Albithurst

How glum me and Mr. Porist must have looked, standing on the Docks of the Grand Junction, watching the vessels come and go.

We had tried to return to Lady Quixtactictle’s residence to say goodbye, only to find the way barred by officers of the Anointed Bulwark, who with their badges and truncheons explained in no uncertain detail why we were not allowed re-entry. Now we stood, sullen and sad, aside the docks, waiting for available passage on any of the vessels that traveled to and from the Grand Junction.

The events that spanned our delightful reunion at Lady Quixtactictle’s mansion, and the remarkably less delightful environs of the local Constabulary are not worthy of report. Instead, allow me to explain what happened just before myself and Mr. Porist were released on our own recognizance, as they are far more pertinent to this particular poem.

Once again, my dear Captain Sir Venriki de’Laisey was eager to reacquaint himself with my company. I could only imagine how long he had searched for me, after realizing he had let me slip through his fingers once before without so much as a nightcap.

I must take the opportunity to applaud Lady Quixtactictle’s taste in servants, as not a one behaved anything less than perfectly properly. Indeed, it is difficult to answer the door when it has been blown off its hinges, but the tall butler managed, with her firm back and graceful limbs, to provide some measure of propriety to the sudden and violent assault on our host’s mansion.

The assailants, unfortunately, were not nearly as respectful of her efforts as we were. Smoke and light poured into the dining hall, the sound of metal and gunpowder filled my ears. There was a great shouting of many different voices, and it was only after I gripped Mr. Porist about the middle that I managed to shake him from his shocked stupor and drag him underneath the table.

Mr Porist and I then followed Lady Quixtactictle to her mansion — a term of endearment in this case, as the Grand Junction was simply not large enough to contain a residence of the size people of Lady Quixtactictle’s status are accustomed to. As such, Lady Quixtactictle’s domicile on the third level of the Grand Junction was merely fifteen rooms large, and somewhat humble in terms of decoration and extravagance.

Oh, how suitably named is the Grand Junction; a place of a thousand wonders and delights. From all across the Myriad Worlds come travelers seeking new lands on which to place their feet, free from the confines of their old lands and cultures. They mix freely with each other like masters of their own destinies. Exotic Foods are exchanged along with foreign coin. Soft steel is traded for hard silk. Songs are sung, and even if the words are all wrong and the tune is not right, the song is clearly the same.

“Oh?” Mr. Porist turned to look at his own shoulder as best he could. “And what manner is that?”

At Mr. Porist’s request, the Twist did leap up into the air, and perform a most magnificent spin before landing once more on the wooden deck of the barge. Darting about like a nervous frog, the Twist did tug at ropes and push at wheels, performing no end of complex navigation that was quite beyond my understanding.

I awoke to the sight of a childish face staring down at me. The face was small, kind, and unashamed. Wound about with colored cloth, the skin was covered with slanted parallel lines, a strange scar or tattoo I had never seen before.

I sat up, most uncomfortably, as my various limbs had chosen to become quite stiff and sore. The face moved backwards, and in motion were the scars made clear: they were no tattoos but breaks in the papery skin, shifting back and forth as the little thing danced away, half like a child and half like a dancing ribbon tied the end of a stick.

The rest of the evening passed without notable event. Sir Juhrooz was, in fact, a rather dull dinner companion, of a kind with Mr. Porist. He ate very little, and spent most of his conversation speaking most shamefully about various bloody battles and bristling confrontations with any number of villainous and bestial foes. It might have indeed been a most interesting and delightful conversation, had I not heard similar from half of all the soldiers I had ever met.

We took dinner, Mr. Porist and I, on the outer deck; a favorite place of mine on every Golden Howdah. The Velvet is a romantic view for those who are not used to it, and so it is always the most interesting of characters who find themselves wandering the decks, staring out at the effervescent void, leaning with causal admiration against the braces, or pressing hard against the railing.

Of course, there are a great deal of interesting people who avoid the Velvet, but it was merely the first day of travel, and those who were adventurous enough in spirit to brave the outer decks were my particular taste that evening.

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.