhaps, quite fortunate; for just as the inventor sat down at his desk again and, having sipped some tea, once more looked at the design of the copiously-armed thin-limbed machine (entitled "Janissaire"), there came a sudden noise from the window.
Gregor Angarine grasped for his sword; sadly, it was nowhere near, and he hadn't thought to get any other weapons here. Cursing himself, he looked at the window - sure enough, there was a silhouette there, although it seemed somewhat startled and uncertain. There was, as Gregor swiftly reminded himself, no time to think, or to look for the sword; running would just give the assassin (as it was almost definitely an assassin; thieves were wary of going after wealthy Europeans living in buildings of major government officials) time to get his act together. So, cursing himself for carelessness and a thousand other things on the way, he rushed towards the window, hoping that he still remembered the vulgar way of fighting that he picked up while in Pjolaka.
He stopped just in front of the assassin's limp body, the intruder's neck being held firmly by a mechanical arm that dug well into it. The Mamluk stood at the window, silent but alert; the machine was programmed well. Gregor felt immense relief. Then he frowned.
---
That was, I must sadly admit, more unexpected than it should have been. I had gotten careless with my attempts at establishing my position and ascertaining that of other courtiers; I should have been more wary at this Romanine court, though I was not quite sure as to who was behind this back then. There certainly were many other advisors, nobles and ministers, quite polite to me in private, that would have found some reason to try and remove me. In any case, I have not panicked; the idea of running away from Khur seemed to be ridiculous even on that night, though I was quite worried about my immediate wellbeing in the hours that followed the assassination attempt. Having survived the night, I grew in my confidence and decided that, if anything, I should press on now; and the assassination attempt provided me with a good opportunity to confirm my influence with the Shah.
Now, I must mention that while I was never good at socialising, I seem to possess either serious skill or extreme luck with regards to winning over the powerful when necessary. I am not inclined to believe in luck; but lately it seems to be the more plausible explanation.
---
The sun was up, it was early day and the city was already half-awake. Shemran was, as much as the Khuri court, a paradox; on one hand, a typical dirty crowded Asiatic city, on the other - a huge, magnificent and well-planned imperial capital, though the glory of the days in which it was built had perhaps passed. Not for ever, though. There was a fair amount of people in the city who believed so, and several particularly well-informed and empowered persons that, for one reason or another, actively worked towards making sure it was indeed not so.
One of them now came to request audience to another, but was promptly stopped by the guards.
"I have the right of audience." - Al-Shamdli said in lightly-accented Khursi, looking somewhat condescendingly at the guards - "Why, your fellow guards allowed me through without any trouble four days ago!"
"True enough, Wise One," - replied one of the guards with unexpected politeness - "But surely not even you could not bring a corpse into the palace. And that... metal man of yours, surely you could not bring it through either!"
"I have brought him there on several occassions; the Shah is surely not opposed, and his will is supreme." - the foreigner looked somewhat annoyed now.
"Well, fair enough," - the guard conceded - "But you still cannot bring through a corpse!"
Al-Shamdli looked back at the robot with the corpse of the assassin. Perhaps there was some point to it, the corpse was not really very useful. Probably. Still, it was a matter of principle.
"Should I leave it here, then?" - and swiftly added, in fear of the savages not understanding the sarcasm - "It is an important corpse!"
The other guard looked at him strangely (accusingly?).
"You should indeed leave it here, we will guard it well." - the first one spoke after a pause.
"Ah, surely that is too ridiculous. Guarding a corpse?"
"An important corpse!"
"Bah!" - Al-Shamdli suddenly lost his patience - "I am in a hurry here, this is an urgent matter of the state, and this corpse is important as well!"
"I have gathered as much." - smirked the guard.
Al-Shamdli was out of arguments, and was about to agree to leave the corpse when an officer - whose small, pointy black beard and similarly thin moustache seemed somewhat familiar - came up.
"What is all this nonsense about? Al-Shamdli!" - shouted the officer suddenly, then arched his eyebrows and turned towards the guards again - "You are keeping such an important man away from the Shah?! I should have you hanged for this!"
