What, you think it’s a trap?
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I’m not sure why you think I know any more than anyone else about YOwOL. Sure, I fought him once, and I witnessed his death. But I’ve already told you everything I know. He seemed just like any Immortal, until he died, and didn’t come back. I can’t explain it.
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“C’mon, Aengus.”
“Where we goin’?”
“I got a city to burn down.”
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After Malta I realized the jig was up for soldiering work. With the new technologies coming, war was a thing of the past and my skills were becoming less useful. I took a job in a new mine for coal near New Castle, on that little spit of land they call Britain. I can only assume I’ll be quite wealthy soon.
-Groß Wilhelm, the First of Hist Name
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That should be pretty obvious.
It’s not Yowol we need to investigate – we need to seek any knowledge we can collectively glean about the nebulous forces that are manipulating us. Something made me murder a friend @Glutnix, even though I travel unarmed. I want to know what.
@messana generally dictates our fates, with god-like “dice rolling.” YOwOL was presenting as one of us until you declared his death out of protocol. What made you think you had the power, the knowledge, the permission, to do so? I am certain that If I simply related a story of , say, “Evelyn fell on her lovely karabela and died,” that the Archivist and messana would not duly remove @Nightflyer from this particular slipstream of history. Yet that is what happened.
A simple denial is inadequate. You did this. Why?
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And what makes you think you have the right to demand answers of me in such a manner?
I do not need to justify myself to you, but I will say this, and no more. YOWOL was my nemesis, and I can’t say I liked the man, but he was an opponent in the Game, and as such, his end deserved to be noticed and remembered.
He died by his own hand. I will swear to that on my blade. And I did leave something out of the tale. Before his puzzling final words, he whispered to me, “tell my story.” I honored that request.
Believe me, or don’t.
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As Immortals, we travel. We pick a destination, and occasionally a faction. Sometimes, other Immortals happen to pick the same destination at around the same time. If we meet, we fight. To the death, if possible, given the constraints of time, opportunity, skill, and not being interrupted.
Thus it has always been. We are not like the mortals in this manner. We vary in ever so many ways, but the cost of our long lives seems to be our need to attempt to kill each other, whether we love each other or no. (Okay, maybe we are like the mortals in this manner.)
Our only shared motto is “The Can Be Only One.” It’s never made sense to me, since there are obviously several of us banging around the disco at any given moment, and have been since before I came around. Nevertheless, the universe in which we find ourselves compels us to murder one another, until one is left standing (however unsteadily).
Think you I gleefully embraced my own murder of Mlle. D’Oilly? The only excuse I have to offer is a pathetic one, but no less true for all that: I was not entirely my own master, just as was the case when you beheaded your noble ungulant friend Maple. When we meet, we fight, if there be another Immortal present and available there to fight.
If we don’t like this state of affairs, we can cease our efforts at any time, and await a visit by The Kurgan, who will be more than happy to absorb our essences for his own fell purposes.
Shit. Cosmology ain’t my strong suit, and this sums up my understanding of the gods and what they want of us:
In the beginning
Back in nineteen fifty-five
Man didn’t know about a rock ‘n’ roll show
And all that jive
The white man had the shmaltz
The black man had the blues
No one knew what they was gonna do
But Tchaikovsky had the news
He said
Let there be sound
There was sound
Let there be light
There was light
Let there be drums
There was drums
Let there be guitar
There was guitar
Oh, Let there be rock
And it came to pass
That rock ‘n’ roll was born
All across the land every rockin’ band
Was blowing up a storm
And the guitar man got famous
The businessman got rich
And in every bar there was a super star
With a seven year itch
There were fifteen million fingers
Learning how to play
And you could hear the fingers picking
And this is what they had to say
Let there be light
Sound
Drums
Guitar
Let there be rock
One night in a club called "The Shaking Hand"
There was a ninety-two decibel rocking band
And the music was good and the music was loud
And the singer turned and he said to the crowd -
Let there be rock
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You pose profound philosophical questions, Mr. Collins. Are we the masters of our fate, or is our destiny determined by forces beyond our control? As we journey through our long lives, are we observed by intellects vast, cool and unsympathetic, who play with us as their puppets? Consider Lord @messana , who appears to know the future, and who grants boons will ye nill ye to those of us in favour. And the mysterious being known as The Archivist, who, we are told, records our fates and appears at crucial times, uttering dire warnings, but may not be spoken to.
Now this new paradoxical creature, neither mortal nor immortal. His manner is common. He wields, not a sword as befitting one of gentle birth, but a common tradesman’s hammer, yet he arrogantly claims the right to use it on anyone, high or low, who offends his touchy sense of dignity. (He appears when his name is sounded, so I propose that we refer to him as Master Whanker when discussing him.)
