theenigmaticadvisor

[theenigmaticadvisor]

A little preparation goes a long way, and when inviting a drownie into one’s home, it can, at the very least, save quite a few echos worth of water damage. To begin, choosing to meet on his retired tramp steamer covered took care of most of it. The hole in the hull that kept the old thing from being seaworthy became an asset when dealing with those of aqueous persuasion. A little sanding (to eliminate the jagged edges, it is a wreck after all),  furniture that is either water resistant or cheap, and the installation of his plated seal to keep uninvited guests out, and what you have is a perfectly serviceable drawing room, compatible with those that are more comfortable in the Stolen River than the Fallen (not Stolen, perish the thought) City. 

The meal would contain no fish, only things that are harder to get if one is confined mostly to the water. It also goes a long way to treat ones guests. That being said, the servants would be rubberies, as they are accustomed to burbling and unbothered by getting wet, not to mention, having even such distant relations could only ease things. The wine would need to be something strong, so as to stand up to possible dilution. Finally, bringing his Starveling Cat along would take care of any rodent problems, they were dining on a ship after all. 

When he hears the knock, Illuvatar opens the door with a flourish.

“My dear Oliver, welcome, welcome. Do come in. The wine seems lovely, you’re too kind.”

He says, ushering him in to his carefully prepared sitting room. 

ILLUVATAR. ( @theenigmaticadvisor. )

@thedrownedpoet

Say what you will about London’s governance, there is one thing that everyone, regardless of political affiliation, can agree on: the postal service does a damn fine job. This fact is particularly salient, because one intrepid member of said office was swimming away from Oliver, having just delivered a crisp white envelope to him, despite the fact that he is drifting a not inconsiderable distance below the surface of the stolen river. 

The envelope itself is coated in a stiff wax, an interesting alternative to reaching a drownie, the more standard option being, of course, patiently waiting for them to return to shore. But, upon turning the envelope over the entire scenario makes a great deal more sense; in piercing blue ink is written Oliver, the handwriting clearly that of his mentor, Illuvatar. Inside is a small, again wax coated, card, it read

Oliver, 

It has been too long since we’ve met. Would you care to join me for a dinner and discussion?  I would be positively thrilled to have you, and if the wine is good enough perhaps we could even exchange some poetry. I will await you in my yacht at  Wolfstack.

Yours,

Illuvatar

    A letter? For him?

    How novel! How strange! How utterly delightful! Ordinarily, such correspondences would be stuffed into the drafty slot beneath the door in his attic home, there to wait, or be carried away by one of the many felines that have taken up residence with him. There’s no telling, truly, just how many letters have gone astray in just such a manner; he doesn’t begrudge the cats that, certainly not, though he knows them more than clever enough to know what they’re doing. He likes to think they behave in a manner according to their beliefs of what is in his best interests; but then, they are cats. Perhaps his trust in them might be ill-placed.

    But still! How good of the postal worker to go to all this trouble, slogging into the river to find him; he thanks the person with a wave, a smile that seems to startle the poor worker for some reason, and some sea glass that has found its way into the bed of the river. He takes to the surface, then, though the air feels wrong in his lungs, too dry, and it makes him cough, makes him heave; though the wax coating makes it quite possible to keep the letter undamaged in the water, nothing that gives off light, down there, is anything that he wishes to be near.

    Instead, he sits on the dock, sopping wet, dripping water onto the wax-coated surface as he skims the invitation; dinner! Discussion! Wine, poetry! An evening more than promising enough to coax him from the water’s edge. There’s a diving suit waiting for him, waiting for a bit of the river to come with him, and, in as short of order as he can manage, Ollie has set off. Perhaps, should he retire early – though such a thing is rare when he meets with Illuvatar – he might even catch Miss Liza on the docks. It is always such a joy to find her there.

    It is not quite evening when he arrives, a bottle of wine in hand; though the other had made no allusions to the fact that anything of the sort should be expected of him, there had been such a sweet – and incredibly insistent – merchant along the way, and oh, it hadn’t done him any harm to part with a small few trinkets, anyway.

    He knocks, and sloshes, and announces himself at the door with a quite friendly sounding burble.

#Illu and Ollie

[theenigmaticadvisor]

@thedrownedpoet

Say what you will about London’s governance, there is one thing that everyone, regardless of political affiliation, can agree on: the postal service does a damn fine job. This fact is particularly salient, because one intrepid member of said office was swimming away from Oliver, having just delivered a crisp white envelope to him, despite the fact that he is drifting a not inconsiderable distance below the surface of the stolen river. 

The envelope itself is coated in a stiff wax, an interesting alternative to reaching a drownie, the more standard option being, of course, patiently waiting for them to return to shore. But, upon turning the envelope over the entire scenario makes a great deal more sense; in piercing blue ink is written Oliver, the handwriting clearly that of his mentor, Illuvatar. Inside is a small, again wax coated, card, it read

Oliver, 

It has been too long since we’ve met. Would you care to join me for a dinner and discussion?  I would be positively thrilled to have you, and if the wine is good enough perhaps we could even exchange some poetry. I will await you in my yacht at  Wolfstack.

Yours,

Illuvatar

#Illu #Ollie

[theenigmaticadvisor]

He looks at her, and gives a curt nod. His face and demeanor nonchalant, almost uninterested; he is the very image of detached power and professionalism. It is what she needs of him. His concern an compassion would do her no good now. What she wants was something hard and implacable, and he had enough practice in his life to be that for her. After all, what good is an adviser that doesn’t provide what his proteges need? But for all that, he still placed his hand on hers briefly, a trifle of comfort. A shot of whisky in a blizzard: not enough to save you, but enough to give some solace and make the what will come a little easier. 

“If it comes to that, Ms. Jerusha” he says in the same tone he uses to discuss students’ grades, “you will have time to do what you must.” 

His voice trails slightly, and for a brief moment, no more than several heartbeats, his eyes are distant, the clouds dark and roiling. Thoughts of good byes that never were swirling though his head. He idly rubs at the plain gold ring on his finger. 

His eyes refocus as he says, “and Oliver will be told something that gives comfort, if the need arises.” He pours a cup of tea, forgoing the sugar this time, and pressing it into her hands says, “and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

theenigmaticadvisor:

His eyes go wide for a moment at the mention of red honey. It seems this protege has steered herself into dangerous waters. Red honey. While he knew of it, it was once of the few things in the Neath he has no experience with. It must have been desperation, not depravity that drove her to it; she was not  a hedonist, but she was relentlessly and recklessly determined once she got going.

He clears his throat, still reeling slightly, “there is one final point first: if your conditions are met, do you want to see it coming? I shall respect it if you don’t, but I understand if you wish to face it head on.” His statement is matter of fact, almost nonchalant, more out of a desire to ease her nerves than a casual attitude towards the topic. It is no small matter to bring permanent death, let alone to someone you like. 

