Iron Quill Something Wicked [An Education in Scarlet]

[StormLordXIII]

An Education in Scarlet

Hardly touching the grilled pheasant stuffed with roasted prunes and chestnuts before him, Connington frowned as he realized that this enormous portion was only an appetizer. He eyed his wine glass testily, fingering the smooth, elegant stem with concealed revulsion as he contemplated the bitter, oaky bite of the rich vintage burgundy within. He coughed nervously before righting himself properly in his seat, adjusting the napkin buttoned to his collar and forcing a smile. It was going to be a long dinner party. Most evenings at the Governor’s General’s Mansion were. The luxury was stifling, the arrogance palpable. Hailing from humble beginnings from the farms of Dalechester, “Lord” Byron had only been elevated to his title after his enhancements to the Guild aethervox system had drawn the attention of Lucius Matheson. The fast years which followed had left Connington with a fortune which mattered less to him than his humble origins.

“I’m happy to see that you are smiling this evening, Lord Byron. It is nice to see that a guest is well received, especially in Malifaux, where hospitality appears to be a dying art.” The speaker was a portly man who seemed to sag into the table as he voraciously attacked his pheasant, and he gave a grin as salty juice and stuffing ran down his three chins. “People these days have no class, apparently,” he said, looking out the gilded panes of the window into the city below. “Another world out there. You must have heard about the riots earlier this week. Those damned miners should be grateful that the Guild subsidizes commodities for them instead of threatening to burn down half the city every time a shaft collapses.”

Lord Byron tried his hardest to prevent his smile from becoming a grimace as another speaker raised her glass and said with a mocking heir, “A toast, then, to those rioting fools, for giving the Guild Guard a good run for their money!” The proposal was followed by several guffaws, the clinking of fine glasses, and the sloshing of wine. Connington’s stomach curled.

“What’s wrong, Lord Connington?” The woman frowned, her brow creased, her tight bun of white hair quivering and seemingly indignant. Connington knew her both by face and by reputation. Lady Stella, the Governor General’s personal attaché. In hushed conversation, she was known only as the Wilted Rose.

Lord Byron paused and chose his words carefully. “Forgive me, Lady Stella, but it seems…” he struggled, “rather cruel to comment on the riots. I had heard that twelve guards perished, and several hundred others were injured.”

The woman began to smirk again. “Indeed, indeed. What good sport. The city is dynamic! Lovely!”

Connington pursued an agonizing chuckle until the woman seemed satisfied. Indeed, it would be a long evening.

:rams :rams :rams :rams

Connington sat through three more intolerably heavy courses, including a ravish crème brulee crisped through the flame of a soulstone torch, before one of them had the sense to suggest a retirement to the hearth. He had been offered a glass of brandy, which he refused, and a glass of whisky, which he accepted. A human life powered my desert and I’m here sipping whisky…

Once all of the guests had assembled, Lord Connington coughed before asking, “What is the occasion for such an extravagant gathering? And whose idea was this… function of ours?”

Lady Stella raised a glass of brandy to her lips. “Mine. I was hoping to avoid discussing business tonight, but I confess, that is why I called our meeting this evening. Perhaps we should all be seated.” The assembled guests did as they were told without complaint. They feared the thorns of the Wilting Rose. “Thank you,” she said tersely, before occupying the largest leather armchair closest to the warmth of the fire. “Each of you was invited this evening for a purpose. There is… a special project which requires your assistance.”

Silence. All eyes were locked on Lady Stella, and they turned suddenly cool. The remotest suggestion of any financial obligation captivated the immediate attention of those present more than any roast pheasant or pudding ever could. Connington took a swig of whiskey before concealing a roll of his eyes.

The portly man who had commented on the riots hours before asked sycophantically, “What is it that the Guild requires, Lady Stella? I’m sure we would be most happy to oblige.” Grudgingly, the other diners nodded assent.

“It is an advanced project, designed to raise the efficiency and durability of our peacekeeping personnel. We have dubbed it… Lazarus.”

