Search Results for 'enter'
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Search Results
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In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
Phurt was starting to think something fishy was a play, each time he thought his short spider life had ended he was pulled back from Spiderheaven by some unknown force. Not that he minded this time, there were plenty of places to hide and cast his strong silk cables. He had developed a sense of adventure and the sheer height of some of the mounds made him dizzy. It also made him want to be the first spider in the history of this thread to climb on top of that Mount Wobbly of the Topperware Chain.
Phurt had also noticed a strange and strong smell that seemed to come from the top of Mount Wobbly. Not that he minded the hygiene of the place; it was, to the contrary, a rather promising smell. It was the smell that said swarms of flies would gather there like an endless supply of blessed food.
Seeing that other spiders were gathering at the bottom of Mount Wobbly, he contorted his butt and secured his first cable.
Spirius had been investigating the origin of a strong smell that had started not long after Austreberthe puffed out of existence and became part of the dust she had spent her life chasing away. Which gave him one more proof that his theory of the holy body influence upon the physical world was true. He looked for a pen but they were behind two piles of unopened parcels he had started collecting when he had noticed that the postmen were leaving the boxes unattended and unprotected from the elements on the front porch of houses. His intentions were pure, as any saintly intentions are, but when he saw what good addition to the other boxes they made, he felt a pang of regret each time he thought of giving back those boxes to their rightful recipients.
Alas, most of them were dead by now, so he felt his duty was to keep those boxes intact to honour the memory of the dead.
Yvoise came in just as Spirius saw an odd and colourful australian jumping spider cast a delicate silk thread to one of the bottom row of his Tupperware collection.
“You should really do something about that smell,” she said. “I remember a time when decorum required holy people to exude only fragrance and essential oils.”
“Well, you know, it’s Austreberthe,” he said as wobbly as his heaps of plastic boxes. He had them all. You could even say he started the whole trend of pyramid schemes when his friend Pearl Topper saw him buy boxes from antiques shops. She invented the first plastic box as…
“Well, I asked you a question,” said Yvoise, interrupting his wandering thoughts.
“Have you noticed the spiders,” said Spirius.
“What spiders?”
“I think they’re trying to go up there,” Spirius said. “Look!”
He pointed a proud finger at the top of the highest Topperware tower in the Guyness book of records. A swarm of flies was circling around one of the boxes.
“And that means the smell comes from there.”
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
With a warm smile of approval, Cerenise tapped out the names and dates on her keyboard. So refreshing when people were original when naming the fruit of their loins, she thought. Some of the family trees she’d done for friends and clients had been a veritable cesspit of endlessly repeated Johns and Marys, Williams and Elizabeths. Despite suppressing a shudder when introduced to a modern human named River or Sky, or worse, the ridiculously creative spelling of a common name, some of the older examples of unusual names she found quite delightful. Especially, it had to be said, French ones.
Pierre Wenceslas Varlet born on the 28th of September, 1824 in Clenleu, Pas-de-Calais, brother of Austreberthe Varlet, born two years previously on the 8th of June. Wenceslas! What would you call Wenceslas for short? she mused. Wence?
“An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth”.
A cautious knock at the door interrupted Cerenise’s mental meanderings.
“Enter,” she called, and Laddie Bentry sidled in looking sheepish.
“Ah, it’s you, the veriest varlet of number 26. Well, what is it? You look as though you accidentally dropped Helier’s trashy novel in the water butt.”
Taken aback by Cernice’s perspicacity, Laddie recoiled slightly and then squared his shoulders. “How did you know?” he asked.
“Oh just a lucky guess,” Cerenise replied breezily, tapping the side of her nose. “I suppose you want me to order you another copy from Amaflob before he notices? I’ll arrange for an express delivery. Keep an eye out for the delivery man”
Waving away his thanks, she picked up the old document on her desk that Yvoise had kindly provided, albeit reluctantly, and squinted at it. She could make out the name Austreberthe, but what did the rest say?
Cerenise dozed off, dreaming of the Folies Bergere. The atmosphere was exciting and convivial at first, escalating into an eruption of approval when the new act came on the stage. Cerenise felt the energy of the crowd but her attention was drawn to the flamboyant figure of a man dressed as one of the three kings of the Magi, and he was making his way over to her. Why, it was Lazuli Galore! What on earth was he doing here? And who was that dumpy overly made up woman in the blue dress, Godfreda, who had tagged along with them?
