Part 1 - A Bandaged Beginning

Spite was busy today, more than usual. People exchanging goods for echoes or other such items of interest. These things would pass hands so many times it was easy to lose track of these things. Sometimes it was an accident, but a lot of the time it wasn't.

Able price, a small man in his unusually "nicer" looking rags was helping people lighten their loads a bit. He would sometimes bump into people or trip people up, but those never got him anything of use. He liked a bit more of a challenge, people who were often on high alert for people like him. If you knew what you were doing though, you could direct their attention elsewhere while his hands were already in their pockets or unbuckling satchels.

Today was a good day for this, crowded and loud. Constables were constantly keeping an eye on him, but their lapse in attention meant another bag of goodies for him. He was coming close to the end of his route through the people, and was looking for a more High Stakes mark.

At the end of the road, where the alleys of the marketplace starts bleeding into the streets of cat-infested Blythenhale, a crowd is gathered. Quite a large one, at that; the smell of dried honey wafts throughout the air as Able nears the dancing, jovial crowd, and the reveler's suits and dresses soiled by wine betrays that this is a crowd of artists. Finding the creative-minded drunken in revelry isn't a novel sight in Spite (the wine is cheap and it's a perfect excuse for an artist trying to find a muse to get drunk out of their mind), but with this number of people? This is different. Never mind the drunkards (they've typically already spent anything valuable on wine); perhaps there's a tipsy artist whose pockets are loaded.

Able attempts to push through the crowd, trying to hold his scarf to his nose as the smell of wine is stronger than he'd like. He weaves through them and doesn't hear or see anyone of importance. A lot of them look as if their pockets are empty. He gets knocked into them a few times, but nothing he can't worm his way through, a favorable outcome of his small size. He is watching intently, one of these fellows have to have something; right? Though all he's lifted is pocket lint and bottlecaps, nothing of real use.

As the crowd of drunken artists shifts, a sparkle catches Able's eye in the gaps between the crowd; a glint of metal, or a bottle filled with wine? Well, whatever it is, it's bound to be more valuable than the empty pockets of these artists. Focusing his sights on the center of the crowd, Able sidles his way between the drunkard crowd (though they could've barreled through if they wanted to, with how out of their mind the revelers are; best not to attract attention, though).

As he nears the center of the increasingly jovial crowd, the revelers suddenly cheer, raising their arms; above, a bottle of wine flies. He hears a loud thud, before a slurred cheer rings out. Someone seems to have been hit in the head by a green-labelled bottle of. . .absinthe? It can't be. . .yet, it certainly is. A jovial artist is clinging to a bottle of Strangling Willow Absinthe, holding it like it's their own child (certainly, it could COST as much as one). Now, that's DEFINITELY not your usual Spite merchandise; that's genuine ALCOHOL, not the swill from desperately trying to ferment the paltry sugar in mushrooms.

In the center, a voice (which sounds peculiarly muffled) speaks out, boldly standing out from the excited chittering of the crowd.

???: Ah, mind your friend's head! And do enjoy yourself with that Strangling Willow! Now. . .onto the real gifts. . .

The crowd gives a slurred gasp; as Able squeezes past the now pensive crowd, he sees a startling sight in the center of the commotion.

A single man (or is it a woman?) is standing in the epicenter of the crowd, wrapped up tightly in bandages. On top of that, they're wearing what could be an entire orphanage's rags, with small, battered spectacles resting on the bridge of their nose. Around them, broken glass; besides them, a wooden cart filled with bottles of wines (that explains the sparkle they saw). Morelways, Absinthe, and. . .Greyfields 1868?

???: -Raising a wax-sealed purple bottle.- . . .who here wants a bottle of Greyfields, courtesy of Wines themselves?

The crowd cheers, and Able feels himself falling as the crowd begins pushing around; whoever this person is, they're certainly popular, and certainly RICH. If he could just get closer. . .

. . .as it happens, the crowd can't contains its excitement, and they start crowding around the man (or is it woman?); they don't seem perturbed, and in fact seem emboldened, throwing bottles out among the crowd and seeming amused as they run for the bottles. A chance!

Able takes his chance right away, going with the crowd as best he can. Going with the flow of people gets them to this person quickly, but the crowd pushes and shoves and are swinging glasses around.

They tuck their head, knowing that an excited crowd is much more deadly than an angry one. Able nearly runs into this person, but stop as soon as they reach their backside. This was a good position, and with them distracted with the crowd Able attempts a reach for their pockets. Clearly they had to have something more valuable on their person than just wine. Able fantasized about all the things he could buy with all those echoes.

Able gets knocked into the person though from behind and seems to have shoved their hand into the pocket much more aggressively than he would have liked.

Able feels something hard, glassy, and smooth brush against their fingers; before he can ascertain exactly WHAT the object is, however, a tight pressure pinches around the area just above their wrist; a second later, a gloved (and wet? From wine, hopefully?) hand swats at Able's cheek. A pair of high shrieking voices pierces the air:

???, ???: THIEF! THIEF! THIEF!

The grip around their wrist is steadfast, despite attempts to try and withdraw, and the shrieking voice won't stop. The drunken crowd (at least, those who aren't trying to steal bottles of wines from their partners) is turning towards Able and the bandaged person, a tension growing through the artists; thieves aren't new, but they're certainly unwelcome, ESPECIALLY if it's obstructing the prospect of getting free alcohol.

The bandaged person is turning towards Able, tilting their head downward with their gloved hands (that explains the swatting) wrapped around Able's wrist and pulling at their hand hard.

???: Wh-. . .goodness, what is wrong with you?!

Anger spreads easily within a crowd who's reasoning is hindered by wine; the crowd is beginning to get upset (both at the cessation of supplied wine, and at the newly found nuisance to their revelry). This doesn't seem good; and yet, the grip around Able's hand is VERY tight.

Able swears, loudly, desperately almost with each tug of his wrist before he gets that he ISN'T moving.

Able: Ah hell! Why does it have teeth?!

