|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 9, 2007 16:02:19 GMT -5
Hadrian's daily Bleaker roll
[dice=20]
Another day in the Mad Bleaker Wing. More hopeless sods, locked away to give up to their madness.
If only it weren't so tempting to join them.
After a morning of forcing himself to make the rounds and halfheartedly slipping food between the bars of at least most of the cells, Hadrian wanders out of the Gatehouse in a daze, walking aimlessly along the line of destitute sods, rail-thin orphans, and wide-eyed barmies whispering lies to make the voices go away. He pauses to stare on as a Dustman wagon lingers by the far end of the line, probably to remove someone for whom it's too late.
How will the Bleak Cabal ever -- ever -- make it any better? The multiverse being pointless, that's something a body can get over... but nobody in it can even make a bit of a difference, and that's the cruelest joke of it all.
"Hell's a'matter wi' you, berk?" comes a voice from next to him. A woman stands at his shoulder, empathy in her gray and gold dichromatic eyes despite her brusque words.[rand=00212236135803689517007044092522305117514709588210757956426771042695]
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 10, 2007 0:03:29 GMT -5
Tending to the poor and beleaguered denizens of the Gatehouse was often times a task of comfortable monotony; once a cutter got used to the not too infrequent screams at least. Hadrian’s daily chores had passed without thought or notice, both by himself and even less so by his wards. He ghosted through the causeways like a whisper, lost in his melancholy musings, and faded into the drab halls like a specter in the morning mist.
Last night…
What had last night been?
He could remember the burning sense of urgency he had had, the driving determination. He could close his eyes and see the faces of the Dead one and the merely unlucky one. He had wanted to help, needed to. But for what? What had he actually done? Saved one poor sod the trouble of being written into the Dead Book for a few weeks? Maybe a couple years? It was a drop in a bucket. Not even. It was a drop in an ocean who’s shores had never been charted and who’s dark waves threatened to crash down upon the heads of whatever survivors yet feebly kicked at the surface.
A voice called to him, rousing him from his reverie. Somehow he had wandered out beyond the massive iron portcullis of the Gatehouse. Where was he, Bedlam? Hadrian’s sapphire gaze hunted furtively for a landmark to orientate him.
His eyes settled at last upon the speaker’s dichotomous stare. What an odd question, Hadrian thought. What wasn’t the matter with him?
“My apologies,” he murmured. “I seem to have been wandering.”
Another day, another step closer to the Grim Retreat that awaited all men with the sanity to accept it.
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 10, 2007 12:18:31 GMT -5
The inquisitive woman brushes a wet, clinging lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind one goatlike horn atop her head. "Best you get on inside," she says in a coarse tone. "Someone's been pickin' off wandering sods, scribblin' 'em into the dead-book 'fore we can even see 'im." On closer inspection, Hadrian's eyes take in a pendant dangling against the woman's breast-bone, revealing the insignia of the Bleak Cabal. She points the way back toward the Gatehouse, silently ordering him to get moving with a hard stare and a quirk of a smile.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 11, 2007 13:11:24 GMT -5
“Scribbling them in the dead-book? First I’ve heard.”
Hadrian’s tone was dead, his gaze flat. His words were not so much a question as a statement of fact. For a fraction of a second he had felt a spark of outrage blaze in his heart, but it found no kindling in his sorrow and was quickly smothered. Another day he might have offered his hand in aid, today it was all he could do to bear up against the weight of the planes without collapsing.
Hadrian’s gaze slid from the dangling pendant back to the woman’s most unusual countenance. He realized that he wasn’t even sure if the speaker was familiar to him, depression lay upon his brain like a heavy fog, slowing his thoughts and veiling his memory. Briefly he wondered whether she had the standing to order him to do anything, but quickly resolved that it made no difference. Hadrian had no reason to be about today; at least he would find solitude in the Gatehouse. There would be plenty of time to listen to the wailing in his head.
For a long moment the aasimar stared at his fiendish counterpart, unable to find the strength to overcome his inertia.
