The Gift of the Bone-Spear. (Nigel/GH, current day)

The tailor frowned, flipping the fabric to and fro, surveying the damage with  incredulity.  If the haberdasher hadn't himself crafted the jacket for the queer man in dark glasses  but a few weeks ago, he'd think  it came from the body of a murder victim who met an unsavory end after a night at the opera. 

 

 "I daresay it would be more economically prudent to order a new coat,  as one must  rebuild the collar, back, and front panels-- the bloodstains and these dreadful rips are simply too large to patch... I could start the work with a down payment of...lets say half, about three pounds, if you want that exact fabric. You see, there have been some shocking deaths among some very prominent men recently, and their widows have taken a fancy to that same brocade as you chose-- its already quite scarce, as there are these rumours of a motley group of vigilantes who have avenged the men's murders, one of whom wore black spectacles and a riding cloak over a rather dashing frock coat of this very same figured satin silk velvet--" 

 

The tailor paused, then raised a sharp,  judgmental eyebrow to the mysterious client, his voice now a whisper across the counter.    "I've seen a lot of things in men's clothing meant to be kept secret...and  I hope she was worth it--  Not sure how you could've survived such wounds from a duel for a lady's honor, unless you were a clever cheat and wore a cuirass, just to be sure to win her from her lover..."

Collecting the destroyed garment with a dour frown, Nigel was more offended by the insinuation he would wear the archaic chest armor used by lesser cavalry units than he was by the dishonor of cheating at a duel. The bit of gossip that obliquely fingered him and the Rippers of his lodge was also unsettling.  Pondering this during a long flaneur's walk through Manchester's eerie twilight, Nigel  eventually returned to the Lodge. With a frustrated sigh, he threw the ruined coat over one of the new plush chairs that had recently appeared by the parlor hearth, and looked for the mail in hopes of finding some invitations to interview for employment.

When Nigel wasn't obligated to any other task,  he spent the early evenings wandering alone through town, observing various businesses and trades open late at night, surveying what sort of occupation he could take up to resolve the unrelenting expenses that suddenly dogged him.  Despite his  fine schooling and considerable military experience, Nigel found himself essentially underclassed beyond anything his ex- father could have wrought through disowning and decommissioning.  At one point Nigel assumed he'd spend his lordly middle-age writing of Her Majesty's  glorious Empire and its victorious military exploits he led-- in between socializing at exclusive clubs or winning polo matches, saddled not with poverty, but a fine horse and some finely titled wife with requisite heir and spares. But now Nigel realized he was utterly bereft- if not completely contemptuous- of such a vacuous vocation as his past had imprecisely predicted.

With his former rank and honors allegedly cashiered from the rolls of the British Army and the Order of Precedence,  the forsaken son's many surnames were merely a cruel and ironic hindrance.  No matter if he wore his raggy military surplus or his nicer new clothes to seek a job, Nigel was met with  mockery or disbelief by clerical employers and  working-class tradesmen alike. He was seen as a mad itinerant veteran or another trickster gypsy-- if not an outright charlatan,  claiming an earl's heritage from the peerage out of desperation, delusion, or criminal deviance.  Why would  a noble Crowninshield, issue of the Earldom of D'arcy-Lorcan, seek to labour in Manchester like a common man of industry?

Even when he assumed the less provocative name  of  "O'Neill" (in honor of the nursemaid he suspected was his true mother),  Nigel was quickly shown the NINA signboards, or driven off by racist insults. In the Catholic neighborhoods,  a charitable prayer was sometimes offered with a shake of a pitying head from from Irish proprietors.   Alas, there was not any meaningful or steady work for a man who had to wear shaded spectacles at all times due to some war-related eye injury-- a man who wanted to work nights; and also  had an unreliable schedule.

Nevertheless, Nigel found odd jobs to  keep from relying completely on the benevolence of Avendale Lodge.  A few long days a week at the Bezborodov farm were spent tending to various tasks in exchange for good vegetables, the best of company, and some humbly accepted coin.  Nigel also found further opportunity working as a medical assistant of sorts at Ivan's new practice for the poor. The man's bedside manner--especially with rude babies--was one of  compassionate competency,  and he even did more menial tasks without complaint. Nigel gratefully accepted Ivan's more than fair compensation.