The crowd is closing around Able and the bandaged woman (or is it man?); they seem genuinely upset. At the same time, Able feels himself being pulled along, the bandaged man (or is it woman?) pulling them along as their hands pull harshly on his wrists, trying to pull his hands out. The bandaged woman (man?) addresses the crowd, their voice disturbingly clear among the angry voices.

???: Now, feel free to pilfer the rest of my wines! I'll deal with this. . .incident myself!

The crowd calms down, for a brief moment (a free share of wine?), before it starts turning back into a commotion; those who haven't passed out from overindulgence begin swarming the cart of absinthe and wine, and the artists begin to start pushing and shoving each other for the opportunity to own one bottle for themselves.

Meanwhile, the bandaged woman (man?) is pulling Able along, being none too gentle with shoving their way through the crowd nor with Able's wrists. They speak towards Able, their voice low and vaguely threatening:

???: Now, let go for god's sake. . !

The pinching on Able's hand hasn't let up in the slightest, and it's beginning to feel numb.

Able looks a little pathetic at this, especially now being directly confronted like this. However he doesn't resist being pulled away from the crowd.

Able: I am grabbing nothing!

He is pulling on his wrist and moving it does hurt like hell, as the pins and needles in his hand start to get unbearable. He wasn't sure if he was bruised or bleeding but whatever it was, he wasn't having a great time.

The bandaged man (woman?) is tugging them along, moving to pull them into a small alleyway behind one of the market fronts as the commotion of (now violent) artists feuding over wine dies behind them. They're speaking through gritted teeth:

???: I know you aren't, I'm not talking to you. . .I'm talking to my pockets.

The woman (man?) is holding a tight grip on your hands, and the pinching on your fingers lets up slightly (though not by much).

???: . . .blast. They don't want to cooperate. . .well, now, I'm going to have to drag you to my home, then.

Able is busy in their own head, spiraling into a panic. They seem to tug on their wrist again, but that seemed to just cause more pain. He was fearful of the possibilities that going with them meant, but even more fearful of losing one of his hands.

Able: That- Taking me to.... lords... yes. Fine.

He doesn't concede very happily, but a thief with one less hand isn't much of a good thief at all.

The bandaged man (woman?) nods, and starts pulling them along, their hands still tight on their arm.

???: Well, that's good, that's good. . .a much better response than my lost patron. Don't worry, you'll like Charlemagne. They'll get them to behave. . .

They start walking, and Able follows without many other options, the overhanging fear that he is going to die lingering longer than he'd like.

---

The bandaged person has been walking through what seems to be the entirety of London; they've passed by Mahogany Hall, Veilgarden, the Benthic and and Summerset Universities. . .the longer they walk, the more the tenuous sensation of dread builds; for how many hours have they been walking, and to where?

The bandaged woman (man?) talks suddenly:

???: . . .well, now, where are my manners; here I am, taking you along, and I haven't even asked your name. If you have one you're willing to give, that is.

A strange undulation writhes around Able's wrist.

This area wasn't familiar to Able, which isn't surprising, but he was assuming this raggedy lady would be taking him to the slums or somewhere closer to his own home. Then he gets asked his name. Able squints, suspicious. Looking around briefly.

Able: Mann heel.

He lies. Poorly. He then feels something at his hand and yelps.

Able: What in the hell was that?!

He tugs as his wrist, and regrets it, again. He settles down again, remembering his current situation.

???: My pocket, most likely. Either that, or an unwelcome rat.

The lady(?) keeps pulling Able along, crossing a bridge leading into the city's center. . .closer to the Bazaar.

???: Well, now for my name. . .I suppose you could call me the Bandaged, if you'd like. . .everyone calls me that. Can you guess why?

They keep walking, and the two of them near the fabled center of the marketplace and London society, the Bazaar. They greet the guards, continuing through.

The Bandaged: Ah, hello! Yes, I've seen to have gotten into another problem. Won't bother you again, sorry!

---

The Bandaged person had brought them up to a tall, exceedingly large spire, the walk up the stairs being especially exhausting after a long walk through London.

Soon Able finds himself in a dim, DIM room (frighteningly dark, to be exact); only approximate shapes can be seen, yet the bandaged person walks around with familiarity, moving them around shapes they can't see. . .

The Bandaged: Now, I'm sure that Charlemagne is still here. . .ah, Charles!

The bandaged person is talking to a faintly visible silhouette (who appears to be wearing a hat) in the corner of the room. The figure moves slightly, and responds back in a scratchy voice.

Charlemagne: YES? WHAT'RE YOU DOING HERE?

The bandaged person nods, and offers up Able's wrist.

The Bandaged: They won't listen to me, and they won't let go.

The figure doesn't move, but speaks sharply.

Charlemagne: LET GO! LET GO! STOP IT!

Immediately, the pinching feeling around Able's hand soothes, and the bandaged person lets go of Able's wrists. They seem relieved.

The Bandaged: Oh thank Providence, I thought they'd never let go.

The bandaged person is rubbing their hands, wincing to themselves.

Able's hand feels extraordinarily numb. . .but functional. With the bandaged person soothing their hands nonsensically, now seems like a perfect time to escape. . .but, it's far too dim to see any possible avenues of escape.

Able backs up almost right away, seeming to be a bit more freaked out but the whole ordeal. Able has absolutely no idea where he's going and doesn't RUN but he is walking backwards, which in itself is a bad idea.

As Able steps backwards, their ankle brushes against a SOLID ledge of some sort, and a large, engine-like "CRACK" echoes out.

The Bandaged: Oh dear, do be careful! Watch where you step, this place isn't in the best of repair.

The dark silhouette of the bandaged woman(?) shifts as they look around.

The Bandaged: Oh, bother. . .I should turn on the lights, now shouldn't I. . .now, hang on. . .

As Able lies on their back (a curious sensation of warmth spreading up their ankles), they hear the squeaking of metal against metal; one by one, little fires wink into life in the ceiling of a large dome ceiling, lighting up the room more and more as the bandaged person in the corner turns a valve protruding from the wall.

