Behind The Darkness - The Danish Revival II

anonymous4401: Indeed. It's also a good way to kill a turtle.

Snake IV: Ah well, let's see. Basically, Mathias Jonnson wormed his way into power with the help of supernatual entities known as the Nobility and his own magical abilities. Jens, his former second-in-command, mastered the occult arts so as to defeat Jonnson, culminating in a bloody civil war with Jens and monarchy (overthrown by Jonnson) eventually triumphing, killing Jonsson in the process. Jens learnt that magical ability is something inherited, and that the bloodline runs back to when the some fallen angels interbred with humans. The Nobility were those angels, and what Mathias's plan actually was is uncertain, but it can be assumed it was something on a cosmic scale. Hmm, that probably all sounds really strange if you haven't read the first part...

Fulcrumvale: You mean Huysmans? Look him up, he's a real person who wrote the Aesthetic novel A Rebours, or Against Nature. I wouldn't recommend reading it, though, it's a bit dull. Or Jean-Christophe? He's made up, and just a bit mad, and the inspiration for the most famous bit of A Rebours where the protagonist decorates a turtle with gems (at least in this fictional reality)

coz1: Thanks. Jens remains interested, just not involved. Though I should imagine these writings by the late great Alphone will be quite involving for him.

The-Great-Dane: And more you shall have...uhm, nearly two months late. o And thanks for the compliment.

Behind The Darkness - The Danish Revival II​

5. Keys

Stemme Castle, Near Roskilde

“But this is Grandad’s room,” said Bjorn petulantly.

“Shh, stop whining. My father lets me come in here all the time,” Ingrid lied.

“But I thought we were going to explore!”

Ingrid clenched her fists, and took a deep breath. “Yes, we are, but first there is a special key we need to be able to do that. And I think it is in here…somewhere.”

Jens’ room was plain and uncluttered, reflecting the simple, ascetic lifestyle he led despite the vast and splendid surroundings. In the centre of the room was the bed, and beside it was a little table. There was also a wardrobe, and a oak polished chest of draws. Ingrid felt uneasy trespassing, and Bjorn’s constant moaning was not helping. The obvious place to look was the chest of draws, but Ingrid had gone through it and there was nothing but clothes and bric-a-brac stored within. The wardrobe had yielded no success either, and Ingrid was beginning to believe that Jens had taken the keys with him to France…even after all this time…

“Ingrid?”

“What, what?” she said, not really listening as she rooted through the draws once again, not noticing the mess she was making.

“Ingrid!”

She turned suddenly. “What? What is it?”

Bjorn was looking up at her, his face blank. In his hands were a set of three keys. Ingrid stared for a couple of silence, stunned. “Where did you…?”

Bjorn shrugged. “They were just on the table here, underneath this newspaper.”

“They were just on the table?” Ingrid could not help laughing out loud, and shaking her head. She had imagined they would be well hidden, fiendishly difficult to find, and she had been looking forward to the sense of triumph upon finding them. She had been robbed of that, something which mildly irritated her and amused her at the same time.

She snatched the keys from Bjorn’s unresisting hand, and realised that she had absolutely no reason to believe that these were the actual keys she was looking for. After all, there were many rooms with locks, and these could be for any of them. She looked to Bjorn, and despite herself she smiled.

“Come on, you little squirt, let’s see if these are the correct keys.”

Before they left, Ingrid spent a couple of minutes tidying up the mess she had in her father’s room, putting everything back in its proper place, and then she and Bjorn made their way up the corridor and into the eastern wing of the castle, past the servants quarters. Before Helena had died these halls would have been bustling with life, but now Jens no longer kept servants, as he saw it as a waste of money, as well as it not being appropriate for the austere life he now wished to lead.

Ingrid closed her ears as Bjorn chattered and yattered about all kinds of boring nonsense, and could feel her spine actually tingling with excitement. There was nothing that appealed to her than a mystery, and any mystery that her father thought it was better she should not be aware of could not help but grab her and consume her. This part of the castle was drab and deserted, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling arches and a layer of dust covered every imaginable surface.

After several minutes of walking, they eventually came upon the door. There was nothing remarkable about, identical as it was to all the other doors that lined the corridor. Only unlike those doors, this one was kept permanently locked. With some trepidation Ingrid attemmpted to slide the key into the hole. There was a metallic clink.

“Damn,” she mumbled, trying another key, and then the last. “God damn and hellfire!” she shouted in frustration, throwing the keys to the ground in exasperation, causing plumes of dust to rise like smoke. None of them fitted. Silently, Bjorn picked up the keys, and stretched to examine the key hole close up. Then he nodded, and muttered in a singsong voice,

“You are silly, auntie Ingrid.”

