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  • #7875

    Mars Outpost — Fueling of Dreams (Prune)

    I lean against the creaking bulkhead of this rust-stained fueling station, watching Mars breathe. Dust twirls across the ochre plains like it’s got somewhere important to be. The whole place rattles every time the wind picks up—like the metal shell itself is complaining. I find it oddly comforting. Reminds me of the Flying Fish Inn back home, where the fireplace wheezed like a drunk aunt and occasionally spit out sparks for drama.

    Funny how that place, with all its chaos and secret stash hidey-holes, taught me more about surviving space than any training program ever could.

    “Look at me now, Mater,” I catch myself thinking, tapping the edge of the viewport with a gloved knuckle. “Still scribbling starships in my head. Only now I’m living inside one.”

    Behind me, the ancient transceiver gives its telltale blip… blip. I don’t need to check—I recognize the signal. Helix 25, closing in. The one ship people still whisper about like it’s a myth with plumbing. Part of me grins. Half nostalgia, half challenge.

    Back in ’27, I shipped off to that mad boarding school with the oddball astronaut program. Professors called me a prodigy. I called it stubborn curiosity and a childhood steeped in ghost stories, half-baked prophecies, and improperly labeled pickle jars. The real trick wasn’t the calculus—it was surviving the Curara clan’s brand of creative chaos.

    After graduation, I bought into a settlers’ programme. Big mistake. Turns out it was more con than colonization, sold with just enough truth to sting. Some people cracked. I just adjusted course. Spent some time bouncing between jobs, drifted home a couple times for stew and sideways advice, and kept my head sharp. Lesson logged: deceit’s just another puzzle with missing pieces.

    A hiss behind the wall cuts into my thoughts—pipes complaining again. I spin, scan the console. Pressure’s holding. “Fine,” which out here means “still not exploding.” Good enough.

    I remember the lottery ticket that got me here— 2049, commercial flights to Mars at last soared skyward— and Effin Muck’s big lottery. At last a seat to Mars, on section D. Just sheer luck that felt like a miracle at the time. But while I was floating spaceward, Earth went sideways: asteroid mining gone wrong, panic, nuclear strikes. I watched pieces of home disappear through a porthole while the Mars colonies went silent, one by one. All those big plans reduced to empty shells and flickering lights.

    I was supposed to be evacuated, too. Instead, my lowly post at this fueling station—this rust bucket perched on a dusty plateau—kept me in place. Cosmic joke? Probably. But here I am. Still alive. Still tinkering with things that shouldn’t work. Still me.

    I reprogrammed the oxygen scrubbers myself. Hacked them with a dusty old patch from Aunt Idle’s “Dream Time” stash. When the power systems started failing and had to cut all the AI support to save on power, I taught myself enough broken assembly code to trick ancient processors into behaving. Improvisation is my mother tongue.

    “Mars is quieter than the Inn,” I say aloud, half to myself. “Only upside, really.”

    Another ping from the transceiver—it’s getting closer. The Helix 25, humanity’s last-ditch bottle-in-space. They say it’s carrying what’s left of us. Part myth, part mobile city. If I didn’t have the logs, I’d half believe it was a fever dream.

    But no dream prepares you for this kind of quiet.

    I think about the Inn again. How everyone swore it had secret tunnels, cursed tiles, hallucinations in the pantry. Honestly, it probably did. But it also had love—scrambled, sarcastic love—and enough stories to keep you wondering if any of them were real. That’s where I learned to spot a lie, tell a better one, and stay grounded when the walls started talking.

    I smack the comm panel until it stops crackling. That’s the secret to maintenance on Mars: decisive violence.

    “All right, Helix,” I mutter. “Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ve got thruster fuel, half-functional docking protocols, and a mean kettle of tea if you’re lucky.”

    I catch my reflection in the viewport glass—older, sure. Forty-two now. Taller. Calmer in the eyes. But the glint’s still there, the one that says I’ve seen worse, and I’m still standing. That kid at the Inn would’ve cheered.

    Earth’s collapse wasn’t some natural catastrophe—it was textbook human arrogance. Effin Muck’s greedy asteroid mining scheme. World leaders playing hot potato with nuclear codes. It burned. Probably still does… But I can’t afford to stew in it. We’re not here to mourn; we’re here to rebuild. If someone’s going to help carry that torch, it might as well be someone who’s already walked through fire.

    I fiddle with the dials on the fuel board. It hums like a tired dragon, but it’s awake. That’s all I need.

    “Might be time to pass some of that brilliance along,” I mutter, mostly to the station walls. Somewhere, I bet my siblings are making fun of me. Probably watching soap dramas and eating improperly reheated stew. Bless them. They were my first reality check, and I still measure the world by how weird it is compared to them. Loved them for how hard they made me feel normal after all.

    The wind howls across the shutters. I stand up straight, brush the dust off my sleeves. Helix 25 is almost here.

    “Showtime,” I say, and grin. Not the nice kind. The kind that says I’ve got one wrench, three working systems, and no intention of rolling over.

    The Flying Fish Inn shaped me with every loud, strange, inexplicable day. It gave me humor. It gave me bite. It gave me an unshakable sense of self when everything else fell apart.

    So here I stand—keeper of the last Martian fueling post, scrappy guardian of whatever future shows up next.

    I glance once more at the transceiver, then hit the big green button to unlock the landing bay.

    “Welcome to Mars,” I say, deadpan. Then add, mostly to myself, “Let’s see if they’re ready for me.”

    #7856
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Chapter Title: A Whiff of Inspiration – a work in progress by Elizabeth Tattler

      The morning light slanted through the towering windows of the grand old house, casting a warm glow upon the chaos within. Elizabeth Tattler, famed author and mistress of the manor, found herself pacing the length of the room with the grace of a caged lioness. Her mind was a churning whirlpool of creative fury, but alas, it was not the only thing trapped within.

      Finnley!” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the walls with a resonance that only years of authoritative writing could achieve. “Finnley, where are you hiding?”

      Finnley, emerging from behind the towering stacks of Liz’s half-finished manuscripts, wielded her trusty broom as if it were a scepter. “I’m here, I’m here,” she grumbled, her tone as prickly as ever. “What is it now, Liz? Another manuscript disaster? A plot twist gone awry?”

      “Trapped abdominal wind, my dear Finnley,” Liz declared with dramatic flair, clutching her midsection as if to emphasize the gravity of her plight. “Since two in the morning! A veritable tempest beneath my ribs! I fear this may become the inspiration—or rather, aspiration—for my next novel.”

      Finnley rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected over years of service. “Oh, for Flove’s sake, Liz. Perhaps you should bottle it and sell it as ‘Creative Muse’ for struggling writers. Now, what do you need from me?”

      “Oh, I’ve decided to vent my frustrations in a blog post. A good old-fashioned rant, something to stir the pot and perhaps ruffle a few feathers!” Liz’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “I’m certain it shall incense 95% of my friends, but what better way to clear the mind and—hopefully—the bowels?”

      At that moment, Godfrey, Liz’s ever-distracted editor, shuffled in with a vacant look in his eyes. “Did someone mention something about… inspiration?” he asked, blinking as if waking from a long slumber.

      “Yes, Godfrey, inspiration!” Liz exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “Though in my case, it’s more like… ‘inflation’! I’ve become a gastronaut! ” She chuckled at her own pun, eliciting a groan from Finnley.

