The Poems of Madam Albithurst: The Golden Howdah

I am not particularly against Mr. Porist, and I find his pookay quite a dear. Nevertheless, there is a reason we of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists try to keep ourselves separate from a particular personality of person. To be clean, clear, and open to the sensations that surround us, it is good to have, as it were, a clean palate.

Mr. Porist is a charming man, with a great many qualities that make him an excellent traveling companion. He is quiet, considerate, tidy, and above all, small. However, in spite of his relative restraint and reserverance, one cannot help but be aware of the man. His tan suits are forever being pulled and poked by his orange fingers. His long nose is forever audible, and the semi-regular snipping of his shears — a requirement if his ears are to remain under control — cannot help but distract.

It was no small relief, therefore, that when I met Mr. Porist at the grand docks, he informed me that his dear pookay had been left with a neighbor. This meant I would need not also attend to the dear’s incessant demands for attention, as well as not needing to replace my traveling fan with a towel.

“I hope the poor thing will be alright,” I said.

“Oh, he will be fine,” Mr. Porist nodded vigorously. “He quite simply despises the water, you see. And I couldn’t possibly subject his poor nose to the salt-air. Besides,” and here he paused to rub his needle-nose with his fingers and stare at me with a deep morose gaze, “the Tides of Three Shades are no place for those with undetermined souls.”

Now of course, I personally found Mr. Porist’s pet to be more determined than most military officers of my acquaintance. Nevertheless, I bowed to Mr. Porist’s wisdom in the matter, as he had lived with dear pookay for the better part of his life, and it also blessed us with the dear thing’s absence.

After arriving at the station, we walked up the long dock together, Mr. Porist and I. A charming team of Dworgs carried our luggage on their square backs, their twiggy beards brushing the ground in front of them. When we reached the end of the dock — the perfect place to sit and wait — they pulled our bags off their bent backs and said: “With your possessions touching the ground once more, we have completed our side of the pact.”

“You have done so quite well,” I answered, pulling five coins from my dress, and a fresh flower. “Here, by the scent of the earth, I pay you and release you.” The lead Dworg reached up and plucked the flower from my hand. The coins were given to the smallest, and they padded back down the stone walkway towards the central plaza, leaving myself and Mr. Porist to wait.

I have spent many a pleasant hour on the docks before, so I shall not waste time describing their stony structure, nor their sloping overhangs. I found myself looking this way and that, mirroring to my companion, though while he looked out of terrible nervousness, I observed out of intense curiosity.

There is no telling, on the docks, whom will end up traveling on the same journey as your own. Smart looking peasants and shabbily-dressed nobles alike gather on the docks, waiting for their chosen vessel to drift to a halt, open their doors, and welcome all travelers into its warm interior.

We were traveling, Mr. Porist and I, to the Grand Junction. There, I would continue on to the Sibilants, while Mr. Porist would re-direct his travels to the tiny out-of-the-way world of Brotz, where the Tides of Three Shades waited for him. To reach the Grand Junction, we needed to take a Golden Howdah. Delight of delights! The journey would take a week at the outside, and that was plenty enough time to become companionable with a suitable number of fellow passengers, but no vessel in existence would be able to house all the travelers that milled about on the docks, and so I spent a great deal of time observing those I esteemed to be traveling along different paths then our own.

A gaggle of smartly-dressed businessmen stood chatting to the side, their silken top-hats wobbling as they nodded and smiled and laughed together. A family of Dworgs sat on their hind limbs, waiting patiently, staring at the passers by with bemused expressions beneath their beards. A young lady dressed in fine evening-wear with a breastplate of polished steel stood with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the notice-board, where a tiny man was busy replacing the arrivals and departures with a hurried abandon. A ghost-eyed mercenary licked its muzzle at the thought of fresh meat on its claws. A svelte crew of lightmin waddled along the edge, checking the levels of the glowing lamps, and adjusting them until they were even. An Ogre stomped its way from gathering to gathering, offering wares and food to the patient and impatient alike. An Aeolam, resplendent in their glamorous magics, paced along the docks like a gentle breeze, and I shuddered at the thought that this beautiful creature might be one of our fellow passengers.

The scents, the sounds, the tastes, I wrapped it all up and breathed it deep. I lived in that moment. In that moment I lived. I took it all and made it a part of myself as only a Sensate could. The hereandnow.

It is not uncommon for the neophytes of our little Guild to focus first on the gastronomical. It is, after all, the first place people generally turn to when they speak of sensation. Carnal is next, and a great many of our lower ranks are filled with the unassuming and shameful Burlesques who care little for the finer arts. It is akin to the laypeople who, upon seeing a great work of art by a master painter, comment on how much they enjoy the color pink.

This is not to say their efforts are entirely without merit, as when one devotes oneself to a singular medium, one is eventually forced to become quite creative. I cannot say there is no value in such perverse experimentation — and to continue the analogy, without their efforts we would never know how many fascinating shades of pink existed — but such a devotion to the baser and indelicate sensations of the Myriad Worlds is considered quaint; it is not the way of the Guild, not our purpose nor our pleasure.

I observed the docks for almost an hour, while Mr. Porist busied himself with trimming his ears and gently refusing the Ogre’s offer of stick-food, carvings, and draperies. The crowd grew and dwindled as vessels docked and departed. Shabby barges creaked with age as large groups disembarked and scattered like a herd leaving the paddock. Private chariots dawdled as bag after crate was unloaded by burly-armed laborers. The churning of life was unmistakable.