"But..." - the second guard started.
"I do not care for your excuses!"
"He is trying to bring through a corpse; that is hardly advisable." - said the first guard quickly.
"A corpse?" - the officer finally looked at the Mamluk holding the would-be assassin's body - "...still, al-Shamdli probably has good reasons to bring it to the Shah. This probably is important." - he then turned towards the foreigner again - "Do follow me, and I apologise for the behaviour of my guards. They have forgotten their place."
At that point al-Shamdli remembered; that officer was Baba Khan, the Shah's third son. The first son was dead; the second was in the other corner of the country after a particularly stupid effort at a coup d'etat; therefore Baba Khan could be considered heir presumptive. Even without that, he was one of his father's most trusted lieutenants, commanding the palace guard amongst other elite units. This was one of the more powerful men in the Shahdom.
---
Along the way to the throne-room, much to al-Shamdli's gratitude (as he himself no longer could quite remember why did he insist on coming to the Shah with the corpse), none have asked him about the corpse; then again, the palace was somewhat unusually empty, but for the guards. The ministers were in their palaces, weaving webs of intrigue no doubt; the generals, other than Baba Khan, were probably doing much the same or away with one task or another; if no uprisings came there always were border fortresses to inspect and border conflicts to supervise. The servants were in their own quarters; the Shah, much like al-Shamdli, did not seem to make much use of those usually.
Baba-Khan spent the journey through the many halls (where there were some servants; those glanced suspiciously and occasionally backed away, muttering something doubtlessly foolish) and corridors of the palace talking about the latest clashes with the Mavadi, who had forgotten all dignity and gratitude; in the good old days these dogs would have never dared forget a dinar of tribute, not after the ransacking of Varanasi by Samat Shah! Sadly, the Khuri armies were not yet strong enough to re-enact that wonderful event, not with the new-fangled Mavadi fortresses; still, with European-made artillery, they had been able to considerably damage one of those during the previous campaign. The assault failed nonetheless. More troops were needed... and more guns.
Al-Shamdli did listen, but was more concerned with his audience; it needed to be well-planned. Still, he gave some basic answers and, remembering something, offered to help with the artillery; it was not really his area of expertise, but he hoped he could be useful. Before Baba-Khan could reply, they reached the throne room; the guards looked awkwardly at the clockwork man, but after the Shah enquired as to who was it and was told that al-Shamdli had come on an urgent state matter the European was immediately allowed in. The guards dared not hinder the Mamluk either. Baba-Khan saluted and went on his way at this point, claiming urgent business of his own.
The Shah, sitting in the Porcelain Throne, looked somewhat bemused but not at all surprised or repulsed by the presence of the corpse. He allowed Al-Shamdli to explain the matter of the assassination attempt. He did express some shock - or, rather, anger - at the assassination attempt, and promised a swift investigation and a creative execution, but did so in a manner that al-Shamdli couldn't but notice to be somewhat detached and casual. The Shah was sincere, ofcourse, but was not at all surprised; fair enough, this was apparently normal, and the inventor reminded himself once again to get some more weapons, possibly from Baba-Khan.
The Shah was clearly more interested in something else; al-Shamdli knew well enough what. When he mentioned that the Mamluk intercepted and quickly strangled the assassin, a certain glint appeared in the Shah's cruel black eyes, which then moved towards the machine.
"But," - started the Shah, smiling, after his calmly-impassionate promises of retribution - "what luck it was indeed that you have this machine. I do remember it, ofcourse; but I thought it was merely a servant?"
"It is a servant - ought not a servant fight for his master, after all?"
"Still."
"It is a servant and a body-guard." - deliberated al-Shamdli.
"Curious, curious... This could be useful, I do not suppose you could make some more for our use?"
"I beg your pardon, o great Shah-en-Shah, but you already have many great servants and bodyguards..." - the inventor said, suddenly wary. The Mamluk was... valuable to him, simply so, but it was probably unwise to contradict the Shah.
