[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 7 most recent journal entries recorded in
The Hyperion's LiveJournal:
|Friday, June 18th, 2004|
From the New Day-Book of Sexton Brummell
I fear I must write some words before the muffled voices that I hear journey any closer to the door. Writing now with this small pad and pencil so graciously allotted to me by my Slavic captors, it occurrs to me for the first time since my troubles began that I may never again clamp eyes on my own dear leatherbound Day-Book, that which has contained all of my musings for such a long time. I have been blessed with an excellent memory with which to recall my past and all of my most wonderful recipes (O! to see a kitchen again!), but somehow the loss of my Day-Book makes all the more real my separation from life as I knew it. At least I have been left with some fruit and water.
I seem to be on some sort of boat or ship, but all I can see through the portal is darkness. This room seems to me more like a salon than a jail cell, and my liberator more gentlewomanly than base, but I have yet to discern where I am or why I am here. I also have yet to discover who framed me in the first place for the tragic end of Prince Leonid Johan, though I now believe that a certain mysterious blonde butler had something to do with the whole nasty business.
The voices outside of the door are becoming clearer now. Somehow I get the impression that I am wanted and important to these people, whoever they are, and that I shall live to write again another day.
|Thursday, June 17th, 2004|
Our first guest....
Sexton awakes on a small cot in what seems to be some sort of stateroom. A small porthole on the wall opposite the bed gives the impression of being at sea, as does a mysterious slow rocking motion and the muted hum of large engines.
For Sexton...( Read more...Collapse )
Fortunately, I have never suffered from a fear of heights, had I been thus afflicted, this evening would certainly have turned out for the worse. Though it may seem unbelievable, a scant hour ago I was dangling beneath the Hyperion like a worm on a hook. Dr. Metier insisted that we rush to the rescue of a man wrongly (or so Metier claims) imprisoned. As the good doctor's arm continues to trouble him, the dangerous part of the work fell to me. Following a terrifying descent during which I was certain my lifeline would snap, I managed to breach the defenses of the tower in which the object of our quest was kept. Convincing the prisoner to take that entirely literal leap of faith was impossible, and I am rather ashamed to admit that with a veritable army of stout Russian gaurds fairly bursting into the room, I resorted to brute force to facilitate our exit. Our new friend is resting peacefully in one of the crew compartments now.
Metier makes an offer
"Dr. Metier... I hardly think that this plan is sound." Azuria said "Even if I do succeed, there's still the chance that I'm bringing a poisoner into our midst."
"Sexton is no murderer" Vincent replied " I am certain of it."
Azuria looked at the small frenchman "You are asking me to risk my life for nothing."
Vincent sighed heavily - his expressive heavy-lidded eyes meeting her unflinching cobalt gaze.
"I will make a deal with you." he said reluctantly "If you help me to rescue this person, then I will tell you all that I know about Alestair's death. There are facts which I have kept from you, in order to protect you from pain. I will tell you everything. "
The young widow turned away for a moment - when she turned back toward him her face was a mask of grim resolve.
"Tell me what you need me to do."
NEW LONDINIUM COURIER
Prince Murdered !
Chef Imprisoned by Angry Russians!
The headline was no more alarming than usual, but as Vincent sat in the dining room staring forlornly at a plate of raw fruit the word "Chef" caught his attention.
He had picked up the paper the previous night, when he had risked life and limb by clambering down the rope ladder to a rooftop from whence he managed to make his way to the street. Returning to the airship was equally dangerous, and the wound in Vincent's arm was bleeding again before Azuria helped him into the cargo hatch, it took both of them working together to haul up the basket containing fresh fruit, bread and a small winch that he had managed to purchase during his brief sojurn on the ground.
The Londinium article told the sad story of a young cook named Sexton Brummel who had been imprisoned after poisoning a foreign dignitary. A mad Russian Countess was somehow involved, and the end result was that Sexton was languishing in the Northwesternmost tower of some dreary ancestral manse while the British Government tried to decide what to do about the situation.
A photo taken shortly before the demise of the aforementioned dignitary sitting at a table laden with delicacies. Vincent's stomach growled as he looked at the photograph. Suddenly his eyes widened in recognition. He held the paper closer to his face as though to confirm something - and then dropped as though it were on fire. A moment later he was on the bridge steering the ship northward.
|Wednesday, June 16th, 2004|
Vincent stared at the plate.
Azuria had proven herself more than equal to the tasks required in keeping the airship aloft,
but her culinary skills were those of a woman who had never so much as laid eyes on a stove.
A soggy boiled cabbage leaf stared back the the scientist, a blackened piece of toast provided sad company.
Metier prodded it sullenly with his fork.
In the three days since the destruction of the laboratory, his attitude toward the ship had changed from the vague hope that she would prove airworthy, to confidence in her power, to a scientific pride which he knew only Alestaire would have truly understood. He had come to know every inch of the massive engines, from the magnetic plates, to the gyroscopes which kept her on an even keel, and although he might never have said it aloud, he felt a strange satisfaction, though it was tinged with sadness. The aetherion engine was Alestair's invention, after all, it seemed wrong that he was not there to share in its success.
The toast grew soggy - the price of associating so closely with the boiled cabbage.