First Risings: An HMAS Marigold Story

Rourke rode the train as it stormed, puffing like a mad, mechanical, sulphrous hurricane across the countryside. It roared, finally, into Charing Cross, and out jumped Lieutenant Rourke -- to be grabbed by the upper arm by none othe rthan Marmont, Head of Her Nadir Majesty Wilhelmina Harker's Corps of Paladins.

"My Apologies, Sir Hannibal, but just this once we're traveling by miasmic phantasm," he apologiozed, none too apologetically.

As the black-and-grey mist, specially camouflaged to look like everyday steam and smoke, sprang up from the very pavers of the station platform around them, Rourke barely had time to blurt out "What, it's that urgent?" before they were deposited into Her Nadir Majesty's very Thronehall.

"Yes, Hannibal dear, I assure you that it truly is that urgent," 'Mina pronounced in her dulcet, sultry tones from the carved ebony-and-obsidian throne on its dais not far away across the polished basalt floor; they had been deposited close to the throne.

Despite the sweetness of her voice, however, it was apparent in her tone and posture, as well as the general feeling of the vampiric throng in the room in general that something very wrong had occurred. "You do remember dear Mircer, don't you?" Mina said with a dry wryness. "He, or rather his Last Essence, has escaped my clutches, and it seems to me that your friend and co-worker Doctor Cross is implicated to at least some degree..."

Author's Note:

I'm thinking of writing a series of episodes based off of this entry, originally intended for a starting-off scenario for the Log of the HMAS Marigold RP, for the entertainment and reassurance of those distressed by the apparent demise of BG.

It's several years on, now, and I have no clear recollection of just what I was planning to do with this. I was kind of besotted by vampires and macabre fiction at the time, so it reflects my mindset back then. I've since moved on; while I still am mildly interested in such writing topics, I'm not as hot on it as I once was, so things may take a turn away from them if this story gets finished and something else occurs to me. We'll just have to see...  

Under the current circumstances with BG, it would seem that I have at least a little time to take this starting point and write a new-ish story. The threads related to this posting on BG being unavailable for at least the nonce means that I may have to take license to "stray from the true paths of rectitude" re actual character names and backstories, and fill in with what i can dream up. I thus make apologies in advance for that, and for the possible eventuality of BG suddenly becoming acessible again and thus negating the need for such writings, which may signal anothe rperiod of inactivity. Again, we'll just have to see...  

Expect some new textual ramblings here in a few days (I have a lot of real-world stuff going on just now, like everybody else).

Handthorpe!, Rourke thought incredulously. "Does that blackguard never rest?!" he cried out loud in disbelief and deep frustration.

The barest residual essence and imprint of the mind of Mircer Handthorpe, the ever-persistent thorn in the sides of the Marigold's crew and allies, and Hanibal Rourke himself, had been imprisoned in a sealed, sigil-covered seamless iron box deep within the alterworldly dimensions of a cursed vampire jewel, set in triune surrounding settings of antimony, silver and gold electrum each engraved with a different spell of sealing and bionding, and hung on a wire of brass from an ornate hazelwood hook under a bell jar. The bell jar itself rested upon a pedestal worked of an interlocking sculpture of oak, ash and good Irish black thorn, and surrounded by a miniature berm of Sea Salt. Even his very ghost was unable to escape the box or its surroundings after his body and soul had been turned, and even his lifeforce had been all but snuffed out, save for the barest sparkle of energy, just to keep the whole of the remains just alive enough to remain in existence. The "Jewel Prison," as it had come to be called, was only ever removed from the Bell Jar to be worn on special occasions by Mina herself, and she had more than sufficient latent power within her person to keep the triune prison secure at such times, no matter what distraction might present itself. To escape his silver-and-antimony prison, even if it was not surrounded by the bell jar and sea salt, Handthorpe would have required immense power -

or immense treason.

"Calm yourself, Hannibal dear," Mina said soothingly, but with an undercurrent of razor-edged steel. Rourke suddenly snapped out of the rage born of incredulity and foreboding, and his still-fledgling senses brought to him more strongly and pungently the awareness of the throng of the noble Vampires and their court.

What? Even the Egyptian and Sumerian ambassadors are here? He thought, as his heightened nose sensed nuances that no human olfactory system couold have weeded out. That, and also the smell of the Vampires. Gods, he suddenly thought, they actually SMELL angry, and -

Hungry.

This was no place to lose one's temper, he suddenly realized.

"Yes, Rourke," Mina said, silkily, yet still warningly. "They want answers, and to feed." Her voice had turned hard and yet loving, yet still in a decidedly brittle manner, as only a concerned and angered mother's can.

"Which reminds me, dear vassal, just how long has it been since you last fed?"

AW, Gods, Rourke thought, They can smell my lack.

"They can smell your lack of sustenance, Rourke," Mina chided him. Clearly, she had read his mind through the link, tenuous though it mght be in his case, between sire and fledgling. She tended to not do that very much, as she knew that he disliked it and often turned rebellious when she did so. Thus, the fact that she had done so now underscored her displeasure. "You're not so ancient or needy that you have to feed every day, or every week; hells, you could go for a year and not pass away, but dammit all, can't you see that the lack weakens you? We of the Nadir Court pride ourselves on our civility and self-control, but like any large pack of predators," Her voice seemed to conceal a barely-controlled chuckle at her own descent into vernacular terms, and a low-voiced undercurrent of hungry hisses, sinister chortles and barely-audible, unintellible-yet-horridly-suggestive mutterings ran though teh ranks of courtiers and followers.

"We sense weakness and our inner demons howl to feed upon it!" The throng in the shadows around them seethed and muttered with shocking intensity at her sudden outburst, but subsided and quieted at a cutting motion of Mina's hand.