His mind settles back on the matter of the honey, unavoidable as a gaping wound, and equally apt to inspire prodding. He clears his throat again, feeling somewhat awkward for the first time in a long time, his curiosity is burning, but this was not the kind of experience one just asked about, “if you have need of any other assistance, or wish to discuss anything, all you must do is ask.” 

“Also,” he begins reluctantly, “should this come to pass, what should Oliver be told?”

Liza sucks in an unsteady breath, the heel of his hand still pressed to her brow. Behind her closed eyes, she can see the memories of the sights she ripped still-screaming from someone, the visions and reflections she saw, as though reflected into blood. 

She wishes she could blame the Neath for what she has done.

“Please. Tell me.” Her voice is soft. It will break her heart, to look at her husband, to know she is looking her last — but it hurts her, too, to think she might not have time to draw him close a last time, to say the sweet-soft words he deals in so easily but have been so hard for her to give voice. “Give me —- time. I will nae fight it. I only—-” —only has found herself in the smell of the sea and river, only has found someone for whom she would – she has – done unspeakable things, only needs to say goodbye. Illuvatar will not fault her for that.

Dropping her hand, Liza looks at him, eyes hardening. “Nothing.” She leans forward. “Nae a word of this deal will reach him. Tell him – tell him it was devils. Tell him it was the Game, tell him whatever he will believe, an’ he’ll believe any tale ye spin him. But he cannae—” Her fingers curl hard around her tea cup. “Understand?”

#red honey

[theenigmaticadvisor]

thebookishmedium:

theenigmaticadvisor:

@theascendingsocialite

Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences. 

Somewhere in this revelry, a meeting, ostensibly of chance, but who can ever tell with him, let alone during Hallowmas. In the flickering light of the candle between you, stands your mentor, Illuvatar. The rubbery man mask he wears hides his face, but not his identity; his manner (and the ring on his finger) are instantly recognizable. 

The mask, though, is a wonder. The opalescent sheen of the mantle somehow captures the impression of the moist undulations of the rubberies. Its valves and vents contort in such a manner as to make his voice quaver and modulate in an alien, fluting way, fluctuating between low and high mid utterance without interruption. 

“A confession for a confession?” he pipes, his voice and face not his own. “A sin for a sin?”

Thomas laughs, hoping the sparkle of his gilded mask and mirth will hide the chill he feels at the thought of both what he might be forced to divulge and what Illuvatar might tell him.

“Of course. I hope you find mine diverting,” Thomas responds, watching what he can see of Illuvatar’s expression through the mask. He walks over towards the alleyway, “I’ll tell you my secret first, I suppose.” As Illuvatar approaches, Thomas wonders what to tell him. What can he say that will elicit a true confession from his mentor but not open him to anything truly dangerous? He begins to babble, almost giggling, about Marlon–or more accurately about the affair he had with the beautiful 19 year old once-urchin who cornered him to ask for help getting in with the Widow since he had had no luck in the years since being kicked from the urchin gangs. Marlon had no idea. But as he told the tale, Thomas grew more and more nervous, perhaps this was insufficient.

“This did lead me to a grand loss; I’m afraid to look at mirrors. I brought the boy into the Glass and, well, let’s just say the Finger-Kings took an interest in him. One I was not expecting.”

Illuvatar watches Thomas pace and stammer. He wonders if he feels guilt for this one, or if it is merely part of his repertoire, a mere nothing to be put forward in the hopes of something more substantial being given in return. Regardless, he would keep it in confidence (though he muses, he is unlikely to receive the same confidentiality) and offer his in turn.

“Flesh changes, the Chain forbids, “ he says, his voice burbling through the mask, “but the chain does not touch here; the weak may become Great. I have indulged in the shapeling arts, I have been touched by the principalities of Hell, I have drank of the Mountain’s blood and coveted her Garden, and I have sought more ways that this: I have become more than I was.  I have sought the cracks in the Law and pushed my way through them. I have ascended link by link the the Chain that once was my binding.”

His mask is barely visible in the light of the flickering candle now, losing himself for a moment in the recollection of his past and the giving of his confession.

“This is my sin, the sin of ambition, and of transcendence.”

#Hallowmas2k16 #Thomas #Illuvatar

[theenigmaticadvisor]

thenettledsecretary:

theenigmaticadvisor:

@thenettledsecretary

Of course, she hadn’t knocked, but that was no surprise, part of her charm was her no nonsense brusqueness; and anyway, that is why he had ensured that the boards in front of his office were loose enough to squeak. She seemed more haggard than usual, her recent endeavors had truly been hard on her physically and mentally, not to mention morally, but there was something more: worry? It must be a personal matter then.

But despite all this, there was still careful caution in her movements, hard suspicion glinting in her eyes. This one had never trusted him; she showed great promise in that way, even if her misgivings were misguided. But then again, she couldn’t know that, and were he in her shoes, he would be the same way. 

She cycles through a few names and titles (”is there really any difference between them now?” he muses, a smirk pulling at his cheeks) before settling on “sir.” She asks if he has some time, and of course he does, even if he had any appointments, they would be easy to adjust and far less interesting anyway. 

“Of course,” he says, adding “would you care for some tea?” Letting a little glimmer of amusement enter the tone, a gentle taunt about her mistrust of his refreshments. “What is it you need?” 

“No,” she says, “thank you.” He knows she wants no part of his tea; he’s wasting her time. Making a joke at her expense. It is no different in his classes: either he’s distant, a world away, stormy-eyed and dreaming, or he’s too close, too real, despite being half a lecture hall away. It’s an odd effect, like looking at a too-lifelike portrait. 

When he’s like that, Liza cannot help but feel that those eyes fall on her each time they roam the room, and that every word is a joke at her expense. It’s no different from the other professors, and yet completely so. The joke is never, Ah, Miss Jerusha, our willful filly, shouldn’t you be at home? Wed, perhaps? The joke is never, Speak English! I “cannae” understand a word you Scots say.

The joke is, much more simply, You need me. And she hates that it is true. 

Folding her hands behind her back, Liza lifts her chin. “I need – information.” It is, after all, the most common and perhaps most precious currency in the Neath. “On Drownies. On what they are.” She stresses the final word with care; she does not need to know they were human, does not need to know they drowned. The information she needs, rather, is more pointed, more specific. More exact. And Illuvatar has her answers. He would not be who he is if he did not.

He leans back in his chair, taking a sip of tea, his smirk just wide enough to be seen around his cup. The smirk’s composition was more complex than the mere satisfaction of his knowledge giving him power, although that was no small part of it. Nor was it just pleasure of teaching, being the conduit through which information is received, but that pleasure was there, he is an educator after all. No, for all that his smile would be more contained, a private joy, to revealing to expose to others. This smirk was because one of his proteges, one of those he’d chosen, was beginning to probe the deeper mysteries of the Neath.