Her indignation was cut short when she heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, the sweetest, most relieving sound. Bjorn handed the keys back to his confused aunt, and said, “You were trying to use the keys upside down.”

It was the second time Bjorn had embarrassed her, but she really did not care. It was time to finally enter the forbidden room. With a creak, the door swung open, and Ingrid gasped.

Snake IV: It does indeed live.

Black Baron: Yes, Russian Burma. Might be important later...

coz1: You might be right about that.

Behind The Darkness - The Danish Revival II​

6. Ingrid’s Discovery

Stemme Castle, Near Roskilde

Ingrid was speechless, and sagged with disappointment. This room, this secret, hidden room, in her mind the home of so many hidden treasures and forbidden things not of this world…was completely empty.

She forcefully resisted the urge to shed tears of frustration, and sullenly paced around the emptiness, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. She stopped in the centre of the room, and shook her head. From somewhere near the door came the whine,

“This is boring! I wanna do something else!”

“Fine, go,” Ingrid snapped. “I’ll come along shortly.” She watched as her young nephew skipped merrily away, and felt more at ease being alone, for she needed to concentrate.

“This room…why would father keep a room like this locked up?” she thought out loud, pacing to and fro with the keys still in her hand. She briefly wondered if she had got this all wrong, and the room was locked for some far more ordinary reason…like rotten floorboards, or some other danger. But no, there was nothing visibly dangerous here, just dusty floorboards and mouldy, browned walls with the paint peeling off, to reveal the stained brickwork that lay underneath, and a window which poured weak sunlight into the room, giving it a washed out aura like a watercolour painting.

Her spirit sapped, she desolately went to the window and looked out, over the gardens and to the thick green mass of forest that lay beyond. She tried to open the window it with vague hope, and was surprised when it easily swung on it’s hinges without so much as a creak. As she felt the chill wind from outside, something distracted her, something that seemed out of place about the whole thing. It took her a few moments to realise what it was; the hinges. They had been recently oiled. There was no way the window would have opened so smoothly and easily if they had not.

This gave her hope. She leant out of the window and looked to her right, and wiping her hair out of her face with her free hand she saw that there was another window. But there was no room there, or at least there was no access to it from the hallway. Beneath the windows ran a ledge, and with reckless determination Ingrid clambered out of the window, holding her dress so not to trip, and got onto the ledge. As she tiptoed along she tried not to think, her heart racing, looking only at the place grey sky. Eventually, about half way between the two windows, she could not help but look down. As she did she realised how far it was to fall, and her stomach lurched and she imagined that she was beginning to drop away towards the distant ground. She held herself completely still, allowing herself time to recover from the attack of nerves, and once her heart’s pounding had slowed a little she continued until she reached the window.

“If my thinking’s right,” she breathed, “then this window should open. Please, please open.” She nudged it with her foot, but only encountered stiff resistance. She tried again, and felt a sickening panic rising in her. She tried one last time, and to her intense relief the window swung open, and she threw herself into the room happy to return to solid ground.

When she sat up, she cursed her stupidity, but also strangely proud of herself, for she would never have believed she had the courage to risk her life in such a manner. She dusted herself off and got to her feet, and at last took the time to look around this new room. The first thing she saw was boxes, many, many boxes, piled on top of each other in a careless, ramshackle manner. There was also a desk, made out of shining polished mahogany, that looked strangely out of place in this dusty mess of a room. She glanced at some of the papers which adorned it, written in her father’s handwriting, which bore the recognisable elaborate blue dragon symbol of the Jens Stemme Institute.

It seemed quite technical and boring so Ingrid put it down, instead looking inside one of the boxes that lay half-open. There were many various items inside, and Ingrid pulled out what looked like a voodoo doll, only made of wood. There was also an amulet made of gold, which bore a beautiful blue crystal that Ingrid assumed was sapphire. She threw it back, and on the edge of hearing she imagined she could hear something calling her name, over and over. She stopped dead, and at once she realised it was only Bjorn, calling from the next room.

She noticed that on the wall that separated the two rooms she could trace a roughly crack, and next to it was a candlestick on the wall.

“Hmm, I wonder…” She called out loudly so Bjorn could hear,

“Bjorn! Come to the wall!”

A few moments later she stood clear and pulled the candlestick, and to her intense delight the section of the wall spun round, bringing with it a startled Bjorn.

“Ha! Isn’t that just brilliant!” said Ingrid with a broad smile. Bjorn was still in shock, but recovered quickly as the room before him piqued his curiosity.