Around, he'd suspect himself to be in a library of sorts; one half of the room seems to be stacked up with shelves and with books, complete with a small desk whose corners are set in jade (genuine jade?). Around, on the floor, seems to be "junk", but this junk seems valuable nonetheless: a curiously locked box, a collection of keys bundled together, a book of Slowcake's Exceptionals, and plenty of silver bottles of laudanum piled up in strange patterns.

On the walls, you can see some windows; it's no wonder he didn't see them, they blended in perfectly with the dark of the ceiling, but. . .there's a dim, small light coming outside the window, from below. . .

He can see the bandaged person, and a wooden mannequin wearing nothing but a slightly worn hat.

A familiar voice rings out.

Charlemagne: WHO IS BOY? GRUBBY.

The bandaged person directs their attention to the hat.

The Bandaged: Don't be rude, they're probably scared and confused out of their mind. . .

A curious sensation of burning is crawling up Able's leg; a piece of paper seems to be curled at their feet, its edges on fire.

Able looks around, and seems to get a different idea in his head before he looks down at his foot. He screeches, stumbling backwards more trying to get away from the paper, not really into the idea of being on fire.

Able: Ahh hell I'm not catching on fire again!

The bandaged person moves over to Able, grabbing the piece of paper and folding it up, apparently unbothered by the fire.

The Bandaged: Oh bother, calm yourself down; its just a searing truth..

Able sighs, laying on his back in relief. He then gets up and tries to take weird glances all around the room. He backs up again, giving himself space. He's not sure what to do with himself, but seems to be looking for an exit, but trying not to be obvious about it.

Able: You do live here, then. -He mutters-

Able is looking around any time the bandaged person isn't looking at them, and pretending to be doing nothing in particular when they are looking.

The Bandaged: Yes; you shouldn't be surprised.

Charlemagne: I SEE YOU LOOKING. SHIFTY.

The Bandaged: Hm? . .er. . .

The bandaged glances at the hat on the wooden mannequin, before looking to Able.

The Bandaged: Oh! Are you looking for something?

No obvious exits seem to exist (apart from the windows, but they don't appear to open without smashing them in altogether).

Able shakes his head, stiffening up a bit and putting on his best fake smile.

Able: Me? No....noooo....

He looks off to the side, then at the hat suspiciously.

Able: Well! It was good to not be... murdered.... but I have to go..... away.... home......

Able is backing up more and more, looking away, not sure where he's supposed to go to try and leave.

The bandaged woman(?) stares, before chuckling and holding a hand to their chest.

The Bandaged: . . .heh, well now, you're eager to get home, but. . .

The bandaged person is pulling off their gloves, pulling them off one after the other.

The Bandaged: It wouldn't do for you to go home without talking about some kind of retribution..

Able looks up and his heart drops into his stomach. He was going to die in this weird raggedy person's house, wasn't he? He backed up a bit more before looking at the person.

Able: N-Now that's not necessary, I will remember... -he trips a bit as he backs up- Remember to steer clear from now on. I can even hook you up with... Some folks... -He mutters to himself- Oh hell I can't anymore.. they won't speak with me.

The bandaged person pauses, their head turned towards Able. Then, they start laughing; not a cruel one, but a pleasantly amused one.

The Bandaged: . . .what? Oh. . .oh! Hah, oh darling, no, you misunderstand me!

The bandaged person is holding both gloves in one hand while their hold their chest with the other, apparently bemused.

The Bandaged: Oh you poor one, I'm not upset with you; you've got spunk, trying to steal something from a person of some importance. No, I'm talking about them.

The bandaged woman(?) holds up the gloves they have in one hand.

The Bandaged: They were completely out of line, holding onto you like that. What were they thinking, they could've hurt you badly! . .now, Darryl, Darren. .

The bandaged woman (or is it man?) looks at their pocket.

The Bandaged: . . .you too, Emily. Apologize.

A few moments pass in silence. Is this person insane. . ?

Yet, a few moments later, a startling, yet familiar voice echoes in the room, originating from the bandaged woman's(?) palm as the fabric wriggles.

Darren?, Darryl?: -Muffled; insincere.- SORRY. SORRY.

The pocket rustles, crying out a deeper voice.

Emily?: -Muffled; more sincere, but still unconvincing.- APOLOGY..

The bandaged woman seems pleased, and looks towards the hat on the mannequin in the corner.

The Bandaged: What do you think, Charlemagne? Are you convinced?

The hat rustles.

Charlemagne: SUFFICIENT. BOY IS STILL UNTRUSTWORTHY.

The Bandaged: You say that about everyone. Ah, well. . .I'm sorry, for the way they treated you.

Able puts his head in his hands and makes a low whining sound.

Able: -muffled- That's fine.

He doesn't seem to lift his head, and just sits down, and then lays down, and then seems to do nothing, face still in his hands.

The Bandaged: Well, now, that they said their apologies, I suppose it's time for you to head home. . .oh!

The Bandaged reaches into their pocket (Emily, apparently?), reaching inside before pulling out something.

The Bandaged: You've spent all this time trying to get at it; suppose that you ought to be worthy of having it, and that it's worth the pinching these clothes of mine put you through.

The Bandaged is holding a rather large, perfectly cut gem. . .a diamond? It sparkles in the gaslight, twinkling lightly.

The Bandaged: Though, I'd understand if you are reluctant about it, now. . .having something that reminds you of bad experiences can be an insult in itself, I suppose..

Able sits up, and blinks a couple times. He sees the gem, yes, he sees it being offered.. And yet his brain cannot connect the dots. That didn't make sense. Someone wouldn't do this, this has to be a trap.

Able: That's..... -He squints- What do you want for it...?

The bandaged woman(?) stares.

The Bandaged: Er. . .I think you misunderstand. I'm offering it to you, especially since you've gone so much to try and get it; at any rate, I'd say this is a fair trade for my gloves and pocket holding onto your wrist so tightly.

The bandaged tosses it towards Able, the gem bouncing off of the carpeted floor before rolling stiltedly towards Able's feet.

The Bandaged: -Musing.- Though, if you don't like that particular gem, you can pick another one if you'd like. . .I think I know where the box is in this room. . .or, if you don't like gems, perhaps I can find something else you'd like?