“Well, Ms. Jerusha,” he says, the smirk gone without a trace by the time he lowers his cups from his lips, “as I’m sure your tuition here has made you aware, information does not come free.” His eyes flash, lightening amid the storm, “how do you propose to pay?” 

He sets his teacup aside and leans foreward, his bland mask of an expression barely concealing an almost predatory eagerness. “You could start with why you want to know.”

#Office Hours #Illuvatar #Liza #College

[theenigmaticadvisor]

@thenettledsecretary

Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences.

Most revelers pass by your candleless house, knowing it to be no refuge for confessors nor their secrets. Yet, eventually there is a knock in your door. On your stoop, dressed in unfamiliar clothes and bearing a candle, the light from which glints on the bright brass of his skull mask, is your mentor, Illuvatar. Though disguised the way he holds himself (not to mention the spots of violant ink on his fingers) are immediately recognizable.  

His mask though, is a marvel. All hard lines and polished surface that glimmers ominously in the dancing light of the candle. It gives the same impression of heat and subtle vibration that the devils do. It’s so shaped as to make his voice resonate, and the teeth are set just slightly loose, so that as he speaks it comes out low and mellifluous with a hard buzz at the edges. 

 “Will you take my sin?” he vibrates, the sound all honey and coals. “A confession given in confidence.”

#Hallowmas2k16 #Illuvatar #Liza

[theenigmaticadvisor]

@theascendingsocialite

Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences. 

Somewhere in this revelry, a meeting, ostensibly of chance, but who can ever tell with him, let alone during Hallowmas. In the flickering light of the candle between you, stands your mentor, Illuvatar. The rubbery man mask he wears hides his face, but not his identity; his manner (and the ring on his finger) are instantly recognizable. 

The mask, though, is a wonder. The opalescent sheen of the mantle somehow captures the impression of the moist undulations of the rubberies. Its valves and vents contort is such a manner as to make his voice quaver and modulate in an alien fluting way, fluctuating between low and high mid utterance without interruption. 

“A confession for a confession?” he pipes, his voice and face not his own. “A sin for a sin?”

#Hallowmas2k16 #Illuvatar #Thomas

[theenigmaticadvisor]

His eyes go wide for a moment at the mention of red honey. It seems this protege has steered herself into dangerous waters. Red honey. While he knew of it, it was once of the few things in the Neath he has no experience with. It must have been desperation, not depravity that drove her to it; she was not  a hedonist, but she was relentlessly and recklessly determined once she got going.

He clears his throat, still reeling slightly, “there is one final point first: if your conditions are met, do you want to see it coming? I shall respect it if you don’t, but I understand if you wish to face it head on.” His statement is matter of fact, almost nonchalant, more out of a desire to ease her nerves than a casual attitude towards the topic. It is no small matter to bring permanent death, let alone to someone you like. 

His mind settles back on the matter of the honey, unavoidable as a gaping wound, and equally apt to inspire prodding. He clears his throat again, feeling somewhat awkward for the first time in a long time, his curiosity is burning, but this was not the kind of experience one just asked about, “if you have need of any other assistance, or wish to discuss anything, all you must do is ask.” 

“Also,” he begins reluctantly, “should this come to pass, what should Oliver be told?”

His faux friendly demeanor fades as his face shifts into a carefully neutral expression. He takes the note from her hands and reads it without a word. When he finishes he looks up, first meeting her eyes and then flicking over to the knife.

He lays his hands on his lap, flat and fingers splayed. “Are you particularly attached to that implement?” He asks, his voice crisp and businesslike, “because while I can do what you ask, it would be more unpleasant for everyone involved than if I used my own means.” He pauses, “that being said, your preference is paramount and I am certainly capable of doing what you ask with that.” A flash of emotion appears in his eyes for a moment, impossible to truly parse in so brief a time, but something between pride and regret.

After the moment passes his eyes lock back onto hers, “I think you should be fully aware, I can and perhaps even will do this for you, so you must be sure. I understand some of these terms,” he says, gesturing to the note, now crisply folded and lying on the table, “but others are perhaps less reasonable. You are only human after all (perhaps it is nothing, but it almost seems as if there is a peculiar stress on you  and only), and giving into a vice is no cause for such drastic measures.”

“And so,” he says, leaning forward, his tone grave and perhaps slightly pleading, “are you certain of this?”

[theenigmaticadvisor]

He chuckles darkly, “there’s not much above me, especially not lately.” He stares down at his hands for a long moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head vigorously. “I am not so...lofty as you seem to think my dear, and I was even less so in my past, and our pasts do tend to stick around, for good or ill.”

For a moment he looks much older and much wearier. A wistful smile spreads across his face as old memories bubble to the surface, but its corners are tugged back by the undercurrent of melancholy that swirls under such recollections. 

Then it turns to a sour grimace as he recalls the matters that put him in this state. “Nothing you should concern yourself with,” he says curtly, an apologetic note creeping in at the edges, “very old and very bad business. Although to be perfectly frank, I’m not entirely certain how I got here per se, I was not really myself.”

Flashes of images race across his mind. Of sharp stones in clenched fists, of desperate struggles, of vines in impossible, profane shapes, of ripping, rending, tearing, of blood and hunger and feasting, of redredreDREDREDRED

His breath is coming in rapid gasps and he visibly struggles to regain his composure. After long moments filled with a silence sharp and heavy he is back. He collapses onto the pillow, “bad business” he murmurs as he slips into troubled dreams, “bad business.” 

He slumps back in the bed, resigning himself to whatever care she deigns to give, lord knows that she’s accepted enough of his ministrations with…well, she’s accepted them at any rate. He begins planning his social recovery as the night goes on. His body may be whole, but these past few days have done him no favors. Plans and networks tend to get disrupted when the one at their center suddenly starts ranting, bleeding, and…consuming without apparent provocation. Not to mention the disapproval that the powers that be have for such activities.

All shall be well, as the phrase goes, and he didn’t go deep enough to lose himself, although it was a sore temptation. But some depths are not to plumbed, at least not yet, and there is still enough of him to pull up. In no small part to Liza and others; many new debts had been established, but their recounting will be immediate he resolved, best not let these things linger. 

“As the doctor orders” a hint of sarcasm entering his tone, changing quickly into sincerity, “I do mean it though, I appreciate this kindness and please let me know if there’s anything I can do by way of repayment.”

[theenigmaticadvisor]

His faux friendly demeanor fades as his face shifts into a carefully neutral expression. He takes the note from her hands and reads it without a word. When he finishes he looks up, first meeting her eyes and then flicking over to the knife.

He lays his hands on his lap, flat and fingers splayed. “Are you particularly attached to that implement?” He asks, his voice crisp and businesslike, “because while I can do what you ask, it would be more unpleasant for everyone involved than if I used my own means.” He pauses, “that being said, your preference is paramount and I am certainly capable of doing what you ask with that.” A flash of emotion appears in his eyes for a moment, impossible to truly parse in so brief a time, but something between pride and regret.