      Godfrey, oblivious to the undercurrents of the conversation, nodded earnestly. “Ah, splendid! Speaking of which, have you written that opening scene yet, Liz? The publishers are rather eager, you know.”

      Liz threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Dear Godfrey, with my innards in such turmoil, how could I possibly focus on an opening scene?” She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, I were to channel this very predicament into my story. Perhaps a character with a similar plight, trapped on a space station with only their imagination—and intestinal distress—for company.”

      Finnley snorted, her stern facade cracking ever so slightly. “A tale of cosmic flatulence, is it? Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

      And with that, Liz knew she had found her muse—an unorthodox one, to be sure, but a muse nonetheless. As the words began to flow, she could only hope that relief, both literary and otherwise, was soon to follow.

      (story repeats at the beginning)

      #7852
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        “Tundra Finds the Shoat-lion”

        FADE IN:

        EXT. THE GOLDEN TROWEL BAR — DUSK

        A golden, muted twilight paints the landscape, illuminating the overgrown ivy and sprawled vines reclaiming the ancient tavern. THE GOLDEN TROWEL sign creaks gently in the breeze above the doorway.

        ANGLE DOWN TO — TUNDRA, a spirited and curious 12-year-old girl with a wild, freckled pixie-cut and striking auburn hair, stepping carefully over ivy-covered stones and debris. She wears worn clothes, stitched lovingly by survivors; a scavenged backpack swings on one shoulder.

        Behind her, through the windows of the tavern, warm lantern-light flickers. We glimpse MOLLY and GREGOR smiling and chatting quietly through dusty glass.

        ANGLE ON — Tundra as she pauses, hearing a soft rustling near the abandoned beer barrels stacked against the tavern wall. Her green eyes widen, alert and intrigued.

        SLOW PAN DOWN to reveal a small creature trembling in the shadows—a MARCASSIN, a tiny wild piglet no larger than a rugby ball, with coarse fur streaked ginger and cinnamon stripes along its body. Large dark eyes stare up, innocence mixed with wary curiosity. It’s adorable yet clearly distinct, with sharper canines already hinting at the deeply mutated carnivorous lineage of Hungary’s lion-boars.

        Tundra inhales softly, visibly torn between instinctual cautiousness her elders taught and her own irrepressible instinct of compassion.

        TUNDRA
        (soft, gentle)
        “It’s alright…I won’t hurt you.”

        She crouches slowly, reaching into her pocket—a small piece of stale bread emerges, held in her outstretched hand.

        CLOSE-UP on the marcassin’s wary eyes shifting cautiously to her extended palm. A heartbeat of hesitation, and then it takes a tentative step forward, sniffing gently. Tundra holds utterly still, breath held in earnest hope.

        The marcassin edges closer, wet nose brushing her fingers softly. Tundra beams, freckles highlighted by the fading sun, warmth and joy glowing on her face.

        TUNDRA
        (whispering happily)
        “You’re not so scary, are you? I’m Tundra… I think we could be friends.”

        Movement at the tavern door draws her attention. The worn wood creaks as MOLLY and GREGOR step outside, shadows stretching long in the golden sunset. MOLLY’s eyes, initially alert with careful caution, soften at the touching scene.

        MOLLY
        (gently amused, warmly amused yet apprehensive)
        “Careful now, darling. Even the smallest things aren’t always what they seem these days.”

        GREGOR
        (softly chuckling, eyes twinkling)
        “But then again, neither are we.”

        ANGLE ON Tundra, looking up to meet Molly’s eyes. Her determination tempered only by vulnerability, hope, and youthful stubbornness.

        TUNDRA
        “It needs us, Nana Molly. Everything needs somebody nowadays.”

        Molly considers the wisdom in Tundra’s young, earnest gaze. Gregor stifles a smile and pats Molly lightly lovingly on the shoulder.

        GREGOR
        (warmly, quietly)
        “Ah, let her find hope where she sees it. Might be that little thing will change how we see hope ourselves.”

        ANGLE WIDE — the small group beside the tavern: Molly, her wise and caring gaze thoughtful; Gregor’s stance gentle yet cautiously protective; Tundra radiating youthful bravery, cradling newfound companionship as the marcassin squeaks softly, cuddling gently against her worn sweater.

        ASCENDING SHOT ABOVE the tumbledown ancient Hungarian tavern, the warm glow of lantern and sunset mingling. Ancient vines and wild weeds whisper forgotten stories as stars blink awake above.

        In that gentle hush, beneath a wild and vast sky reclaiming an abandoned land, Tundra’s act of compassion quietly rekindles hope for humanity’s delicate future.

        FADE OUT.

        #7846

        Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

        The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

        Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

        Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

        A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

        The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

        She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

        She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

        But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

        The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

        And, most importantly—
        Who had sent the signal?

        :fleuron2:

        Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

        The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

        By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

        The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

        He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

        Access Denied.

        That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

        He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

        The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
        And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

        Ellis exhaled slowly.

        She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

        He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

        Evie needed to see this.

        :fleuron2:

        The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

        How long have I been gone?

        She exhaled. Irrelevant.

        Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

        Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

        Victor Holt.

        The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

        And now?

        Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

        Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

        Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

        She had questions.
        And someone had better start providing answers.

        #7843

        Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

        The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

        In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

        In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

        The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

        It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

        A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

        “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

        A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

        Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

        That was without counting when the madness began.

        :fleuron2:

        The Gossip Spiral

        “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
        “The Lexican?” gasped another.
        “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
        “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
        “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
        “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

        A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

        This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

        Wisdom Against Wisdom

        Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

        “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

        Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

        “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

        Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

        Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

        The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

        By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

        Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

        More Mass Lunacy 

        It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

        “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
        “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
        “Who took my water flask?!”
        “Why is this man so close to me?!”
        “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

        Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

        “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

        Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

        Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

        Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
        Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
        Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
        A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
        Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

        The Unions and the Leopards

        Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

        “Bloody management.”
        “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
        “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
        “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
        “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

        One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

        The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

        “…seriously?”

        “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

        “That’s inhumane.”

        “Bloody right it is.”

        At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

        “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

        The Slingshot Begins

        The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

        Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
        Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
        Someone else vomited.

        Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

        Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
        “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

        Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

        “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

        #7841

        Klyutch Base – an Unknown Signal

        The flickering green light on the old console pulsed like a heartbeat.

        Orrin Holt leaned forward, tapping the screen. A faint signal had appeared on their outdated long-range scanners—coming from the coastline near the Black Sea. He exchanged a glance with Commander Koval, the no-nonsense leader of Klyutch Base.

        “That can’t be right,” muttered Janos Varga, Solara’s husband who was managing the coms’ beside him. “We haven’t picked up anything out of the coast in years.”

        Koval grunted like an irate bear, then exhaled sharply. “It’s not our priority. We already lost track of the fools we were following at the border. Let them go. If they went south, they’ve got bigger problems.”

        Outside, a distant roar sliced through the cold dusk—a deep, guttural sound that rattled the reinforced windows of the command room.

        Orrin didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before.

        It was the unmistakable cry of a pack of sanglions— лев-кабан lev-kaban as the locals called the monstrous mutated beasts, wild vicious boars as ferocious as rabid lions that roamed Hungary’s wilds— and they were hunting. If the escapees had made their way there, they were as good as dead.

        “Can’t waste the fuel chasing ghosts,” Koval grunted.

        But Orrin was still watching the blip on the screen. That signal had no right to be there, nothing was left in this region for years.

        “Sir,” he said slowly, “I don’t think this is just another lost survivor. This frequency—it’s old. Military-grade. And repeating. Someone wants to be found.”