Able snatches the gem up, almost without thinking about it. He clutches it to his chest, almost as if it was(and it is) the most expensive thing he's ever held. He looks up at the bandaged person, and looks very confused.

Able: I want to go home.

He says it so suddenly, without thought. He is still thinking, his head full of information that he cannot find reason for. It is in his nature to take and leave, but even then, something in his gut says that isn't right. He doesn't go against his nature though, even if the wheels in his head are still turning.

The bandaged woman(?) holds a hand to their chin, pretending to think very hard.

The Bandaged: -Bemused.- Hmm, interesting. Well, I'm not sure I have your home inside my bookshelf. However, the exit to my spire is. . .

The bandaged points at one of the windows.

The Bandaged: . . .right there. There's no glass there.

The hat rustles.

Charlemagne: DON'T COME BACK.

The bandaged woman (or is it a man?) stares at the hat, the bandages furrowing around their head.

The Bandaged: Oh, hush your seams.

The Bandaged: Though, that being said. . .I'd understand if you don't want to come back.

The bandaged man (or is it woman?) walks over to the window without glass, gesturing down the stairs of the spire.

The Bandaged: Do keep yourself safe, though; plenty of my peers would be less kind to you, I'd suspect.

Able nods, seeming in his own head as he starts to head towards the window.

Able: We'll see... -he mutters halfheartedly-.

The bandaged waves them along, their face incomprehensible behind the bandages.

The Bandaged: Take care, Mann Heel. Do keep yourself safe in Spite..

Able: who? -he blinks- Ah! yes! goodbye!

Able crawls out the window and starts going home

---

Able did in fact return to the spire. A month had passed, and the man was going through what had happened with them and the bandaged person. He was confused as to their intentions, and how politely he was treated. This was soon interrupted as he found himself in more trouble with a couple and had to flee. He quickly pocketed some things, along with his pets, four weasels and headed for the spire.

The walk up was long and tiresome, though he took a few breaks whilst heading up the stairs. Able's weasels wiggle in his pockets, popping out their little heads to look at their surroundings, two weasels per pocket. They seem to enjoy being toted around. Able is wheezing by the time they make it, and seem to suddenly be very nervous about going in. The weasels seem to have no qualms about this, and spring out to crawl through the entrance. Able panics.

The spire is dark; despite the city of London being lit up by candle down below, very little light is reaching up at this height at all. Without the gaslights on, the entire spire is completely black, and almost very still.

Able climbs through the window and hisses quietly at his weasels.

Able: You four get back here! We haven't been invited!

The weasels don't seem concerned, at all, and go back to Able to bounce and play fight with each other on the toppled over Able.

The sound of flames flickering on echo in the room as the gaslights above burst to life; they reveal a room, different from Able's previous visit.

Where the bookshelves used to be (the jade-cornered desk still remains), there is now a smooth, curved wall; affixed to the wall is a large, crudely drawn map, with a badly drawn boat(? What kind of boat is oval?) scribbled in the corner with various islands drawn about the paper. Above, the ceiling is covered in what looks to be many, many mirrors, all facing each other and reflecting each other forever. On the ground, a large machine made up of cogs and what appears to be a cannon stands precariously, aiming directly at where Able and his weasels are. At the desk, the bandaged woman (or is it man?) sits, writing out something. They are wearing their raggedy hat on top of their head.

Charlemagne: INTRUDER!

The Bandaged: -Without looking up.- Good to see you again; mind that you don't stand in front of the Turbine..

The weasels seem to sniff at the object they can now see, but Able scoops them up and walks them to a safer area.

Able: Yes. Thank you. I have a question for you, though.

The weasels are defiantly squirming in his arms, seemingly upset that they can't currently play.

The bandaged man (woman?) finishes scribbling. . .nothing? . .and puts down their pen, looking up at Able, their face inscrutable due to the bandages all over their face.

The Bandaged: I may have answers, though I can't promise that they'll be entirely true nor helpful.

Able: Right, well....

He holds up his shackled wrist, which accidentally lets loose all the weasels. He sighs.

Able: I can't seem to get this off, I think it's rusted shut. Do you have..... a way to break it off or..?

This was clearly only half of what he needed, but he figured he might as well start with something simple.

The bandaged lady(?) nods slowly.

Charlemagne: CUTTING OFF HIS HAND SEEMS SIMPLE ENOUGH.

The bandaged lady stands up, and starts opening the drawers of their desk.

The Bandaged: Hush, people have sentimental value for their hands; I'm sure I can find something of use, here. . .

The Bandaged: Do you mind burns?

Able makes a hissing painful sound and grabs his wrist instinctively.

Able: Is there a way that doesn't involve injury?

Meanwhile the weasels are just wrestling on the floor, having the time of their life by the looks of it.

The bandaged woman (or is it man?) rummages throughout their desk, before pulling out what looks to be a bunch of metal rods, affixed to a hinge.

The Bandaged: How's your lockpicking?

Able: Exceptionally good.

Able watches the bandaged person closely.

The bandaged person chuckles.

The Bandaged: Good enough to pick a lock attached to your wrist, or good enough to teach someone else to pick a lock?

Able huffs, and then seriously thinks about that before he remarks snarkily at that question.

Able: Perhaps both, but cuffs aren't the most difficult to pick. Do you know how to use the tools, though?

The bandaged person opens the set of rods, choosing a small, wavy rod.

The Bandaged: In a sense. I'm not a stranger to theft, after all. . .but, I haven't a need for them for quite a while. I suppose a rake should work well enough. . .

The bandaged woman (or is it a man?) walks over to Able, taking care not to move near the large engine in the center of the room; they gently grab their shackles, and jab the rake rod into the lock on the shackle erratically. The springs inside the lock click randomly as they patiently scrape the wake.

They glance(? It's difficult to tell without seeing their eyes directly.) the bloody open shackle, but she (or is it he?) shifts their gaze to Able.

The Bandaged: Curious.

Able: -Muttering- Why would you need to use them... in your position....