But none was his passion. After the harrowing missions in service of the Queen (and the Lodge), Nigel felt he was only play-acting at this mundane business of ordinary work, even if it was sorely needed charity for the less fortunate.  He increasingly found fulfillment in his ongoing exacting task, which was to create a comprehensive compendium of the artifacts, exploits, and observations he had experienced as a Ripper.

So the small hours of this very night found the man at the Lodge's study table, pouring over a response letter from Inspector Pond where he agreed with Nigel's suggestion that the property of the murdered Rosicrucian cult stay in their safekeeping. Furthermore, the  relics collected from the swamps of Wigan had been sent over to the Rippers.  A large crate delivered by the mysterious messenger loomed over the lancer, as did Hollis' dreadful bone-spear.  Nigel felt an unsettling vertigo as he looked upon the staff, yet forced himself to concentrate on studying the magical aspects (or lack thereof) of the crate's contents.

A great pile of common items, such as rifles, ammunition, boots, and personal effects including cash  was immediately segregated, for  Nigel could not stomach these sadly futile spoils of war. The party had agreed to donate these in care of the priest of St. Mary's, to be given to those in need of self-protection or clothing; along with a small cash offering for the poor in gratitude of the priest's role at this last battle.  Yet Nigel could not forget the horrific tale of the Wigan Witches being burnt,  and he readily recalled  the  charred remnants of the little hut amid the ghost lights of the forest. Nigel penned a short letter to the priest to go along with the donations; and added a simple postscript: "These items to be used only the peaceful procurement of food, protection, and shelter:TERRIFY NOT MAN LEST GOD TERRIFY YOU"

 Frowning from an increasing  revulsion, Nigel now took up the cultists' bronze athame, using it to carefully lift dreadful artifacts of the Rakshasa.  He flung the mundane items down into another box, dutifully penning his notes despite the nauseating nearness of the offending gold element.

"From the Rakshasa, supernatural extracts for speed, strength, and vigour were ripped; now stored in the Lodge Lab...also recovered were his grand robe of velvet, silk, and gold-stitches as well as elaborate amulets, necklaces, and baubles of gold depicting tiger-demons and devils of the Hindu sect-- fortunately, neither the vestment nor the ornaments hold any magical nature: yet the weight and quality of the precious metal should realize a good sum even when melted to scrap. We cannot risk preserving this evil iconography of the a-sura, lest it fall into evil hands once more, and become charged once more with hellish power."
"From the baneful patchwork beast  that so brutalized BlackJack, there is sufficient material preserved now on ice so the doctor may attempt ripping extracts of strength from the extant organs or perhaps reaping Spinner's invention of the Adrenal pump --- *nota bene, must update aftereffects based on further JM observations*
"From the black magician Hollis, unimportant fragments of his stag mask, and a most powerful staff which---"  Here Nigel paused, unnerved by the baneful weapon which had punctured his own body to almost deadly effect, just before the apocalyptic vision of the Huntsman swept Hollis away to some awful Wild Hunt retribution.  As the evil mage's staff lay there framed by bits of deer bone and antler, Nigel turned to look up at what remained  of the great staglike-god slain at Wigan's woods weeks ago and retrieved by Pride Mother.  Hanging unadorned, the massive antlered skull seemed hardly the relic of a forest god, and more like a garish hunting  trophy taken by aspiring gentry.

Standing  resolutely, Nigel's mind now honed in on  the unorthodox courage and inexplicable will which  kept him alive through all the traumatizing toils of his fateful life. Steeling himself, one gloved hand grasped his notebooks; the other dared to take up the skeletal staff.  Nigel rushed through the once forbidden basement door.  Eyes flashed metallic in the dim gaslight as he halted stiffly before  the marvelous mechanized Master.  The bone staff  was hoisted  parallel to his side,  mindfully prevented from touching any surface of the Lodge.  However, Nigel's voice quavered as he addressed the sentient system of contraptions: the outcast doubted his own worth more than ever, so his words coming fast and awkward and numerous in his impetuous rush.

