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There is nothing more destructive to the creative process or the production of written work than children, so I fully understand.
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There is nothing more destructive to the creative process or the production of written work than children, so I fully understand.
Seconded. If 'Peppa Pig' or 'Ben and Holly' stay out of my AAR it'll be a miracle...
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It is. That blog just has so much useful detail
Oh I don't know - my daughter is wonderfully non-disruptive for all sorts of activities that I know my brothers have no chance of doing when their kids are awake.There is nothing more destructive to the creative process or the production of written work than children, so I fully understand.
Fortunately I have been spared Peppa Pig.
Actually my daughter watches far more on youtube than TV, where her channels of choice are educational, craft, equestrian (she has been riding since she was 2½) and what I would loosely term "story". She is, on my limited experience from my nephews and neices, somewhat atypical in her viewing habits for her agegroup.
Actually her ability to get lose down educational rabbit holes is eerily familiar ...
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A typical and fortunate case of the apple not falling far from the tree.
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There is nothing more destructive to the creative process or the production of written work than children, so I fully understand.
Says you. Much of what I've written has been inspired by my children! (Though I don't think they know it.)
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All caught up! A dark and twisting tale indeed – probably not unlike some of the East End alleyways our various characters seem to be so fond of stalking... Fascinated beyond belief to see how everything loops back to HOI4. Excellent stuff!
Yes, with all the good and bad that is thereby entailed.
Well there has been the odd hint here and there. More are coming.All caught up! A dark and twisting tale indeed – probably not unlike some of the East End alleyways our various characters seem to be so fond of stalking... Fascinated beyond belief to see how everything loops back to HOI4. Excellent stuff!
Chapter 1.5 - Albert IV
Chapter 1.5 - Albert IV
I am looking at a painting. It is said that Holbein was very skilled, and that this is one of his best known works. I am mystified as to why the man and this painting gets so much praise.
“Albert,” says a warm voice to one side, and I turn to see Sir Antony approach, one arm (as ever) held behind his back. “Still trying, I see.”
I glance back at the painting. “Still trying. There must be some reason why everyone else likes,” I gesture with my hands, “this, and everything else hanging here.”
He takes me seriously. “Have you ever considered that maybe you are right, and everyone else is wrong?”
“Frequently,” I murmur, “but at least I have an excuse to come to this soiree. What did they do to drag you along?” I turn about to regard the long hall, with my kind scattered down its length, singly, or in two and threes, discussing this and that - sometimes even the priceless art on display.
“It does one good to get out of doors,” he replies. I glance towards the ceiling, “well, out from under your own roof, anyway.” He pauses, “and it is a good idea, now and then, to be seen.”
“I am not sure talking to an Artiste who does no Art is especially going to help your reputation,” I reply.
“With the notoriety of my House in this city I think it does not matter. Ah,” he concludes, as towards the far end of the hallway there is a sudden shiver of movement through the figures as a party of six or seven enter. My Lord is among them of course, and Lady Anne, and others. They are greeted by Lord Cyril and Lady Henrietta, the hosts for tonight’s gala.
“Will you be recognised tonight?” I ask, my tone pitched light but clearly false.
“Perhaps I should ask you that,” Antony replies evenly, with all the engagement my flippancy deserved.
“Wait,” I say, as Lady Anne detaches herself from the main group with a smooth excuse. She strides purposefully down the length of the hallway - determination in each step, and in a moment her dagger-like glare marks me her target. Even so there is a beauty to her advance, with each leg sweeping forward in a smooth arc, her shoes making a strange staccato in her haste.
Wisely Antony stays silent as she approaches. “Satrap Albert,” she says as she ceases movement, inclining her head a few calculated inches. A glance to my side, “Mr Barrow.” No other courtesy for Antony, of course.
I place my palms on my chest, one atop the other, fingers splayed out, and bow formally from the waist. “My lady,” I say as I straighten, “to what do I, unworthy as I am, do to deserve the honour of your presence so soon at this grand event.”
Beside me Anthony mutters his own more prosaic, “Lady Anne,” though he makes no other sign of respect.
Anne’s lips tighten a moment, and then she speaks, “I am here to declare that whilst you are engaged about our Lord’s business your endeavours here are under his personal protection.”
One has to admire her, she knows exactly what is doing. Her voice was pitched so that it would be heard. Now she speaks more quietly, almost private. “I hope you have a pleasant - and long - time away.”
I smile broadly. “My lady is too generous,” I say in a loud tone, and then I continue at almost a whisper, “I know you are to be relied upon.”