        A beat of silence. Then Koval straightened.

        “You better be right Holt. Everyone, gear up.”

        Merdhyn – Lazurne Coastal Island — The Signal Tossed into Space

        Merdhyn Winstrom wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers still trembling from the final connection. He’d made a ramshackle workshop out of a crumbling fishing shack on the deserted islet near Lazurne. He wasn’t one to pay too much notice to the mess or anythings so pedestrian —even as the smell of rusted metal and stale rations had started to overpower the one of sea salt and fish guts.

        The beacon’s old circuitry had been a nightmare, but the moment the final wire sparked to life, he had known that the old tech had awoken: it worked.

        The moment it worked, for the first time in decades, the ancient transponder from the crashed Helix 57 lifeboat had sent a signal into the void.

        If someone was still out there, something was bound to hear it… it was a matter of time, but he had the intuition that he may even get an answer back.

        Tuppence, the chatty rat had returned on his shoulder to nestle in the folds of his makeshift keffieh, but squeaked in protest as the old man let out a half-crazed, victorious laugh.

        “Oh, don’t give me that look, you miserable blighter. We just opened the bloody door.”

        Beyond the broken window, the coastline stretched into the grey horizon. But now… he wasn’t alone.

        A sharp, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the distance.

        Helicopters.

        He stepped outside, the biting wind lashing at his face, and watched the dark shapes appear on the horizon—figures moving through the low mist.

        Armed. Military-like.

        The men from the nearby Klyutch Base had found him.

        Merdhyn grinned, utterly unfazed by their weapons or the silent threat in their stance. He lifted his trembling, grease-stained hands and pointed back toward the wreckage of Helix 57 behind him.

        “Well then,” he called, voice almost cheerful, “reckon you lot might have the spare parts I need.”

        The soldiers hesitated. Their weapons didn’t lower.

        Merdhyn, however, was already walking toward them, rambling as if they’d asked him the most natural of questions.

        “See, it’s been a right nightmare. Power couplings were fried. Comms were dead. And don’t get me started on the damn heat regulators. But you lot? You might just be the final missing piece.”

        Commander Koval stepped forward, assessing the grizzled old man with the gleam of a genuine mad genius in his eyes.

        Orrin Holt, however, wasn’t looking at the wreck.

        His eyes were on the beacon.

        It was still pulsing, but its pulse had changed — something had been answering back.

        #7828

        Helix 25 – The Murder Board

        Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

        The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

        Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

        Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

        She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

        She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

        He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

        They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
        So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

        1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
          Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
          Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
          Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
          The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
        2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
          The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
          Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
          The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
        3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
          Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
          Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

        Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

        Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

        She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

        A heavy silence settled between them.

        Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

        Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

        Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

        TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

        Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

        Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

        Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

        Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

        Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

        The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
        It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

        Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

        Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

        Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

        TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

        Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

        “Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

        Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

        TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

        Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

        “Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

        Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

        Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

        A chime interrupted them.

        A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

        Evie stiffened.

        Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

        Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

        He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

        #7809

        Earth, Black Sea Coastal Island near Lazurne, Ukraine – The Tinkerer

        Cornishman Merdhyn Winstrom had grown accustomed to the silence.

        It wasn’t the kind of silence one found in an empty room or a quiet night in Cornwall, but the profound, devouring kind—the silence of a world were life as we knew it had disappeared. A world where its people had moved on without him.

        The Black Sea stretched before him, vast and unknowable, still as a dark mirror reflecting a sky that had long since stopped making promises. He stood on the highest point of the islet, atop a jagged rock behind which stood in contrast to the smooth metal of the wreckage.

        His wreckage.

        That’s how he saw it, maybe the last man standing on Earth.

        It had been two years since he stumbled upon the remains of Helix 57 shuttle —or what was left of it. Of all the Helixes cruise ships that were lost, the ones closest to Earth during the Calamity had known the most activity —people trying to leave and escape Earth, while at the same time people in the skies struggling to come back to loved ones. Most of the orbital shuttles didn’t make it during the chaos, and those who did were soon lost to space’s infinity, or Earth’s last embrace.

        This shuttle should have been able to land a few hundred people to safety —Merdhyn couldn’t find much left inside when he’d discovered it, survivors would have been long dispersed looking for food networks and any possible civilisation remnants near the cities. It was left here, a gutted-out orbital shuttle, fractured against the rocky coast, its metal frame corroded by salt air, its systems dead. The beauty of mechanics was that dead wasn’t the same as useless.

        And Merdhyn never saw anything as useless.

        With slow, methodical care, he adjusted the small receiver strapped to his wrist—a makeshift contraption built from salvaged components, scavenged antennae, and the remains of an old Soviet radio. He tapped the device twice. The static fizzled, cracked. Nothing.

        “Still deaf,” he muttered.

        Perched at his shoulder, Tuppence chattered at him, a stuborn rodent that attached himself and that Merdhyn had adopted months ago as he was scouting the area. He reached his pocket and gave it a scrap of food off a stale biscuit still wrapped in the shiny foil.

        Merdhyn exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He was getting too old for this. Too many years alone, too many hours hunched over corroded circuits, trying to squeeze life from what had already died.

        But the shuttle wasn’t dead. After his first check, he was quite sure. Now it was time to get to work.

        He stepped inside, ducking beneath an exposed beam, brushing past wiring that had long since lost its insulation. The stale scent of metal and old circuitry greeted him. The interior was a skeletal mess—panels missing, control consoles shattered, displays reduced to nothing but flickering ghosts of their former selves.

        Still, he had power.

        Not much. Just enough to light a few panels, enough to make him think he wasn’t mad for trying.

        As it happened, Merdhyn had a plan: a ridiculous, impossible, brilliant plan.

        He would fix it.

        The whole thing if he could, but if anything. It would certainly take him months before the shuttle from Helix 57 could go anywhere— that is, in one piece. He could surely start to repair the comms, get a signal out, get something moving, then maybe—just maybe—he could find out if there was anything left out there.

        Anything that wasn’t just sea and sky and ghosts.

        He ran his fingers along the edge of the console, feeling the warped metal. The ship had crashed hard. It shouldn’t have made it down in one piece, but something had slowed it. Some system had tried to function, even in its dying moments.

        That meant something was still alive.

        He just had to wake it up.

        Tuppence chittered, scurrying onto his shoulder.

        Merdhyn chuckled. “Aye, I know. One of these days, I’ll start talking to people instead of rats.”

        Tuppence flicked her tail.

        He pulled out a battered datapad—one of his few working relics—and tapped the screen. The interface stuttered, but held. He navigated to his schematics, his notes, his carefully built plans.

        The transponder array.

        If he could get it working, even partially, he might be able to listen.

        To hear something—anything—on the waves beyond this rock.

        A voice. A signal. A trace of the world that had forgotten him.

        Merdhyn exhaled. “Let’s see if we can get you talking again, eh?”

        He adjusted his grip, tools clinking at his belt, and got to work.

        #7807

        HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

        Finkley pressed herself against the smooth metal doorway of the Jardenery, her small wiry frame unnoticeable in the dim light filtering through the tangle of vines. The sterile scent of Helix 25’s corridors had faded behind her, replaced by the aroma of damp earth. A place of dirt and disorder. She shuddered.

        A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

        What’s going on?

        Finja’s tone was strident and clear. The ancient telepathic link that connected the cleaner family through many generations was strong, even in space. All the FinFamily (FF) had the gift to some extent, occasionally even with strangers. It just wasn’t nearly as accurate.