Able pulls on the rod of the shackle, it doesn't take a lot to completely unlock, but being rusted it takes a good couple tugs.

Able: Curious? They've never put a lot of money into the production of these..

The bandaged man (woman?) chortles to themselves, pleasantly bemused as the raking pushes the pins in the lock into place.

The Bandaged: Heh. . .child, you ought to remember that there are plenty of important people who want their peers dead. I've been buried alive once before, you know; learning to pick a lock. . .from the inside, mind you! . .well, it became a necessity at first.

A few clicks later, and the shackles open up, freeing Able's wrist.

The Bandaged: 'Course, now I haven't needed to pick my way out of a box in a while.

The bandaged holds up the (now open) shackle, bemused to themselves. They're talking to no persons, seemingly amusing himself(?) with an imaginary talk.

The Bandaged: -Lighthearted.- Now, constables, you really ought to work harder on making better locks! Imagine, a slightly dirty child getting out of jail. . .

Able, seemingly a bit annoyed, rubs his wrist, but doesn't respond with the more hurtful version of his snark.

Able: I'm a grown man, ma'am.

He looks at his hand, rubbing it gently.

Able: Thank you, though, that would've been a dead giveaway that I'm being looked for..

The bandaged woman (or is it man?) moves behind their desk, depositing the kifers (and, strangely, the blood-soaked shackles as well) into the drawers, closing it bemusedly.

The Bandaged: Are you?

The bandaged person sits back in their chair, sighing.

The Bandaged: . . .now, being looked for what?

Able seems a bit miffed, but buries that emotion, looking away briefly. How should he explain himself, honestly? No, clearly not, that would be no fun. A half truthful lie, however.

Able: Jealousy, I assume. A young lady and a man seem to be under the impression either is, monogamous. I offered my services to one of them, and the other was not, pleased.

That was only half of the story. Able had gone through the house of a wealthy couple, and as it turned out the wife had an interest in being robbed and "Taken". Able wasn't one to refuse advances, especially if it meant he wouldn't be called on or turned in. If only the husband hadn't come home early, if only Able wasn't so caught up in the act that the knife wound in his side wouldn't exist. A constable was called, he was being pursued, nearly captured with those damned shackles. Thankfully that knife in his side was stuck in there, and thankfully the man wasn't hard to dissuade.

The bandaged woman (or is it man?) chortles, her shoulders lifting in her(?) chair as she (or he?) laughs.

The Bandaged: Hah! Now, I haven't heard about a crime of passion in forever. . .ah, an attempted affair that's gone sour. . .tell me, with the lady or the man?

The hat on top of their head rustles, shrieking.

Charlemagne: INDECENT!

Able looks confused for a second, as if it had never occurred to him that a man was an option.

Able: The woman.....clearly...? How would I even..

He seems to think about that, confusing himself with improper thoughts of the logistics of that even occurring.

The bandaged woman (man?) chuckles, leaning back in their chair; they spin in the chair, looking at the map pinned on the wall before turning back to Able (the hat on top of their, meanwhile, keeps shifting, keeping an embroidered eye on Able at all times).

The Bandaged: Heh. . .you seem to be a confused sort; even before, you seemed out of it.

The bandaged man (woman?) sighs, leaning with one arm on the desk and a hand under their chin, their face inscrutable under bandages.

The Bandaged: . . .I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; after all, you came back.

The bandaged woman(?) leans back in her(?) chair, a hand still brushing their chin.

The Bandaged: Though I'm impressed by your audacity, it's still very curious. Why?

Able had an answer before he came he, prepared and everything, something a little dramatic and pleading, but he seemed to forget that.

Able: For one thing, you've not tried to toss me out to the raw fury of angry drunkards, and... you treated me, like a person?

Able picks up his weasels, them squirming in his hands. He is thinking, he has been thinking about this for months, about why someone would show him such kindness. Why would someone even give him the time of day if not to use him? That seemed unusual, but nothing seemed usual with this person.

Able: I don't know why you would. Though to be blunt, you're my last option for safety for the time being..

The Bandaged: Interesting. . .you still remember that, do you?

The bandaged person props themselves up, stretching a bit with their hands on their sides.

The Bandaged: Well, a Freudian bohemian would say it's because my mother treated me well; a criminal would say that it's because I'm currying favor among the underworld of the Neath; society would say that it's for appearances. You are free to take any of those answers, if it helps you feel better.

The bandaged person relaxes, leaning onto the jade-cornered desk.

The Bandaged: If you'll take my answer, however. . .

The bandaged person gestures at Able.

The Bandaged: . . .you don't strike me as particularly malevolent. Desperate? Perhaps. But not dangerous.

They start opening drawers, suddenly chuckling to themselves as wordplay rises to their mind.

The Bandaged: At any rate, it'd be impolite to treat a Mann as something he has not yet proven himself to be.

Able nods a bit while the Bandaged fellow is talking, but seems to only get some of what they were saying. He seems miffed that they called him desperate, but doesn't say anything about it. The wordplay flies right over his head as he responds.

Able: I.... suppose? Though if you can't cause a little friction then that seems a bit......boring?.

The bandaged person snorts; they're pulling out some documents from their desk.

The Bandaged: Well, I'm no stranger to teasing a crowd to get what I need. If you recall the last revelry that you had the misfortune of participating in, it was not merely for the sake of giving away almost spoilt wine.

The bandaged person holds the bundle of documents up for Able to see. It's a list of names, some with check marks, others with stars.

The Bandaged: Drunkards tend to share more secrets. Incriminating secrets help for blackmail, which is helpful if one needs, say, a dozen honey-addled artists to work on behalf of your newspaper business.

The bandaged woman(?) turns the document around, looking at it before grabbing a pen and scratching out another name.

The Bandaged: It also helped since I needed to get the Masters of the Bazaar off my back; they keep hanging around, with their robes and their wings. . .cashing in a favor from Wines and then spending it frivolously gives me the, ah, alone time I need..

Able seems to just be a bit confused at all this, as if all this running around to do different tasks just to sit at home alone? Able isn't really able to process that.

Able: Ah.... yes...