With her back to everyone else for a moment she bares her teeth at me, and then the mask is put back into place as purposefully as it was lifted. “At least,” she says, “your choice in attire has improved…”
...“I am sorry sir, I know you find this procedure interminable.”
I must have made a sound. “My apologies Mr Fewett, for the insult to your work.”
“Sir, despite your evident opinions you bear my ministrations with remarkable grace and patience. I am the one honoured.” The old man almost half-smiles, “and we are done. Only a couple of minor adjustments for the new stock, and I will take this jacket back with me to do likewise,”
“Leave it,” I say.
“But sir, it is not - it is not as good as it could be.”
I smile as I turn to face him fully. “Mr Fewett, I would rather wear this jacket of yours tonight, no matter how imperfect, than anything else I currently own.”
The conflict in the man’s eyes between his pride in the praise, and his distraught at uncompleted work...
… has improved, you are dangerously close to looking respectable.” She offers another slight incline of her head, glances at Anthony and turns away. To her retreating back I hold my hands to my chest again, and repeat my bow.
As I straighten Antony says, “You know, I think I will stay tonight. Next to you I am going to appear welcome, perhaps even wholesome, company.” I smile and he wanders off. I watch him go, and return to my study of the painting and its elusive mysteries.
I am looking at a painting. It is said that Holbein was very skilled, and that this is one of his best known works. I am mystified as to why the man and this painting gets so much praise.
“Albert,” says a warm voice to one side, and I turn to see Sir Antony approach, one arm (as ever) held behind his back. “Still trying, I see.”
I glance back at the painting. “Still trying. There must be some reason why everyone else likes,” I gesture with my hands, “this, and everything else hanging here.”
He takes me seriously. “Have you ever considered that maybe you are right, and everyone else is wrong?”
“Frequently,” I murmur, “but at least I have an excuse to come to this soiree. What did they do to drag you along?” I turn about to regard the long hall, with my kind scattered down its length, singly, or in two and threes, discussing this and that - sometimes even the priceless art on display.
“It does one good to get out of doors,” he replies. I glance towards the ceiling, “well, out from under your own roof, anyway.” He pauses, “and it is a good idea, now and then, to be seen.”
“I am not sure talking to an Artiste who does no Art is especially going to help your reputation,” I reply.
“With the notoriety of my House in this city I think it does not matter. Ah,” he concludes, as towards the far end of the hallway there is a sudden shiver of movement through the figures as a party of six or seven enter. My Lord is among them of course, and Lady Anne, and others. They are greeted by Lord Cyril and Lady Henrietta, the hosts for tonight’s gala.
“Will you be recognised tonight?” I ask, my tone pitched light but clearly false.
“Perhaps I should ask you that,” Antony replies evenly, with all the engagement my flippancy deserved.
“Wait,” I say, as Lady Anne detaches herself from the main group with a smooth excuse. She strides purposefully down the length of the hallway - determination in each step, and in a moment her dagger-like glare marks me her target. Even so there is a beauty to her advance, with each leg sweeping forward in a smooth arc, her shoes making a strange staccato in her haste.
Wisely Antony stays silent as she approaches. “Satrap Albert,” she says as she ceases movement, inclining her head a few calculated inches. A glance to my side, “Mr Barrow.” No other courtesy for Antony, of course.
I place my palms on my chest, one atop the other, fingers splayed out, and bow formally from the waist. “My lady,” I say as I straighten, “to what do I, unworthy as I am, do to deserve the honour of your presence so soon at this grand event.”
Beside me Anthony mutters his own more prosaic, “Lady Anne,” though he makes no other sign of respect.
Anne’s lips tighten a moment, and then she speaks, “I am here to declare that whilst you are engaged about our Lord’s business your endeavours here are under his personal protection.”
One has to admire her, she knows exactly what is doing. Her voice was pitched so that it would be heard. Now she speaks more quietly, almost private. “I hope you have a pleasant - and long - time away.”
I smile broadly. “My lady is too generous,” I say in a loud tone, and then I continue at almost a whisper, “I know you are to be relied upon.”
With her back to everyone else for a moment she bares her teeth at me, and then the mask is put back into place as purposefully as it was lifted. “At least,” she says, “your choice in attire has improved…”
...“I am sorry sir, I know you find this procedure interminable.”
I must have made a sound. “My apologies Mr Fewett, for the insult to your work.”
“Sir, despite your evident opinions you bear my ministrations with remarkable grace and patience. I am the one honoured.” The old man almost half-smiles, “and we are done. Only a couple of minor adjustments for the new stock, and I will take this jacket back with me to do likewise,”
“Leave it,” I say.
“But sir, it is not - it is not as good as it could be.”