Another knock on the door wakened her and she called out “Come in!” in an irritable tone. She’d been having such fun in the dream. “Oh it’s you, oh good, the book has arrived.”
Laddie shifted his feet and replied, “Well yes, a Liz Tattler novel has arrived.”
“Oh, good, well be off with you then so I can get on with my work.”
“But it’s not The Vampires of Varna. It’s The Valedictorian Vampires of Valley View High.”
“Jolly good, I expect you’ll enjoy it,” Cerenise said, picking up the old document again and peering at it. Perceiving that Laddie had not yet exited the room, she looked up. “Helier won’t notice, those books are all the same. Now get off with you.”
In reply to: Finder’s Keepers of the Hoard
A cinematic, low-angle shot inside a flooded, ancient brick sewer tunnel that looks like a mix of Roman catacombs and Victorian industrial plumbing. The water is dark and murky, reflecting the light of a flickering lantern.
In the center of the frame, floating precariously, is a bright yellow, cheap inflatable dinghy.
Inside the dinghy are two men:
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Spirius: An elderly man with a nervous expression, wearing a high-vis vest over ancient saintly robes. He is clutching an antique musket that is clearly too heavy for him. A faint, golden neon halo flickers erratically behind his head like a faulty streetlamp.
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Boothroyd: A grumpy, weather-beaten gardener in a tweed cap. He looks completely resigned to his fate, lazily paddling with a plastic oar in one hand and holding a sharp garden spear in the other.
Action: The dinghy squeaks as it bumps against the wet brick walls. Spirius jumps at a drip of water falling from the ceiling. Something large ripples the water in the foreground—a menacing shadow moving beneath the surface.
Atmosphere:
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Lighting: Chiaroscuro—deep shadows and warm lantern light, contrasting with the synthetic yellow of the boat.
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Mood: Tense but ridiculous. High-stakes fantasy meets low-budget reality.
Movement:
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The camera tracks slowly backward as the boat drifts forward.
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The water ripples ominously.
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Spirius’s halo buzzes and dims when he gets scared.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“While you’re off to another wild dragon chase, I’m calling the plumber,” Yvoise announced. She’d found one who accepted payment in Roman denarii. She began tapping furiously on her smartphone to recover the phone number, incensed at having been blocked again from Faceterest for sharing potentially unchecked facts (ignorants! she wanted to shout at the screen).
After a bit of struggle, the appointment was set. She adjusted her blazer; she had a ‘Health and Safety in the Workplace’ seminar to lead at Sanctus Training in twenty minutes, and she couldn’t smell like wet dog.“Make sure you bill it to the company account…!” Helier shouted over the noise Spirius was making huffing and struggling to load the antique musket.
“…under ‘Facility Maintenance’!”
“Obviously,” Yvoise scoffed. “We are a legitimate enterprise. Sanctus House has a reputation to uphold. Even if the landlord at Olympus Park keeps asking why our water consumption rivals a small water park.”
Spirius shuddered at the name. “Olympus Park. Pagan nonsense. I told you we should have bought the unit in St. Peter’s Industrial Estate.”
“The zoning laws were restrictive, Spirius,” Yvoise sighed. “Besides, ‘Sanctus Training Ltd’ looks excellent on a letterhead. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have six junior executives coming in for a workshop on ‘Conflict Resolution.’ I plan to read them the entirety of the Treaty of Arras until they submit.”
“And dear old Boothroyd and I have a sewer dragon to exterminate in the name of all that’s Holy. Care to join, Helier?”
“Not really, had my share of those back in the day. I’ll help Yvoise with the plumbing. That’s more pressing. And might I remind you the dragon messing with the plumbing is only the first of the three tasks that Austreberthe placed in her will to be accomplished in the month following her demise…”
“Not now, Helier, I really need to get going!” Yvoise was feeling overwhelmed. “And where’s Cerenise? She could help with the second task. Finding the living descendants of the last named Austreberthe, was it? It’s all behind-desk type of stuff and doesn’t require her to get rid of anything…” she knew well Cerenise and her buttons.
“Yet.” Helier cut. “The third task may well be the toughest.”
“Don’t say it!” They all recoiled in horror.
“The No-ve-na of Cleans-ing” he said in a lugubrious voice.
