Thechosenone
09-10-2011, 12:57 AM
(This one is equally about another of my elite division members as it is about putting some identity to my vision of Malifaux)
The hiss of the train cuts through the acrid air and across the entire district of Iron Twist. Here all railways knot and intertwine like metallic snakes writhing lasciviously together. One of the beasts pulls into the station. This one loaded with luxury passenger boxes and a few crate cars at the end.
The station crew all skulk out of their little nooks like soot covered roaches. They begin helping the newly arrived disembark or swarm to the crate cars for unloading of goods and all under the watchful eye of the stations task managers who stomp about with clubs and mega phones directing the vermin dance with harsh words and vicious authority.
Cyril Ukridge was not surprised by the arrival of the train. He seen it coming from miles above and away. The man in the Guardmen’s coat sits on the back of one of the benches in Machado Station with feet resting on the seat. He’s perched, for lack of a better word. The new arrivals look at Ukridge and almost unanimously their first descriptor is “ghoulish”.
And it is an accurate one. His head is hairless, veiny vein crosses and pale. His leather coat and thick gloves creak as he moves about and as the new arrivals disembark he leers at them with sharp teeth and dying gums. But it’s the eyes that disgust the passengers most. One is bloodshot and sore, the other seems too tiny for his skull and weeps infection.
Ukridge takes in their cruel stares with a certain pride. Though he may not be what they consider attractive, his unique talents have earned him respect and wealth. And that wealth has bought him many forced smiles from many beautiful women. Those smiles would end promptly when the clock announced the end of their time together. Unfortunately for those women Cyril always has more money to turn the clocks back and return to the carnal matters at hand.
“Wonder which of these will end up in the brothels of Silken Row… or just in the Flesh Pits of Aikin Crossing. Either way, I pay to play.” Ukridge’s accent places his origin firmly in the streets of London but that was long about and it shows. His voice is losing that familiar earthside accent and taking on the guttural harshness of Malifaux.
He speaks to none of them. None of these wretches. They’re beneath him. Both in his opinion and in a very literal way as well. For he see them with two very different eyes, his human eye and the eye of his raptor, Skyclaw.
Circling far above in the storm wracked skies of Malifaux is his raptor. It can’t be called majestic, not any more. Its feathers fall and bile drips from its blood stained beak. It looks down on Iron Twist with two eyes as well, one its own keen orb and the other an infected milky white human eye that sits overly large in the bird’s augmented skull.
Skyclaw allows the winds to carry him when he can and other times he powers through the gales to reach the view anything his master urges.
They see with each other’s eyes and see what each other sees. They are forever linked by the strange magick and science of the Guild. Their terrible union paid in full by the soul stone trade.
Ukridge holds his gloved wrist out and issues an order that soars through the heights above Iron Twist. The command is a simple one, return.
Skyclaw arcs downward, his eyes taking in the entire city from these heights and sharing them with his master below. They both see the plumes of smoke that rise from the soul stone refineries in Chemaux, they see the fortress of Mistress Criid where the air is alive with bale fire and eldritch sparks and by turning his long bony neck the pair can watch the launch of a Guild Zepplin that batters its way through strong winds to begin its patrol of Fellfenn.
One feature dominates their vision above all others. Rising high into the skyline of Malifaux from the district of Ram’s Rule is a bleak bastion made of gray stone, flying buttresses, pointed arches and ribbed vaults. This gothic redoubt stands vigil over the city like a dark unnamable god. It reaches higher and higher, seemingly without end till mercifully it terminates in a blade like spire. This is the Guild’s base of operation, the center of Malifaux’s government, The Pinnacle.
Skyclaw drops from the air startling many of the newly arrived and lands firmly on his master’s wrist. The bird creeps along Ukridge’s limb and to the back of the bench as well. Cyril rewards the bird’s flight with a treat from his pocket, an eyeball, which is choked down with ravenous delight and further stains the creature’s beak.
Ukridge unseats himself after a few more moments of crowd watching. Skyclaw follows, perching on his master’s shoulder.