After the moment passes his eyes lock back onto hers, “I think you should be fully aware, I can and perhaps even will do this for you, so you must be sure. I understand some of these terms,” he says, gesturing to the note, now crisply folded and lying on the table, “but others are perhaps less reasonable. You are only human after all (perhaps it is nothing, but it almost seems as if there is a peculiar stress on you  and only), and giving into a vice is no cause for such drastic measures.”

“And so,” he says, leaning forward, his tone grave and perhaps slightly pleading, “are you certain of this?”

His eyes linger long on the knife, his mind whirring with the possibilities. This obviously isn’t an assassination attempt, although if it were it would certainly suit her style. She isn’t the sort to request a…illicit problem removal, and even so, he has much more effective tools for such a job. She is a detective of no small talent herself, so unless she is particularly stymied this can’t be a clue in some mystery. He closes his eyes for a long second. This is pointless, she isn’t one for needless obfuscation, the simplest way to find out is to ask.

But, decorum must be observed. He sips his tea and sets the cup and saucer down carefully. His eyes pause on the knife and then pointedly move away from it, the lack of attention making it the focus of his question, “a favor? Of what sort?” 

He leans back, eyes still pointedly away from the knife, his manner just as pointedly casual, awaiting a response. 

[theenigmaticadvisor]

His eyes linger long on the knife, his mind whirring with the possibilities. This obviously isn’t an assassination attempt, although if it were it would certainly suit her style. She isn’t the sort to request a...illicit problem removal, and even so, he has much more effective tools for such a job. She is a detective of no small talent herself, so unless she is particularly stymied this can’t be a clue in some mystery. He closes his eyes for a long second. This is pointless, she isn’t one for needless obfuscation, the simplest way to find out is to ask.

But, decorum must be observed. He sips his tea and sets the cup and saucer down carefully. His eyes pause on the knife and then pointedly move away from it, the lack of attention making it the focus of his question, “a favor? Of what sort?” 

He leans back, eyes still pointedly away from the knife, his manner just as pointedly casual, awaiting a response. 

Something terrible has happened to her. If her visibly shaken manner didn’t show that enough, the fact that she was requesting tea, rather than begrudgingly accepting it and sniffing it suspiciously. 

“Of course, of course, this way,” he says, gesturing towards his door and giving a final burble of instruction to the beleaguered rubbery man. 

He attempts, with only moderate success, to conceal his his concern. She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. If it were anyone else, this would only be natural (the thunder tended to unnerve people), it wasn’t for Liza. She would, as often as not, stare defiantly while rejecting help or coming as close to accusing him of subterfuge as she reasonably could. He bustles about preparing the tea, leaving the sugar on the side just this once. 

After she had been given a cup and saucer, he asks gently, “so, what is it that is troubling you?” 

[theenigmaticadvisor]

It doesn’t really matter how you got it, whether you slyly slide it off his desk when he was turned around, committed a daring (and ill advised) heist to retrieve it, or if you somehow earned his trust and he offered it to you, what matters is that you have it in your hands. A box made of the finest imported surface wood. Inside is something that Illuvatar must find very dear, let’s hope for your sake he either trusts you a great deal or that you were incredibly stealthy.

Dear Illuvatar,

Incredible, simply incredible that I would find you here. How many years has it been since we last saw each other? Four? Five? I've found the Neath simply marvelous as well, especially the peculiar characters. The Duchess is vibrant, if intimidating, and the Bohemian life is everything I could have dreamed of. Even society has reluctantly accepted me. It's unfortunate that I'll never get to see one my acquaintances of them again, though-- The Empress had me banished from court! Ah, yes, some things never change, do they? You were always playing cards in the schoolyard during recess while I was busy writing unflattering stories about the teacher in my book. Me? I came down to the Neath to collect a grave debt. What about you? Surely you couldn't have come simply for inspiration. Muses aren't so constant as to stay under the earth without any other reason.

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Goodness, gambling with the Masters? You've certainly moved up from penny-candies! And a yacht? Marvelous! Luck is so often on the side of the Bazaar. What do you hope to win in this ultimate game of cards? It's kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid you can't do anything to help settle this debt. You remember Alexander, don't you? Four years above us, and always selling his class notes to other students. Though I've already collected the debt from his murderer, I intend to find out which of the Masters was responsible for his death. But enough on such a gloomy topic. Do you know what I found in a bookshop today? One of your very own works! Brilliant, simply brilliant. I've penned a few masterful stories, but nothing near classic. You are correct: the Neath is a great inspiration to the writer's mind. I'm notorious among the Bohemians, and find their romanticism exceptional. Life in Neath is passionate and exciting, and I'm here to stay! Not that I have any choice, considering how many times I've taken a trip down the river!

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Yes, Alexander left us some three years ago, but I haven't the slightest notion why a Master would want him dead. Perhaps he went one transaction too far. He always did conduct risky business, even when we were in grade school. The Heart's Desire? I cannot condone gambling, but that does sound marvelous. A card game to win anything! And you don't even know what you want! Classic Illuvatar. Hopefully you'll have that figured out if you win, and if you don't... What shall you lose? I won't deny that I lead a rather hedonistic lifestyle now, but I've always had that attitude anyway. You remember how much I loved penny candies and ribbons when I was a child, don't you? I find that indulgence helps inspire me nowadays, and the Bohemians do as well. You must join us in one of our revels one day. It will be exceptional! I believe if you ask anyone about my opera mocking the Church, you'll get a thorough earful about why I'm mad, and a nice plot summary, if colorfully worded. They still perform it down in Veilgarden though!

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

It's no problem at all. I was beginning to think the postman had been eaten by my orchid, though! What kind of essay is this, that pertains to the Correspondence? I see that you have run into the same incident as I-- I sold my soul long ago! I find the novel lightness exceptionally pleasant, though. What a heavy burden we carry, these souls. I always wondered what first city coins were used for, and now I know. I do believe you're I do believe you're correct about this game; a gamble with such high rewards must have enormous risks. With whom do you play? Ah, yes, it seems that adulthood has not managed to kill off my sweet tooth just yet. I've always enjoyed those charming confections at society parties. I haven't kept the ribbons around, though-- I've replaced them with hats! I find that sporing bonnets aren't my favorites. Why on earth do they whisper so? The next showing of my opera will be in a small theatre in Veilgarden next week if you wish to attend. I believe I will be able to obtain balcony seats, if they're high enough to be called that. I'm flattered that you think so highly of me! It seems, however, that nothing has really changed. You're still a clever, if foolish, devil, and I still have a knife for a tongue.