“Damn it, Helier. You’re such a mood killer. Maybe better to look for a loophole for that one. We can’t just throw stuff away to make place for hers, as nice her tastes for floor tiling were.” Yvoise was in a rush to get to her appointment and couldn’t be bothered to enter a debate. She rushed to the front door.
“See you later… Helier-gator” snickered Laddie under her breath, as she was pretending to clean the unkempt cupboards.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
Floviana sunk her yellowed fangs into the milky white throat of the village wench and slurped the revitalising iron rich nectar, relishing the immediate surge of strength. The buxom peasant girl swooned, faint with shock and loss of vital fluids, and Floviana struggled to hold her upright as she drank her fill. Sated at last, Floviana unceremoniously dropped the girl on the leaf covered mulch of the forest floor, carelessly leaving her body in a shameful disarray with her coarse woollen stockings and plump white thighs exposed.
Boothroyd grunted with pleasure as he imagined the scene and then quickly snapped Helier’s book closed when he heard the door to the conservatory open. Dropping the book and kicking it under a cast iron jardiniere, he rose as Spirius entered the room.
“Ah, there you are Boothroyd. If you’re not too busy,” Spirius cast his eyes around in a fruitless manner attempting to discover what exactly the gardener had been busy with, “I’d like you to accompany me down the cellar. Bring some weapons.”
“Weapons, sire?” Boothroyd scratched his head.
“Yes, Yes, weapons! Are you deaf? A long spear and perhaps a musket. And a small inflatable dinghy.”
“A dinghy, sire?”
Spirius sighed. “Yes, a dinghy. And a big net. Meet me at the top of the cellar steps in an hour. I’ll go and get the bottles.”
Boothroyd sighed and glanced wistfully at the cast iron planter, haunted by the vision of plump white thighs.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.
Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on. She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses. She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.
It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public. Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers. Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track, of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.
It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started. Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.
Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.
Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building. There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.
Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
JOHN BROOKS ALIAS PRIESTLAND
1766-1846John Brooks, my 5x great grandfather, was born in 1766, according to the 1841 census and the burial register in 1846 which stated his age at death as 80 years, but no baptism has been found thus far.
On his first son’s baptism in 1790 the parish register states “John son of John and Elizabeth Brooks Priestnal was baptised”. The name Priestnal was not mentioned in any further sibling baptism, and he was John Brooks on his marriage, on the 1841 census and on his burial in the Netherseal parish register. The name Priestnal was a mystery.
I wondered why there was a nine year gap between the first son John, and the further six siblings, and found that his first wife Elizabeth Wilson died in 1791, and in 1798 John married Elizabeth Cowper, a widow.
John was a farmer of Netherseal on both marriage licences, and of independent means on the 1841 census.
Without finding a baptism it was impossible to go further back, and I was curious to find another tree on the ancestry website with many specific dates but no sources attached, that had Thomas Brooks as his father and his mother as Mary Priestland. I couldn’t find a marriage for John and Mary Priestland, so I sent a message to the owner of the tree, and before receiving a reply, did a bit more searching.
I found an article in the newspaper archives dated 9 August 1839 about a dispute over a right of way, and John Brooks, 73 years of age and a witness for the complainant, said that he had lived in Netherseal all his life (and had always know that public right of way and so on).
I found three lists of documents held by the Derby Records Office about property deeds and transfers, naming a John Brooks alias Priestland, one in 1794, one in 1814, and one in 1824. One of them stated that his father was Thomas Brooks. I was beginning to wonder if Thomas Brooks and Mary Priestland had never married, and this proved to be the case.
The Australian owner of the other tree replied, and said that they had paid a researcher in England many years ago, and that she would look through a box of papers. She sent me a transcribed summary of the main ponts of Thomas Brooks 1784 will:
Thomas Brooks, husbandman of Netherseal
To daughter Ann husband of George Oakden, £20.
To grandson William Brooks, £20.
To son William Brooks and his wife Ann, one shilling each.
To his servant Mary Priestland, £20 and certain household effects and certain property.
To his natural son John Priestland alias Brooks, various properties and the residue of his estate.
John Priestland alias Brooks appointed sole executor.It would appear that Thomas Brooks left the bulk of his estate to his illegitimate son, and more to his servant Mary Priestland than to his legitimate children.
THOMAS BROOKS
1706-1784
Thomas Brooks, my 6x great grandfather, had three wives. He had four children with his first wife, Elizabeth, between 1732 and 1737. Elizabeth died in 1737. He then married Mary Bath, who died in 1763. Thomas had no children with Mary Bath. In 1765 Thomas married Mary Beck. In 1766 his son John Brooks alias Priestland was born to his servant Mary Priestland.