"True enough," - al-Shamdli was probably just unduly worried, but there seemed to be a new, crueler note in the Shah's voice now - "but the military, as my son no doubt told you, could always use some new... contraptions."
"Still, the Mamluk is a bodyguard, not a soldier." - said al-Shamdli; having remembered something he cast away his worries and now spoke smiling and in confidence once more - "What I can offer you, if granted sufficient materials and perhaps the help of some human assistants, is a number of clockwork men that may be far more useful here. I do have some ideas."
"Yes?" - asked the Shah.
"I fear that I do not have the designs with me here right now, but the Janissary, for instance, is a clockwork man armed with numerous blades - swords, daggers, throwing knives and suchlike. I also hope to find a way to equip it with firearms; if done so, it will be able to wreck havoc upon the enemy ranks."
"Yes, yes..." - the Shah now smiled even more widely - "Do continue..."
"There is also the idea for the Bombardier; to put it simply, it is a swiftly-moving machine that explodes with great force, a moving mine if you will." - al-Shamdli did have some vague ideas along those lines, though he hadn't thought to flesh them out properly; still, he was on the move now, himself quite exciting as he always was when in a state of inspiration - "I hear that this may be very useful on the southern frontier."
"Why, yes it would." - agreed the Shah - "Yes... That is wonderful. Al-Shamdli." - he said, calming down the inventor who was about to bring up another great idea - "You have been here for long enough; your expertise has been appreciated, and I did already know that your inventions will be most useful, most useful indeed... I have already given you my word that your requests will be granted; and so it has been."
"Indeed it was so, o generous Shah-en-Shah."
"Indeed, indeed. I must ask you, then, to grant my request: accept the position of Chief Artificer at the court. You would be granted a workshop - or several workshops, if you need, perhaps some assistants and apprentices, access to required materials and resources, a polygon, and so forth..."
"But, Shah-en-Shah..." - the inventor was genuinely taken aback.
"There is no need to worry; you shall also enjoy my protection, and any new attempts on your life will be nipped in the bud!"
"That is not..."
"Doubtless, ofcourse you could defend yourself; but in all due honesty I would preffer not to waste such a good advisor and an excellent asset to the empire." - before al-Shamdli could make another interruption, the Shah stood up and raised his hand in the air, motioning him to be silent - "In any case! What I require is merely that you manufacture assorted contraptions, devices, Golems and whatnot, to benefit the empire... militarily, first and foremost, and assist in the implementation of your inventions. I feel that my realm only stands to gain from your assistance, wise al-Shamdli." - the Shah smiled at the Northerner once again - "So what do you say?"
Al-Shamdli did not like surprises. This was what he came for - this was that and more, this was doubtless quite beneficial to him, and even if it would provoke further assassination attempts that would be nothing serious. Still, still... This was too surprising, time was needed to think this through...
There was no real choice, though, as al-Shamdli reminded himself as soon as the Shah asked his question. Not even between accepting now and accepting later; well, possibly there was, but al-Shamdli felt, once again, that the Shah was best contradicted as little as possible. Therefore...
"Yes, o great Shah-en-Shah, I do ofcourse accept your offer. I would preffer to start the work within next week, until then I need to make some plans."
"Most certainly, and I am most engladdened that you agree. Excellent, then!" - the Shah smiled and laughed - "Oh, and... do find Baba-Khan, tell him I ordered to investigate the assassination attempt and tell him what you told me as well. Give him the corpse, it might be useful too."
---
To be continued (hopefully you won't update before the 18th, Iggy, as this is quite important).
Fuschia
A Little Odd
It was...much bigger now. He was thinking of adding a pilot in order to save the weight of the fifth steam engine. Only two wings then, and four engines...it might work...
But for now they would probably be happy with him fixing the elevation problem. He had affixed a detachable steam rocket on the bottom of this newer Dragonfly, the Mark II. He would use the rocket to bring the Dragonfly to the proper elevation, detach it, and then it would fly normally...yes, that would work...he was sure of it...
