RedOnesGoFaster
Star
- Joined
- Dec 22, 2014
Lights in the Neath. Subtle, half-hidden sighs of relief against the background of steam and pistons. All eyes were turned to London, the shining sanctuary in the dark, an escape from the cold dark of the zee. Somewhere to fill bellies, to drink and carouse and fuck their fears away with pockets stuffed to bursting with echoes. Already the clay men were set to work, the eerie automotons of the far eastern zee hauling crates up onto deck. Most of the crates, anyhow. After all... not all cargo aboard the Haypenny Whore bore mentioning to the port authorities. Not if they wished to keep it.
Captain Charles Thurston crewed the helm, subtly guiding the ship past the floating light buoys that lined the approach into the docks at Wolfstack. Known as a master of procurement in the seedier bits of London and beyond - and a rapscallion to be carefully observed by any authority worth their salts - he headed up this rogue's gallery with practical mindedness, street-born graces, a sharpened shiv of wit, and just that touch of bravery - or was it madness? - that made for a fine zee captain. Dressed in a longish blue-black admiralty jacket - stolen - with brass buttons polished to a shine, black trousers and a fine pair of bat-hide boots, he certainly managed to look the part quite well. Tall, lean and just shy of forty years - forty years young, thank you very much - Charles cut a fine figure indeed, with black hair that was just beginning to grow salt-and-peppery cropped in a neat, tight tail at the base of his skull, framing a face that, while slightly grizzled from an adult life spent at zee, held a handsomeness to it that couldn't be denied. Blue eyes were alight with the shine of London over a crooked nose, mouth a thin line surrounded by thick, short beardliness and framed with a strong jaw. "London's callin', ladies an' gents. Look alive an' hide yer goodies, best we look presentable. Lord knows the port authority'll be up our backsides if we're not vigilant."
The chief engineer shoveled another load of coal into the hungering maw of the ship's engines and was rewarded with a gout of smoke and a rumbling that he liked to pretend was the machine's thanks. One last load for London. The fire crackled and cast dim red light on his skin, alight on the sweat of his bare torso and the steel in his limbs. Marcus Caruthers, known to friends and less-than-savory acquaintances alike as Tin Man, was more man than machine, and would remain that way until another accident might claim more flesh. Lean as a whip and muscled like a pugilist, the engineer stood a head shorter than most on deck but made up for it with his own little fixes. Adorned in tattoos and piercings from dozens of ports across the zee, his flesh was as decorated as the metal he wore. An arm and eye had been lost to the jaws of a zee serpent some years back, and while the good doctor had saved the rest of him from being repurposed as fish bait - "Though he really seems effective at it, doesn't he?" - he'd been without appendage and depth perception. Rather than head ashore to make a go of life as a cripple, he'd put his talents to work. He'd crafted the framework, and the doctor had done the rather painful experimentation needed in creating a biomechanical man. A great, stainless steel right arm, powered by steam and a core of undying hellfire, and a firmly fixed brass plate that wrapped around the right side of his skull, keeping the structure braced together. In that brass was set a series of lenses, offering him not only the vision he'd lost, but even greater than he'd ever had in his life. The ensemble left him with one mischievous green eye, one side of his head quite permanently bald, with the other shaven and thoroughly tattooed, the top a wild sprout of fiery red hair that was very much like a stallion's mane... if he had any idea just what a horse might be. Dressed at that moment in only a pair of dark, pin-striped trousers and heavy black boots, he tramped up towards the deck, all glistening sweat, shining steel and streaks of coal.