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Always an ambitious one, weren't you? I'm hardly one to speak, of course, but a Correspondent! A prodigious choice of employment, I suppose, if mildly shocking. I myself am content to remain an author for now, but perhaps I shall follow your path in the future. I haven't had the opportunity to recover my soul yet, but I wonder if I really want it back. After all, the lightness of being soulless is extraordinary, and it inspires me to write the few purely joyous pieces that I do. I'm probably going straight to Hell for this, of course, but I'll deal with that when I take my last journey on the river. Such talk reminds me of that afternoon when our families decided to take a day trip outside of Liverpool. We ran all the way to a distant stream, then realized that we had lost sight of our families. Do you remember? What fond memories I have of that day. Indeed, nothing has changed at all. You're still just as dear to me as you have ever been, and I look forward to seeing you again, though we attended that soiree just a few days ago.

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Have you ever visited the Brass Embassy? I find their events exceptionally fascinating, if a bit morbid at times. I've made the acquaintance of many devils there, though the "souls" of my shoes were looking a bit scorched by the end of each night. I've been traveling around quite a bit lately, but nothing seems to compare to dear London. Have you ever been to Polythreme? It seems wholly unnatural that objects should be fully conscious in such a way in one land, yet completely inanimate in another. And not to mention our exploitation of the Clay Men! How can we claim equality within a society when we abuse our neighbors so? Ah, I've fallen off topic. Why does the University wish to send you across the Unterzee? Were you expelled as I was? Oh the stories we have yet to tell!

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Ah, what a pity that devils are always motivated by selfish desires. I found myself in the same unfortunate situation as you with a charming devil. I do hope you're more fortunate this time around, though I wonder if it is even possible to be fortunate while working with devils. You are correct about the Clay Men; the only Clay Men I have ever met who are inclined to rebel are Jasper and Frank, and even their nephew is a gentle soul. I haven't had the chance to meet the King with a Hundred Hearts yet, but I plan to attempt to do so next time I travel to Polythreme. That may not be for a while, however, because I enjoy the Feast of the Exceptional Rose immensely. Have you visited Mrs. Plenty's Oriental Pleasure Garden yet? Terribly inaccurate, even by the standards of the the average, misinformed citizen, but also terribly appealing, especially to hedonists such as me. Not only did I partake in the typical indulgences of spiced hearts and trying my hand at the Wheel of Affection, but I also donned the silk costume of a dancer and joined the troupe! I must say, it was marvelously fun, if mildly scandalous. And the masks! What wonderful works of art they are, but I wonder, who hides behind them? And how on earth did Mrs. Plenty manage to stuff that poor child into that tiny rose costume?

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

I too wore my mask for a very long time, though it was more out of necessity than out of desire. My first Feast of the Exceptional Rose was a bit boring, to say the least. I was still rather new to the Neath, and I had no one with whom to celebrate. It's been a blessing to find you here after all these years. I too try to stay in London for most revels, though sometimes a bit of travel is unavoidable. I certainly will miss you when you sail away, but keep your chin up-- After all, I've found that zailors make marvelous company, if a bit bawdy. Have you met the lady in lilac? She's a charming soul, though she can be frosty. I had a wonderful evening at your salon. All of the guests were immensely interesting, and one of them even managed to best me in a debate! It looks as if your salon looks as if it might become one of the most popular in London. I do believe you may be correct about our houseplant, though they seems to last year round instead of merely a few weeks. Has anyone ever seen the Exceptional Rose, though? If no one has, I have a theory that may hold true: Perhaps the story of the Exceptional Rose is based on unusual houseplants such as ours.

Yours truly,

Yvette

Yvette Angelle invites you to an evening of indulgence among the colour and cacophony of Veilgarden.

It seems that a few Bohemian friends are staging my opera up in the Flit. Care to join? Humor pairs wonderfully with romance.

Yvette Angelle has sent you an Illicit Volume of Unexpectedly Racy Fungal-Themed Poetry. Are they sending you a message? Or trying to get you arrested?

In hopes that you will find this enjoyable, my dear Illuvatar.

Dear Illuvatar,

Even if the zailors can't compare, I am sure you will find Hunter's Keep enjoyable. Have you met the three sisters? I find the middle one, Lucy, simply charming, and not just because of her baked goods. I hope that we can do another collaboration at my salon, as soon as I gather the resources. My guests will find you marvelous, especially if you speak about the Correspondence. I imagine that they will be very excited to hear about something other than the latest gossip. I must thank you for all the gifts you've sent me, and apologize that I'm not in the position currently to send so many back. The playing card was seared to perfection, and the jar of teeth... Why on earth do we give those during the Feast? And where do we get all those teeth? You are correct about the Rose. I also prefer to keep up the act that society has put up, one that includes love and exceptional roses. After all, wouldn't the world be a dreary place without love? I know that it was, and now my world is not so dreary.

Yours truly,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Congratulations on becoming a Correspondent! I believe you're correct that you're work might not appeal to the members of my salon, but no matter. Besides, we wouldn't want anybody losing their hair or their eyes during your no doubt fascinating discussion of the Correspondence. How has your appreciation society reacted? I'm sure they're at least a bit disappointed, though probably much more than that. It's a splendid job, that of a Correspondent, uncovering the secrets of the Neath. I've always found the gifts at the Feast unsettling, to say the least. Perhaps the teeth come from the Tomb Colonies. After all, they have plenty to spare. Does your wife know about me? I heard from the Bohemians that you married the Artist's Model with whom I once worked. How is she doing? Do greet her for me, for I haven't seen her in months.

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

You're correct, the Boatman plays an excellent game of chess, but he always seems to win in the very end, doesn't he? Perhaps there are benefits to the loss of your society; after all, adoring fans can become a little too adoring at times, especially when they show up in a crowd at your doorstep every day. What does the Violant ink do, actually? I've heard of it, and I know that it is used only by Correspondents for covert purposes, but I've never figured out what the properties are, though if they allow you to remember all those letters, it must be quite an exceptional substance. I believe I know where the fungal poetry comes from. Back in my earlier days in Veilgarden, I filled a few commissions for fungal-themed poetry, and while I was too weary of the Bazaar at the time to write anything remotely scandalous, I'm sure that other newcomers have penned far more exciting poems. My condolences that it didn't work with the Artist's Model. She was a clever lady, though, and I'm not surprised that she was able to use the legal system to her advantage. I hardly find you boring though. In fact, I find you absolutely exceptional. (Let's hope the postman doesn't read this!)

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Ah, yes, you never were one for a big fuss, even when we were children. I remember you never liked oral presentations, though you always received flying colors on all of them. You, of course, remember my taste for attention. I very much enjoyed my place in the school choir, though I was one of many. Now I use my fame as a tool as well, though I still take pleasure in it. I assume you've been to the Cave of the Nadir? Such a bizarre place, it was, but I can't remember it at all because all I can see when I try to recall is irrigo. What I do recall, however, is that ridiculous couple whom I tried to help. Now that we've made our predictions about the teeth and the poetry, what about the buttered chess piece? What on earth is Zee Butter? I've never heard of it before, and I can't imagine how they would produce it. I wouldn't be surprised if the postman has visited the Boatman on more than one occasion. Postmen are so often misplaced by the Bazaar. Don't worry-- forceful isn't always so bad. After all, honesty is a virtue.