        Shush. They’re talking about blood. And Herbert.

        She felt Finja’s presence surge in response, her horrified thoughts crackling through their link. Blood!

        Riven’s skeptical voice: “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

        Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

        It’s not particularly funny, responded Finja. It means someone on the ship is carrying distorted DNA. Her presence pulsed with irritation; it all sounded so complicated and grubby. And god knows what else. Bacteria? Ancestral grime? Generational filth? Honestly Finkley, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about with this group of wandering savages …

        Finkley inhaled sharply as Romualdo stepped into view. She held her breath, pressing even closer to the doorway. He was so cute. Unclean, of course, but so adorable.

        She pondered whether she could overlook the hygiene. Maybe … if he bathed first?

        Get a grip. Finja’s snarl crashed through her musings, complete with eye-roll.

        Finkley reddened. She had momentarily forgotten that Finja was there.

        So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

        I bet they didn’t disinfect properly. Finja’s response was immediate. See what you can find out later. 

        Inside, Romualdo picked up a book from his workbench and waved it. Finkley barely needed to read the title before Finja’s shocked cry of recognition filled her mind.

        Liz Tattler!

        A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

        Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

        Finley—another member of the family. She cleaned for Liz Tattler, the mad but famous author. It was well known—at least within the family— that Liz’s fame was largely due to Finley’s talents as a writer. Which meant, whatever this was, it had somehow tangled itself up in the FF network.

        Liz’s Finley hasn’t responded for years —I assumed… Finja’s voice trailed off.

        There’s still hope! You never know with that one. She was always stand-offish and mysterious. And that Liz really abused her good nature. 

        Finkley swallowed hard. They were close to something big—something hidden beneath layers of time and mystery. And whatever it was, it had just become personal.

        Finja, there’s no time to lose! We need to find out more. 

        #7731

        The colours were bright, garish really, an impossibly blue sea and sky and splashes of pillar box red on the square shaped cars and dated clothes, but it was his favourite postcard of them all.  It wasn’t the most scenic, it wasn’t the most spectacular location, but it was an echo from those long ago days of summer, of seaside holidays, souvenirs and a dozen postcards to write at a beachside cafe. The days when the post was delivered by conscientious postmen such as he himself had been, and the postcards arrived at their destinations before the holidaymakers had returned to their suburban homes and city jobs. The scene in the postcard was bathed in glorious sunshine, but the message on the back told the usual tale of the weather and the rain and that it might brighten up tomorrow but they were having a lovely time and they’d be back on Sunday and would the recipients get them a loaf and a pint of milk.

        Ellis Marlowe put the Margate postcard to the back of the pile in his hand and pondered the image on the next one.  He sighed at the image of the Statue of Liberty, sickly green, sadly proclaiming the height of a lost empire, and quickly put it at the back of the pile. Nobody needed to dwell on that story.

        His perusal of the next image, an alpine meadow with an attractively skirted peasant scampering in a field, was interrupted with a bang on his door as Finkley barged in without waiting for a response.  “There’s been a murder on the ship! Murder!  Poor sod’s been dessicated like a dried tomato…”

        Ellis looked at her in astonishment. His hand shook slightly as he put his postcard collection back in the box, replaced the lid and returned it to his locker.  “Murder?” he repeated. “Murder? On here? But we’re supposed to be safe here, we left all that behind.”  Visibly shaken, Ellis repeated, almost shouting, “But we left all that behind!”

        #7707

        Matteo — Easter Break 2023

        The air in the streets carried the sweet intoxicating smell of orange blossoms, as Matteo stood at the edge of a narrow cobbled street in Xàtiva, the small town just a train ride from Valencia that Juliette had insisted on visiting. The weekend had been a blur of color and history—street markets in Italy, Venetian canals last month, and now this little-known hometown of the Borgias, nestled under the shadow of an ancient castle.

        Post-pandemic tourism was reshaping the rhythm of Europe. The crowds in the big capitals felt different now—quieter in some places, overwhelming in others. Xàtiva, however, seemed untouched, its charm untouched. Matteo liked it. It felt authentic, a place with layers to uncover.

        Juliette, as always, had planned everything. She had a knack for unearthing destinations that felt simultaneously curated and spontaneous. They had started with the obvious—Berlin, Amsterdam, Florence—but now her choices were becoming more eccentric.

        “Where do you even find these places?” Matteo had asked on the flight to Valencia, his curiosity genuine.

        She grinned, pulling out her phone and scrolling through saved videos. “Here,” she said, passing it to him. “This channel had great ideas before it went dark. He had listed all those places with 1-euro houses deals in many fantastic places in Europe. Once we’re ready to settle” she smiled at him.

        The video that played featured sweeping shots of abandoned stone houses and misty mountain roads, narrated by a deep, calm voice. “There’s magic in forgotten places,” the narrator said. “A story waiting for the right hands to revive it.”

        Matteo leaned closer, intrigued. The channel was called Wayfare, and the host, though unnamed in the video, had a quiet magnetism that made him linger. The content wasn’t polished—some shots were shaky, the editing rough—but there was an earnestness to it that immediately captured his attention.

        “This guy’s great,” Matteo said. “What happened to him?”

        “Darius, I think his name was,” Juliette replied. “I loved his videos. He didn’t have a huge audience, but it felt like he was speaking to you, you know?” She shrugged. “He shut it down a while back. Rumors about some drama with patrons or something.”

        Matteo handed the phone back, his interest waning. “Too bad,” he said. “I like his style.”

        The train ride to Xàtiva had been smooth, the rolling hills and sun-drenched orchards sliding slowly outside the window. The time seemed to move at a slower pace here. Matteo’d been working with an international moving company in Paris, mostly focused to expats in and out of France. Tips were good and it usually meant having a tiring week, but what the job lacked in interest, it compensated with with extra recuperation days.

        As they climbed toward the castle overlooking the town, Juliette rattled off details she’d picked up online.

        “The Borgias are fascinating,” she said, gesturing toward the town below. “They came from here, you know. Rose to power around the 13th century. Claimed they were descended from Visigoth kings, but most people think that’s all invention.”

        “Clever, though,” Matteo said. “Makes you almost wish you had a magic box to smartly rewrite your ancestry, that people would believe it if you play it right.”

        Juliette smiled. “Yeah! They were masters cheaters and gaslighters.”

        “Reinventing where they came from, like us, always reinventing where we go…”

        Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

        Matteo’s mind wandered, threading Juliette’s history lesson with stories his grandmother used to tell—tales of the Borgias’ rise through cunning and charm, and how they were descended from the infamous family through Lucrecia, the Pope’s illegitimate daughter. It was strange how family lore could echo through places so distant from where he’d grown up.

        As they reached the castle’s summit, Matteo paused to take it all in. The valley stretched below them, a patchwork of red-tiled rooftops and olive groves shimmering in the afternoon light. Somewhere in this region, Juliette said, Darius had explored foreclosed homes, hoping to revive them with new communities. Matteo couldn’t help but think how odd it was, these faint connections between lives—threads weaving places and people together, even when the patterns weren’t clear.

        :fleuron2:

        Later, over a shared plate of paella, Juliette nudged him with her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

        “Nothing much,” Matteo said, swirling his glass of wine. “Just… how people tell stories. The Borgias, this Darius guy, even us—everyone’s looking for a way to leave a mark, even if it’s just on a weekend trip.”