There was a knock on the door. It was the government again, after new designs. He supposed now was the time to sell them the Dragonfly Mark II. They would like it. He pressed a button, and the door opened. The door was really very useful...
In walked a short man with a top hat. He was not with the government or, at least, Jeremy had never seen him before. They tended to amount to the same thing these days.
"Leave, and do it quickly. Disturbing me is not a wise idea," said Jeremy. He knew what it was the man wanted: one of his projects.
"I have an idea that you might find interesting, Jeremy. I heard you had developed something and I wish to purchase it," said the man.
"You are here for the tube, then," said Jeremy. It was not a question.
"Yes, I am. I would like to use it for...communications purposes," the man said. He was not lying, but he was obviously uncomfortable discussing the tube.
"Fine. Make me an offer," said Jeremy. He knew it would be good. It was.
The Tube
The Tube is a series of round tubes that uses pneumatics to propel empty cylinders through it at incredibly high speeds. Although useful, Jeremy had not been planning on selling it for some time.
And now it was time to part with it, in return for a rather strange idea: a partnership in a company with this man, named Paul, who would market his inventions to those who desired them. The first thing Paul would do was create a tube network throughout the city and charge people to use it. It certainly seemed like a good idea...
But for now they would probably be happy with him fixing the elevation problem. He had affixed a detachable steam rocket on the bottom of this newer Dragonfly, the Mark II. He would use the rocket to bring the Dragonfly to the proper elevation, detach it, and then it would fly normally...yes, that would work...he was sure of it...
There was a knock on the door. It was the government again, after new designs. He supposed now was the time to sell them the Dragonfly Mark II. They would like it. He pressed a button, and the door opened. The door was really very useful...
In walked a short man with a top hat. He was not with the government or, at least, Jeremy had never seen him before. They tended to amount to the same thing these days.
"Leave, and do it quickly. Disturbing me is not a wise idea," said Jeremy. He knew what it was the man wanted: one of his projects.
"I have an idea that you might find interesting, Jeremy. I heard you had developed something and I wish to purchase it," said the man.
"You are here for the tube, then," said Jeremy. It was not a question.
"Yes, I am. I would like to use it for...communications purposes," the man said. He was not lying, but he was obviously uncomfortable discussing the tube.
"Fine. Make me an offer," said Jeremy. He knew it would be good. It was.
The Tube
The Tube is a series of round tubes that uses pneumatics to propel empty cylinders through it at incredibly high speeds. Although useful, Jeremy had not been planning on selling it for some time.
And now it was time to part with it, in return for a rather strange idea: a partnership in a company with this man, named Paul, who would market his inventions to those who desired them. The first thing Paul would do was create a tube network throughout the city and charge people to use it. It certainly seemed like a good idea...
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
How in the world am I supposed to compete in a NES filled with novelists?
LittleBoots
The Bloody Banner
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2006
- Messages
- 1,979
What is it that those who live for a day, die? This is the complaint of the cowardly, not the pious. No, the Struggle is mandated in all aspects of life. Allah alone grants life. What man can say to Him, 'You have no right to claim it'? - Judgment 4:2
"as-Salaam, my old friend. How does God find you?"
"I cannot speak to workings of the divine, my lord."
Prince Atah frowned at the holy man. Having just retired from court, the royal regalia not yet exchanged for something more practicable, the filthy rags of his prisoner and erstwhile patron would appear even more pathetic. And yet, there was something about this man, not like those cowards who sit, made up like painted whores, on the court, quibbling over scraps and drippings. A certain unsettling ferocity one does not normally expect from the clergy, as if one's life might be in danger.
"I trust the guards were not too harsh?"
The man's appearance indicated otherwise. He shrugged bruised shoulders, visible through the holes in his rags, and, wincing from the pain of movement, spit blood dark with gritty sand.
"God's path is not without its trials."
The Prince raised an eyebrow, "Tell me, why do you go among the villages preaching violence, my old mentor?"
The old man's cracked lips formed a broken smile, obscured in part by his patch-matted beard. He laughed, "What whispers have you heard, my prince?"