The ship's doctor arrived on deck mere moments after the engineer, his heavy black bag in hand. A cheery enigma from the Iron Republic, he'd given his proper name only once upon boarding the vessel. "Master Zsx'couhtlus, at your service." Empty stares, a sigh. The demon was quite used to this from Londoners. "Mister Zed, if it please you. Doctor Zed, if you're feeling fancy." So, Zed it was, and Zed it had been for some years now. His practices bordered on arcane, eldritch horrors. More than once he'd insisted on a blindfold and earmuffs during a procedure. "No peeking, else you'll go quite mad," he'd been known to say ever so matter-of-factly, as if he were simply observing the weather. His methods were not for humans, strictly speaking, but they did work on humans, and that was often enough. Zed was a cheerful mystery bound up in ever-changing flesh, for he was, indeed, a shifter of shapes as it pleased him. "Or, as it pleases others," he'd teased during one particularly flirtatious moment deep in his cups. His face was rarely if ever changed, though the rest of him was bound to whatever whimsy struck him that day. Today, he was a good head above everyone else on the ship, clothed in a close-fitting brown waistcoat over a white shirt with a smart-looking black tie to match the trousers and shined-up shoes he wore. From his head sprouted a largely untamed, upswept coif of greenish hair, his face covered as it often was as they neared London. "I watched that plague. You lot stink to the high heavens," he'd said in justification once before. Indeed, said plague from before London's descent into the Neath had inspired his current favorite facial wear. An iron-bound, neatly bronzed mask with an overlong, conical nose sprouting from the front that wasn't unlike that of some enormous fishing bird. He'd adopted the design from a human plague doctor who'd found himself in hell some ages ago, before crawling up out of Mount Palmerston for a fresh start. The glass lenses glowed eerily from within, lit by the blaze that was ever-present behind his amber eyes, and one might note the smell of iron, salt and just a whif of brimstone in that long nose. His favored scents, all for blocking out the stinks of London.
The bustling corvette eased its way into the docks at the captain's practiced insistence until, at long last, the great pillar of black smoke that belched from the stacks simmered to a few wisps, the engine dying down as Marcus saw to the shutdown process before emerging in a high-collared tan coat, hands both flesh and steel tucked into the front pockets. "Bellows are snoozin' pretty, cap'n," came the call. "Let's set anchor an' see to a pint." Already, black-hatted guards approached the Haypenny, all jackboots and truncheons. "Ach, Christ's bones," came the spitting curse from Captain Thurston. "You lot get on, I've got Cap'n Thorne an' his lovelies to call off." With a flourish, he produced the shipping manifest his first officer had provided him, strolling on down the gangway. "Ah, lads! Good to see ya. Think you'll find everythin's ship-shape. Even the ship."
Captain Charles Thurston crewed the helm, subtly guiding the ship past the floating light buoys that lined the approach into the docks at Wolfstack. Known as a master of procurement in the seedier bits of London and beyond - and a rapscallion to be carefully observed by any authority worth their salts - he headed up this rogue's gallery with practical mindedness, street-born graces, a sharpened shiv of wit, and just that touch of bravery - or was it madness? - that made for a fine zee captain. Dressed in a longish blue-black admiralty jacket - stolen - with brass buttons polished to a shine, black trousers and a fine pair of bat-hide boots, he certainly managed to look the part quite well. Tall, lean and just shy of forty years - forty years young, thank you very much - Charles cut a fine figure indeed, with black hair that was just beginning to grow salt-and-peppery cropped in a neat, tight tail at the base of his skull, framing a face that, while slightly grizzled from an adult life spent at zee, held a handsomeness to it that couldn't be denied. Blue eyes were alight with the shine of London over a crooked nose, mouth a thin line surrounded by thick, short beardliness and framed with a strong jaw. "London's callin', ladies an' gents. Look alive an' hide yer goodies, best we look presentable. Lord knows the port authority'll be up our backsides if we're not vigilant."