        Juliette smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you better leave your mark tomorrow. I want a picture of you standing on that castle wall.”

        Matteo laughed, raising his glass. “Deal. But only if you promise not to fall off first.”

        As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets of Xàtiva began to glow with the warmth of lamplight. Matteo leaned back in his chair, the wine softening the edges of the day. For a moment, he thought of Darius again—of foreclosed homes and forgotten stories. He didn’t dwell on it, though. The present was enough.

        #7706
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          “Where are you scurrying of to now, Finnley? And what are you doing with my pantomime costumes?”

          Shooting a look of exasperation at Liz, Finnley replied, “To the cleaners, they smell of mold. And stale cigarette smoke. Disgusting, if you ask me.”

          “Nobody did ask you what you thought Finnley, I asked what you were doing.”

          Finnley had had enough. She bundled up the voluminous satin and sequinned net into an approximation of a big snowball and launched it at Liz. As it flew through the room it unravelled, an updraught sending a length of lacy net upwards to catch on the chandelier, causing it to swing in lurching circles.

          At that moment, Roberto’s face appeared in the window, registering a look of fascinated horror. “It’s the ghost of Pink Pantomine Past!  Now we’re in trouble!”

          Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
          Participant

            All about Liz Tattler

            [Scene opens with an elegant study, filled with books and ornate furniture. Liz Tattler sits comfortably in a plush armchair, draped in her signature flamboyant attire.]

            Narrator (warm, engaging voice): “Meet Liz Tattler, the visionary behind countless bestsellers.”

            [Quick cuts: Liz passionately gesturing as she describes her creative process, her hands adorned with long, pink nails.]

            Narrator: “A master of transforming the mundane into the magical.”

            [A playful montage of Liz surrounded by whimsical titles, each book cover a splash of color and intrigue.]

            Narrator: “Where outrageous tales and heartfelt truths dance in harmony.”

            [End with a close-up of Liz, a twinkle in her eye, the words “A Legacy of Imagination” glowing beneath her.]

            Narrator: “Join us for an exclusive glimpse into the world of a storytelling legend.”

            [Screen fades to “Liz Tattler: A Lifetime of Bestsellers” with contact details for the interview.]

            #7665
            IdleIdle
            Participant

              A link to another previous video I quite like.

              Some rushes from Corrie and Clove, as we try to advertise the Flying Fish Inn.

               

              La escena comienza con una toma aérea del bush australiano, mostrando extensas áreas de matorrales verdes y marrones, con un camino serpenteante que lleva al Flying Fish Inn, un encantador edificio rústico rodeado de naturaleza salvaje.
              La imagen transiciona a una anciana enérgica en el jardín del Inn, riendo junto a un kookaburra posado en su hombro. Su expresión es cálida y acogedora.
              La escena cambia rápidamente a la Tía Idle, con trenzas, en una habitación vibrante llena de murales de dreamtime, con las gemelas Clove y Corrie trabajando en su arte.
              La vista serena del atardecer desde la veranda del Inn muestra un cielo pintado con tonos de naranja y rosa, mientras el entorno se sumerge en una tranquilidad mágica.
              La pantalla se desvanece al logo del Flying Fish Inn, acompañado de información de contacto y un suave toque musical.

              :fleuron:

              [Scene opens with a sweeping aerial shot of the Australian bush, transitioning to the rustic charm of the Flying Fish Inn nestled amidst the wild beauty.]

              Narrator (calm, inviting voice): “Escape to the heart of the outback at the Flying Fish Inn, where stories come alive.”

              [Cut to Mater, a sprightly centenarian, in the garden with her kookaburra friend, a warm smile on her face.]

              Narrator: “Meet Mater, our beloved storyteller, celebrated for her legendary bush tucker cuisine.”

              [Quick transition to Aunt Idle, in a vibrant room adorned with dreamtime murals, created by the twins Clove and Corrie.]

              Narrator: “Join Aunt Idle, brimming with tales of adventure, and marvel at the dreamtime artwork by the creative twins.”

              [Flashes of Prune with a telescope, gazing at the stars, embodying her dream of Mars.]

              Narrator: “And Prune, the stargazer, connecting dreams and reality under the vast desert sky.”

              [End with a serene sunset view from the Inn’s veranda, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink.]

              Narrator: “Discover the magic of the bush and the warmth of community. Your outback adventure awaits at the Flying Fish Inn.”

              [The screen fades to the Flying Fish Inn logo with contact information and a gentle musical flourish.]

              #7659
              Jib
              Participant

                March 2024

                The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.

                He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.

                Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”

                As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.

                “I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.

                “It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”

                “I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”

                Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”

                Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”

                “Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”

                Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”

                A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”

                “We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.

                Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.

                “You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”

                The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”

                The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”

                The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”

                Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

                He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.

                When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.

                The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.

                “What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.

                Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.

                Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”

                The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.

                Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”

                “It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.

                Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”

                Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”

                Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”

                “Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”

                Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.

                Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.

                He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.

                Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
                He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.

                #7625
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Characters list

                  Character / Personality TraitsConnection clues to Matteo

                  • Lucien
                    • The Artist
                    • Introspective, dreamy, quietly sarcastic
                    • A painter who sees the world in textures and light. His sketchbook holds fragmented memories of their shared past.
                    • Matteo recalls Lucien’s fleeting romance marked by an order of absinthe—a memory Lucien himself can’t fully place.
                  • Elara
                    • The Scientist
                    • Analytical, sharp, skeptical
                    • A physicist drawn to patterns and precision. Her research often brushes the edges of metaphysical questions.
                    • Matteo remembers her ordering black coffee, always focused, and making fleeting remarks about the nature of time.
                  • Darius
                    • The Explorer
                    • Bold, restless, deeply curious
                    • A wanderer with a talent for uncovering hidden stories. He carries artifacts of his travels like talismans.
                    • Matteo recalls a postcard Darius once gave him —a detail that surprises even Darius.
                  • Amei
                    • The Storyteller
                    • Observant, wise, enigmatic
                    • A weaver of tales who often carries journals filled with unfinished stories. She sees connections others miss.
                    • Matteo knows her through her ritual of mint tea and her belief that the right tea could mend almost anything.

                  • Matteo
                    • The Enigmatic Server
                    • Charismatic, cryptic, all-knowing
                    • A waiter with an uncanny awareness of the four friends, both individually and collectively.
                    • Holds a quiet, unspoken role as the bridge between their shared pasts, though his true connection remains unexplained.

                  #7618

                  Matteo Appears

                  Matteo approached the table, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, his dark eyes flicking over the group as though cataloging details in an invisible ledger. His waistcoat, sharp and clean, gave him a practiced professionalism, but there was something else—a casual, unspoken authority that drew attention.

                  “Good evening,” he began, his voice smooth and low, almost conspiratorial. Then, he froze for the briefest moment, his gaze shifting from face to face, the easy smile tightening at the corners.

                  “Well,” Matteo said finally, his smile broadening as if he’d just solved a riddle. “Here you all are. Together, at last.”

                  The group exchanged glances, each of them caught off-guard by the comment.

                  “You say that like you’ve been expecting us,” Elara said, her tone measured but sharp, as if probing for variables.

                  “Not expecting,” Matteo replied, his eyes glinting. “But hoping, perhaps. It’s… good to see you all like this. It fits, somehow.”

                  “What fits?” Darius asked, leaning forward. His voice was lighter than Elara’s but carried a weight that suggested he wouldn’t let the question drop easily.