"Good evening, Sir! Forgive me, our Generous Host, it is me, Lieutenant Nigel Crowninshield...ahm...With your permission, Sir, I would be most grateful to obtain the honor of your guidance and wisdom. Ah,  for even if no monsters warrant the party's attention tonight, I know we must never stop the fight...and...well, to be perfectly truthful...I should also very much enjoy the kindness of your company in these lonely late hours....Sir?  We needn't discuss business, of course...unless you'd like to-- but, oh, yes!  I've obtained a recording of Tannhauser, and I think it would be quite something to hear!

"But...I'm afraid I must first seek your assistance with Hollis' staff of bone here!  I'm quite loathe to house it at  Avendale without better understanding the implications...especially with that skull of Belghast upstairs, you see..."  Nigel could no longer  restrain his curiosity regarding the arcane world. He desperately wanted to understand his nascent mental powers that, until his strange surgery,  were mostly a latent quirk.  Even now that he had a better idea of his capabilities,  his execution was still highly variable. It was doubly disturbing  to him that in  Hollis alone (so far)  Nigel could recognize some of the same weird abilities, albeit twisted by wicked hands. 

"This nasty old shaft,  it very well near did me in! I thought perhaps...you might be able to scrutinize it, please, Sir? Do tell me anything and everything, for I have so much to learn!" 

The machine sat idle and quiet - steam engine purring quietly as the gears slowly turned, clacking like whispers in the dark basement.  Indeed, faint music -was- playing, a selection of opera - Faust, at a volume that had been inaudible from the top of the stairs. Indeed, he even heard the strange, crisp voice that likely had once been the voice of Alister Randall - Prince Solomon, of the Oldham Lodge - humming along to the particularly memorable parts.  At the sound of Nigel's approach, the cylinder ceased playing - the gears clacked more rapidly, and the hiss of steam as they shifted up and down was more audible.  G.H.'s voice was stronger now, more focused.

"Ah, Nigel, pray do not address me as such.  I was never a man of terribly high birth... and even now, I am safely out of the clutches of the stodgy social order."  Nigel imagined that he could hear a smile in the machine's voice, "Of course - I am still not immune to the temptations of the senses.  It would be my pleasure to speak with you - and if you could humor my taste for Opera, I would be quite in your debt."  There was more clacking and whirring, and the wax cylinder that had been gracing the gramophone was placed gently into a velvet lined box.  "I do so love a tenor's clear voice, don't you?"

Once the opera had begun at a volume suited for conversation, G.H. continued.  "Ah, yes - no doubt the weapon of Bertrand Hollis.  Black Jack told me of his defeat before he left - though he was curt enough... he wouldn't even stay for a cigar.  I quite disliked his habit in life, though now in this...curious state I now inhabit, I admit smoke does not worry me overmuch.  Pray, place it against the wall beside my obscura, would you?  I shall see what I can see."  The camera moved into place, a funnel releasing a good amount of what seemed to be flash powder.

 With a child's wonder, Nigel clearly delighted in observing the mechanical ballet of gears and gasses that enabled to the lodge's mysterious resident to communicate. The lancer seemed to be alone among his ripper-mates in taking an comfort in the disembodied voice, which came clear and strong now, embellished but not overcome by the strains of the German orchestrations. 

"Ah, thank you, Alister, if that is how you wish to be addressed...and no, its no debt, for I love opera! Tenors are indeed fine, but right now I'm quite taken by the nightingale throat of Miriam Constantine." Nigel fell quiet for a moment as his mind pictured the noble lady, but then he blushed at his boyish proclamation of love that had gone unanswered-- and probably straight to the rubbish bin when read by her butler.  "Ahm, I  enjoy any good music really-- so if you'd like, I will see if I can procure a membership at the Manchester Library--surely they have other cylinders we can enjoy. Or if you want me to read you the newspaper--whatever you wish! I would very much like to have company when Murphy's not around, as otherwise I find myself thinking myself into circles." The young man frowned a bit, realizing he also was talking in circles-- and not by virtue of any cylinder. 