I smile as I turn to face him fully. “Mr Fewett, I would rather wear this jacket of yours tonight, no matter how imperfect, than anything else I currently own.”
The conflict in the man’s eyes between his pride in the praise, and his distraught at uncompleted work...
… has improved, you are dangerously close to looking respectable.” She offers another slight incline of her head, glances at Anthony and turns away. To her retreating back I hold my hands to my chest again, and repeat my bow.
As I straighten Antony says, “You know, I think I will stay tonight. Next to you I am going to appear welcome, perhaps even wholesome, company.” I smile and he wanders off. I watch him go, and return to my study of the painting and its elusive mysteries.
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Hmmm, an interruption of thought? Subconsciousness? Other dimension? In the middle of the conversation, seemingly taking little to no time? Curious. Most curious.
For some reason I have the strangest conviction that our unlikely cast are stood in the presence of The Ambassadors. Maybe it’s just the infamously eerie anamorphic skull setting off my imagination as being suitably macabre. Either way, a tantalising glimpse of this society at work in its scheming.
And what is this about Albert being a satrap, I wonder?
And what is this about Albert being a satrap, I wonder?
Complex hierarchies at work here, though some things remain the same - the destain of (some) aristocrats for those who actually do the work. While Albert has risen to a degree of power and respect (his title gets acknowledged where the Knight of the realm does not) clearly some are not happy with this state of affairs. Though as always those in the elite who judge their minions on merit not background do better; Albert's Master must be higher up the ranks than Lady Anne as he appears to have forced that concession from her.
I'm beginning to wonder on this whole chain of command myself.
Also, when Lady Anne came on, I immediately thought of Queen Anne, imagined an immortal vampire Queen Anne, and thought PLOT TWIST! I may need to stop doing that to myself.
Also, when Lady Anne came on, I immediately thought of Queen Anne, imagined an immortal vampire Queen Anne, and thought PLOT TWIST! I may need to stop doing that to myself.
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All I will say is that I wrote this with a particular painting in mind.
Well, quite
As I say, I do have a specific painting in mind, but in a sense the painting itself is not so important. Though I do personally think The Ambassadors is a truly fascinating painting. I imagine Holbein would be really rather pleased at how many thousands of words have been written trying to decode it.
The world is a status conscious place, this world likewise.
Alas, no. Though the idea of an immortal vampire Queen Anne is a glorious one.
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Well, as intriguing as ever @stnylan - and creating and raising as ever more questions than answers!
I am very much enjoying the gradual, layered buildup to this AAR
I am very much enjoying the gradual, layered buildup to this AAR
I get a feeling that this sentiment in general has been -- and will continue to be -- a running theme of Albert's relationship with his rather peculiar employers.
Also, out of curiosity: Is Sir Antony here related in any way to the Barrow baronets?
This first chapter serves, apart from anything else, the purpose of allowing me to get to better grips with both Albert and Martin as characters. And part of that, of course, is to start to populate their worlds a little bit.
As to Sir Antony I will leave that question to one side. As to Albert, well he does own a certain notoriety in certain circles, as referenced in his first appearance.
Chapter 1.6 - Storytime 3 - A drink
Chapter 1.6 - Storytime 3 - A drink
So, my dear listeners, still at ease? I know you wish to find out who is watching our dear Martin. All in good time, all in good time. And Albert yet has a meeting or two before he embarks on his journey. I know, I know. There is Eorhic too. But we have a digression we must attend to.
See now a different place, a slightly different time, and of day. A hotel room - grand and imposing. Sense its splendour, smell its polish, see the luxuries denied to those who will be dead by the dawn…
The woman who is shown into the room does not suffer from a lack of confidence. She strides forward towards her waiting host, whom you recognise to be Six.
“Please sit,” Six says, gesturing. Six settles into a chair and waits. Apart from two maids, standing attentive at the back well, they are alone.
The woman begins, “Is all this really necessary?”
“No,” Six replies, “but it seems expected. You expect it.”
The woman snorts. “Do you have to have quite so many books?” It is true, this expensive suite has had several bookshelves moved in, and they are full.
Six smiles, but you see the eyes and there is no emotion there. “You like what you like, I like books.”
The woman pauses and moment, and then says “Are you going to ask me if I have made up my mind?”
“No,” Six replies. “I expect you to tell me. So there is no need to ask.”
The woman laughs at this - it seems to appeal to her. “I want it,” she says suddenly. “I want it all.”
Six leans forward. “Look at me.” The command is irresistible.
For some minutes they form a tableau, Six staring into the woman’s eyes - the woman transfixed. Then Six sits up.
