"It'll be all right, 'Rine. I'll look after you."
His mother smiles at her in a manner which is probably meant to be supportive but just looks strained. She's barely spoken five words since they discharged her from the hospital.
"You're welcome in our house, Firene. Valeri has told us so much about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"
She frowns slightly. Her gaze sharpens and focuses on Mrs. Oslawski's face.
"I want to go to Longshore University."
* * * * * * *
"Omberwell? As in Drake Omberwell's daughter?"
She nods, startled by the old herrprofessor's sudden show of interest.
"Well, this does cast things in a different light, does it not? Your father was something of a celebrity among chemists. Almost an alchemist, one might say, hmm?"
Firene has no idea what he's talking about, and it evidently shows on her face.
"From the last few articles he submitted and the preliminary results he shared with some of our mutual colleagues... Drake Omberwell was on the verge of doing some truly spectacular things with metals. I cannot, you understand, share many details with you... walls having ears and so forth, you know... But then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was doing better than I could tell you anyway."
"No, Herrprofessor. I regret that my education was somewhat curtailed by events beyond my control. I have some knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy, but I was not privy to..."
She trails off, blinking hard and biting down on her tongue to keep from crying.
"A pity, a pity. Truly. Still, if you'd managed to salvage any of his research notes, anything at all... You'd find yourself in quite an advantageous position. And I would be more than willing to act as a broker so you would not be forced to deal with... unsavoury characters who might think to put undue pressure on you in your current delicate state."
She stares at him blankly again.
"Forgive me, my dear. Allow me to speak more plainly. According to corporate protocol, your father's research materials, had they survived the fire, would revert to Arclight. And I am certain that if you assisted them, Arclight would make sure you, as Drake Omberwell's only surviving heir, would be well looked after. They might even be willing to pay your tuition at Longshore. But there might be other parties who would be willing to offer more. Gorunna, for instance..."
She stands suddenly.
"Sir, if I were in possession of my father's notes, which I assure you I am not, there would be no question whatsoever regarding their disposal. I would not dream to betray The Company and my father's memory by selling his work to the highest bidder. But this is a futile discussion, because as I have already stated, I do not have them."
"Ah. Well, then, do forgive my indelicacy, Miss Omberwell. I am sure that the Registrar will be able to assist you with the application process and payment of tuition. Perhaps I shall see you in some of my classes. Good day."
* * * * * * *
"You must be joking."
"What? Why?"
"Your application is in order, and you passed the entrance exams, which - no disrespect intended - somewhat surprised me, considering your lack of formal education. In fact, you scored higher than many applicants who have attended school. But you appear to be unable to afford even a single semester's tuition."
"That can't be right. Please, check again."
He types in the codes on the filthy banknotes with exaggerated care.
"Nothing. In fact, your parents appear to be in a spot of trouble with their bank - the account is overdrawn for a significant amount."
Firene makes a conscious effort to slow her breathing.
"All right. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Would you be so good as to provide me with directions to the bank, sir?"
* * * * * * *
"Ooh - innit pretty?"
A painfully thin boy steps out of the alley to her left, and when she turns to face him she hears scuffling behind her. The edge of his rusty knife is the only thing that shines.
"You lost or somefing, sweetmeat? Or you looking for someone, eh?"
She feels something behind her catch at her skirts, hears fabric tearing.
"Sweetmeat's slumming, Chaz! And she brung prezzies, see?"
Hands snatch at the jewelry box. She pulls back sharply and trips over the torn edges of her skirts.
"Well well well... Prezzies first, or playtime? Whatchu think, lads?"
He lowers the knife and pretends to be lost in thought. He's somewhat surprised when Firene screams, kicks him in the shins, and starts running. But only for a moment.
"Ey - no fair! We din't call a hunt!"
She keeps running and tosses a couple of the now-worthless banknotes behind her to distract them. A couple of them stop, but the remainder, including Chaz, seem to find the pursuit much more entertaining. Still, she's better fed and healthier than they are, so she manages to outdistance them. Then she rounds a corner into another alley and finds the other end choked with debris. She hears shouts and catcalls and the pounding of their feet as they approach, and then decides to try to climb the pile of rubbish at the end of the alley.
She tumbles down a few seconds later, opens her mouth to scream...
And realizes she can't hear anything.