Able says agreeably, having no real hold on the conversation.

Able: I am not a fan of drunks myself, seem to be a bit too easy to squeeze out information, or lighten their pockets. Without them, though, most wouldn't be able to learn to pickpocket.

Able sits on the floor, his weasels happy to be free and play.

The bandaged man (woman?) sighs happily, standing up and walking about.

The Bandaged: Perhaps. . .ah, but it's nostalgic for me.

They're walking in a circle in the room, looking at the walls of the Spire as they pace; their gaze(? Hard to tell without seeing their eyes) seems to have glazed over.

The Bandaged: Running in the sky races, collecting Glim from the fallen stars. . .pocketing shipments of Jade. . .stealing cats, and their secrets.

The Bandaged: Heh, I still have that scar from that blasted Starveling Cat. It's got terrible secrets, I can tell you that, but none too useful.

The bandaged person is reminiscing, leaning against the wall as they do so.

The Bandaged: And the business of Ladybones, and her secrets. . .ahh, but now I have polite matters to attend to. Still. . .

Able is listening, but what he's hearing seems off. Stealing? Scavenging? Cats? odd. He would not expect a person of such class to have such a life. Perhaps they were merely interested in the life other lived? Or was it something else? Their longing suggests a fair amount of time was spent doing these actions, these things he was far more familiar with.

Able: You.... were you not always of this class? That is....unusual. That's...

Able seems to get annoyed at this, how can someone escape that life so successfully? When he himself is forced to live in poverty and wherever he'll be allowed. He struggled to merely get to this less than fortunate position in life.

Able: What makes you so special? Why do you get what you work for while.....

He bites his tongue, but he's seething now. The weasels play, but they seem to be getting out of hand, one of them daring to climb up a nearby bookshelf. She manages to do this, but seems very scared once she does, crying out in little chittering squeaks. The others wrestle on the floor, two of them knocking into objects on the floor, making a mess with things. One if the three on the floor break off from the play-fight and look up at the weasel that's gotten stuck. She climbs the shelf too, but falls mid climb. Able panics, quickly standing to catch her midair and give her a little scolding whilst he scoops the other off the shelf aswell. He sighs, gently holding his pets, even after given them a stern talking to, they cuddle up to him. It seems they both had enough excitement for the moment.

The hat shivers on the bandaged person's head, the embroidered eyes furrowing before it (he?) shrieks briefly, before quieting itself(?)

Charlemagne: YOUR TONGUE! HOLD YOUR TONGUE!

The bandaged woman (or is it man?) chuckles, bemused by Able's questions.

The Bandaged: Oh, certainly not; I wasn't born into power like the Empress, nor did I have powers of wit of the Jovial Contrarian, the Singer, the Artist. . .

Charlemagne: HOLD YOUR TONGUE! CEASE!

The bandaged man(?) suddenly jumps up onto their jade cornered desk, papers on it skidding around as they stand, pointing to the gaslight ceiling; they seem manic, not so much as angered so much as pensive joviality, like a person knowledgeable of the punchline waiting to be recognized.

The Bandaged: I had nothing, yet I kept damn pushing forward to kick at the shins of those who would not help! I had nothing, yet I wrote and typed damning words to slander those who refused to see me as the person of importance that I am! I had nothing, but I spoke-oh, I did!-and I spoke to make those who damned me to learn to treat me with respect! I had. . .I had. . .

The bandaged man (woman?) slowly dies off, heading to an uncomfortable pause, their arm lowering slowly as they proper their stand.

The Bandaged: I. . .had nothing. . .but I had to continue. . .I. . .

Charlemagne: CEASE.

The bandaged woman(?) wrings their hands for a moment, before relaxing, bringing them to their sides as they breathe out.

The Bandaged: -Gesturing around.- . . .child, it. . .is true that I have. . .this. . .because I persisted, but. . .this isn't. . .this shouldn't be what you should hope to have, here. . .

The bandaged person sits down on the desk, facing away from Able as they get off the desk.

The Bandaged: You, you're young. In a sense. Bother, you're younger than me, and that's good reason enough. You have days. . .years. . .lifetimes to spend on something else. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but. . .

The bandaged woman(?) sits down in the chair, leaning back, slowly breathing as if they had run a race in the Flit.

The Bandaged: These luxuries, they're nothing. . .nothing more than just distractions. Something else to work on to. . .they're. . .

The bandaged person is quiet for a few moments, before sitting up a bit more, rubbing their temples.

The Bandaged: . . .child, you shouldn't envy this.

Able isn't sure how to respond, or how to even grasp what his company is even going on about. He does however, sense a sort of, sadness? Regret? Fear? The emotion is hard to place when one's face is covered and all you can glimpse from it is voice and words. Able thinks about this, it seems this person has made him think quite a bit about his own self, and its Uncomfortable.

He quietly pets his two of four weasels, who seem happy to get the attention. He feels like his body is falling again, but he is sitting still. He is greatly uncomfortable. Able stands, and carefully walks towards the bandaged person. He doesn't get close, but he is closer. He stares at the bookshelves as he speaks.

Able: That may be true, but I am still in a bit of trouble due to my .... ahem... livelihood. You don't happen to need a, servant or something? I can offer services, if you would be willing to.......ah..... host me for a few days while the....... heat dies down.....

Charlemagne: DUSTER!

The Bandaged: I'm not putting the boy to work to clean you off.

Charlemagne: INCONSIDERATE!

The bandaged woman(?) seems to be regaining their energetic stride once more, leaning forward with both hands clasped.

The Bandaged: Hmm. . .I've no interest in a servant; I'm not bedridden and can get my mail perfectly well on my own. . .

The bandaged woman (or is it a man?) screams suddenly; they stand up, slamming both hands onto the table.

The Bandaged: Ah! That's one thing I haven't done yet! I've never bothered to have my own protégé!

The hat rustles, flapping its fabric brim a bit derisively at Able.

Charlemagne: TO TEACH.

The Bandaged: To teach a young ward the intricacies of the Bazaar, such that he or she may reach to where I am! Never succeed me, of course; one shouldn't reveal all their secrets, yet. . !