The Lady Evelyn reports that she saw him die as a mortal in Beijing, and yet I encounter him two centuries later here in Amsterdam, claiming to be the same. Is he indeed an Immortal, but one who shammed his own death, much as my friend Kit Marlowe did? Consider the series of unfortunate events by which he met his end, an elaborate contrivance worthy of the fancies of the Rabbi Ben Goldberg himself, but which was witnessed by no one else in that crowded tavern. Lady Evelyn may indeed know more, but if she is under an oath of silence, we cannot as gentlemen ask her to break it.
But I left his head in the street, and here he returns, replying in insolent fashion to your letter.
Is some witchcraft involved? Has this strange imp somehow purloined a recipe that allows him to rise from the dead—some vile concoction such as we are told is employed in Scotland, involving eye of newt and tongue of dog? (Apologies, good McBarkruff, @ghoti, for the image.)
However, I may over-think. I recall the principle of ontological parsimony stated by the great scholar William of Ockham, under whom I had the honour of studying. As he famously said, “Entia non sunt multiplicanda sine necessitate.” I believe Master Whanker has given a hint in his message to you, which refers to a debate in the Realm of the Damned regarding an infestation of vermin. Can it be that there are many Whankers crouching in the drains and crannies of our existence, waiting to make mischief? Are they mentioned in the tales from Hamelin? Were some observed in the Crimea in 1343?
Perhaps we need, not a swordsman, but a piper.
Other Pendragon
Knight
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I was wondering about that myself!
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Indeed! Perhaps, far in the future, long after global wars unimaginable have set the world aflame and rendered the air unfit to breathe, a strange future generation might encounter a solitary monument to, perhaps, the champion of our contest, and will see you knew the truth of it.
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You’ll love it, I know it!
I know what you like and
You’ll love it, I know it!
We’ll need some vintage vino
So wash you feet and stamp away…
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Hence my suspicion that Whanker had faked his death, and/or that sorcery is afoot. Milady, is there any more you can tell us? Is all well? I will not insult you by offering my (completely redundant) sword in your defense, but if you are in need of a sympathetic ear, there are many who would offer such. Remember that a burden shared is a burden halved.
Don’t forget what to do if you have lemons (wink).
Lady Evelyn, if you are not under a geas that prevents you from speaking, include this rune
in your next message. We will understand.
Other Pendragon
Knight
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I believe you, Dear Evelyn. @Nightflyer. Completely
Many tales told here are pleasant fancies to help while away the years, but are of little consequence.
Yours is fundamentally different, and has the ring of truth. That is why I ask the pointed questions.
True, my manners are abrupt. I do apologize. I am discomfited that my dear friend Maple @Glutnix is dead, at my own hand, and I don’t comprehend why. This is a darkness even deeper than Gilles de Rais sought. Will this happen again in Venice? I pray not, but how can I know? I am impatient for knowledge – and you, whether intended or not – appear to be the most proximal to a revelation of this foulness.
Time is running out.
Yours in Truth,
Mr. Collins
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Do you think there’s a risk of death in Venice?
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with teknoCHOLER about, absolutely…
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I thank you for your concern, sir knight. While I do agree your sword is redundant in this matter, as I am quite capable of defending myself, I appreciate the noble spirit in which it is proferred.
I am desperately racking my brains for any shreds of memory to aid us in unraveling the Whanker mystery. After a couple hundred years or so, the memories do blur a little. I did not examine the Whanker’s corpse too closely, as I feared the authorities of Beijing would imprison me for his death if I didn’t immediately leave the city. I do seem to recall finding a bottle of some odd potion, such as you discussed earlier… I will continue to meditate upon it and see if I can come up with anything useful.
Dear Mr. Collins (@David_Falkayn), I accept your apology, and offer my own in return for my unkindness. I cannot begin to imagine the shock and grief you must be feeling. This Game we are compelled to play is an ugly one. I do fear the pain and loss to come…
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[With ink stained hands, the Archivist continues to write and annotate lines in a old leather bound volume.]
The wars and petty machinations of mankind continue to create new suffering in one place while ameliorating it in another. To what end? At least the Immortals have an unambiguous and unchanging code that they follow. I yearn for that sort of clarity in this own life, but I waste precious ink and time recording my own indulgences.
They came to Amsterdam this time, departing on foot and by sea for points unknown. Some say they will venture to Venice while others hinted at journeying to 日本. I have despatched letters to our fellow Watchers with descriptions and sketches of the various personages currently found within Amsterdam in the hopes that our order will be able to faithfully execute our duties.
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