In a way, the silence is almost more terrifying. She turns around and sees a man standing in the alley mouth. He's taller than the young toughs were, thin, but wiry-looking. He's covered in blood. She releases her breath, which comes out as a startled but disappointingly decorous shriek.
"Five on one. Tha's hardly a fair go, especially when you're just a little thing."
She stares at him, frozen in shock.
"You should go have y'self a drink. Steady your nerves, like."
He turns to walk away, clearly not expecting any thanks.
"Be seeing you."
"Wait!"
He stops and stares at her as she stumbles over.
"Please... will you help me?"
She opens the charred box. Her mother's jewels glitter in the dim light. He looks at them, then looks back at her, appraisingly.
"Reckon we ought to talk about this somewhere a little more private. And you still look like you could stand a drink. Come on, then."
18.10.06
13.10.06
Firene: Crucible
"'Rine! Over here!"
She looks around carefully. Shasta and Valeri and a few other people she vaguely remembers from the Palova are waving wildly at her from a small table at one of the crowded floating cafes clustered by the canal bank. She lifts her skirts delicately and steps onto the barge to join them, a rare smile crossing her solemn face.
"Here, try some of this."
"What is it?"
"Edge. Just try it, you'll like it."
* * * * * * *
She's never realized how colourful the city was at night. There's just the faintest whisper of a breeze up here on the observation platform, and the surrounding buildings are all lit up, each with slightly different-coloured lights, bathing her and Valeri in a hazy glow. It's been the sort of night that Firene's only experienced second-hand in vidstories - her friends surrounding her, the brilliant, witty conversation, and Valeri...
As they walk along the canal, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and kisses her.
Her father is waiting at the door. She notices the grey streaking his black hair and the lines etched into his face on either side of his mouth, and then the sterile whiteness of his work clothes washes over her, stealing the colour from her surroundings. Dimly, she notices that Valeri's dropped her hand and beat a hasty retreat.
* * * * * * *
"Where the blaze were you?" Shasta hisses.
"Sorry," Firene mutters, dumping her dogskin cape in the back of the water taxi and struggling out of her heavy overdress. The boatman studiously prentends not to notice.
"Your da shutter you again or something?"
"More or less. I'm still shuttered from that business tennight ago with Val, but that's not what he was on a fury about this time. Teddy, bless his dim little head, decided that tonight was the time to tell Da he wanted to be a Brigadier. You can just vis how well that went."
Shasta covers her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh Builder. How long did he crash on for?"
Firene balances a row of small pots across her knees, daubing metallic dust along her cheekbones and at the corners of her eyes before smearing purple waxstick across her lips. "About an hour. Or felt like, anyway. After that he piped about three or four though, so he was walled out by the time I left."
"Want some Escape?"
"Hah. Does the rain fall black in Dreamingspires?"
* * * * * * *
The klaxon cuts through the landscape of her dreams. The twinking lights slowly resolve into flashing emergency beacons and the flickering glow of flames. Her house is on fire.
Her house is on fire.
Firene stumbles forward in the wake of a team of Clearwater Emergency Personnel carrying a battering ram. The heat barely registers on her consciousness, although her father's lab and the library are completely ablaze. The remainder of the house seems relatively intact, albeit filling up with acrid smoke. She walks upstairs like a sleepwalker, idly noting Ester's bloody corpse in the hallway. She turns in slow motion and sees Tedwin huddled in the space between his bed and the small worktable their father built for his birthday this year. Then she sees the awkward way his head is twisted around.
She's still screaming when the fire crew hauls her downstairs.
* * * * * * *
"Miss."
She stares at the wall. The medic clears his throat awkwardly.
"Miss Omberwell."
He shifts, opens his mouth, closes it again. She stopped screaming when they administered the sedative, but this leaden silence is almost worse.
"Miss Omberwell... the fire... your father was storing several volatile chemicals in your house. Shortly after we found you, the place blew up. We were able to save these..."
He places a handful of sooty banknotes and her mother's jewelry box on the table.
"Im sorry for your trouble."
She looks around carefully. Shasta and Valeri and a few other people she vaguely remembers from the Palova are waving wildly at her from a small table at one of the crowded floating cafes clustered by the canal bank. She lifts her skirts delicately and steps onto the barge to join them, a rare smile crossing her solemn face.
"Here, try some of this."
"What is it?"
"Edge. Just try it, you'll like it."