“You do want it,” Six agrees. “And do you remember what you have to give?”
“My soul, or so you claimed.”
Six looks up to the maids, and holds up a hand, a single finger outstretched.
“That was your interpretation of my statement, if you recall,” Six says.
The woman shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I want it, will you grant it?”
A maid approaches, bearing a large crystal goblet. Six indicates the small table between them. The maid frees herself of her freight, and flees back to the safety of the far wall. The liquid in the goblet is dark, its cloying scent fills the space. The woman keeps her eyes on Six, but you see her lips tighten ever so little.
“If your mind is made up, drink,” Six says.
The woman glances down to ensure she grasps the goblet securely. Then, looking at Six again she brings it to her lips. The taste at first appals her, and you can see her repress the urge to spit it back up. She swallows with all the determination she can muster, and again, and again, raising the goblet high as she drains it. Two rivulets run down from the edges of her lips - her tongue seeks out the last drops, now eager as the aftertaste soars within her for that first glorious time. She slams the goblet back down on the table, panting, her skin now flush.
“I will see you one month hence,” Six says. “You keep to your plans, I will make arrangements. And remember your dreams, for they have much to teach you.” Six regards the woman before her, mouth open as she breathes rapidly, yet deeply. “Now go.”
The woman stands, but slowly, as if unsure of her feet. She looks at her hands, and grins. She strides from the room as she had entered it, full of confidence, and careless of what she has left behind.
But let us leave Six, watching the woman’s back as she departs, and soar to another place, another when. The clouds obscure the sky, and the rain drives most indoors. Three stands under the shelter of the trees, watching the grand house.Time passes. How long? It does not matter, does it? Just know that time passes.
At length a figure emerges, congenially saying goodbye, and steps out into the murk and muck. He walks over to Three. It is Four, unconcerned as he gets soaked by the pouring rain.
“Will he do it?” Three breathes in a broken whisper.
“Yes,” Four replies, each word precisely pronounced. “He will need watching - but the bulk of it is done. A little refinement now and then, perhaps. though we must have a care. He is old, and his spirit, though still strong-willed, is brittle. Too brash an approach and we’ll have a mind-crushed minion, which is not,” Four says in his clipped tones, “what we need.”
“No,” exhales Three in agreement.
And I think that is enough for now. Is it not time to rest again? It surely is. Sleep.
So, my dear listeners, still at ease? I know you wish to find out who is watching our dear Martin. All in good time, all in good time. And Albert yet has a meeting or two before he embarks on his journey. I know, I know. There is Eorhic too. But we have a digression we must attend to.
See now a different place, a slightly different time, and of day. A hotel room - grand and imposing. Sense its splendour, smell its polish, see the luxuries denied to those who will be dead by the dawn…
The woman who is shown into the room does not suffer from a lack of confidence. She strides forward towards her waiting host, whom you recognise to be Six.
“Please sit,” Six says, gesturing. Six settles into a chair and waits. Apart from two maids, standing attentive at the back well, they are alone.
The woman begins, “Is all this really necessary?”
“No,” Six replies, “but it seems expected. You expect it.”
The woman snorts. “Do you have to have quite so many books?” It is true, this expensive suite has had several bookshelves moved in, and they are full.
Six smiles, but you see the eyes and there is no emotion there. “You like what you like, I like books.”
The woman pauses and moment, and then says “Are you going to ask me if I have made up my mind?”
“No,” Six replies. “I expect you to tell me. So there is no need to ask.”
The woman laughs at this - it seems to appeal to her. “I want it,” she says suddenly. “I want it all.”
Six leans forward. “Look at me.” The command is irresistible.
For some minutes they form a tableau, Six staring into the woman’s eyes - the woman transfixed. Then Six sits up.
“You do want it,” Six agrees. “And do you remember what you have to give?”
“My soul, or so you claimed.”
Six looks up to the maids, and holds up a hand, a single finger outstretched.
“That was your interpretation of my statement, if you recall,” Six says.
The woman shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I want it, will you grant it?”
A maid approaches, bearing a large crystal goblet. Six indicates the small table between them. The maid frees herself of her freight, and flees back to the safety of the far wall. The liquid in the goblet is dark, its cloying scent fills the space. The woman keeps her eyes on Six, but you see her lips tighten ever so little.
“If your mind is made up, drink,” Six says.
The woman glances down to ensure she grasps the goblet securely. Then, looking at Six again she brings it to her lips. The taste at first appals her, and you can see her repress the urge to spit it back up. She swallows with all the determination she can muster, and again, and again, raising the goblet high as she drains it. Two rivulets run down from the edges of her lips - her tongue seeks out the last drops, now eager as the aftertaste soars within her for that first glorious time. She slams the goblet back down on the table, panting, her skin now flush.