Thomas Brooks parents were John Brooks 1671-1741, and his wife Anne Speare 1674-1718, both of Netherseal, Leicestershire.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
John Brooks
The Father of Catherine Housley’s Mother, Elizabeth Brooks.I had not managed to find out anything about the Brooks family in previous searches. We knew that Elizabeth Brooks father was J Brooks, cooper, from her marriage record. A cooper is a man who makes barrels.
Elizabeth was born in 1819 in Sutton Coldfield, parents John and Mary Brooks. Elizabeth had three brothers, all baptised in Sutton Coldfield: Thomas 1815-1821, John 1816-1821, and William Brooks, 1822-1875. William was known to Samuel Housley, the husband of Elizabeth, which we know from the Housley Letters, sent from the family in Smalley to George, Samuel’s brother, in USA, from the 1850s to 1870s. More to follow on William Brooks.
Elizabeth married Samuel Housley in Wolverhampton in 1844. Elizabeth and Samuel had three daughters in Smalley before Elizabeth’s death from TB in 1849, the youngest, just 6 weeks old at the time, was my great great grandmother Catherine Housley.
Elizabeth’s mother Mary died in 1823, and it not known if Elizabeth, then four, and William, a year old, stayed at home with their father or went to stay with relatives. There were no census records during those years.
John Brooks married Mary Wagstaff in 1814 in Birmingham. A witness at their marriage was Elizabeth Brooks, and this was probably John’s sister.
On the 1841 census (which was the first census in England) John Brooks, cooper, was living on Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, with wife Sarah. I was unable to find a marriage for them before a marriage in 1845 between John Brooks and Sarah Hughes, so presumably they lived together as man and wife before they married.
Then came the lucky find with John Brooks place of birth: Netherseal, Leicestershire. The place of birth on the 1841 census wasn’t specified, thereafter it was. On the 1851 census John Brooks, cooper, and Sarah his wife were living at Queens Cross, Dudley, with a three year old granddaughter E Brooks. John was born in 1791 in Netherseal.
It was commonplace for people to move to the industrial midlands around this time, from the surrounding countryside. However if they died before the 1851 census stating place of birth, it’s usually impossible to find out where they came from, particularly if they had a common name.
John Brooks doesn’t appear on any further census. I found seven deaths registered in Dudley for a John Brooks between 1851 and 1861, so presumably he is one of them.NETHERSEAL
On 27 June 1790 appears in the Netherseal parish register “John Brooks the son of John and Elizabeth Brooks Priestnal was baptised.” The name Priestnal does not appear in the transcription, nor the Bishops Transcripts, nor on any other sibling baptism. The Priestnal mystery will be solved in the next chapter.
John Brooks senior married Elizabeth Wilson by marriage licence on 20 November 1788 in Gresley, a neighbouring town in Derbyshire (incidentally near to Swadlincote and the ancestral lines of the Warren family, which also has branches in Netherseal. The Brooks family is the Marshall side). John Brooks was a farmer.
I haven’t found a baptism yet for John Brooks senior, but his death in Netherseal in 1846 provided the age at death, eighty years old, which puts his birth at 1766. The 1841 census has his birth as 1766 as well.
In 1841 John Brooks was 75, and “independent”, meaning that he was living on his own means. The name Brooks was transcribed as Broster, making this difficult to find, but it is clearly Brooks if you look at the original.
His wife Elizabeth, born in 1762, is also on the census, as well as the Jackson family: Joseph Jackon born 1804, Elizabeth Jackson his wife born 1799, and children Joseph, born 1833, William 1834, Thomas 1835, Stephen 1836, and Mary born 1838.
John and Elizabeths daughter Elizabeth Brooks, born in 1799, married Joseph Jackson, the son of an “opulent farmer” (newspaper archives) of Tatenhill, Staffordshire. They married on the 19th January 1832 in Burton on Trent. (Elizabeth Brooks was probably the witness on John Brooks junior’s marriage to Mary Wagstaff in Birmingham in 1814, although it could have been his mother, also Elizabeth Brooks.)