 Steadying the staff as directed, Nigel stood close by in case anything strange caused it to leave its place, and lifted one hand to his eyes, prepared for the inevitable flash.  "I actually do agree with you on the social order bit; in fact, I'm wondering if any of my colleagues should be using our real names anymore, or if we should follow Pride Mother's and Prospero's example...it seems our enemies care not a whit about using their real names as they go about their business-- at least in the case of Spinner and Hollis. I would like to know the origins of your title, Prince Solomon, should you care to share it with me after you've made your observation here."

 

"Ah, yes - she has quite a lovely voice.  Unfortunately, there are not many recordings of her... though that may change.  What a wondrous time it is, when I can stay here and listen to the greatest in their native halls."  The gears whirred in their silence, as G.H. absorbed Nigel's piece of conversation.  "If you would like, certainly!  You know, with my current state... if opera could be recorded on punch cards, I daresay I could listen to them at the speed of thought - imagine!  Four hours in just as many minutes!"  G.H. seemed to think on this for a moment, before he finally said, "That would be very kind of you, Nigel.  Please, feel free to visit whenever you like."

The flash was extra-blinding, though Nigel's protection assisted him in remaining un-dazed.  "It was a precaution born of Prospero's wariness to reveal his face."  G.H. chuckled.  "It's really just a silly, small thing.  My own jaunt into the realms of sorcery began when I was very young... I practiced quite diligently to master the Key of Solomon.  Of course, from the Bible we have King Solomon...but I was still a young man seeking the crown - so to speak - so that Prince Solomon seemed apt."  The gears clacked a bit more rapidly as G.H. let fly a triumphant "Ah-ha!  I knew that rascal was a thief as well...  Here is quite a unique spear indeed.  The vertebrate are a ghastly addition and not necessary, you'll find that the spear's core is made of alder wood.  The important part are the arcane bindings and the bone head of the spear itself."  Indeed, if Nigel poked about, he'd find a waxed wooden core, with several sigils burned into the material.  "It isn't harmful, at least, not until one strikes with it."

"Unless my research was mistaken, I believe this is the Gae Bulg - the spear formed of the bones of some ancient monster.  It was the weapon of an Irish hero named Cu Chuliann, said to be from the bones of a sea-dwelling Formian giant.  What a find it is!  As to it's powers... well, the texts are confusing, as the old ones tend to be.  It clearly does not have seven heads... or any barbs.  It is, however, said to be universally deadly."  G.H. informed, speaking as a man reading over a book whilst he divulges the information.

 

The young lieutenant's mind raced as he tried to absorb all the information Alister imparted, and he began to take quick notes in the back of one of the journals he'd brought down, occasionally flipping to other passages already written. Nigel then gingerly removed the morbid vertebra trophies, revealing the sigils carved upon the sacred wood, whose forms  he copied into his book. Suddenly everything seemed to converge, although he was hesitant to make the wrong conclusion.

"Generous Host-- if I may share with you some of my own observations regarding this spear, the Gae Bulg--- even though we've only met with Hollis  three times-- it seems...well forgive me, I do not know the source of your information. Is it taken from Savage, and translated into these punch cards? If he was mutinous, how can you be sure your data is correct? Or perhaps it is just incomplete, or outdated?  If you want to take another image, I can show you where I've been trying my best to record notes on everything we've encountered-- from allies to enemies, magic, weapons, relics, monsters, even Rippertech and folklore. Honestly I've been concerned about having it all in one book, so I keep several journals-- but perhaps if you could show me how to make these punch cards-- I could share it with you more readily and also keep it safe.

"So bear with me here, my friend-- I learnt at Wigan when we went to investigate the plague  that alderwood was  considered a folk-magic shield against curses,  or curative for poison. Forgive me if I don't recall correctly, but I want to say Dr. Hollis would remove these boughs or would perhaps conjure a sickly mould upon them, as his patients continued to worsen.   I also learnt that Belghast,  who appeared in the woods where the ley-lines make curious green lights, was called the deity of poison. Belghast was slain by us-- although, I admit I was hesitant to harm such a noble-appearing creature,  as I did not know for sure if he was a protector or foe. Anyway, Hollis got away, declaring his revenge on Pride Mother.