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

What things I have seen in the past few days! I've been to one of Mr. Wines' revels, unmasked a stranger, dined with the Duchess, and helped a Tomb Colonist reunite with his very-much-alive lover. I even saw a young lady with a Clay Man who reminded me of a young Comtessa I once helped. What is it about this festival that brings so many romantic assignations to light? More broadly, what is it about the Feast that reveals the side of London that tugs on the heartstrings and strikes them like piano strings? Perhaps the Bazaar has a special reason to release to many touching love stories at this time of year to the general public. After all, the Masters do love a good love story. Do you think perhaps that the Masters have loves themselves? They may hunt me down for suggesting this, but perhaps the Masters devour stories like delicious sustenance, and the sweetest are those of love. What a beautiful place, the Neath, and how beautiful that it can inspire thoughts like these.

Yours always,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Always the diligent academic, aren't you? I find it fascinating to study the people themselves during the Feast. How does it affect their behaviour? Do marriage proposals increase? What do people do with all those kettles of liars' tongues? You are correct; the Clay Men who love humans face great adversary, and so do their their partners. The young lady I saw looked as if she came from a high family. What an idea, giving up everything for love! Perhaps the Masters built the Bazaar out of love for something. Wouldn't that be strange? One can only wonder what the Masters love, and why the Bazaar exists. Or perhaps the Masters do not love at all, a monotonous life. I find bittersweet love to be the most pleasing. One must taste the bitterness of misfortune to know how sweet fortune truly is. I must thank you for inviting me to your salon again. I adore the company there, though not so much as I adore you. There were one particularly candid woman, though-- She asked when I was to be married!

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Part of the reason I enjoy the Feast is because of this newfound boldness that people seem to gain. After all, life is so much more interesting when the most intriguing developments aren't hidden away. The whole reason for Romeo and Juliet's romance was because they were so frank with each other. (Of course, their openness and their daring also led to their trip down the river, but that was because of unfortunate circumstances.) I haven't seen the Lady in Lilac this year, oddly enough. Perhaps she's too busy for now; I'm sure she'll come along later. Perhaps she trades the liars' tongue to the Bazaar. They do carry great tales, after all. I'm glad that you think as highly of me as I do of you. Life was awfully boring until I found you again, my dearest. While the boldness of the woman's inquiry was surprising, it was nothing that I hadn't been expecting. After all, I am of a marriageable age, and I wouldn't want to miss my chance. I told her that I would need to find a man to marry first, and can you guess what she did? She tried to direct me to a dreadful young fop who was more interested in his reflection than anyone else!

Yours truly,

Yvette

Yvette Angelle invites you to an evening of indulgence among the colour and cacophony of Veilgarden.

The Bohemians are hosting a masked revel in Veilgarden in the spirit of the Feast. Care to join?

Dear Illuvatar,

An eventful evening indeed. What joy it brings me to know that we shall not be parted again, except for the necessary voyages of life. Tell me, when did you decide to propose? That night, the branch of the Stolen River almost seemed to shine in the moonish light like that stream sparkled in the sun on the surface. I assume I'll be planning the wedding, as customary of the bride's side? Unfortunately my parents will not be able to attend, as we both cannot go back to the surface and my mother has a weak disposition that prevents her from travelling. Please, don't keep those two guests from coming to your salon-- the fop's vanity was rather amusing, and I'm sure the woman meant well.

Yours forever,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Ah, you know what they say about waiting. Wait too long, and you might miss your chance. It's funny how the Feast made sure you didn't. After all, without the Feast, the conversation at your salon would not have reached the topic of love and the woman would not have asked about my marital status, therefore spurring you to haste yourself. Perhaps the Feast really is a blessing to lovers. I would be glad to plan the wedding, as I haven't much else to do at the moment besides my normal obligations, and I do seem to have enough funds saved up. I'm very sorry to hear about your aunt. It's odd, though-- I also had an aunt who dealt with devils. It seems as if aunts in the Neath have a natural tendency to ensnare themselves in the traps of the Brass Embassy. I awoke this morning to a bright, new Neath star in the cavern ceiling-- Does anyone know where they come from? It seemed to be almost laughing as it twinkled. What a time to be alive, darling.

Yours always,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

No trouble at all, though I really should find a way to reign that thing in. Who knows how much mail I've missed because of that houseplant? Puzzle Damask and Parabola Linen! Wherever did you locate that? And did the tailor faint in shock? Yes, I was thinking of a bohemian-style wedding, but I'll happily have a more traditional wedding if you wish. What will you be doing on that voyage? I find it amazing that the University will be so flexible, as I remember they were adamant that I leave after I solved a murder. I am glad that you will not be away till then, as parting from you, though it will be sweet sorrow, will still be sorrow. I believe I lost my aunt after she hosted a fête at her home and unknowingly offended the Brass Embassy after one drink too many. She always did have a penchant for gin. Perhaps the false stars of the Neath are pinpricks of light shining in from miles above on the surface, or perhaps they are phosphorescent beetles. I personally prefer the former. It sounds much more romantic, don't you think, darling? Perhaps one day we shall investigate them together.

Yours always,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Funny story about being an author: I managed to offend my editor, and am now working to get back in his good graces, so I'm back to being a journalist for now. Unfortunately, my appreciation society has disbanded, but they'll be back once I return to the world of respected literature! Ah, yes, the reaches of the Unterzee. I've always wanted to travel North, but I'm not exactly sure what it is that is out there. Perhaps a mountain? My trip to the Iron Republic was less than pleasant, to be honest. I was glad to leave once I finished my work there. I would be delighted to go with you, my dear. After all, what could be more enjoyable than seeing the false stars while on an exciting voyage of scientific discovery with my new husband? I dream of the surface as well, the sun and the moon and the green, but the Neath is a wondrous place, especially now that I have found you. You shall be my sun and my moon now.

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Well, perhaps oversensitivity is common in the Neath, then. After all, I have managed to offend the Brass Embassy, the Church, and high society all in one go with a lewdly satirical song. Luckily, I've managed to restore my authorship fairly quickly and even have my appreciation society back together again. I must admit, you are correct. Going North, appealing as it may be, would most likely end in disaster. Those who travel North in honey dreams never return the same. I myself have the strangest dreams about going North-- Sometimes I am a storm cloud in the sky, and other times I face the storm. Ah, yes dreaming together. That sounds lovely, though perhaps we won't need the honey. I'd rather spend our first week as newlyweds in reality. After all, who needs a honey dream when you have your beloved?