“Appointments to keep.” He says to his bird. The envelope in his breast pocket carries a weight to it beyond the material. It’s a letter from the Pinnacle. His time with the Guild Guard is over. He’s been promoted to the Elite Division. It means more money and more respect which in turn means he’ll be spending more of that money in Silken Row and abusing his newly earned respect to its fullest.
The streets leading to Ram’s Rule are the usual clog of pedestrian traffic. Street side merchants haggle with travelers, the many arcane stores present their oddities in dusty windows and the less than desirable prostitutes of Iron Twist flaunt their intention with no shame at all.
In the alleyways he can see hunched shaped in the dark and gleaming inhuman eyes. The dredges nestle together like packs of vermin. He watches one ghast like citizen biting into a half cook limb of some kind, blood dribbling down his cheeks as he relishes the feeling of flesh in his gut. The pale human scurries from the path of the Guardsmen, his meal bleeding along the way.
Ukridge passes posters glued to the wall of a burnt out warehouse, one of many such buildings. Iron Twist is filled with many charred shells. The poster advertises one of Colette Du Bois’ shows. He knows them well. Their acts are presented by the most beautiful women in Malifaux. Their youth, curves and health put even the ladies of Silken Row to shame. But their material is nothing more than seditious cant disguised by magick tricks and spoken by pretty lips. The Guardsmen have long suspected these showgirls were a front of the terrorist activities of the Arcanists. Proof is always lacking and the little bits they do compile are quick to vanish from the vaults. Usually the fault of a rookie guardsmen coerced by one of Colette’s gorgeous understudies. Such guardsmen are quickly punished by the Guild, assuming they survived the night with understudy.
Ukridge rips the poster down, snarling like animal as he does it. His eyes meet those of the citizens around him. He holds up the tattered advertisement like a holy proclamation “Careful where you take your entertainment!”
Many in the crowd nod, either to appease the Austringer or because they believe the propaganda. Several mummer back the Guild motto as a sign of loyalty.
Ukridge’s ugly lips curl into a smile and his monstrous mouth fully presented. “Live for the Trade, die for the Trade!”
He continues on, satisfied with his display and their fear. The Pinnacle waits for him but he dares not keep it waiting long.
http://i818.photobucket.com/albums/zz103/thechosenone000/2011-09-09235039.jpg
The hiss of the train cuts through the acrid air and across the entire district of Iron Twist. Here all railways knot and intertwine like metallic snakes writhing lasciviously together. One of the beasts pulls into the station. This one loaded with luxury passenger boxes and a few crate cars at the end.
The station crew all skulk out of their little nooks like soot covered roaches. They begin helping the newly arrived disembark or swarm to the crate cars for unloading of goods and all under the watchful eye of the stations task managers who stomp about with clubs and mega phones directing the vermin dance with harsh words and vicious authority.
Cyril Ukridge was not surprised by the arrival of the train. He seen it coming from miles above and away. The man in the Guardmen’s coat sits on the back of one of the benches in Machado Station with feet resting on the seat. He’s perched, for lack of a better word. The new arrivals look at Ukridge and almost unanimously their first descriptor is “ghoulish”.
And it is an accurate one. His head is hairless, veiny vein crosses and pale. His leather coat and thick gloves creak as he moves about and as the new arrivals disembark he leers at them with sharp teeth and dying gums. But it’s the eyes that disgust the passengers most. One is bloodshot and sore, the other seems too tiny for his skull and weeps infection.
Ukridge takes in their cruel stares with a certain pride. Though he may not be what they consider attractive, his unique talents have earned him respect and wealth. And that wealth has bought him many forced smiles from many beautiful women. Those smiles would end promptly when the clock announced the end of their time together. Unfortunately for those women Cyril always has more money to turn the clocks back and return to the carnal matters at hand.
“Wonder which of these will end up in the brothels of Silken Row… or just in the Flesh Pits of Aikin Crossing. Either way, I pay to play.” Ukridge’s accent places his origin firmly in the streets of London but that was long about and it shows. His voice is losing that familiar earthside accent and taking on the guttural harshness of Malifaux.
He speaks to none of them. None of these wretches. They’re beneath him. Both in his opinion and in a very literal way as well. For he see them with two very different eyes, his human eye and the eye of his raptor, Skyclaw.