"Our next sighting was at the Tameside festival--  Hollis now wore this wooden staglike mask meant to emulate Belghast. Yet he didn't seem to understand whatever deadly qualities this spear had? For he simply used it to conjure his magic, striking into the ground.  He seemed to favor this mostly ineffective earth-shaking type attack, and conjured some goblins.  A sickly, glowing green gas seemed to illuminate his workings. I observed that Hollis preferred to keep his distance, and I realized that some of my own powers could perhaps counter his.  But in my fury I charged him-- but completely missed him with my shashka, as he apparently uses the same shielding power I can conjure. However, when Black Jack appeared next to Hollis, I tell you the old boxer's skin smoked and roiled like a cigar lit by hellfire itself, and demon horns grew from his brow! Hollis seemed to give up instantly, and disappeared.

 

"At our third meeting, in the swamps at Wigan,  Hollis arrived only after the rest of the cabal had mostly been defeated.  Again he wore the deer-mask, and talked of performing a great sacrifice 'as the gate was open. ' The five hands of the Rosicrucians were made into  a pentacle, lit with candles that seemed to give Hollis superhuman constitution-- I tell you, he was shot clean in  the head, then lanced fatally through the heart with a rapier, but to no avail!  He finally knocked me  to the ground with a blast of trembling earth, and stabbed twice me in the belly by that very spear. I can assure you, it did not suddenly splinter into many heads or barbs-- although I was wounded badly.  Worst of all, he ruined my nicest frock-coat, that scoundrel!  I was infuriated--hacked at him wildly-- slashing open his face and groin. Ah, I know that's dishonorable, but, sorry, but he deserved it--plus I was prone. But finally, once  until Ivan guttered the candles, the good doctor got Hollis with another kill shot.

"But--Hollis still would not die, Alister!  He  babbled through his own blood as the horrific Great Huntsman appeared with this fearsome steed, and stood between me and that wicked man, who foolishly kept ordering the Huntsman to kill us. I was frozen with awe and terror, but could not look away as the Huntsman bellowed back, 'Mortal you do not rule Me!'" Nigel's voice shuddered, mindful of the dark vision he witnessed while stiff as a corpse upon the ground.  "The Huntsman ran the blasphemous wizard through upon His great tree-lance, and carried his prize aloft in the sky-- Hollis screaming like a mouse in a raptor's claws... the Gae Bulg crashing with an enormous thud  at my feet."