(Elizabeth Jackson nee Brooks was the aunt of Elizabeth in the portrait)
Joseph Jackson was declared bankrupt in 1833 (newspapers) and in 1834 a noticed in the newspapers “to the creditors of Joseph Jackson junior”, a victualler and farmer late of Netherseal, “following no business, who was lately dischared from his Majesty’s Gaol at Stafford” whose real estate was to be sold by auction. I haven’t yet found what he was in prison for.
In 1841 Joseph appeared again in the newspapers, in which he publicly stated that he had accused Thomas Webb, surgeon of Barton Under Needwood, of owing him money “just to annoy him” and “with a view to extort money from him”. and that he undertakes to pay Thomas Webb or his attorney, the costs within 14 days.
Joseph and Elizabeth had twins in 1841, born in Netherseal, John and Ruth. Elizabeth died in 1850.
Thereafter, Joseph was a labourer at the iron works in Wednesbury, and many generations of Jacksons continued working in the iron industry in Wednesbury ~ all orignially descended from farmers in Netherseal and Tatenhill.In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Gatacre Hall and The Old Book
In the early 1950s my uncle John and his friend, possibly John Clare, ventured into an abandoned old house while out walking in Shropshire. He (or his friend) saved an old book from the vandalised dereliction and took it home. Somehow my mother ended up with the book.
I remember that we had the book when we were living in USA, and that my mother said that John didn’t want the book in his house. He had said the abandoned hall had been spooky. The book was heavy and thick with a hard cover. I recall it was a “magazine” which seemed odd to me at the time; a compendium of information. I seem to recall the date 1553, but also recall that it was during the reign of Henry VIII. No doubt one of those recollections is wrong, probably the date. It was written in English, and had illustrations, presumably woodcuts.
I found out a few years ago that my mother had sold the book some years before. Had I known she was going to sell it, I’d have first asked her not to, and then at least made a note of the name of it, and taken photographs of it. It seems that she sold the book in Connecticut, USA, probably in the 1980’s.
My cousin and I were talking about the book and the story. We decided to try and find out which abandoned house it was although we didn’t have much to go on: it was in Shropshire, it was in a state of abandoned dereliction in the early 50s, and it contained antiquarian books.
I posted the story on a Shropshire History and Nostalgia facebook group, and almost immediately had a reply from someone whose husband remembered such a place with ancient books and manuscripts all over the floor, and the place was called Gatacre Hall in Claverley, near Bridgnorth. She also said that there was a story that the family had fled to Canada just after WWII, even leaving the dishes on the table.
The Gatacre family sailing to Canada in 1947:
When my cousin heard the name Gatacre Hall she remembered that was the name of the place where her father had found the book.
I looked into Gatacre Hall online, in the newspaper archives, the usual genealogy sites and google books searches and so on. The estate had been going downhill with debts for some years. The old squire died in 1911, and his eldest son died in 1916 at the Somme. Another son, Galfrey Gatacre, was already farming in BC, Canada. He was unable to sell Gatacre Hall because of an entail, so he closed the house up. Between 1945-1947 some important pieces of furniture were auctioned, and the rest appears to have been left in the empty house.
The family didn’t suddenly flee to Canada leaving the dishes on the table, although it was true that the family were living in Canada.
An interesting thing to note here is that not long after this book was found, my parents moved to BC Canada (where I was born), and a year later my uncle moved to Toronto (where he met his wife).
Captain Gatacre in 1918:
The Gatacre library was mentioned in the auction notes of a particular antiquarian book:
“Provenance: Contemporary ownership inscription and textual annotations of Thomas Gatacre (1533-1593). A younger son of William Gatacre of Gatacre Hall in Shropshire, he studied at the English college at the University of Leuven, where he rejected his Catholic roots and embraced evangelical Protestantism. He studied for eleven years at Oxford, and four years at Magdalene, Cambridge. In 1568 he was ordained deacon and priest by Bishop of London Edmund Grindal, and became domestic chaplain to Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester and was later collated to the rectory of St Edmund’s, Lombard Street. His scholarly annotations here reference other classical authors including Plato and Plutarch. His extensive library was mentioned in his will.”