At last, a Golden Howdah broke through the Velvet and settled itself alongside the Dock. Broad and bulbous, the Howdah nuzzled next to the dock, the jeweled-curtain railing lowering to allow ingress to its welcoming interior. Five attendants snapped onto the dock, their polished shoes and ironed pants as crisp as fresh snow, ready to assist any and all who desired or required it.

I so adore embarking upon a Golden Howdah, as each is different in their own little way. Never extravagantly so, their decorations betray an inner life all their own. This particular Howdah, for example, was bedecked all about with the clean and curving lines of ancient classical Arcwhite design, full of tapering columns and glistening urns of polished clay. A palate of red and purple covered the bright and broad entryway, encircled by a sweeping staircase that stretched from top to bottom. Gold and silver lace ran across the floors and ceilings, accented by the most charming and gentle rugs from across the Myriad Worlds. Plumes of green ferns and hanging pots of flowers gave the cold stone and stark metal a warmth and friendliness that turned a beautiful museum into an elegant home for the week we would be traveling.

Poor Mr. Porist, he was quite taken aback by what he saw, overwhelmed as he was by ostentatious displays. I had to pat him most vigorously on the back to return him to himself.

A porter took our luggage to our rooms, while I settled myself in a large plush chair at the far end of the foyer, and watched as our fellow passengers entered, alternately astounded and dismissive of the surrounding decorations.

To my dismay, the Aeolam did indeed climb on board, their thin clawed feet stopping only briefly to kneed the thick rug, before climbing the staircase to the rooms. There was no sign of coffin or restraints following them, so I found myself hoping they would lock themselves in their room for the journey.

When the last passenger was on board, the bejeweled railing was raised once more and the howl of the Howdah’s horn echoed through the air. It is a bittersweet sound, at once a warning, a farewell, and a call to adventure. The first poem I ever made was of the Howdah’s horn. Hardly unique, but a gentle warm spot in my heart houses the memory most dearly. I must admit to a tiny pang of sorrow that it was not more kindly received, though I have no illusions as to why.

For the first day of our little jaunt, I did little more than wander the decks of the Howdah, resting my hand on fixtures and furnishings alike, smelling the fragrant marble and tasting the savory metals. I felt the rugs beneath my toes, and noted every errant sound that drifted through the air.

The breeze over the edge of the deck was exhilarating, bracing, bringing with it the scent of the Velvet. Oh, how this will confuse a good many of you, especially those who have traveled extensively. “The Velvet has no scent,” I am sure you are snorting, scoffing at my eloquent description. But we of the Guild have been able to smell the Velvet for a great many years; it is a delectable sensation, turning the layer under your flesh into upright spears, pricking the skin above like a thousand needles.

There was a short period of time when I was unhappily kept by a small band of rabble-rousers on the plains of Pashuut. There, for some political reason I was not privy to, I was kept for seven days and eight nights enjoying the ministrations of one of the most cruel men I have ever met. He subjected me to several uncomfortable techniques — two of which were at my request — before they were satisfied I was of no practical value to their cause, and instead held my quite comfortably for a modest ransom, to be paid by the local governing body. It was quickly paid, and I was quicker released.

The second technique I request of him was an art of torture practiced for many generations, famed for breaking those of even the most stout of will. I, of course, could not leave without feeling this pain at least once, so I begged the man to subject me to its power.

It was an injection of condensed juice of a flowering fruit on the plains of Pashuut, and I will not say which. While the burning sensation flowed through my veins, the man commented on how the fruit’s venom protects it from insects and ungulates alike, and faint shavings of the fruit are often used as a seasoning for delicacies and dishes for the wealthy. The pain was indeed exquisite, unique, and destructive. While I admit it was not the worst I have ever experienced, I daresay the pain remained longer than most. Well into the next day, my skin still felt like it was resting on a river of lava. The very brush of my clothing on my skin brought me such pain that I could barely walk.

The pain of course eased after a time, as all pains do, and during that strange transitional period, when I wasn’t sure if I still felt pain or simply did not remember what it felt like to feel no pain, there was a delightful ache under my skin, somewhere between pins-and-needles and exertion to exhaustion.

It is much like this, the smell of the Velvet; yet without the burning suffering beforehand, it is a far more pleasant experience.

After a perfectly serviceable lunch, I made my way through the cramped hallways and corridors of the lower decks, where the engineers, tinkerers, and artisans plied their trades and kept us traveling safely through the Velvet.

Oh! The stench!

I remained for an hour or more, embracing the vile and corrosive smell. The perfumed air above did not pierce the haunting veil of oil and sweat, and I daresay I almost fainted at the strength. It may seem odd to you that I would indulge in such a foul sensation — and with such satisfaction — but is the act of sensation that gives we Sensates our purpose, not the illusionary impostors of pleasure and pain.

And through all of this, the regular vibrations of the great Gongs that kept the Velvet at bay.

But you must be curious as to my speeding through such delectable sensation. I must admit, were I more of a mind to it, I could spend a thousand words more on every scent I inhaled, every sight I devoured, every sound I felt resonant in my bones. Perhaps some day I shall place these sensations in a poem of their own, but for now I must move on to that evening, for it was then that I saw something I had never seen before.