Nigel halted, his inhuman eyes glinting with astonishment as he caressed the bone-edge of the storied weapon that had rent his own flesh. "Alister, what is a Formian? And you called Hollis a thief-- from whom did he take this Gae Bulg? How may we return it to its rightful owner? Should any of us attempt to wield it-- will the Huntsman to come reap the user when He rides out on his Wild Hunt once again?" 

~~~

"I can, of course, only relate tales of what I know of Bertrand Hollis.  I had heard of him in the occult circles - before my becoming one of the Oldham Rippers - as an audacious man who was willing to risk everything with each and every command of the supernatural.  In the occult, such men are dangerous beyond belief, for they care nothing of damning themselves...and with certain creatures, a good many innocents to a fate worse than mere death."  G.H. stated, in somewhat of a resigned tone.  "I'm sure I could instruct you in the punch cards - they are not terribly difficult, if a bit time consuming.  I would quite enjoy taking photographs of your journal, however... I may be better suited to aid you."  

G.H. listened, his gears clicking as he took heed of the information being offered.  "Hollis may have used the spear's power in a different way - I apologize, but not being possessed of hands, I cannot fathom as much as I could in life.  Perhaps the spear merely accents the wielder's own might, making him deadly in ways suited to his own powers."  G.H. sighed, the gears clacking.  "Ah, yes - Black Jack's... curse.  I'm afraid the old fellow is ... content with his burden.  I won't speak upon it without his permission, however; I hope you shall forgive me."

G.H. answered in a brisk tone, "As it should be.  Calling something like The Huntsman is an ill omen...  I am not surprised that he could not bind the creature to his will.  As to what it means for us, however... I do not know.  The Huntsman's legend is that he can ride down and slay most anything.  Perhaps he will depart this world like so many of the creatures before him.... but who can say?  Certainly not I at the moment."

"A Formian,"  G.H. began in a scholarly tone, "was what the heroes of Irish myth defeated to give their gods, the Tuatha-De-Danaan, purchase upon their island.  They were said to be evil giants, twisted as much in soul as in body."  G.H. actually huffed, the sound audible alongside a puff of steam.  "Most certainly he stole it away from some forgotten crypt - I shall wire to the Irish lodges to see if any are missing their artifact, but for the meantime, we should put it to good use.  The spear has never been connected to the Huntsman in legend.  You were a lancer, were you not?  Perhaps this spear would aid you most of all..."

 

 

 Nigel's eyes grew wide, and he turned from the G.H. to regard the Gae Bulg with  humbled veneration and awe.  The long-ago legends recited to him by his Irish nursemaid  came  in bits and pieces--  half-remembered Celtic myths that seemed to rise and reverberate in these haunted lands once again. The idea that he should take up such a powerful artifact seemed an impossible destiny-- how could he be worthy?   Nigel could not help but feel excitement and honor-- the same sense he had when asked to experience the vision of the cultists' chalice.  Wasn't it every young English lad's dream to be chosen  to partake in some mystical modern ritual reserved for the heroic Knights of Arthur? 

 

 Nigel recalled the illustrations he'd drawn as a boy of the nobly celibate Galahad-- the only knight worthy of winning the quest for the Grail. But Galahad's quest ended when he found the sacred chalice-- taking as his reward, the power to choose his moment of death-- and so Galahad went to his glory. Touching the incised shaft with  reverence,  Nigel felt as if his quest was only begun. 

But, the cavalryman did not want to admit his many doubts. Despite his regiment's knightly pretensions, he as an officer wasn't even issued a lance in the field. He carried only a useless rifle, his own pistol, and a terrible British imitation of a Hussar's sabre ,  performing vedette reconnaissance or rear command duties behind the actual lancers.  Regimental standards limited the officers' experience with its trademark weapon  mostly to parades or the 17th's pompous "equestrian ballet" -- not fixed in the front line battle-charge.  

But Nigel's ruminations now gave way to the reality of his experience: at how often military protocol all fell apart in the chaos of the bloodbaths he'd somehow survived. How often did he take up the jettisoned lances of his destroyed men? Extracted the assegai spears skewering their stomachs-- when the ammunition ran out and the sorry sabres proved useless in the tall switchgrass of South Africa. How when the other mens' horses had all fled or fallen,  Nigel had to forgo the prescribed orderly charge with set lances-- and instead improvised either as a lone horseman or  dismounted-- desperately using shattered shafts to parry attackers or  spearheads to pierce the skulls of the reanimated dead, or ripping open guts and heart to mercifully set free a dying warrior's soul. He now forcibly dismissed his meek hesitation, and accepted his fate by placing a hand on his chest, stoutly addressing the G.H. after his thoughtful consideration.    

"Yes, my Generous Host, I was a lancer-- I am also gifted with some of the powers I saw Hollis misuse with this spear.  The Gaelic names you say are vaguely familiar-- but I understand better, now.  What you call Formian, my nursemai-- my true mother-- called Fomoiri in her heritage tongue.  I barely remember all her stories, as I was very young-- but when you spoke of the Tuatha-De, I just remembered a fragment of the tale of them arriving in Eire, under cover of a black sun that lasted three days. If it is your guidance that I take up the spear, then I accept this honor with humble gratitude, and shall make it my solemn duty to learn to wield it properly whether for magic or might in respect for its noble origin."