Lazarus? What the hell was this nonsense, Connington thought. He took a large swig of aged whisky as the Wilted Rose continued, “We have discovered a way to intern our personnel into soulstone powered suits of iron. These suits have no need of a logic engine, for they are not machines. Equipped with advanced weaponry, they will revolutionize our patrols. Our engineers predict a 25% decrease in the threat of ‘Born attacks once the suits are fully operational.”

The guests in the room applauded eagerly, although Connington knew they were more afraid than impressed. The Wilted Rose held up a hand, and the applause ceased as quickly as it had come.

“Thank you, thank you. The Governor General is quite pleased. But I did not call you all here this evening to beg for your money like a dog. I am asking one of you to be... a volunteer, an apprentice in this new endeavor, shall we say.”

One of the guests piped up, “What do you mean by an apprentice, Lady Stella?”

“Someone who can utilize and test this new equipment before it is mass distributed, and who will teach others through righteous example the art of seamlessly melding man and machine.”

Once again, the room fell silent. “Ah, no volunteers?” The Wilted Rose smiled dangerously. Connington drew back as he caught the gaze of her merciless eyes and the deceiving sparkle of her pointed teeth. “I thought as much. Where does your loyalty lie, I wonder? Not with the Guild, it seems?” The room erupted in protest, but Lady Stella stood up and raised her hand. Haunting silence filled the room again. “Rest assured, I have made this decision easier for all of us.”

Lord Connington began to sweat. No. No! She could not mean…

“You may be wondering why a Guardsmen wouldn’t do as a participant. As the Secretary shared with me earlier, you see, the Lazarus Project has bestowed us with an opportunity to rid ourselves of support which we no longer need.” Connington’s sight began to blur, but he could make out the beady black eyes of the Wilted Rose fixated carefully on his. The whiskey, oh hell… His throat grew heavy, and all of a sudden he collapsed, twitching on the floor, fingers clawing at his neck. He struggled for words, but found none. All faded to black.

Lady Stella stood up and began clapping vigorously. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to our newest apprentice in the art of advanced mechanika!”

Walking over to Connington’s shaking body, she bent down, brushing her sharp nails on his cheek, whispering in his ear. You will be reborn, perfect and flawless. She looked at the room at large. The other guests clung to their chairs, their knuckles white. “Like any apprentice, Lord Connington and his sympathies towards Arcanist terrorists needed to be taught a lesson. Consider this evening an educational warning. The party is over.”

:rams :rams :rams :rams

Every night, images rushed into his head of their own accord, filling his vision with hazy whirls of color. The table. They tied me down. Indeed they had. They took… What did they take? He could not place it. But he knew it was missing. And so I ran, I ran and ran and ran. On and on and on and on. Broke away. There had been a lot of blood on white lab coats. Broke them as I broke away. They had shouted, shouted, shouted. The project has failed!

But then he saw them, just as he saw them every so often, patrolling up and down the streets looking for him. Brimmed hats. Scarlet coats and bronze buttons in the shape of rams. Scarlet. I remember SCARLET. His heart filled with rage. His mouth tasted dry, and the insipid flavor of… red wine and roast… roast pheasant danced upon his tongue. What is a pheasant? The shame and the fear would cling there as he fell upon them, in rage and in confusion. The red tablecloth, the bleeding red wax candles, the red napkins embossed with white silken rams, and even the maroon walls decorated in ivory frescoes – all flashed before him with every stroke. When it was all over and he was covered in the very color he despised, Lazarus slumped off into the night, broken like a young child pricked by the thorns of a stray rose.

How I hate that bloody color, thought Lord Byron Connington as he put down his knife and fork gloomily. Opulence and radiance… and all of it in this damned shade of scarlet. He gazed around the room, drinking in - with barely palpable distaste - the red tablecloth, the bleeding red wax candles, the red napkins embossed with white silken rams, and even the maroon walls decorated in ivory frescoes. These parties are intolerable.

The sharp cobblestones beneath his clawed feet seemed to call to him, and they felt soft beneath his iron mass, like the fresh mud on a farm. Oh, was the feeling so good! But he didn’t know why. Or what a farm looked like, but he knew the word farm. He then thought, Dalechester. What was a Dalechester? He had to keep marching. On and on and on, into the pitch darkness of his aimless wandering.

Edited July 17, 2013 by StormLordXIII