Circling far above in the storm wracked skies of Malifaux is his raptor. It can’t be called majestic, not any more. Its feathers fall and bile drips from its blood stained beak. It looks down on Iron Twist with two eyes as well, one its own keen orb and the other an infected milky white human eye that sits overly large in the bird’s augmented skull.
Skyclaw allows the winds to carry him when he can and other times he powers through the gales to reach the view anything his master urges.
They see with each other’s eyes and see what each other sees. They are forever linked by the strange magick and science of the Guild. Their terrible union paid in full by the soul stone trade.
Ukridge holds his gloved wrist out and issues an order that soars through the heights above Iron Twist. The command is a simple one, return.
Skyclaw arcs downward, his eyes taking in the entire city from these heights and sharing them with his master below. They both see the plumes of smoke that rise from the soul stone refineries in Chemaux, they see the fortress of Mistress Criid where the air is alive with bale fire and eldritch sparks and by turning his long bony neck the pair can watch the launch of a Guild Zepplin that batters its way through strong winds to begin its patrol of Fellfenn.
One feature dominates their vision above all others. Rising high into the skyline of Malifaux from the district of Ram’s Rule is a bleak bastion made of gray stone, flying buttresses, pointed arches and ribbed vaults. This gothic redoubt stands vigil over the city like a dark unnamable god. It reaches higher and higher, seemingly without end till mercifully it terminates in a blade like spire. This is the Guild’s base of operation, the center of Malifaux’s government, The Pinnacle.
Skyclaw drops from the air startling many of the newly arrived and lands firmly on his master’s wrist. The bird creeps along Ukridge’s limb and to the back of the bench as well. Cyril rewards the bird’s flight with a treat from his pocket, an eyeball, which is choked down with ravenous delight and further stains the creature’s beak.
Ukridge unseats himself after a few more moments of crowd watching. Skyclaw follows, perching on his master’s shoulder.
“Appointments to keep.” He says to his bird. The envelope in his breast pocket carries a weight to it beyond the material. It’s a letter from the Pinnacle. His time with the Guild Guard is over. He’s been promoted to the Elite Division. It means more money and more respect which in turn means he’ll be spending more of that money in Silken Row and abusing his newly earned respect to its fullest.
The streets leading to Ram’s Rule are the usual clog of pedestrian traffic. Street side merchants haggle with travelers, the many arcane stores present their oddities in dusty windows and the less than desirable prostitutes of Iron Twist flaunt their intention with no shame at all.
In the alleyways he can see hunched shaped in the dark and gleaming inhuman eyes. The dredges nestle together like packs of vermin. He watches one ghast like citizen biting into a half cook limb of some kind, blood dribbling down his cheeks as he relishes the feeling of flesh in his gut. The pale human scurries from the path of the Guardsmen, his meal bleeding along the way.
Ukridge passes posters glued to the wall of a burnt out warehouse, one of many such buildings. Iron Twist is filled with many charred shells. The poster advertises one of Colette Du Bois’ shows. He knows them well. Their acts are presented by the most beautiful women in Malifaux. Their youth, curves and health put even the ladies of Silken Row to shame. But their material is nothing more than seditious cant disguised by magick tricks and spoken by pretty lips. The Guardsmen have long suspected these showgirls were a front of the terrorist activities of the Arcanists. Proof is always lacking and the little bits they do compile are quick to vanish from the vaults. Usually the fault of a rookie guardsmen coerced by one of Colette’s gorgeous understudies. Such guardsmen are quickly punished by the Guild, assuming they survived the night with understudy.
Ukridge rips the poster down, snarling like animal as he does it. His eyes meet those of the citizens around him. He holds up the tattered advertisement like a holy proclamation “Careful where you take your entertainment!”
Many in the crowd nod, either to appease the Austringer or because they believe the propaganda. Several mummer back the Guild motto as a sign of loyalty.
Ukridge’s ugly lips curl into a smile and his monstrous mouth fully presented. “Live for the Trade, die for the Trade!”
He continues on, satisfied with his display and their fear. The Pinnacle waits for him but he dares not keep it waiting long.
http://i818.photobucket.com/albums/zz103/thechosenone000/2011-09-09235039.jpg