Nigel stared at the technical machinations of the intertwined contraptions that held Alister's  disembodied spirit. The lieutenant wished he had better understanding of these inventions, in order to reconcile this curious juxtaposition of information oracle and tragically imprisoned human soul. Suddenly the lancer's dreams of destiny were eclipsed by the compassion that often concerned his heart. 

"Forgive me, Generous Host, I have been impertinent in my  demands of you, yet you have been so patient and kind to answer me so many things. I would be most grateful to share my writings and drawings  with you via your camera  if you prefer that over punch-cards. I'm not a scholar, so I'm sure my chapters are in dire need of corrections, although I spend a great deal of time going back and refining my initial observations." Coming closer, Nigel knelt down, studying the various tubes and gears that connected the camera and gramophone to the steam engines. 

"Is there a way to move you from here? It seems ludicrous to keep you hidden here in the dark, all alone. I'm sure you'd love to see the outdoors, or travel with us.  Can we figure out a way to harvest the steam from the pipes upstairs, situate you there with us? It would be so much easier to take pictures in the study, to take in the various artifacts we have-- and also, join Murphy and I for supper where we can converse about goings-on in the world, or maybe we'll have a game of cards. But if you must stay here with all these workings, I will see if I can procure some mirrors-- maybe put together a type of periscope, or heliograph system like we used at the Khyber Pass, so you can see upstairs? At the least, surely we can have a speaking tube installed-- or purchase one of those Bell crank telephones like father has?"

 

"Very good!"  G.H. trumpeted from his enclosure.  "I would have clapped you upon the shoulder, had I arms."  He chuckled.  "No, no.  My mind inside this metal body is... oddly free.  A moment for you is an eternity for me, and I do keep myself busy, reading the books that have been given to me via the cards.  Also, my opera keeps me quite engaged... but I believe I would enjoy seeing your work."

The machine was complicated, the gears and springs fitted so exactly that it was painful to behold up close.  Though made of steel and brass, it was a delicate mechanism, and a single strike might wreck an incalculable amount of harm to Their Generous Host.  "I do not believe so.  I am loathe to attempt it, for there is still much that I do not understand of my current state.  When I ... slept between turns of the crank, I can only say that it was more horrible than pain or agony... such things are bliss, compared to oblivion."  G.H. chuckled.  "I do not think your fellows would enjoy that.  I'm told that I have been a divisive presence in this lodge as I was in Oldham.  No, better they let me to my studies here.  I would not have my fellows see me as another monster to be pulled apart and examined."

 

The officer nodded, conceding to the wisdom of his Host, despite his concern for the inhumane state of such a vibrant soul confined alone in a basement. "Perhaps then, I shall dream of a way to give you arms and hands one day, Alister-- but until then,  I will visit you as often as you wish, and will bring down my book and operas and our artifacts for you to see.  It means so much when you reveal yourself--you see,   there was a bleak time just before you summoned me here. I existed not quite in sleep and not quite awake, without the peace of being dead but with none of the joyful senses of being alive, my mind given to terrorized abandon without the recourse of any  reason.  I can never find words to describe it correctly, but...when you describe this awful oblivion...the complete absence of anything...that sounds utterly bleak-- like the death of one's eternal spirit--which is something that it hard for me to imagine, since I believe that the soul lives on forever, even sometimes in inanimate or man-made objects...."

Nigel looked away, feeling he was speaking far beyond his place, when he had nothing but immense gratitude to the voice that so kindly tolerated the incessant questions and talkative discourse.  Long pale fingers began to collect the morbid vertebra  stripped from the shaft of the Gae Bulg, which were stacked atop Nigel's notebooks and in his tunic's cargo pockets. "I'm sorry, Alister...I didn't mean to imply that you were some mechanism to be simply modified to our advantage--- I only thought it might lift your spirits, and also let the others get to know you better. But from what I've gleaned of Oldham and Avendale's contentious history, and with the disparate opinions and methods my small group of colleagues have...I can see your side of it too.  I also fear some my corpse may be pounced on just for these monstrous eyes...or maybe, now-- that spear...or perhaps even my mind. But  I won't let them dissect or disassemble you, even if it is the only way they think they can accept you. It  saddens me how quick  humans are to destroy the things we do not understand, whether out of fear, curiosity, or misguided moral code-- like poor Belghast, I fear."

Balancing bones and books in the crook of his left arm, Nigel stepped forward to the obscura, slightly bowing down as he rested his right hand gently atop of the plate where objects had been previously been placed for observation.  "Thank you, Alister, for seeking me out and accepting me--- I look forward to hearing more about you, as you were and how you are, as I have no other mentor-- nor friends who care about opera, or the pointy-headed business of documenting what horrors and wonders we have seen. Good night, Generous Host...may your dreams be sweet."  Taking up the spear with his right hand,  Nigel's wan face was without its usual grim slack, sapphire eyes gleaming with adventure tales yet untold and lips curved upward with esoteric happiness as he took his leave back upstairs.