* * * * * * *
She's never realized how colourful the city was at night. There's just the faintest whisper of a breeze up here on the observation platform, and the surrounding buildings are all lit up, each with slightly different-coloured lights, bathing her and Valeri in a hazy glow. It's been the sort of night that Firene's only experienced second-hand in vidstories - her friends surrounding her, the brilliant, witty conversation, and Valeri...
As they walk along the canal, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and kisses her.
Her father is waiting at the door. She notices the grey streaking his black hair and the lines etched into his face on either side of his mouth, and then the sterile whiteness of his work clothes washes over her, stealing the colour from her surroundings. Dimly, she notices that Valeri's dropped her hand and beat a hasty retreat.
* * * * * * *
"Where the blaze were you?" Shasta hisses.
"Sorry," Firene mutters, dumping her dogskin cape in the back of the water taxi and struggling out of her heavy overdress. The boatman studiously prentends not to notice.
"Your da shutter you again or something?"
"More or less. I'm still shuttered from that business tennight ago with Val, but that's not what he was on a fury about this time. Teddy, bless his dim little head, decided that tonight was the time to tell Da he wanted to be a Brigadier. You can just vis how well that went."
Shasta covers her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh Builder. How long did he crash on for?"
Firene balances a row of small pots across her knees, daubing metallic dust along her cheekbones and at the corners of her eyes before smearing purple waxstick across her lips. "About an hour. Or felt like, anyway. After that he piped about three or four though, so he was walled out by the time I left."
"Want some Escape?"
"Hah. Does the rain fall black in Dreamingspires?"
* * * * * * *
The klaxon cuts through the landscape of her dreams. The twinking lights slowly resolve into flashing emergency beacons and the flickering glow of flames. Her house is on fire.
Her house is on fire.
Firene stumbles forward in the wake of a team of Clearwater Emergency Personnel carrying a battering ram. The heat barely registers on her consciousness, although her father's lab and the library are completely ablaze. The remainder of the house seems relatively intact, albeit filling up with acrid smoke. She walks upstairs like a sleepwalker, idly noting Ester's bloody corpse in the hallway. She turns in slow motion and sees Tedwin huddled in the space between his bed and the small worktable their father built for his birthday this year. Then she sees the awkward way his head is twisted around.
She's still screaming when the fire crew hauls her downstairs.
* * * * * * *
"Miss."
She stares at the wall. The medic clears his throat awkwardly.
"Miss Omberwell."
He shifts, opens his mouth, closes it again. She stopped screaming when they administered the sedative, but this leaden silence is almost worse.
"Miss Omberwell... the fire... your father was storing several volatile chemicals in your house. Shortly after we found you, the place blew up. We were able to save these..."
He places a handful of sooty banknotes and her mother's jewelry box on the table.
"Im sorry for your trouble."
10.10.06
Firene: Calcification
Firene shuts off the mini-telly and pushes it back into its niche in the wall above her bed. The clock on the small nightstand reads 00:17, but she can't sleep. Something's missing, or something's out of place. She sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. She looks at the clock again - it's now 00:21.
Down the hall, she hears the rustle of Matron's skirts along the stone floor as she makes her way through the long first-year dormitory. There's a sudden startled shriek as Matron catches someone not sleeping, immediately follwed by a series of sharp snaps. Matron rustles past Firene's door but doesn't enter. There's the muffled sound of sobbing coming from the dormitory.
Firene curls up on her side and drops easily into slumber, a faint smile on her lips.
* * * * * * *
Tedwin leans against the doorframe, waiting for his sister to acknowledge his presence. She sits at her writing desk, her dark, severe clothing a sharp contrast to the pale colours of her bedroom and the misty light coming through the domed lightwell.
"Fireeeeeene..."
She looks up sharply from her dingin.
"Do you need help with your schoolwork again, Tedwin?"
"No... I mean, if you can check it later that would be good, but I think I figured it out after you explained how to do it last time. But... 'Rine... I don't like school."
"You're not supposed to like it, little one. I certainly didn't."
"No, but... you know, Da says I have to do good at school so I can go to Longshore and be a metallurgist like him, and I don't want to go to university."
"Do well at school, dear. And why don't you want to go to university?"
"'Cos I want to be in the Brigade of Light. Byron's older brother is in the Brigade - he showed me a picture of him in the Tentenel armour. I want to do that - then I could defend The Company against those dogs from Hirplakker..."