“I will see you one month hence,” Six says. “You keep to your plans, I will make arrangements. And remember your dreams, for they have much to teach you.” Six regards the woman before her, mouth open as she breathes rapidly, yet deeply. “Now go.”
The woman stands, but slowly, as if unsure of her feet. She looks at her hands, and grins. She strides from the room as she had entered it, full of confidence, and careless of what she has left behind.
But let us leave Six, watching the woman’s back as she departs, and soar to another place, another when. The clouds obscure the sky, and the rain drives most indoors. Three stands under the shelter of the trees, watching the grand house.Time passes. How long? It does not matter, does it? Just know that time passes.
At length a figure emerges, congenially saying goodbye, and steps out into the murk and muck. He walks over to Three. It is Four, unconcerned as he gets soaked by the pouring rain.
“Will he do it?” Three breathes in a broken whisper.
“Yes,” Four replies, each word precisely pronounced. “He will need watching - but the bulk of it is done. A little refinement now and then, perhaps. though we must have a care. He is old, and his spirit, though still strong-willed, is brittle. Too brash an approach and we’ll have a mind-crushed minion, which is not,” Four says in his clipped tones, “what we need.”
“No,” exhales Three in agreement.
And I think that is enough for now. Is it not time to rest again? It surely is. Sleep.
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A few things that leaped out at me:
First, of course, was the drink. This is the second time that we've seen a drink coincide with the attempted recruitment of a new member -- the first one, of course, being the Professor. This has me thinking that the offer of "The Tonic," as I'll be labeling it from here on out is a standard part of their recruiting ritual. Of course, in each case so far drinking the Tonic has had two wildly different outcomes: The Professor drifted off into a seemingly painless oblivion, while here it has no obvious effect -- at least, not one readily apparent to the eye -- and the woman who imbibes it is fully capable of walking out under her own power. It could be that we're dealing with two different blends of Tonic, of course, or else the substance itself is capable of reacting to the imbiber's desire; you can never be too sure when dealing with the apparently supernatural. I'm reminded of things like the immortality-granting Fountain of Youth, as well as the quests of mystics and alchemists to isolate certain substances (aqua vitae, aqua regia, etc.) for their own esoteric purposes.
The next thing is all the language about sleep and dreams. Of course, dreams often appear in myths and supernatural fiction as a means of seeing things that cannot be seen with the mortal eye -- whether in another place, another time, or even another realm of existence entirely -- and also conveying messages or gaining knowledge or wisdom not readily available in the waking world. Dreaming is itself an inherently liminal experience, suspended between wakefulness and true sleep -- and "sleep" is often used as a metaphor for death. Even if there's no literal dream manipulation going on (which there very well might be), it's an apt metaphor; much as a dreamer exists in a world set apart from reality for the duration of their dreams, this society lives in its own reality which the "waking world" has no access to, though events from each may inconveniently intrude on the other at times.
First, of course, was the drink. This is the second time that we've seen a drink coincide with the attempted recruitment of a new member -- the first one, of course, being the Professor. This has me thinking that the offer of "The Tonic," as I'll be labeling it from here on out is a standard part of their recruiting ritual. Of course, in each case so far drinking the Tonic has had two wildly different outcomes: The Professor drifted off into a seemingly painless oblivion, while here it has no obvious effect -- at least, not one readily apparent to the eye -- and the woman who imbibes it is fully capable of walking out under her own power. It could be that we're dealing with two different blends of Tonic, of course, or else the substance itself is capable of reacting to the imbiber's desire; you can never be too sure when dealing with the apparently supernatural. I'm reminded of things like the immortality-granting Fountain of Youth, as well as the quests of mystics and alchemists to isolate certain substances (aqua vitae, aqua regia, etc.) for their own esoteric purposes.
The next thing is all the language about sleep and dreams. Of course, dreams often appear in myths and supernatural fiction as a means of seeing things that cannot be seen with the mortal eye -- whether in another place, another time, or even another realm of existence entirely -- and also conveying messages or gaining knowledge or wisdom not readily available in the waking world. Dreaming is itself an inherently liminal experience, suspended between wakefulness and true sleep -- and "sleep" is often used as a metaphor for death. Even if there's no literal dream manipulation going on (which there very well might be), it's an apt metaphor; much as a dreamer exists in a world set apart from reality for the duration of their dreams, this society lives in its own reality which the "waking world" has no access to, though events from each may inconveniently intrude on the other at times.
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