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 11, 2007 15:25:53 GMT -5
"Well, you're hearin' it now," starts the tiefling, squinting and glancing upward across the city, "so keep it in the front of your brain-box. The Gatehouse district ain't safe for anyone out alone." Not that it needed saying; it never has been safe.
"What do you call yourself?" she asks brusquely, peering at him almost as though she expects him to answer incorrectly.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 11, 2007 17:56:36 GMT -5
Unconsciously Hadrian followed the tiefling’s gaze upwards, peering largely inattentively across the great torus. After a moment’s blank consideration, his eyes fell back to the level of the street glancing first up and then down the crooked avenue of bustling hive-dwellers without focus. With a slight, but perceptible startle the aasimar’s attention returned at last to the speaker, apparently surprised to find her still there.
”Pardon?” he inquired as his mind sluggishly retraced the last few moments. The unanswered question surfaced at the fore of his thoughts.
“My name is Hadrian,” he offered simply, and that was the truth of it. For all other names that he had once answered to had long since vanished with the passing of another lifetime. With the passing of several unexpectedly brief lifetimes, truth be told.
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 11, 2007 23:50:17 GMT -5
"You been 'round here a while, Hadrian." There's no way it could be mistaken for a question. "You know what it means to look for purpose. It was you I seen o'er at Allesha's Pantry, some days back. You went after the rounds in the Bleaker Wing, and y' helped some more poor sods who needed it, feedin' em full and fast.
"An' if I'm wrong, and it wasn't you, I don't care. You'd do it anyway. I see you. I see that. An' the multiverse needs more of that." Her face is blank but for a vague scowl.
The slightest ember of emotion in the aasimar's gut flares for just a moment, guttering weakly before the numbness takes precedence once again.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 12, 2007 19:50:09 GMT -5
It was possible that the woman had indeed spied him at Allesha’s Pantry. Hadrian was never boastful of his work in the many soup-kitchens run by the Bleakers but neither did he deny it. Life was brutally hard on the denizens of the Hive, harder than they even knew for most still clung to a half-addled semblance of hope and meaning.
Many accused the Bleak Cabal of being more despairing than the Dead, and in a very real way they were right. For the Dead could at least look toward the tranquility of their True Death. Hadrian had seen Death. He had felt its fingers clench down on his heart. There was no solace to be found there.
This then was the cosmic joke of life, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. One day a berk lived. The next he died. And all a blood could hope to do in between was share the road with the other poor sods shuffling blindly along. Share the road and help them back on to their feet when they stumbled.
The road had been busy lately. Last night had been an unexpected turn of events, and now this. It seemed as though he had found a new traveling companion in the metaphysical sense at least.
”Perhaps,” he admitted at last, though Hadrian’s mind feebly rebelled at the notion of a needful multiverse. To say as much almost alluded to a grander purpose and he had long since been too jaded to accept such possibilities.
For a brief moment he felt a well-spring of curiosity carrying him above the gloom. Who was this woman, and why had she taken an interest in him? Almost rushing to question her before he tumbled back into despondency Hadrian felt his lips open to sculpt his words.
“Who are you, watchful one? Neither my eyes nor my memory are as keen as yours.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 12, 2007 22:18:47 GMT -5
"Ahinabura," she says, wiping the rain from one eye, her face scrunched as though she's distracted by something distasteful. "I do my work in the Orphans' Wing.
"You said this's the first time you'd heard about the disappearances?" asks the tiefling, stifling a yawn and wrapping herself tighter in her cloak.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 13, 2007 18:40:33 GMT -5
“I have been … preoccupied,” Hadrian admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “A patient has gone missing and I have been trying to locate her.” Truth be known that sort of thing happened all the time in the Gatehouse, although few patients possessed such notoriety as this one. It was also true that it was hardly his business to begin with, for the woman wasn’t exactly his patient in the first place.