They spent the next twenty minutes looking through the boxes, finding all kinds of weird and wonderful objects, many of which’s uses Ingrid could only guess at. She looked through the desk’s drawers, until she reached the bottom one, which was locked. She fished the keys out from earlier and found that one of them was a small key suited to the small lock of the drawers. Upon opening it, she was slightly disappointed to see that the only thing in the draw was a book, bound in black sombre leather. She reached down and scooped it out, laying it on the dark polished wood.

“Ingrid…”

Snake IV: I had something like that in my mind when I was writing it.

Black Baron: Thanks

Behind The Darkness - The Danish Revival II​

7. Stranger in a Strange Land

New York City, USA
7th July 1875

The ferry had docked into Ellis Island several hours before, and when Verner Thorn had left the ship he had no idea what to expect, never had he been so far away from Europe before. The thing that had struck him most was the sheer volume of people, mostly immigrants from Italy and Germany, all in search of a better life in the promised land of the New World, a place where a man made his fortune based on his merits and was given the freedom to pursue whatever dream he may desire to chase.

But Thorn was no immigrant, but a mere visitor. Once his papers had been checked and everything was found to be in order, he caught the ferry across the lower side of Manhattan, and as soon as he left the ship he begun to feel ill at ease, not used to being in such a vast, crowded city. He consulted his map, and found a bench near where he had been instructed to wait and sat down, and let the world carry on around him. He had begun to doze when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Yes, what, what?” he said with a sleepy mumble, turning to see a young, well groomed man in his twenties, with slicked hair and spectacles carefully perched upon his tapering nose.

“Uh sir, are you…Verner Thorn?” the man said, pronouncing the unfamiliar sounding name with deliberate carefulness.

“Oh…yes, yes,” Thorn said, quickly standing up, allowing himself a yawn. “And your name would be…?”

The man adjusted his spectacles, slightly taken aback, and outstretched his hand. “Oh, er…Jack Scarlett, sir, pleased to meet you. May I commend you on your excellent English, Mr. Thorn?”

“If you like,” said Thorn, scratching the back of his head, “Though I don’t know that it would do you any good.”

“Oh…” Scarlett coughed. “Well, I know your visit here is strictly concerning certain business with Madame Blavatsky, but it would be rude of me not to offer to show you some of Manhattan, if you would care to see it?”

Thorn shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“Excellent, Mr. Thorn. I think you should like to see Central Park, it is on the way. It’s great for when you wanna get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.” They began to walk, as Scarlett continued, “I’m not from the Apple itself, so sometimes it can get a bit overwhelming for a country boy like me. But I suppose you don’t wanna hear me blab on, eh?”

Thorn was silent, and thought back to Copenhagen, the city in which he had been born and raised. It was a big city, squalid in parts yet also with much beauty, and with such history, from the age of the Hanseatic League to the Radical Republic of Jonsson and the Civil War. As he walked, he thought how New York lacked the history of Copenhagen, but definitely did not lack the character.

“So Mr. Scarlett,” Thorn said, breaking the silence, “You are Miss Blavatsky’s lackey?”

Scarlett frowned. “I wouldn’t put it like that, sir. I work for the Society.”

Thorn smiled slightly and nodded, as the two of them came to the entrance to Central Park.

“And what work do you do for the Society?”

“Mr Thorn, I am the public face. I represent our interests, and seek out contacts, and make sure that no malicious lies or rumours are spread about our good organisation.”

“Oh my, who would wish to spread nasty gossip about the Theosophical Society?! Ah, this is a nice park, we have one like this in Copenhagen, called Tivoli. So where exactly are we going?”

“Sir, the time now is ten past two. At half past, Mister Henry Steele Olcott is giving a lecture at the society’s headquarters to a gathering of associates. I should like for you to hear that lecture, so that you may gain a greater understanding of what it is we believe. Then you can meet with Madame Blavatsky.”

“Mmm hmm. So…I guess in this lecture he will be talking about Agartha, and the Secret Master’s and all kinds of things like that? Only the subject fascinates Mr Espensen- you know who is, right? The man who I have come on behalf of.”

Scarlett stopped, and smiled strangely. “Don’t worry, Mr Thorn. I’m sure you will find it to be most enlightening. There have been some interesting recent occurrences regarding just that subject.”

He walked on, leaving Thorn feeling slightly ill at ease. He caught up, as drizzle began to fall from the dark clouds overhead. “Recent occurrences? What recent occurrences?”

“Oh?” said Scarlett, with some surprise. “I thought you of all people would have known!”

anonymous4401 said:

I do hope you're still writing this Fiftypence.

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This AAR is dead, I'm afraid. The savegame was lost when I had to reinstall Revolutions a while back.