The bandaged man (woman?) stands up sharply, slamming a fist on the table and pointing up at the gaslight ceiling.

The Bandaged: To teach again, and to relive the position of the academic once more! . .

The bandaged man pauses, and then, with a startle, quickly moves to wring and rub their hands.

The Bandaged: . . .blast! Oh, Darryl, Darren. . .oh bother, sorry about that. . .I got carried away, won't happen again. . ..

Able: Eh... that sounds.... like an option..... But I am more qualified for, less academic roles like.... say a knife or a guard or...

Able keeps listing things he can do, not enthused about the thought of... Learning.

The bandaged man(?) gives a shriek, apparently manic as they punctuate their speech with a fist pounding on the table and occasionally on the wall as they move around towards Able (evidently forgetting about their living gloves).

The Bandaged: My dear boy, academia has its powers! It is a world of secrets. . !

A pound on the desk; the bandaged woman(?) nears.

The Bandaged: It is a world of knowledge. . !

A pound on the wall; the bandaged man(?) nears.

The Bandaged: It! Is! Power itself!

Three pounds on the Truthbreaker Turbine in the center of the spire. . .

The Bandaged: . . .oh. Uh oh.

An uneasy whirring of cogs clicks inside of the spire, innocuously small but eerie in the stillness of the room. Without warning, the bandaged woman(? or is it a man?) grabs Able.

The Bandaged: Get your head down if you want to keep it!

The bandaged woman(?) immediately pushes Able down before collapsing on top of them (none too kindly, mind you, with the weight of a man(?) and pounds of clothing on top of that); before Able can recognize what is happening, a brilliant flash of light sears into the room, and the smell of singed fabric and burnt hair lingers in the room.

The bandaged man(?) rolls off of Able, the smell of singed bandages hanging off of their back; they don't seem perturbed by it, instead wearing(? One can't tell with bandages over the visage) an annoyed expression.

The Bandaged: Blasted furnaces of Hell, the machine wasn't primed yet! It wasn't. . .

The bandaged person is looking outside the window.

The Bandaged: . . .oh. Oh!.

Able screeches, and seems to have had the wind knocked out of him from being toppled over. That was an unusual feeling, usually this happens when people are trying to gut him! He squirms back as soon as he's free, holding his chest in a bit of an adrenaline rush.

The bandaged woman(?) is pointing outside the window, looking with bandages over eyebrows raised as they rummage through their pockets hurriedly.

The Bandaged: It worked. .? It worked!

Outside, flying over the lights of the Bazaar, shines a brilliant. . .color? An innocuous shape? A person of some sort? One cannot tell; it's not privy to description, only to truths, and, whatever Able sees outside the window, he can feel that only two things are true about it:

It is so. It is not so.

The bandaged person is rummaging through their pockets, pulling out a fountain pen.

The Bandaged: Of course! That's exactly it! It wasn't ready, and yet it was! Aha! So many truths, burnt up for a good cause!

Able stands, still a bit shaking, but now trying to see what is happening much better.

The bandaged quickly rides to the wind, rummaging with their other hand and pulling out a bottle of ink; the color feels like it's searing into Able's eyes, such is its vividness and brilliance and memorability. . .

The bandaged man(?) is whispering to themselves, training their eyes on the spiraling thought that isn't a thought floating above the Bazaar

The Bandaged: -Dipping the fountain pen in the Violant ink.- The shape of impossible, written in crayon. . .

The Bandaged jumps forward, landing on the metal stairs immediately outside with such force that it creates an impossibly loud racket from the metal warping.

The Bandaged: -Whispering.- The taxation put on those who play with toys . . .

The bandaged person moves the pen across the air; the ink stays in the air, floating as the bandaged woman (or is it a man?) scribbles esoteric symbols blindly.

The bandaged person leans forward, leaning over the railing of the stairs as they keep whispering; the floating impossible thought is beginning to wink out, like a candle burning out. . .

The Bandaged: -Whispering.- The business of those awkward acquaintances, trying to understand each other out of politeness. . !

Able moves to the window, watching closely, apparently intensely interested in what the bandaged fellow was up to. This seemed to spark a bit of awe in him, at least for a bit, before thinking back to what he was offered.

The shape in the sky curls up, winking, flickering. . .

. . .and the Bandaged jumps (!?) out over the railing; you can see the coattails of a suit immediately wrapping around a nearby railing, grabbing hold onto it before their owner falls. They raise the arm with the pen behind them, the trail of ink following behind.

The Bandaged: -Screeching.- The shouting of those who refuse to talk, lest they be labelled as monsters!

The bandaged woman(? They could be a man, perhaps.) whips their arm forward; the streak of symbols written in the air is pulled along, like string floating blindly in water, before suddenly rending itself into a streak of Violant that flies through the air. The streak whips around, spiraling into a coil wrapping around that impossible floating thought; a brilliant flash of unforgettable light illuminates the skies above the Bazaar. . .

. . .when the light is gone, Able can see the bandaged woman(?) hanging by their coattails, impossibly close to falling to their death and pulling up a reel of Violant string(?).

The Bandaged: -Bundling up the ball of "string"; picking at a ball in the center of the bundle.- Hey, child! Can you pull me up! I think I've caught it!

Able quickly moves out the windows, but not before making sure the weasels were distracted with themselves. He easily heads out but seems unsure if he can lift them up. This person, who was surely nearly double their own size, maybe less, but still. They grab what they can of this person and start hauling.

The coattails of the bandaged person's clothing start reeling up on the banister, slowly pulling up the woman(?) like an absurd statue being pulled up by rope; Able's pulling helps mildly, but most of the work is being done by the Polythreme clothing.

The Bandaged: -Slowly being reeled up.- Ha. . .hah! I caught one! I didn't even have to steal it!

The bandaged person quickly falls backward, falling over the banister and standing right-side up onto the metal stairs; they grab Able, and continue walking backwards into their study (doing the same absurd routine as they enter through the window with no glass).