Yours,

Yvette

Dear Illuvatar,

Goodness, I'm glad I'm not the only person who has these strange dreams. Not only do I dream of thunder, but I also dream of fire and dead men, and mirrors and hallways. I didn't have these dreams before I came to the Neath-- why do you suppose that it? They say that it might be because the cavern might be the skull of some long-dead god, but that doesn't seem likely. Perhaps it has to do with the Masters. After all, if they control secrets, why not dreams? It saddens me to see the end of the Feast so soon, but I suppose all things must come to an end. Have you seen the woman with the escaped Blemmigan? She's been chasing it around London for the past three days! Poor lady, I hope she finds it soon. Then again, perhaps it is best that the fungus has its freedom. I've finally found Lilac, and she still seems frosty towards me, unfortunately. The wedding planning is done, my darling, and now we can finally be wed! How long we have waited, so many years, to finally be together again, and now we shall never be parted. I cannot express how much joy this brings me, nor how eager I am to finally see you at the altar. Until the ceremony, my dearest Illuvatar!

Yours,

Yvette

On this most perfect of days you will marry Yvette Angelle (Yvette Angelle in Fallen London) in a painted church, and then celebrate with a Veilgarden street party. Espoused to Yvette Angelle (1) Seen with Yvette Angelle (0) An occurrence! Your 'Organising a Wedding' Quality is now 375 - The end is in sight! All logic, pity and mercy say so! You now have 75 of this: 'A Set of Wedding Lithographs' You've gained 1 x Notability (new total 8 - A whole paragraph on your deeds, your honours, your history, your reputation.).

On a foggy March afternoon, you shave, don your best parabola linen suit, and step into the gaily decorated landau that is waiting outside for you with your best man. The chestnut horses trot merrily, jangling their brass bits and clopping their hooves against the cobblestone streets, and the church bells ring out their song. Passerby cheer when they see you on your way to the fantastically painted church; they know the purpose of your journey. You step out of the carriage and walk towards the church. Are you excited? Nervous? About to be sick? The guests chatter excitedly in their seats, all in their most vibrant colours. It's time. First the bridal party processes to the altar to the moans of the organ, then you. The guests go silent. Standing on a mosaic of the false stars, you turn to the doorway of the church to see a singular figure emerge from the fog wearing a gown of puzzle damask. An ivory veil covers her face, and she grasps a fungal bouquet as she slowly glides down the aisle. Are those tears in your eyes? The two of you recite your vows and exchange rings, and the vicar sanctifies your marriage. You lift the veil. Both of you are crying now. You kiss! The guests erupt in applause! You dash out of the brilliantly vivid church and into the magnificent white carriage that awaits you outside! Onwards, to the celebration with your new wife!

Journal Snippet -- 23 February, 1893

The light has gone from my life. It was all going so well. Yvette and I spent a lovely week on Mutton Island, enjoying the simplicity of rural life after so long among London’s busy crowds. Then we had a marvelous few evenings with the sisters of Hunter’s Keep. They pampered us even more than they usually do as a sort of wedding gift. But then we decided to sail to the Elder Continent, to get a dash of adventure, and Yvette did so love the tigers of the Banded Prince’s court. That is when that damnable Orthos and his Fleet of Truth (what a preposterous name, any truth that worm has ever known was stolen from brighter, but less martial, minds) swept in. He must have thought me on another expedition and attacked, hoping to steal more work to sustain his pitiable career. My poor Yvette was caught in the crossfire. Normally this would be but a minor inconvenience, her somewhat bold proclivities often sent her to the Silent River, but her body was scattered greatly and I couldn’t recover it before the beasts of the Zee had set upon it. I waited for weeks for her to return from the River, but it seems that the Boatman has finally claimed her. I even killed myself to check, but when I arrived on the River, she was not to be found. And all my pleading and threatening of the boatman was to no avail. Needless to say I sunk Orthos and his vile fleet, but those damnable devils are hard to keep dead. It doesn’t matter though, I will find a way; by all the secrets of the Neath, if I have to tear down the Bazaar itself to do it, I will punish him. Now I am alone again, amidst my  meaningless trappings and everywhere I look I am reminded of her. I will continue my life and my work, even if neither brings me any semblance of satisfaction, because I know that it would please her. And besides, I never know what secret knowledge will let me exterminate that despicable insect or discover a way to reunite me with her again.

#Illuvatar #Long post under the cut #No need to read #Just back story I guess #Insight into Illu #Also #It is important to note #The letters aren't my writing #As far as I know my letters are lost #But then again #Illu would only have those that he receive anyway #But yeah #Credit where credit is due

[theenigmaticadvisor]

He slumps back in the bed, resigning himself to whatever care she deigns to give, lord knows that she’s accepted enough of his ministrations with...well, she’s accepted them at any rate. He begins planning his social recovery as the night goes on. His body may be whole, but these past few days have done him no favors. Plans and networks tend to get disrupted when the one at their center suddenly starts ranting, bleeding, and...consuming without apparent provocation. Not to mention the disapproval that the powers that be have for such activities.

All shall be well, as the phrase goes, and he didn’t go deep enough to lose himself, although it was a sore temptation. But some depths are not to plumbed, at least not yet, and there is still enough of him to pull up. In no small part to Liza and others; many new debts had been established, but their recounting will be immediate he resolved, best not let these things linger. 

“As the doctor orders” a hint of sarcasm entering his tone, changing quickly into sincerity, “I do mean it though, I appreciate this kindness and please let me know if there’s anything I can do by way of repayment.”

He looks up, something primal and hungry gleams in his eye for a moment, and he almost growls, his lips pulled back revealing white teeth stark against red gums.

“Ravenous.”

A beat later he follows it with an almost sheepish,”if you have anything to eat, I would be much obliged.”

As he eats, visibly restraining himself, keeping his teeth from tearing too eagerly into his food. Internally, he is bemused; who knows, perhaps this…episode could be turned advantageous. Maybe seeing him weak will endear him to her, she has always been one his more suspicious proteges.

When he finishes he is still famished, but it is under control for now. At least for long enough to get home and take more substantial sustenance. But for now, there is remuneration to be addressed.

“I do apologize, my dear. I regret disturbing you. Is there anything I can do to repay you? You said you weren’t sleeping well, is something troubling you?”

[theenigmaticadvisor]

Something terrible has happened to her. If her visibly shaken manner didn’t show that enough, the fact that she was requesting tea, rather than begrudgingly accepting it and sniffing it suspiciously. 

“Of course, of course, this way” he says, gesturing towards his door and giving a final burble of instruction to the beleaguered rubbery man. 

He attempts, with only moderate success, to conceal his his concern. She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. If it were anyone else, this would only be natural (the thunder tended to unnerve people), it wasn’t for Liza. She would, as often as not, stare defiantly while rejecting help or coming as close to accusing him of subterfuge as she reasonably could. He bustles about preparing the tea, leaving the sugar on the side just this once. 

After she had been given a cup and saucer, he asks gently, “so, what is it that is troubling you?” 