The chief engineer shoveled another load of coal into the hungering maw of the ship's engines and was rewarded with a gout of smoke and a rumbling that he liked to pretend was the machine's thanks. One last load for London. The fire crackled and cast dim red light on his skin, alight on the sweat of his bare torso and the steel in his limbs. Marcus Caruthers, known to friends and less-than-savory acquaintances alike as Tin Man, was more man than machine, and would remain that way until another accident might claim more flesh. Lean as a whip and muscled like a pugilist, the engineer stood a head shorter than most on deck but made up for it with his own little fixes. Adorned in tattoos and piercings from dozens of ports across the zee, his flesh was as decorated as the metal he wore. An arm and eye had been lost to the jaws of a zee serpent some years back, and while the good doctor had saved the rest of him from being repurposed as fish bait - "Though he really seems effective at it, doesn't he?" - he'd been without appendage and depth perception. Rather than head ashore to make a go of life as a cripple, he'd put his talents to work. He'd crafted the framework, and the doctor had done the rather painful experimentation needed in creating a biomechanical man. A great, stainless steel right arm, powered by steam and a core of undying hellfire, and a firmly fixed brass plate that wrapped around the right side of his skull, keeping the structure braced together. In that brass was set a series of lenses, offering him not only the vision he'd lost, but even greater than he'd ever had in his life. The ensemble left him with one mischievous green eye, one side of his head quite permanently bald, with the other shaven and thoroughly tattooed, the top a wild sprout of fiery red hair that was very much like a stallion's mane... if he had any idea just what a horse might be. Dressed at that moment in only a pair of dark, pin-striped trousers and heavy black boots, he tramped up towards the deck, all glistening sweat, shining steel and streaks of coal.
The ship's doctor arrived on deck mere moments after the engineer, his heavy black bag in hand. A cheery enigma from the Iron Republic, he'd given his proper name only once upon boarding the vessel. "Master Zsx'couhtlus, at your service." Empty stares, a sigh. The demon was quite used to this from Londoners. "Mister Zed, if it please you. Doctor Zed, if you're feeling fancy." So, Zed it was, and Zed it had been for some years now. His practices bordered on arcane, eldritch horrors. More than once he'd insisted on a blindfold and earmuffs during a procedure. "No peeking, else you'll go quite mad," he'd been known to say ever so matter-of-factly, as if he were simply observing the weather. His methods were not for humans, strictly speaking, but they did work on humans, and that was often enough. Zed was a cheerful mystery bound up in ever-changing flesh, for he was, indeed, a shifter of shapes as it pleased him. "Or, as it pleases others," he'd teased during one particularly flirtatious moment deep in his cups. His face was rarely if ever changed, though the rest of him was bound to whatever whimsy struck him that day. Today, he was a good head above everyone else on the ship, clothed in a close-fitting brown waistcoat over a white shirt with a smart-looking black tie to match the trousers and shined-up shoes he wore. From his head sprouted a largely untamed, upswept coif of greenish hair, his face covered as it often was as they neared London. "I watched that plague. You lot stink to the high heavens," he'd said in justification once before. Indeed, said plague from before London's descent into the Neath had inspired his current favorite facial wear. An iron-bound, neatly bronzed mask with an overlong, conical nose sprouting from the front that wasn't unlike that of some enormous fishing bird. He'd adopted the design from a human plague doctor who'd found himself in hell some ages ago, before crawling up out of Mount Palmerston for a fresh start. The glass lenses glowed eerily from within, lit by the blaze that was ever-present behind his amber eyes, and one might note the smell of iron, salt and just a whif of brimstone in that long nose. His favored scents, all for blocking out the stinks of London.
The bustling corvette eased its way into the docks at the captain's practiced insistence until, at long last, the great pillar of black smoke that belched from the stacks simmered to a few wisps, the engine dying down as Marcus saw to the shutdown process before emerging in a high-collared tan coat, hands both flesh and steel tucked into the front pockets. "Bellows are snoozin' pretty, cap'n," came the call. "Let's set anchor an' see to a pint." Already, black-hatted guards approached the Haypenny, all jackboots and truncheons. "Ach, Christ's bones," came the spitting curse from Captain Thurston. "You lot get on, I've got Cap'n Thorne an' his lovelies to call off." With a flourish, he produced the shipping manifest his first officer had provided him, strolling on down the gangway. "Ah, lads! Good to see ya. Think you'll find everythin's ship-shape. Even the ship."