"Not whispers, but shouts, Kalim! What shouts I have heard! Revolution! Murder! Jihad! Are these the words of a madman? Over the past year you have made your way from village to village preaching your message of war, and now there is not a town in the east I can safely call my own! What am I to tell my father, the King? How am I to tell him my people have gone mad with war? What war is there, Kalim?"
Kalim's smile faded quickly. "I do not know of madness, Prince," the word suddenly took a different tone. "I know of foreign taint, the abomination of the autonomous machine, slaughter in the West. I know of the movements of the Great Enemy. I know that only united will Man survive against this new horror. It is a unity that has long since been overdue."
The Prince tore off his royal mantle and threw it to the ground. "I know of no horror but an old Shah who has abandoned his title. I see no 'great enemy,' and I see only actions that divide, for no unity can come from this!"
The old man had not been so successful without merit. His presence was regal and his voice commanding. Those rags that had given Atah pause now looked as imperial as any gold or green. "I know you see no devils, Prince," the word was little more than a bad taste now. "And it is for this reason that I am come. What world is it where men see not devils? This is no Bliss, no eternal Paradise. This is a clever wool, cleaned with a drunkard's piss, and dyed in a whore's stolen blush. Wool that wicked bastard sons believe will afford them more sturdy armor than the gilded steel of faith. That is my nightmare, Atah: men who no longer fear the dark. Men who have become accustomed to its embrace. They live in this Shadow, this darkness of the mind and soul that clouds their judgment, making them little more than lotus-eating maggots, incapable and unwilling to accept redemption. You see no devils? I see little else. You have shut your own eyes! I will show you Devils, Atah, this I promise you.
"You think my actions divide, Atah? Where you see unity, I see naught but weakness and fear. I see a nation of cowards. Cowards. Descended from men forged in the Fire Plains by a vengeful God. Men who took the vasty sands and built from it a kingdom. These men have become as temple sluts in the pagan lands, whoring themselves out to palefaced pimps with their unholy creations, hocking their sins in our markets without thought or care. Men of steel, without flesh, without soul. Their ideas poison our children's minds. Their beliefs go against our laws. How are we to govern a people who see things in such lights? Unless we can illuminate their darkness, they are nothing more than a blight, Atah. A sickness, an ill-growth, and as with any ill-growth they must be cut off completely, pulled out at the root, given entirely over to destruction. I have seen the abomination of desolation, the metal-man, Atah. I cannot, I will not let him destroy my people."
Atah, feeling little like the Prince his palace demanded he be, sat down, withered from Kalim's assault, and yet invigorated to hear his old teacher on fire yet again. He dismissed his guards, and, at that point, Kalim knew his spell had worked. The boy in him remembered the powerful words of an old teacher, and the Prince, it seemed, had caught a spark of Kalim's divine will. He looked up into the eyes of the ragged cleric.
"Tell me more."
"as-Salaam, my old friend. How does God find you?"
"I cannot speak to workings of the divine, my lord."
Prince Atah frowned at the holy man. Having just retired from court, the royal regalia not yet exchanged for something more practicable, the filthy rags of his prisoner and erstwhile patron would appear even more pathetic. And yet, there was something about this man, not like those cowards who sit, made up like painted whores, on the court, quibbling over scraps and drippings. A certain unsettling ferocity one does not normally expect from the clergy, as if one's life might be in danger.
"I trust the guards were not too harsh?"
The man's appearance indicated otherwise. He shrugged bruised shoulders, visible through the holes in his rags, and, wincing from the pain of movement, spit blood dark with gritty sand.
"God's path is not without its trials."
The Prince raised an eyebrow, "Tell me, why do you go among the villages preaching violence, my old mentor?"
The old man's cracked lips formed a broken smile, obscured in part by his patch-matted beard. He laughed, "What whispers have you heard, my prince?"
"Not whispers, but shouts, Kalim! What shouts I have heard! Revolution! Murder! Jihad! Are these the words of a madman? Over the past year you have made your way from village to village preaching your message of war, and now there is not a town in the east I can safely call my own! What am I to tell my father, the King? How am I to tell him my people have gone mad with war? What war is there, Kalim?"
