Archive for March, 2011


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This evening was very much a whirlwind. From the meeting with the spirits to the eventual banishing of the Gulmoth, whatever that may be, it seemed like we didn’t stop. Which is strange since I know that there was quite a bit of downtime there.

I know I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help but feel guilty about what happened. Gypsy is right, there is no dealing with the Abyss. There’s no simple bargain, nothing without a price beyond what is agreed upon. It runs in my head, over and over again. I don’t want to know for the price I can’t suspect. But still, when it promised a solution to the fire problem, I thought of Deacon, and I can’t help but feel guilty for the man and his friends that I could have helped them, could have helped Nuriel, but didn’t.

At least I got the book, and I suspect I will be throwing myself headlong into this study. Summoning, from what little I can tell so far, is an incredibly dangerous, but incredibly rewarding branch of magic. It takes care, planning, and very exacting attention to detail. Very rarely can I say that I’m legitimately afraid of something, but this is something that scares me. Still, it’s important knowledge, and not only could it be incredibly useful, it can also be used to stop summoned creatures. I don’t want to be randomly trying Arcana to get something to close again.

I let Rosa know that the Unmaker was gone. She was frustrating nonchalant about it. One thing I’ll never get used to with Spirits: there’s very little gratitude. The scale usually goes from Righteous Wrath to Mild Contempt. It’s the nature of working with their kind, but as much as I pretend to it, can even mimic it, I’m not one of them, and will occasionally feel very human my inability to not even be able to earn the benefit of the doubt.

Probably best to get some sleep now. It’s been a long night, and my plate is getting full again. Plus, still need to work on the wedding plans, which is coming up far too quickly. But I’d rather be busy than bored, and now I’ll be learning a rare art, so at least life is exciting.

“I am the weight of a feather, yet you cannot hold me for 10 minutes.”

I made a mockery of thought. The action was partially dictated by my persona for the evening, a man known for his boasting and brashness, but I could see it in myself more than others could. I was enjoying this too much. The little bit of cruelty appealed to my Fairest nature, the extended waiting drove home the point that none were as clever as I, none were as smart, and winning the competition would demonstrate that none were as brave, either.

Brian laughed deep inside of me, that deep-chested laugh that makes me cringe waiting for the inevitable gun shot. I thought to the box sitting in my closet with his “bones” in it, a fortune in jewels and gold mixed with palm fronds and sea shells, and knew once again that he still lived in me, that whatever I thought of “souls,” there was that part of me, and it wanted nothing more than what others may have, regardless of what it was.

“My breath,” I said with confidence, and saw it fade into the mist. I had won. Nobody was better than I. Now I could be the only one who completed two of the Queen’s Challenges. Nobody was braver than I, either. They couldn’t be. I…Brian wouldn’t allow it.

For once I could frown. My mouth very suddenly learned to make those motions again. Yet, still I was not allowed to, had to put on a front for the sake of the clever, boastful, and gregarious Jack the Giant Killer to stay in character. The Wyrd’s cruelty is subtle and profound, and I wish I could say that I entirely rejected it. What a miserable evening.

Newton felt as if he may crush his cane as the carriage rocked back to his home. How dare she even consider that she knew the slightest thing about him. Rather, she must be blind to not see the world that is so clear, so bright, so inexorably beautiful and to consider it cold and ugly for all its brightness.

He pressed a button hidden within the wall of the carriage and felt the device speed up, a trail of steam spreading from exhaust pipes as the “horses” began to move even quicker than before, far too quick for animals of such a variety. He could feel the oppressive weight of the Consensus begin to fall onto him, but he thought it worth the risk to be home even a few moments sooner.

The irritation only grew as he entered his home, passing the coat and cane to a servant without even thinking of which one it might be, and traveling down a series of passages to the gated door. He pulled aside the grating and pulled the lever, the lift sliding down into the bowels of the house, a place far removed from the Earth it was placed on. A series of stained glass windows lit by an unknown source passed on all sides, coloring the lift chamber in reds & yellows, blues & greens, purples, and hues as yet undescribed by the Masses. The windows showed several scenes from myth, Prometheus bringing fire to man, the man-made arc that survived the Great Flood, and histories that the Order knew, images of men banishing darkness with light, overcoming tyrannical magicians, and freeing the people to think for themselves.