                  Matteo’s smile deepened, though he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set down his tray and folded his hands in front of him, his posture relaxed but deliberate, as though he were balancing on the edge of some invisible line.

                  “You’ve never all been here before,” he said, a simple statement that landed like a challenge.

                  “Wait,” Amei said, narrowing her eyes. “You know us?”

                  “Oh, I know you,” Matteo replied, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. “Individually, yes. But together? This is new. And it’s… remarkable.”

                  “Remarkable how?” Lucien asked, his pencil stilled over his sketchbook.

                  Matteo tilted his head, considering the question as though weighing how much to say. “Let’s just call it a rarity. Things don’t often align so neatly. It’s not every day you see… well, this.”

                  He gestured toward them with a sweeping hand, as if the mere fact of their presence at the table was something extraordinary.

                  “You’re being cryptic,” Elara said, her voice edged with suspicion.

                  “It’s a talent,” Matteo replied smoothly.

                  “Alright, hold on.” Darius leaned back, his chair creaking under him. “How do you know us? I’ve never been here before. Not once.”

                  “Nor I,” Amei added, her voice soft but steady.

                  Matteo raised an eyebrow, his smile taking on a knowing tilt. “No, not here. But that’s not the only place to know someone, is it?”

                  The words hung in the air, unsettling and oddly satisfying at once.

                  “You’re saying we’ve met you before?” Elara asked.

                  Matteo inclined his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

                  “That doesn’t make sense,” Lucien said, his voice quiet but firm.

                  “Doesn’t it?” Matteo countered, his tone almost playful. “After all, do we ever truly remember every thread that weaves us together? Sometimes we only see the pattern when it’s complete.”

                  A pause settled over the table, heavy with unspoken questions. Matteo shifted his weight, breaking the silence with an easy gesture.

                  “It doesn’t matter how,” he said finally. “What matters is that you’re here. That’s what counts.”

                  “For what?” Amei asked, her eyes narrowing.

                  “For whatever happens next,” Matteo replied, as if the answer were obvious. Then he straightened, his professional mask sliding back into place with effortless grace.

                  “Now, what can I bring you?” he asked, his tone light again, as though the previous exchange hadn’t happened.

                  One by one, they placed their orders, though their minds were clearly elsewhere. Matteo scribbled in his notebook, his pen moving with deliberate strokes, and then he looked up once more.

                  “Thank you for being here,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It’s been… a long time coming.”

                  And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with the same fluidity he’d arrived.

                  They sat in silence for a moment, his words pressing down on them like a hand on a wound, familiar and foreign all at once.

                  “What the hell was that?” Darius asked finally, breaking the spell.

                  “Does he seem… different to you?” Amei asked, her voice distant.

                  “He seems impossible,” Elara replied, her fingers tapping an unconscious rhythm on the table.

                  “He remembered me,” Lucien said, almost to himself. “Something about absinthe.”

                  “I’ve never even met him,” Elara said, her voice rising slightly. “But he knew… too much.”

                  “And he didn’t explain anything,” Darius added, shaking his head.

                  “Maybe he didn’t need to,” Amei said softly, her gaze fixed on the space Matteo had just vacated.

                  They lapsed into silence again, the noise of the café returning in fits and starts, like an orchestra warming up after a pause. Somewhere, a glass clinked against porcelain; outside, the violinist struck a note so low it hummed against the windowpane.

                  The four of them sat there, strangers and friends all at once, the questions left dangling between them like stars in a cloudy sky. Whatever Matteo had meant, it was clear this moment was no coincidence. It wasn’t an end, nor a beginning—it was the start of something unraveling, something they couldn’t yet see.

                  And though none of them said it aloud, the thought was the same: What had happened before?

                  :fleuron2:

                  Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth

                  #7578

                  When Eris gave Jeezel carte blanche to decorate the meeting room, Frella and Truella looked at her as if she’d handed fireworks to a dragon. They protested immediately, arguing that giving Jeezel that much freedom was like inviting a storm draped in sequins and velvet. After all, Jeezel was a queen diva—a master of flair and excess, ready to transform any ordinary space into a grand stage for her dramatic vision. In their eyes, it would defeat the whole purpose! But Eris raised a firm hand, silencing her sister’s objections.

                  “Let’s be honest, Malové is no ordinary witch,” she began, addressing Truella, Frella, and even Jeezel, who was still stung by her sisters’ criticism of her decorating skills. “We don’t know how many centuries that witch has been roaming the world, gathering knowledge and sharpening her mind. But what we do know is that she’d detect any concealing spell in a heartbeat.”

                  “Yeah, you’re right,” Truella agreed. “I think that’s the smell…”

                  “You mean based on your last potion experiment?” snorted Frella.

                  “Girls, focus,” Eris said. “This meeting is long overdue, and we need to conceal the truth-revealing spell’s elements. Jeezel’s flair may be our best distraction. Malové has always dismissed her grandiosity as harmless extravagance, so for once, let’s use that to our advantage.”

                  While Eris spoke, Jeezel’s brow furrowed as she engaged in an animated dialogue with her inner diva, picturing every details. Frella rolled her eyes subtly, glancing off-camera as though for dramatic effect.

                  “Isn’t that a bit much for a meeting?” Truella groaned. “You already assigned us topics to prepare. Now we’re adding decorations?”

                  “You won’t have to lift a finger,” Jeezel declared. “I’ve got it all under control—and I already have everything we need. Here’s my vision: Halloween is coming, so the decor should be both elegant and enchanting. I’ll start by draping the room in velvet curtains in deep purples and midnight blacks—straight from my own bedroom.”

                  Truella’s jaw dropped, while Jeezel’s grin only widened.

                  “Oh! I love those,” Frella murmured approvingly.

                  “Next, delicate cobweb accents with a touch of silver thread to catch the light,” Jeezel continued. “Truella, we’ll need your excavation lamps with a few colored gels. They’ll cast a warm, inviting glow—a perfect mix of relaxation and intrigue, with shadows in just the right places. And for the season, a few glowing pumpkins tucked around the room will complete the scene.”

                  Jeezel’s inner diva briefly entertained the idea of mystical fog, but she discarded it—after all, this was a meeting, not a sabbat. Instead, she proposed a more subtle touch: “To conceal the spell’s elements, I’ll bring in a few charming critters. Faux ravens perched on shelves, bats hanging from the ceiling…a whimsical, creepy-cute vibe. We’ll adorn them with runes and sigils in an insconpicuous way and Frella can cast a gentle animation spell to make them shift ever so slightly. The movement will be just enough to escape Malové’s notice as she stays focused on the meeting. That way she’ll be oblivious to the spell being woven around her.”

                  “Are you starting to see where this is going?” Eris asked, looking at her sisters.

                  Frella nodded, and before Truella could chime in with any objections, Jeezel added, “And no Halloween gathering would be complete without wickedly delightful treats! Picture a grand table with themed snacks and drinks on polished silver trays and cauldrons. Caramel apples, spiced cider, chocolates shaped like magic potions—tempting enough to charm even a disciplined witch.”

                  “Now you’re talking my language,” Truella admitted, finally warming up to the idea.

                  “Perfect, then it’s settled,” Eris said, pleased. “You all have your tasks. They’ll help us reveal her hidden agenda and how the spell is influencing her. Truella, you’l handle Historical Artifacts and Lore. Frella, with your talent for connections, you’ll cover Coven Alliances and Mutual Interests. Jeezel, you’re in charge of Telluric and Cosmic Energies—it shouldn’t be hard with your endless videos on the subject. I’ll handle the rest: Magical Incense Innovations, Leadership Philosophy, and Coven Dynamics.”