Kalim's smile faded quickly. "I do not know of madness, Prince," the word suddenly took a different tone. "I know of foreign taint, the abomination of the autonomous machine, slaughter in the West. I know of the movements of the Great Enemy. I know that only united will Man survive against this new horror. It is a unity that has long since been overdue."
The Prince tore off his royal mantle and threw it to the ground. "I know of no horror but an old Shah who has abandoned his title. I see no 'great enemy,' and I see only actions that divide, for no unity can come from this!"
The old man had not been so successful without merit. His presence was regal and his voice commanding. Those rags that had given Atah pause now looked as imperial as any gold or green. "I know you see no devils, Prince," the word was little more than a bad taste now. "And it is for this reason that I am come. What world is it where men see not devils? This is no Bliss, no eternal Paradise. This is a clever wool, cleaned with a drunkard's piss, and dyed in a whore's stolen blush. Wool that wicked bastard sons believe will afford them more sturdy armor than the gilded steel of faith. That is my nightmare, Atah: men who no longer fear the dark. Men who have become accustomed to its embrace. They live in this Shadow, this darkness of the mind and soul that clouds their judgment, making them little more than lotus-eating maggots, incapable and unwilling to accept redemption. You see no devils? I see little else. You have shut your own eyes! I will show you Devils, Atah, this I promise you.
"You think my actions divide, Atah? Where you see unity, I see naught but weakness and fear. I see a nation of cowards. Cowards. Descended from men forged in the Fire Plains by a vengeful God. Men who took the vasty sands and built from it a kingdom. These men have become as temple sluts in the pagan lands, whoring themselves out to palefaced pimps with their unholy creations, hocking their sins in our markets without thought or care. Men of steel, without flesh, without soul. Their ideas poison our children's minds. Their beliefs go against our laws. How are we to govern a people who see things in such lights? Unless we can illuminate their darkness, they are nothing more than a blight, Atah. A sickness, an ill-growth, and as with any ill-growth they must be cut off completely, pulled out at the root, given entirely over to destruction. I have seen the abomination of desolation, the metal-man, Atah. I cannot, I will not let him destroy my people."
Atah, feeling little like the Prince his palace demanded he be, sat down, withered from Kalim's assault, and yet invigorated to hear his old teacher on fire yet again. He dismissed his guards, and, at that point, Kalim knew his spell had worked. The boy in him remembered the powerful words of an old teacher, and the Prince, it seemed, had caught a spark of Kalim's divine will. He looked up into the eyes of the ragged cleric.
"Tell me more."
“Nice “machine””
“Thank you, I built it myself.”
Leonardo and this man, there was a connection. Leonardo could feel it. He had the “gift”. Leonardo looked the man over to see if this was an ally in this hostile land. His smile fell when he saw there was no cross on his body.
“So, you are a Yew?”
“Indeed I am.” Said the man
“Well then, I was hoping for an ally, but a new victim will work just as well!”
At this, Leonardo’s hand turned into a sword. The Inquisitors hands turned into machine guns, swords, muskets, and a javelin.
The man would just smile.
“Dr, I think we should leaaaa”
And at this, Leonardo, who at 24 was at his physical peak, lunged at the man, sword in hand.
“Thank you, I built it myself.”
Leonardo and this man, there was a connection. Leonardo could feel it. He had the “gift”. Leonardo looked the man over to see if this was an ally in this hostile land. His smile fell when he saw there was no cross on his body.
“So, you are a Yew?”
“Indeed I am.” Said the man
“Well then, I was hoping for an ally, but a new victim will work just as well!”
At this, Leonardo’s hand turned into a sword. The Inquisitors hands turned into machine guns, swords, muskets, and a javelin.
The man would just smile.
“Dr, I think we should leaaaa”
And at this, Leonardo, who at 24 was at his physical peak, lunged at the man, sword in hand.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
I do not allow this.
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