Firene takes as deep a breath as her stays allow, closes her eyes, and does not say all of the twenty things she immediately thinks of saying to her brother. He's just a baby, after all.
"Well, maybe you should wait until you're older before you tell Da you want to join the Brigade. In the meantime, it can't hurt to keep going to school. And I'll help you with your work if you need me to, all right?"
"All right... M'sorry, Firene. Mama said you liked school."
He shuffles back to his own bedroom. Firene still hasn't opened her eyes.
* * * * * * *
She stares at a point somewhere past her reflection in the dressing mirror as Ester fusses with her hair, braiding silver wire and tiny lights into the longer sections and sprinkling her exposed skin with a fine metallic powder. Her mother beams at her.
"Oh Firene - isn't it exciting? The Grand Palova is the biggest social event of the year, and our little girl was invited!"
"Well, at least all those dancing lessons won't go to waste..."
"Now, dear... I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Several of your friends are going, after all. This is a great opportunity for you to meet suitable young men your own age."
"Who will coincidentally be the sons of families in a position to assist Father in attaining his political ambitions within The Company?"
Ester senses a change in the atmosphere and hurries off to perform her regular duties. Beatrice observes her daughter for a moment.
"Firene... that may well be your father's hope for you. Mine is considerably less far-reaching. I would like to see you happy and secure, preferably with a husband whose goals are less lofty and hence less hazardous."
Firene looks up sharply. Her mother looks tired, possibly even a little haggard.
"Mother?"
Beatrice smiles wryly.
"Nevermind, my dear. I speak more than I think. You look radiant. Here..."
She steps forward and wraps her thin, pale arms around her daughter's shoulders for a moment. When she pulls back a heavy, ornate locket hangs around Firene's neck on a thick ribbon of some iridescent material.
"Make us proud, my darling."
Down the hall, she hears the rustle of Matron's skirts along the stone floor as she makes her way through the long first-year dormitory. There's a sudden startled shriek as Matron catches someone not sleeping, immediately follwed by a series of sharp snaps. Matron rustles past Firene's door but doesn't enter. There's the muffled sound of sobbing coming from the dormitory.
Firene curls up on her side and drops easily into slumber, a faint smile on her lips.
* * * * * * *
Tedwin leans against the doorframe, waiting for his sister to acknowledge his presence. She sits at her writing desk, her dark, severe clothing a sharp contrast to the pale colours of her bedroom and the misty light coming through the domed lightwell.
"Fireeeeeene..."
She looks up sharply from her dingin.
"Do you need help with your schoolwork again, Tedwin?"
"No... I mean, if you can check it later that would be good, but I think I figured it out after you explained how to do it last time. But... 'Rine... I don't like school."
"You're not supposed to like it, little one. I certainly didn't."
"No, but... you know, Da says I have to do good at school so I can go to Longshore and be a metallurgist like him, and I don't want to go to university."
"Do well at school, dear. And why don't you want to go to university?"
"'Cos I want to be in the Brigade of Light. Byron's older brother is in the Brigade - he showed me a picture of him in the Tentenel armour. I want to do that - then I could defend The Company against those dogs from Hirplakker..."
Firene takes as deep a breath as her stays allow, closes her eyes, and does not say all of the twenty things she immediately thinks of saying to her brother. He's just a baby, after all.
"Well, maybe you should wait until you're older before you tell Da you want to join the Brigade. In the meantime, it can't hurt to keep going to school. And I'll help you with your work if you need me to, all right?"
"All right... M'sorry, Firene. Mama said you liked school."
He shuffles back to his own bedroom. Firene still hasn't opened her eyes.
* * * * * * *
She stares at a point somewhere past her reflection in the dressing mirror as Ester fusses with her hair, braiding silver wire and tiny lights into the longer sections and sprinkling her exposed skin with a fine metallic powder. Her mother beams at her.
"Oh Firene - isn't it exciting? The Grand Palova is the biggest social event of the year, and our little girl was invited!"
"Well, at least all those dancing lessons won't go to waste..."
"Now, dear... I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Several of your friends are going, after all. This is a great opportunity for you to meet suitable young men your own age."
"Who will coincidentally be the sons of families in a position to assist Father in attaining his political ambitions within The Company?"
Ester senses a change in the atmosphere and hurries off to perform her regular duties. Beatrice observes her daughter for a moment.