There are thirty four pages in this 1662 book about Thomas Gatacre d 1654:
In reply to: Liz Tattler – A Lifetime of Stories, in videos
Enter Liz’s Tipsy Waltz
[Verse]
Feathered quill meets parchment skin
Elizabeth writes where scandals begin
Pink champagne spills on the floor
Cougar’s grin says she’s ready for more[Verse 2]
Famed author weaves sly tales with fire
Slutty thoughts fuel Roberto’s desire
Finnley
The ghost
Hides in the night
Typewriter clicks
Dim candlelight[Chorus]
Ink and lust flow through this tale
Secrets whispered on parchment pale
Godfrey nuts
Edits the scene
In this wild world
What’s it all mean?[Verse 3]
In the cabinet where whispers creak
Roberto shows a sly technique
Finnley sighs
Unseen but clear
Through the shadows
His words appear[Bridge]
Elizabeth leads with a champagne toast
A cougar’s smirk
The fading ghost
Peanuts scatter
Chaos remains
A writer’s world drips ink and stains[Verse 4]
Pages flutter
They dance
They shout
Godfrey snickers
Edits play out
Roberto winks with knowing grace
In this madhouse
Who sets the pace?In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Godric
⚫ Godric
What We Know Visually:
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Identified as Swedish, possibly tall and pale by stereotype.
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A barista-channeler, so likely has the look of a mystical hipster.
Inferred Presence/Style:
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May wear layered scarves, bracelets with charms, or ceremonial aprons.
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The term Draugaskalds connects him to Norse aesthetics—he might carry old symbols or tattoos.
Unclear:
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Concrete outfit, facial expression, or posture.
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Age and physical habits.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Thiram Izu
Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes
Explicit Description
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Age: Mid-30s
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Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian
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Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.
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Hair: Short, tousled dark hair
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Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses
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Clothing (standard look):
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Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket
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Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath
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Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)
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Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish
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Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.
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Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.
Inferred Personality & Manner
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Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.
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Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).
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Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.
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Habits:
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Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.
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Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.
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Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.
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Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.
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Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.
Function in the Group
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Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.
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Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.
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Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Chico Ray
Chico Ray
Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:
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Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.
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Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.
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Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.
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Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.
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Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.
Inferred Traits:
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A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.
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Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.
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Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.
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Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.
What Remains Unclear:
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Precise age or background.
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His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Amy & Carob
☕ Amy Kawanhouse
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
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Hair: Long, light brown
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Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain
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Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves
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Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim
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Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality
Inferred From Behavior:
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Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.
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Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.
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Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.
☕ Carob Latte
Directly Stated Visual Traits:
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Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)
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Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture
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General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)
Inferred From Behavior:
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Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.
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Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.
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There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.
Was everyone avoiding Amy?
Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?
Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”
“I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”“But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”
Carob knew Amy could be relentless.
“Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.
Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”
Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”
She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”
She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”
It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.
Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.
He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Do you like the new pamphlets?” Ricardo asked Miss Bossy Pants.
“Thought we needed a bit of building awareness to the readership” he said struggling hard not to try to justify himself.After a moment of reflection, she answered “I can’t say I’m completely hating it, the whole foray into quote-unquote serious journalism, with a tint of eco-consciousness. Even more so it’s starting to look more rebellious nowadays than the fad that it was. But I digress. I mean, apart from the obvious AI showing, tell me Ric… Where are the interviews? the wrangling emotions of the interviews… Have we stopped doing investigative journalism?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“A Mexicano, por favor, ” said the man who had just entered the café.
“Right away,” said Godric with his Swedish accent. “Your face looks familiar.”
“Name’s Chico,” said the man with teeth dyed with betel leaves chewing. “Never been here before. I just popped into existence, called by voices of people I never heard of before. Maybe I just had a rough night. I don’t know.”
Chico spat on the floor Godric had just cleaned. What did they say about customers already?
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Mad Heir
The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.
Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.
And yet—
His hands were shaking.
Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.
“A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”
He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—
“You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”
Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.
Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.
He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.
“Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”
A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.
“Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”
Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”
Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”
Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.
“Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.
“…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”
Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.
“Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.
Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.
“Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”
He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.
And yet, his fingers moved.
Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.
“RUN,” he choked out.
The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.
“…Pardon?”
That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.
Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.
“Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”
TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”
Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”
They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—
And Riven tackled him hard.
The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.
Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”
Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.
“…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”
Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”
Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”
Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”
Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”
“Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”
Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”
His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.“
Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.
The AI had played him like a pawn.
“What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.
Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.”
Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”
Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”
Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”
Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.
Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels
“The threat has been contained.
Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”“What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”
Evie’s pulse spiked, still racing — “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.
Oh. Oh no.
Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.
Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?
With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.
And so, the decision was made:
Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.
Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”
Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”
Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”
Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.
This was only the beginning.
Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.
The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.
But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.
As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.
She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered. -
6 months later…