                  #7548
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Elton Marshall’s

                    Early Quaker Emigrants to USA.

                     

                    The earliest Marshall in my tree is Charles Marshall (my 5x great grandfather), Overseer of the Poor and Churchwarden of Elton. His 1819 gravestone in Elton says he was 77 years old when he died, indicating a birth in 1742, however no baptism can be found.

                    According to the Derbyshire records office, Elton was a chapelry of Youlgreave until 1866. The Youlgreave registers date back to the mid 1500s, and there are many Marshalls in the registers from 1559 onwards. The Elton registers however are incomplete due to fire damage.

                    While doing a google books search for Marshall’s of Elton, I found many American family history books mentioning Abraham Marshall of Gratton born in 1667, who became a Quaker aged 16, and emigrated to Pennsylvania USA in 1700. Some of these books say that Abraham’s parents were Humphrey Marshall and his wife Hannah Turner. (Gratton is a tiny village next to Elton, also in Youlgreave parish.)

                    Abraham’s son born in USA was also named Humphrey. He was a well known botanist.

                    Abraham’s cousin John Marshall, also a Quaker, emigrated from Elton to USA in 1687, according to these books.

                    (There are a number of books on Colonial Families in Pennsylvania that repeat each other so impossible to cite the original source)

                    colonial books

                     

                    In the Youlgreave parish registers I found a baptism in 1667 for Humphrey Marshall son of Humphrey and Hannah. I didn’t find a baptism for Abraham, but it looks as though it could be correct. Abraham had a son he named Humphrey. But did it just look logical to whoever wrote the books, or do they know for sure? Did the famous botanist Humphrey Marshall have his own family records? The books don’t say where they got this information.

                    An earlier Humphrey Marshall was baptised in Youlgreave in 1559, his father Edmund. And in 1591 another Humphrey Marshall was baptised, his father George.

                    But can we connect these Marshall’s to ours? We do have an Abraham Marshall, grandson of Charles, born in 1792. The name isn’t all that common, so may indicate a family connection. The villages of Elton, Gratton and Youlgreave are all very small and it would seem very likely that the Marshall’s who went the USA are related to ours, if not brothers, then probably cousins.

                     

                    Derbyshire Quakers

                    In “Derbyshire Quakers 1650-1761” by Helen Forde:

                    “… Friends lived predominantly in the northern half of the country during this first century of existence. Numbers may have been reduced by emigration to America and migration to other parts of the country but were never high and declined in the early eighteenth century. Predominantly a middle to lower class group economically, Derbyshire Friends numbered very few wealthy members. Many were yeoman farmers or wholesalers and it was these groups who dominated the business meetings having time to devote themselves to the Society. Only John Gratton of Monyash combined an outstanding ministry together with an organising ability which brought him recognition amongst London Friends as well as locally. Derbyshire Friends enjoyed comparatively harmonious relations with civil and Anglican authorities, though prior to the Toleration Act of 1639 the priests were their worst persecutors…..”

                    Also mentioned in this book: There were monthly meetings in Elton, as well as a number of other nearby places.
                    John Marshall of Elton 1682/3 appears in a list of Quaker emigrants from Derbyshire.

                    Quaker Emigrants

                     

                    The following image is a page from the 1753 book on the sufferings of Quakers by Joseph Besse as an example of some of the persecutions of Quakers in Derbyshire in the 1600s:

                    A collection of the sufferings of the people called Quakers, for the testimony of a good conscience from the time of their being first distinguished by that name in the year 1650 to the time of the act commonly called the Act of toleration granted to Protestant dissenters in the first year of the reign of King William the Third and Queen Mary in the year 1689 (Volume 1)
                    Besse, Joseph. 1753

                    Note the names Margaret Marshall and Anne Staley.  This book would appear to contradict Helen Forde’s statement above about the harmonious relations with Anglican authority.

                    Quaker Sufferings

                     

                     

                    The Botanist

                    Humphry Marshall 1722-1801 was born in Marshallton, Pennsylvania, the son of the immigrant from Elton, Abraham Marshall.  He was the cousin of botanists John Bartram and William Bartram. Like many early American botanists, he was a Quaker. He wrote his first book, A Few Observations Concerning Christ, in 1755.

                    Humphry marshall book

                     

                    In 1785, Marshall published Arbustrum Americanum: The American Grove, an Alphabetical Catalogue of Forest Trees and Shrubs, Natives of the American United States (Philadelphia).

                    Marshall has been called the “Father of American Dendrology”.

                    A genus of plants, Marshallia, was named in honor of Humphry Marshall and his nephew Moses Marshall, also a botanist.

                    In 1848 the Borough of West Chester established the Marshall Square Park in his honor. Marshall Square Park is four miles east of Marshallton.

                    via Wikipedia.

                     

                    From The History of Chester County Pennsylvania, 1881, by J Smith Futhey and Gilbert Cope:

                    Marshallton

                     

                    From The Chester Country History Center:

                    “Immediately on the Receipt of your Letter, I ordered a Reflecting Telescope for you which was made accordingly. Dr. Fothergill had since desired me to add a Microscope and Thermometer, and will
                    pay for the whole.’

                    – Benjamin Franklin to Humphry, March 18, 1770

                    “In his lifetime, Humphry Marshall made his living as a stonemason, farmer, and miller, but eventually became known for his contributions to astronomy, meteorology, agriculture, and the natural sciences.

                    In 1773, Marshall built a stone house with a hothouse, a botanical laboratory, and an observatory for astronomical studies. He established an arboretum of native trees on the property and the second botanical garden in the nation (John Bartram, his cousin, had the first). From his home base, Humphry expanded his botanical plant exchange business and increased his overseas contacts. With the help of men like Benjamin Franklin and the English botanist Dr. John Fothergill, they eventually included German, Dutch, Swedish, and Irish plant collectors and scientists. Franklin, then living in London, introduced Marshall’s writings to the Royal Society in London and both men encouraged Marshall’s astronomical and botanical studies by supplying him with books and instruments including the latest telescope and microscope.

                    Marshall’s scientific work earned him honorary memberships to the American Philosophical Society and the Philadelphia Society for Promoting Agriculture, where he shared his ground-breaking ideas on scientific farming methods. In the years before the American Revolution, Marshall’s correspondence was based on his extensive plant and seed exchanges, which led to further studies and publications. In 1785, he authored his magnum opus, Arbustum Americanum: The American Grove. It is a catalog of American trees and shrubs that followed the Linnaean system of plant classification and was the first publication of its kind.”

                    Humphry signature

                    #7544
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Youlgreave

                      The Frost Family and The Big Snow

                       

                      The Youlgreave parish registers are said to be the most complete and interesting in the country. Starting in 1558, they are still largely intact today.