He exited at the bottom of the shaft. There was always a slight hum in the Construct, supposedly from the orbs used to light the windowless structure. Newton had never taken the time to study them in depth, leaving it to the masters of the manipulation of Force in his order to maintain them. He simply wasn’t interested in them. There was a new world to be made, what incidence was a lighting device?

Instead, he went to his laboratory. The room itself was mostly stark, painted white and functional. However, the details spoke of his presence, a menagerie of various and unrelated items scattered about like sheep with a sleeping shepard. He knew what they all meant, why he needed an empty green bottle, a recently re-soled right shoe, and a stone designed for skipping. Each was involved, incidentally, in his experiments and he had to see what effects the early programs had on items in Reality. But anyone examining this eclectic amassing could not help but think him quite mad.

Standing most prominent in the laboratory was Dela (Difference Engine for Lasting Amity), a gigantic contraption of levers and cogs, pistons currently silent so as to appear as little more than an overly complex coat rack attached to a Franklin stove with no chimney. The Difference Engineer took a small towel and used it to open the stove, shoveling a few small spade’s worth of coal into the inferno raging within. It took but moments for Dela to begin to move, her gleaming arms pumping, wheels beginning to turn.

The Englishman used to need the special typewriter to communicate with Dela, but now he only used it to make the holes in the stiff cards, confident he knew where they would go should he have but a knife and his wits to talk to the machine. As he pulled his chair closer to the reader, a card has already slid from the output slot next to it. He picked it up and read the collection of incisions in the stiff material.

“You broke the Consensus. You only do that when you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

He smiled appreciatively. Dela always knew him better than he knew himself. He reconsidered what he would say and began to peck at the typewriter.

“Am I cold? Devoid of whimsy or feeling? Unable to dream?” He slid the completed card into the input slot and waited while the machine processed his request.

“No,” it replied. “You are the biggest dreamer I know, even among our Order. Who would say such a vile thing?”

“It does not matter.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I seem to have abandoned reason this night in favor of pointless rage, and could have easily threatened my place in society, tenuous as it is, in the process.”

“Does it threaten your work on Reality 2.0?”

“No, but that’s rather the point. If my work is all I am, am I truly dreaming, or just a slave to mathematics?”

This one took a while to answer. Newton knew Dela well enough to know that she wasn’t stumped, but rather giving his question its due attention. She could have answered it a hundred different ways by that point, with reasons enough for all, but she knew that he would feel better if she waited, and was concerned for his well-being as much as his work.

“You should not be punished that your work is your truest passion. What you do, you do for them, and if they do not understand, explain it.”

“I am too angry to explain. How does one reason with somebody who would shun the light for no other purpose than it would prevent them from imagining what terrors might await in the dark?”

The next answer came quickly, with the confidence of one’s closest friend. “You will calm, and you will find a way. You always do. And you must, if you will one day present them the world.”

He read the card again, and ran it through the translator just in case he read it wrong, which he had not. As he looked at the pattern of holes, another card slid from the machine.

“Now, let me to clear the Paradox from your Pattern.”

“Yes, Dela,” Newton said aloud, shaking his head at her mothering. He stood and walked to a set of items hidden behind a glass door. He donned the two large gloves and dome-like hat, their geodesic bars reflecting the light in a myriad pattern. He strapped the hat to his head and began, with slowness born of the clumsy gloves, to turn the crank.

He could feel the waves wash over him as Dela’s gears picked up speed, as if the whirring sound itself were cleaning his mistake from him. He felt the weight move through his body, watching pistons and cranks push themselves with wild abandon. He knew that this was the least of Dela’s capacity, but still he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, especially when he saw the steam escape from a location it shouldn’t have, and a gasket go flying across the room, bouncing harmlessly off the far wall. With that, Dela slowly slid to a halt, and Newton removed the hat and gloves, feeling lighter than when he arrived. He would have to repair Dela later, but he knew she would be unhappy had he refused, and the least he could do for his most loyal friend was to allow her the ability to do this for him, as guilty as it made him each time.