There is always more paperwork; whether is is grading papers, attending to matters of business foreign and domestic, issuing orders at every stratum of society, legality, and morality, or attending to the mountain of personal correspondence (not the Correspondance, mind you, there is enough of that in his research), there is always writing for him to do. The visitor bell rings as he was composing a letter to a certain baronet regarding a certain deal that they would certainly not refuse. He decides that whoever it was could wait until he was finished, perhaps even until after he has completed another modicum of work, in order to reprimand them for interrupting him. That is, until he heard the shouting. Impressed, amused, and slightly irritated that it could be heard all the way up here, he decides to descend to see what the ruckus was all about.

 When he exits into the antechamber he is greeted with the sight of Liza bearing down on one of his staff, its tentacles twitching dejectedly as it receives its (thankfully only) verbal flogging. He tuts somewhat sharply, she is his protege, and of course he knows her prejudices, but he does not look exceptionally kindly on them. He walks over to them, crooning softly in the poor things language and he places his hand on its head, gently soothing its quavering tentacles. He pointedly does not turn around and address her until the thing is calm. When he does, he recognizes her frayed state, and supposes that it makes her actions more understandable. 

“Are you alright Liza?” he asks, concern in his tone, “what troubles you, my dear?”

[theenigmaticadvisor]

There is always more paperwork; whether is is grading papers, attending to matters of business foreign and domestic, issuing orders at every stratum of society, legality, and morality, or attending to the mountain of personal correspondence (not the Correspondance, mind you, there is enough of that in his research), there is always writing for him to do. The visitor bell rings as he was composing a letter to a certain baronet regarding a certain deal that they would certainly not refuse. He decides that whoever it was could wait until he was finished, perhaps even until after he has completed another modicum of work, in order to reprimand them for interrupting him. That is, until he heard the shouting. Impressed, amused, and slightly irritated that it could be heard all the way up here, he decides to descend to see what the ruckus was all about.

 When he exits into the antechamber he is greeted with the sight of Liza bearing down on one of his staff, its tentacles twitching dejectedly as it receives its (thankfully only) verbal flogging. He tuts somewhat sharply, she is his protege, and of course he knows her prejudices, but he does not look exceptionally kindly on them. He walks over to them, crooning softly in the poor things language and he places his hand on its head, gently soothing its quavering tentacles. He pointedly does not turn around and address her until the thing is calm. When he does, he recognizes her frayed state, and supposes that it makes her actions more understandable. 

“Are you alright Liza?” he asks, concern in his tone, “what troubles you, my dear?”

@theenigmaticadvisor

She feels sick. She feels sick. There are pins in her chest, needles in her throat, she feels sick. But she looks just fine; she had made sure of that before she left the house and kissed her husband goodbye. An impermanent goodbye. Not a final one. She feels sick. 

The bellhop inside the spire lobby does not help the feeling. It looks at her gently, and burbles, and she closes her eyes while it does whatever it does to alert Illuvatar that she is here. Assuming he is in, of course. That he might be elsewhere has crossed her mind a hundred times as she walked here from her little water-side home, and she has decided she doesn’t care.  

“Kathikothikooooosh?” 

She opens her eyes, very slowly. “Beg your pardon.” 

The bellhop bobs its head from side to side, waving a tentacle in the vague direction of up. “Threreee,” it says, rather solemnly, “otha threeeee.” 

“For god’s sake,” Liza says, and pinches the bridge of her nose. She feels sick. She feels her temper rising, her voice rising, her accent rising, thickening. “Can I go up t’see him or no? That’s all I ask.” The bellhop looks at her with huge, watery eyes, and burbles, distressed. “Is that a yes or a bloody no?” If her voice echoes against the walls, fine; if her voice reaches up to the very top of the spire and to Illuvatar himself, all the better.

[theenigmaticadvisor]

He looks up, something primal and hungry gleams in his eye for a moment, and he almost growls, his lips pulled back revealing white teeth stark against red gums

“Ravenous”

A beat later he follows it with an almost sheepish,”if you have anything to eat, I would be much obliged.”

As he eats, visibly restraining himself, keeping his teeth from tearing too eagerly into his food. Internally, he is bemused; who knows, perhaps this...episode could be turned advantageous. Maybe seeing him weak will endear him to her, she has always been one his more suspicious proteges.

When he finishes he is still famished, but it is under control for now. At least for long enough to get home and take more substantial sustenance. But for now, there is remuneration to be addressed.

“I do apologize, my dear. I regret disturbing you. Is there anything I can do to repay you? You said you weren’t sleeping well, is something troubling you?

When he comes to, his eyes are bloodshot and bleary; it seems that is the closest thing he’s had to sleep in quite a while. He looks down at the bandages spiraled around his around his arms. A grimace of chagrin crosses his face, quickly replaced by his customary grin. 

This is unacceptable. Not only is he displaying an frankly alarming amount of vulnerability, he is now relying on a protege; but then again, why else does one cultivate connections, if one doesn’t use them when one is desperate? Still, this whole affair has been regrettable, especially the loss of that amulet, but at least it kept him from dying, if only just. Given the recent…debacle with the boatman it would be best for him to keep breathing for now. 

“Sorry about that, Liza. I’ve been…having quite a week. I hope I haven’t disrupted your night too terribly.” 

[theenigmaticadvisor]

As he rambles, he becomes more and more lucid, coming back from the terrors that gripped his mind. He hasn’t felt like that in a long time, but that damn hunger, and meat, and white teeth, and red red RED. NO. He’s back, he’s fine. Even as he’s speaking, he is reassuring himself. Of course, in his ravings, he had to come to this doorstep. The help he gained here will be more expensive than in other place, regardless of how deeply Thomas is already in his debt. Oh well, a small price really, a few words and a few bottles. He could have been in much worse danger, or paid a much higher price. 

“Yes, yes. All that and perhaps some more to show my gratitude, Thomas, my boy,” he says, waving his hand nonchalantly, the motion cut short as the image of gripping the other man’s throat, and warm, wet, red blood on his hands and, NO. He is better. But he is still far from good. Thomas has done more than enough though, especially for one night. He is well enough to get home without being reduced to gibbering. 

Over the next few days words are said in lavish rooms, deals are made as glasses filled with expensive spirits (not literally, merely alcohol, this time at least) click against one another, perhaps more times than is strictly necessary, but it is good to be generous. Several boxes of bottles are also delivered, tucked into one of them a folder with several documents that could be put to good use by those that know how. Debts are paid - not great ones, those will come in time, a reckoning shall not be postponed indefinitely after all, and one thing folds into another - but for now, all shall be well. 

@theascendingsocialite 

You hear frantic knocking and what would be best described as gibbering outside your door. When you look through the peephole you see Illuvatar on your step, he appears to be having an involved conversation with your lamp, while looking around as if he is being watched. His normally impeccable figure is disheveled: his hair wild, clothes torn, and his body covered with various abrasions.