[Closed] A Train Of Thought
Posted: Mon Oct 26, 2020 5:26 pm
7th Vortas, 2719
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day
Tonight, as could be expected perhaps in the rainy season, it was pouring in Vienda. Not your standard run of the mill winter shower, Good Lady no, this was something for the history books. A left over of Loshis itself! As though Hulali Himself had decided to rain His Great Ocean out of the viscous black clouds, a torrential deluge sluiced over the city in vehement waves. Interwoven in the chilling waters were moments of pelting hail, or mushy sleet. The Seventen patrols were pulled back, instead posted on weather duty, sandbagging those houses that lived nearest the aqueducts and the vast Arova river, lest the water that couldn't be contained by the drainage system threatened to destroy thousands of concords of property. It was chilled and wet hard work, and though magic was able to fend off the water, it would take houses to complete the task. Therefore, the soaked officers worked under the duress of drowning in thin air.
Within the Pendulum Club however, the situation was quite a deal better. On the roof, the skyfall cascaded with a deafening roar, though it didn’t leak through to the occupants inside enjoying the orange glow of the fire and the warming touch of brandy. It wasn’t particularly full, most of the regular folks having been caught at home before the storm broke, and unwilling to brave their expensive Bastian felt suits in the weather. Those that were here were looked after, some snoozing over a brandy in a quiet corner, others chuffing cigars and huddled close to speak over the battering on the roof. Occasionally, a man or two would disappear through the doors by the right of the building.
No Admittance ~ Management. Appointments Required.
That's what the delicate brass lettering said on the sign that hung off red velvet roping between two brass stands. As far as anyone who enjoyed the Club was concerned, the doors were off limits. A private function room perhaps, or the office of the gentlemen who operated the facility. Anyone who was a regular would have seen High Judge Azmus and his delegates come and go through it, some of the Brunnholdian magisters, representatives of the Seventen and a few influential men of the country. Some assumed it was for the vrydag, it fit the bill. Warm, hosted, private. Better than spending hours in a stuffy suite in the Consulate.
Brent Locksme considered himself a Reformist, should anyone have asked his view of all things political. His trains, they would be the future of this kingdom, nay of all kingdoms! They’d showcased his train in the gala at Brunnhold, what a monumental moment, and Brent had acted as conductor for his test travellers. A spot of fun, with science behind him. It should have been the catalyst for his railway, prompting the funding and backing of his fellow influencers and those saavy politicians.
It should have been, except those filthy magicless sons-of-chroves had ruined everything.
His sister and niece, lovely girl with an eye for needlework and quite aware of a woman’s place in the world, she’d been in Dorhaven when that bloody Serro and his band of miscreants had bombed the place. Oh, she'd lived, but she'd never marry with a face like that. Burned beyond what even good magic could fix, caught in the volitile explosion. And poor Hyicenth, she’d not the stomach to look upon the young woman after that. The girl had come to live with himself, a spinster in her uncles care till death should grant her a kindness. A distraction on his plans, settling her and organising house staff.
And then of course, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the ripples of Dorhaven ran abundant through Vienda. The work of the Resistance, that's what the papers shouted, and the High Judge had repeated as such to the public. Rat them out, rat all of them out. Brent was an avid public supporter of this action, because once that clocking collection of erseholes was gone, Vienda would then turn their eyes back to more important things. Like his railway. He’d approached Captain Damen D’Arthe, a contemporary from his collage days, and implored the gentleman to offer his services. As an influencer of Vienda, he had resources and he had sway.
That was how Brent Locksme had managed to get a peek behind the red velvet rope, and how he now had a task to do. It was now, the how he had to unpack.
Seated in roguish fashion at the bar, Brent sipped his drink, mind a thousand ideas away. He stroked his still black, well oiled pointed beard slowly as his eyes narrowed staring into the amber liquid.
And the storm continued, roaring on the eves.
Within the Pendulum Club however, the situation was quite a deal better. On the roof, the skyfall cascaded with a deafening roar, though it didn’t leak through to the occupants inside enjoying the orange glow of the fire and the warming touch of brandy. It wasn’t particularly full, most of the regular folks having been caught at home before the storm broke, and unwilling to brave their expensive Bastian felt suits in the weather. Those that were here were looked after, some snoozing over a brandy in a quiet corner, others chuffing cigars and huddled close to speak over the battering on the roof. Occasionally, a man or two would disappear through the doors by the right of the building.
No Admittance ~ Management. Appointments Required.
That's what the delicate brass lettering said on the sign that hung off red velvet roping between two brass stands. As far as anyone who enjoyed the Club was concerned, the doors were off limits. A private function room perhaps, or the office of the gentlemen who operated the facility. Anyone who was a regular would have seen High Judge Azmus and his delegates come and go through it, some of the Brunnholdian magisters, representatives of the Seventen and a few influential men of the country. Some assumed it was for the vrydag, it fit the bill. Warm, hosted, private. Better than spending hours in a stuffy suite in the Consulate.
Brent Locksme considered himself a Reformist, should anyone have asked his view of all things political. His trains, they would be the future of this kingdom, nay of all kingdoms! They’d showcased his train in the gala at Brunnhold, what a monumental moment, and Brent had acted as conductor for his test travellers. A spot of fun, with science behind him. It should have been the catalyst for his railway, prompting the funding and backing of his fellow influencers and those saavy politicians.
It should have been, except those filthy magicless sons-of-chroves had ruined everything.
His sister and niece, lovely girl with an eye for needlework and quite aware of a woman’s place in the world, she’d been in Dorhaven when that bloody Serro and his band of miscreants had bombed the place. Oh, she'd lived, but she'd never marry with a face like that. Burned beyond what even good magic could fix, caught in the volitile explosion. And poor Hyicenth, she’d not the stomach to look upon the young woman after that. The girl had come to live with himself, a spinster in her uncles care till death should grant her a kindness. A distraction on his plans, settling her and organising house staff.
And then of course, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the ripples of Dorhaven ran abundant through Vienda. The work of the Resistance, that's what the papers shouted, and the High Judge had repeated as such to the public. Rat them out, rat all of them out. Brent was an avid public supporter of this action, because once that clocking collection of erseholes was gone, Vienda would then turn their eyes back to more important things. Like his railway. He’d approached Captain Damen D’Arthe, a contemporary from his collage days, and implored the gentleman to offer his services. As an influencer of Vienda, he had resources and he had sway.
That was how Brent Locksme had managed to get a peek behind the red velvet rope, and how he now had a task to do. It was now, the how he had to unpack.
Seated in roguish fashion at the bar, Brent sipped his drink, mind a thousand ideas away. He stroked his still black, well oiled pointed beard slowly as his eyes narrowed staring into the amber liquid.
And the storm continued, roaring on the eves.