Though he currently served in the Almshouse under the stewardship of Factor Ezra, Hadrian had officially apprenticed in all of the Bleak Cabals administrations during his no longer brief respite in the House of Madmen. All except for the Hall of Mad Bleakers, for Factor Sruce was very particular in his selection of assistants. Unofficially however, well that was another matter entirely.
Like many of the younger Bleakers with great conviction but little means, Hadrian resided in that infamous wing by the grace and mercy of Factol Lhar. His nightly lullabies were the anguished wails of those fellow faction members that had tumbled onto the Grim Retreat. On occasion he had even held hushed conversations with his neighbors away from the prying ears of Sruce and his lackeys, stealing in rations from the kitchens when the opportunity presented. That was how he had met Tol…
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 15, 2007 13:58:01 GMT -5
"Huh," she says with a noncommittal shrug. "Never cared none for the Mad Bleaker wing. We're already barmy. They oughta free that space up fer sods who need it.
"You hear any chant about Hivers goin' missin', you bring it back, hear? Ahinabura. 'At's me. Don't forget it. I only heard two things 'til now: most of the lost berks are drunks or sods with empty purses or other folks nobody's gonna miss, and the bodies always end up at the Mortuary but fast." She turns back to stare coldly at the again-moving Dustman wagon, seemingly looking over its grisly cargo as if scanning for anyone she recognizes.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 15, 2007 16:18:14 GMT -5
Hadrian nodded solemnly but remained silent as his gaze slid over the washed out form of the Dustman carter. Memories of the night before drifted up through the fog of his thoughts and throbbed at the back of his mind. Memories of Wraith, of her patient, of the quiet but selfless soldier.
Wraith, now there was a troubled soul. Hadrian was willing to bet that more than one of the ‘missing’ sods had ended up on her table at some point. He frowned and rubbed his hands together to stifle a half-felt, half-imagined chill.
”You are worried you will recognize one of the lost.” It was an observation, not a question. Hadrian’s gaze remained fastened on the wagon while he spoke, suddenly wondering how many of the faces he might recognize. The patrons who frequented the almshouse and soup kitchen fit the build of the victims perfectly. Poor sods without two greens to rub together and no one to miss them if they were gone. Not exactly no one, he considered. There was him. And there was Ahinabura.
As if the multiverse wasn’t inhospitable enough. He sighed deeply, the suffocating weight of existence upon his shoulders.
|
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Apr 15, 2007 17:01:42 GMT -5
The Bleaker squints, snorting to clear her nostrils before spitting onto the muddy ground. "Don't see anybody I'd know. Then again, my memory ain't so good anymore."
Without another word, Ahinabura turns softly on her toe and steadily makes her way back to the Gatehouse, suddenly heedless of Hadrian.
|
|
|
|
Post by exile on Apr 15, 2007 22:33:04 GMT -5
Hadrian followed the departing woman with his eyes, watching until he could no longer pick her from the crowd. A chill wind tugged at his robe and a shiver ran up his spine. Unconsciously he buried his hands in his sleeves to guard against the cold. He stood staring blankly for a time as the impoverished sea of humanity and beings of myriad heritage roiled around him. It might have been minutes. It might have been days. He couldn’t say.
Near by a gaunt urchin child worked the crowd for donations and easy peels. To Hadrian’s eyes it seemed as though he could almost see the poor wretch fading out of existence in front of him, snatched away by some malevolent force that pulled strings in the shadows. A dark thing with no face and a cold mechanical mind concerned only with its own cruel ambitions.
“Spare a coin, basher?”
Hadrian blinked back the illusion to find the child holding an empty palm up to him. Wordlessly he found the strings to his coin purse and withdrew a greened copper piece. The face was worn and strange, on one side there was a profile of some important looking graybeard from a burg he had never heard of and would never visit. The image on the reverse had been largely eroded by the many fingers it had passed through but a few words of an inscription remained.
United we are-
What they were when united would be a mystery for the ages evidently. Hadrian laid the coin down into the child’s hand and walked away, already lost in his despondent musings.
|
|