"I can't exactly go out and feed on my subordinates like kine, Min- er, Your Nadir Majesty," he barely caught himself.

"Indeed, you can't." Mina said, and then, "DICCON! bring the wine!"

The servant so ordered brought the requested bottle and cut crystal snifter glasses, resting on a platter of nickel with ivory handles.

Mina waved the man away, and proceeded to pour both glasses full nearly to their brims. "I am told by our Sir Diccon that drinking this much blush wine in one glass is indelicate and unbecoming of Royalty," she said sardonically, but," she produced in her right hand, from within her bodice, her personal dagger, an actual misericorde of medieval origin.

She slashed her left wrist  very slightly, and allowed nine drops of her lifeblood to drip into one of the glasses. "You need sustenance, Hannibal dear - and the pure stuff will drive you to a gorging fit," She said in a lower, more intimate voice, as she motioned him to the dais and he drew nearer to her. "So one must dilute it, to feed you, yet not provoke your inner being." She thrust the glass to him and forced it into his hand. "Drink!" she commanded, and Rourke's body moved of it's own(?) accord, and he gulped it down, nearly quaffing it in a moment of starving haste that surprised, and, truth be told, frightened him a bit. "I trust you can learn from this example?"

The blush wine, now darker than usual, proved to be headier and more caustic than expected - and yet, also much sweeter and soothing than he would have believed. Still, he coughed in reaction, and managed to choke out, "You are never indelicate, and always beautiful, Your Majesty."

"Ha!" Mina laughed. "My late husband would have called a me a lovely little cob, noble old lecher that he was," she said with an edge and yet a soothing silkiness to her voice. "Just call me 'Mina,' would you, when we're this close? Like two peas in a pod we are, Hann, Common as clay by birth, yet Peer and Queen by happenstance and cursed luck".

"AS you say, Mina." he said, a hint of warm regard in his voice. Mina smiled and stroked his cheek once, twice, then dropped her hand. Rourke noted, offhandedly and silently, that the slash had already healed without a scar.

"Good. Now to work! Diccon, the report! Sir Hannibal needs information if he and his crew are to help us!"

And just like that, the hand was back at her side, and the intimate moment was over.

"Just as you say, Your Majesty," Rourke said deferentially, and he stepped back a step or two as Diccon bustled forward with a sheaf of papers and maps.

"As near as we can ascertain, Your Majesty, Sir Hannibal, the disaster unfolded thus..."




Soundtrack for writing:
Gallows Jig- Nox Arcana
No Leaf Clover- Metallica
Barbarossa
Harpsicord Concertos - JS Bach

Author's Note:
It's been brought to my attention that the continuum (for lack of a better word which refuses to spring into my tiny brain) of the various Dracula stories, novels, movies, TV Series, etc. is actually extant in the present, and thus copyright might be an issue.

This, along with my general growing disataste for that particular genre of Horror and Suspense (I'm over 58 now, I'm kind of tired of it. No offense to the authors and such of the Dracula continuum), has caused my decision to desist on that front.

It (The Dracula and related stuff) is not my own invention, so I really ought to leave it alone, and in any case, I'm tired of it. So, once Diccon gets through with his explanation and introduces the actual situation, I'll have Her Majesty's (meaning Queen Victoria's) representatives take over, and somehow make it so that Rourke does not have to return to the Nadir Court. Maybe a pogrom-style purge of the Nadir Court, or maybe Mina and her closest allies get knocked off by a rival. Or something...

My apologies to those who like the Nadir Court and Dracula References. I am not saying that vampirism will not again raise it's head, only that it won't be Dracula's bunch doing it. Merovingia Harper-Chen is my invention, (albeit referencing a story and creation [Steam London] that is not mine), so that might be the way to go. Getting her from the Duckpond continuum to Rourke's dimensional backwater (Ha...) might be a bit of a conundrum, but it should be doable.

As always, we'll just have to see...

The battle is over far sooner than it should have been, she thought, as she plummeted from the Texian aerial battlewagon. That old man is twice the warrior Madame Morganta said he was.

The Commodore's saber cut had not only knocked her over the side of the zeppelin-of-war's armored envelope, but also dealt a head wound that even her undead powers could not heal quickly. A deep wound, nearly - but not quite - slicing away the top of her skull. Flashes of light and deep detonations greeted and enfolded her as she fell, and as consciousness fled she was vaguely aware that her own ship was falling as well, and that it and it's crew of thralls and fledgelings were falling to pieces as she and it plummeted into the clouds. Flashes of light and detonations assailed her darkening senses. Gods, I must be dying the final death as well, if they are all falling apart, so Why am I not ash? Must I continue? So she would have to live again? What else could there be for a failed warrior? Karma would have it no other way.

She would have laughed, if her head did not hurt so much. What was all the noise and light? Lightning? Gunpowder stores? Madness and hallucinations? The stenches of both ozone and cordite filled her nose, and as the last of her vision faded, it seemed she could hear Lady Morganta laughing cruelly. Cold rain and hail hammered her as the wind tossed her to and fro, and purple light took her away into velvet nothingness as her sword slipped from her fingers...


Author's Note:
"Lady Morganta" is based on the vampiric wife (Morganthe) of my Steam London character (Dreyfuss),  whom he thought he had eradicated  long ago in the early Republic of Texas. At the time of the RP, I did not know that there was a D&D character named Morganthe. In any case, the name of Dreyfuss' wife is/was not pronounced as many seem to pronounce the D&D character, but rather similarly to the way that the similar name is spelled here: "Morganta," with the Spanish "th"-like sound rather than a hard "t." (sort of a cross between the two, in other words. No pun intended, lol).

Ah, yes. Who is the young woman, and what is her place in this story? My former BG readers will no doubt already have guessed. The rest of you, welll,

We'll just have to see...