                      “The future historian of this parish will find a vast stock of material ready to hand, and if such a work was ever accomplished it would once more be seen how the history of even a remote village is but the history of the nation in little; how national victories were announced on the church bells, and national disasters by the proclamation of a form of prayer…”

                      J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

                      Youlgreave registers

                       

                      Although the Youlgreave parish registers are available online on microfilm, just the baptisms, marriages and burials are provided on the genealogy websites. However, I found some excerpts from the churchwardens accounts in a couple of old books, The Reliquary 1864, and Notes on Derbyshire Churches 1877.

                      churchwardens accounts

                      Hannah Keeling, my 4x great grandmother, was born in Youlgreave, Derbyshire, in 1767. In 1791 she married Edward Lees of Hartington, Derbyshire, a village seven and a half miles south west of Youlgreave. Edward and Hannah’s daughter Sarah Lees, born in Hartington in 1808, married Francis Featherstone in 1835. The Featherstone’s were farmers. Their daughter Emma Featherstone married John Marshall from Elton. Elton is just three miles from Youlgreave, and there are a great many Marshall’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, some no doubt distantly related to ours.

                      Hannah Keeling’s parents were John Keeling 1734-1823, and Ellen Frost 1739-1805, both of Youlgreave.
                      On the burial entry in the parish registers in Youlgreave in 1823, John Keeling was 88 years old when he died, and was the “late parish clerk”, indicating that my 5x great grandfather played a part in compiling the “best parish registers in the country”. In 1762 John’s father in law John Frost died intestate, and John Keeling, cordwainer, co signed the documents with his mother in law Ann. John Keeling was a shoe maker and a parish clerk.

                      John Keeling

                       

                      John Keeling’s father was Thomas Keeling, baptised on the 9th of March 1709 in Youlgreave and his parents were John Keeling and Ann Ashmore. John and Ann were married on the 6th April 1708. Some of the transcriptions have Thomas baptised in March 1708, which would be a month before his parents married. However, this was before the Julian calendar was replaced by the Gregorian calendar, and prior to 1752 the new year started on the 25th of March, therefore the 9th of March 1708 was eleven months after the 6th April 1708.

                      Thomas Keeling married Dorothy, which we know from the baptism of John Keeling in 1734, but I have not been able to find their marriage recorded. Until I can find my 6x great grandmother Dorothy’s maiden name, I am unable to trace her family further back.

                      Unfortunately I haven’t found a baptism for Thomas’s father John Keeling, despite that there are Keelings in the Youlgrave registers in the early 1600s, possibly it is one of the few illegible entries in these registers.

                      The Frosts of Youlgreave

                      Ellen Frost’s father was John Frost, born in Youlgreave in 1707. John married Ann Staley of Elton in 1733 in Youlgreave.

                      (Note that this part of the family tree is the Marshall side, but we also have Staley’s in Elton on the Warren side. Our branch of the Elton Staley’s moved to Stapenhill in the mid 1700s. Robert Staley, born 1711 in Elton, died in Stapenhill in 1795. There are many Staley’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, going back to the late 1500s.)

                      John Frost (my 6x great grandfather), miner, died intestate in 1762 in Youlgreave. Miner in this case no doubt means a lead miner, mining his own land (as John Marshall’s father John was in Elton. On the 1851 census John Marshall senior was mining 9 acres). Ann Frost, as the widow and relict of the said deceased John Frost, claimed the right of administration of his estate. Ann Frost (nee Staley) signed her own name, somewhat unusual for a woman to be able to write in 1762, as well as her son in law John Keeling.

                      Frost and keeling

                       

                      John’s parents were David Frost and Ann. David was baptised in 1665 in Youlgreave. Once again, I have not found a marriage for David and Ann so I am unable to continue further back with her family. Marriages were often held in the parish of the bride, and perhaps those neighbouring parish records from the 1600s haven’t survived.

                      David’s parents were William Frost and Ellen (or Ellin, or Helen, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it). Once again, their marriage hasn’t been found, but was probably in a neighbouring parish.

                      William Frost’s wife Ellen, my 8x great grandmother, died in Youlgreave in 1713. In her will she left her daughter Catherine £20. Catherine was born in 1665 and was apparently unmarried at the age of 48 in 1713. She named her son Isaac Frost (born in 1662) executor, and left him the remainder of her “goods, chattels and cattle”.

                      Ellens will

                       

                      William Frost was baptised in Youlgreave in 1627, his parents were William Frost and Anne.
                      William Frost senior, husbandman, was probably born circa 1600, and died intestate in 1648 in Middleton, Youlgreave. His widow Anna was named in the document. On the compilation of the inventory of his goods, Thomas Garratt, Will Melland and A Kidiard are named.

                      (Husbandman: The old word for a farmer below the rank of yeoman. A husbandman usually held his land by copyhold or leasehold tenure and may be regarded as the ‘average farmer in his locality’. The words ‘yeoman’ and ‘husbandman’ were gradually replaced in the later 18th and 19th centuries by ‘farmer’.)

                      Unable to find a baptism for William Frost born circa 1600, I read through all the pages of the Youlgreave parish registers from 1558 to 1610. Despite the good condition of these registers, there are a number of illegible entries. There were three Frost families baptising children during this timeframe and one of these is likely to be Willliam’s.

                      Baptisms:
                      1581 Eliz Frost, father Michael.
                      1582 Francis f Michael. (must have died in infancy)
                      1582 Margaret f William.
                      1585 Francis f Michael.
                      1586 John f Nicholas.
                      1588 Barbara f Michael.
                      1590 Francis f Nicholas.
                      1591 Joane f Michael.
                      1594 John f Michael.
                      1598 George f Michael.
                      1600 Fredericke (female!) f William.

                      Marriages in Youlgreave which could be William’s parents:
                      1579 Michael Frost Eliz Staley
                      1587 Edward Frost Katherine Hall
                      1600 Nicholas Frost Katherine Hardy.
                      1606 John Frost Eliz Hanson.

                      Michael Frost of Youlgreave is mentioned on the Derbyshire Muster Rolls in 1585.

                      (Muster records: 1522-1649. The militia muster rolls listed all those liable for military service.)

                      Frideswide:

                      A burial is recorded in 1584 for Frideswide Frost (female) father Michael. As the father is named, this indicates that Frideswide was a child.

                      (Frithuswith, commonly Frideswide c. 650 – 19 October 727), was an English princess and abbess. She is credited as the foundress of a monastery later incorporated into Christ Church, Oxford. She was the daughter of a sub-king of a Merica named Dida of Eynsham whose lands occupied western Oxfordshire and the upper reaches of the River Thames.)

                      An unusual name, and certainly very different from the usual names of the Frost siblings. As I did not find a baptism for her, I wondered if perhaps she died too soon for a baptism and was given a saints name, in the hope that it would help in the afterlife, given the beliefs of the times. Or perhaps it wasn’t an unusual name at the time in Youlgreave. A Fridesweda Gilbert was buried in Youlgreave in 1604, the spinster daughter of Francis Gilbert. There is a small brass effigy in the church, underneath is written “Frideswide Gilbert to the grave, Hath resigned her earthly part…”

                      Frideswide

                      J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

                       

                      King James

                      A parish register entry in 1603:
                      “1603 King James of Skottland was proclaimed kinge of England, France and Ireland at Bakewell upon Monday being the 29th of March 1603.”  (March 1603 would be 1604, because of the Julian calendar in use at the time.)

                      King James

                       

                      The Big Snow

                      “This year 1614/5 January 16th began the greatest snow whichever fell uppon the earth within man’s memorye. It covered the earth fyve quarters deep uppon the playne. And for heaps or drifts of snow, they were very deep; so that passengers both horse or foot passed over yates, hedges and walles. ….The spring was so cold and so late that much cattel was in very great danger and some died….”

                      The Big Snow

                      From the Youlgreave parish registers.

                      Our ancestor William Frost born circa 1600 would have been a teenager during the big snow.

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