"Firene... that may well be your father's hope for you. Mine is considerably less far-reaching. I would like to see you happy and secure, preferably with a husband whose goals are less lofty and hence less hazardous."
Firene looks up sharply. Her mother looks tired, possibly even a little haggard.
"Mother?"
Beatrice smiles wryly.
"Nevermind, my dear. I speak more than I think. You look radiant. Here..."
She steps forward and wraps her thin, pale arms around her daughter's shoulders for a moment. When she pulls back a heavy, ornate locket hangs around Firene's neck on a thick ribbon of some iridescent material.
"Make us proud, my darling."
6.10.06
I'm not Antisocial, I Just Wish You'd Stop Talking
Says it all, really. Link nicked from Sofy's blog (see R. column).
[LATER]
Wow. Another really good link, courtesy of Sofy. It appears to be a morning for startling revelations:
Five Geek Social Fallacies
I can positively say that I've got a severe case of GSF4, with a bit of GSF1 & 2 thrown in. I think I need to start compartmentalizing my social life a little more. Maybe make a little Venn diagram of people I know who can safely socialize with each other. Or something.
[LATER]
Wow. Another really good link, courtesy of Sofy. It appears to be a morning for startling revelations:
Five Geek Social Fallacies
I can positively say that I've got a severe case of GSF4, with a bit of GSF1 & 2 thrown in. I think I need to start compartmentalizing my social life a little more. Maybe make a little Venn diagram of people I know who can safely socialize with each other. Or something.
5.10.06
Strange Charm
I've been doing some research on Victorian society for Scuba's upcoming _A/State_ game as well as for a _Vampire_ character I plan to play in X's WoD crossover game. I've come to the conclusion that it probably wasn't all that nice a place to visit and I definitely wouldn't want to live there, but there are certain aspects of the culture which hold a certain nostalgic appeal. It's kind of like being in the Society for Creative Anachronism. Nobody joins up so that they can play a serf, get scurvy / lice / tapeworms / tortured by the Inquisition, and sleep in a grubby hut with six other people and a whole mess of rats. People join up so they can play a knight, dress up, get ratted on homebrewed mead, whallop the bejeezus out of each other with duct-taped weapons, and have an excuse to fool around with a relative stranger after handing them an orange with cloves all over it on the dancefloor.
Similarly, I'm guessing that most Victoriana aficionados aren't really interested in how the vast majority of the English populace lived, which was under horrific conditions of grinding Dickensian poverty, only without the drippy sentimental happy ending Dickens tended to tack on at the end of a lot of his works. (_A Christmas Carol_, anyone?) We like the elaborate clothes, the high tea, the genteel conversation, but I doubt many people, especially women, really want to go back to the weird position that women ("ladies") held in Victorian society.
Personally, I always thought the primary charm of the Goth subculture at its high point (roughly the late 1980s) was the emulation of the nicer aspects of Victorian society, particularly in matters of dress and manners. I'm especially enamoured with the detailed symbology surrounding the use of flowers in courtship (the "language of flowers") and to a lesser extent the use of fans as semaphore in flirting. It's all very complicated and strategic and charming, which is how I like it. I'm a huge fan of subtext, and it's always nice to get the impression that the other party is also aware of and appreciates the subtext under a good conversation about something completely innocuous. Beats the hell out of some nitwit sending you a picture of his dick on MSN by way of a social introduction.
Similarly, I'm guessing that most Victoriana aficionados aren't really interested in how the vast majority of the English populace lived, which was under horrific conditions of grinding Dickensian poverty, only without the drippy sentimental happy ending Dickens tended to tack on at the end of a lot of his works. (_A Christmas Carol_, anyone?) We like the elaborate clothes, the high tea, the genteel conversation, but I doubt many people, especially women, really want to go back to the weird position that women ("ladies") held in Victorian society.
Personally, I always thought the primary charm of the Goth subculture at its high point (roughly the late 1980s) was the emulation of the nicer aspects of Victorian society, particularly in matters of dress and manners. I'm especially enamoured with the detailed symbology surrounding the use of flowers in courtship (the "language of flowers") and to a lesser extent the use of fans as semaphore in flirting. It's all very complicated and strategic and charming, which is how I like it. I'm a huge fan of subtext, and it's always nice to get the impression that the other party is also aware of and appreciates the subtext under a good conversation about something completely innocuous. Beats the hell out of some nitwit sending you a picture of his dick on MSN by way of a social introduction.
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