The bandaged person quickly returns to their desk, slamming a black, Moonpearl-like orb onto the desktop; they quickly lean down, looking at it as they hold Able against themselves.

The Bandaged: An Impossible Theorem. . .I've never thought I'd get to see one. . .naked!.

Able is a little squirmy at being man(woman?)-handled, however is now a bit curious, if not confused, about what this person is going on about.

Able: Ah.... is this....good?.

The Bandaged: Of course! You never see an Impossible Theorem naked like this!

The bandaged woman(?) squats, holding Able's head to face the plain black orb.

The Bandaged: Let's appreciate this for a little while.

Able squints at the orb, and then glances up at the bandaged person, and then they look back at the orb. He seems to think about this new position he's in. This was a little close, for.... an orb? Women don't get close like this without reason in his experience. Able blinks, and swats that thought away. Surely not! Not this crazy coot!

The orb sits, looking like a plain old black ball; if one didn't look closely at the warping of light immediately around its surface, one could mistake it for a particularly smooth pebble.

The Bandaged: Fascinating.

The bandaged one suddenly lets go of Able, sitting up and grabbing it.

The Bandaged: Fifty enigmas, spent on one academic truth. Finally. . .

The bandaged opens the bottle of Violant ink they used before, and drops the orb inside, shaking the bottle as they do so.

The Bandaged: Finally, my ink won't clog up in chunks anymore!

The bandaged rubs the bottle of ink happily, apparently elated.

The Bandaged: Ah, the luxury of smooth writing. . .

Able: -refusing to stand until he got his head right- All that for.... ink....?

Able fills his mind with other things, ice, the ocean, teeth, anything. He focuses on these things for a while.

The hat on the bandaged's head ruffles up, apparently upset.

Charlemagne: INDIGNANT! NARROW MINDED!

The Bandaged: Ink? Well, yes, this is ink, but this isn't just any ordinary ink. . .this, this is the tool that lets one change the rules of the world.

The Bandaged person suddenly opens the bottle, splattering it across the surface of the desk; in an instant, the wooden top starts melting like ice.

The Bandaged: One could burn their way through any walls, walk through any vault, overhear any conversation. . .

The bandaged woman(?) slowly relaxes, sighing.

The Bandaged: And yet, few are ever open to the possibility of learning this language. . .to learn the language of reality, and to make it fit in a way that they'd like. . .

Able seems to gain a bit of interest. Change things to how you want? Although that was a fairly simple and likely incorrect assumption, he was interested.

Able: ...You said you wanted a protégé right..?.

The bandaged person perks up.

The Bandaged: Yes. . .I've done teaching as an academic, but never to just one student, only ever to a large class. . .and one never has enough time for everyone. . .but with just one, perhaps. . .

Able: I.....suppose it wouldn't.... hurt to learn what you have to teach.. If you are willing, that is.

The hat on the bandaged's head rustles, its embroidered eyes narrowing.

Charlemagne: TOO TIMID! SECRETIVE! TOO UNSKILLED!

The Bandaged: Oh, cease your chattering. . .

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, and speaks decisively.

The Bandaged: . . .though, he raises a point: do you have any formal education in literacy? I can't teach you to write if you haven't got at least that.

Able suddenly looks away, a little nervous now.

Able: ......No. A little...? Ah...

He was unable to come up with a good lie for this, as if he did, it could be easily tested, and might be asked to stand to read something! That was something he wasn't willing to do currently.

The bandaged claps, apparently more pleased than nonplussed.

The Bandaged: Well, now, that just means we'll have more work to get to, then! We'll build up your literacy, and then move you onto the finer points!

The bandaged man (or is it woman?) moves behind their desk, ripping the map diagram they have on the wall off (none too gently, either; the paper got partially ripped).

The Bandaged: Yes, that should be a good place for a blackboard. . .ah, I'll need to figure out how long it'll take you to get here. . .

The bandaged woman(?) looks at the partially torn map diagram in their hands, turning towards Able.

The Bandaged: Yes, tell me; where do you live?

Able blinks, thinking about what he could say without giving too much away. He supposed the general location wouldn't be a reliable way for someone to find him later, right?

Able: In the flit. Its a bit of a long walk..

The bandaged person looks at the partial map in their hands, before bunching it up and throwing it to the corner (if a corner CAN exist in a perfectly round room).

The Bandaged: Well, now, that's going to be a very long walk. . .a young'n like you would probably get distracted. . .

The bandaged woman(?) paces around the room.

The Bandaged: It'd be too expensive, going through the channels to get a permit for you to enter freely. . .stealing it isn't great; few have any just lying about. . .

The bandaged man (or is it a woman) muses, before they stamp their foot.

The Bandaged: Well, that settles it, then. You can't be my protege if you're all the way over in the Flit. . .

The bandaged woman(?) claps her(?) hands suddenly, standing tall with manic energy.

The Bandaged: . . .so I suppose you'll have to live here, then!

Charlemagne: NO VACANCY! NO GUESTS!

The Bandaged: . . .so I suppose you'll have to temporarily have your stay here, then!

The hat on top of the bandaged woman's(?) head rustles, apparently affronted, but doesn't talk any further.

The Bandaged: Do your weasels have any particular special needs?

The Bandaged: -Counting on their fingers.- Allergies to foods or a curious fear of singers, perhaps?.

Able looks surprised, but definitely enthused about being allowed to stay that he finally stands, waking his snoozing little weasels, who perk up to cling to Able.

Able: Really? Uh... where.. well they aren't allowed outside on their lonesome... or allowed bottle caps....or strings.... Or near rats.... No allergies I know of....

Able thinks for a moment, putting the weasels onto the floor. He may need to get meat for them, but otherwise are easily cared for... He gets a bit of a pit in his stomach thinking.

Able: Well, they shouldn't be around music at all, its, not good..

they01/05/2020

The Bandaged: Relieve the establishment of small objects unsuitable for swallowing. . .dismantle the euphoniums, the violins, the piano. . .

The bandaged person stands up, moving to the valve in the corner that controls the gaslights.

The Bandaged: Do you have any preferences for room type? Big? Small? Wide? Narrow?

Able is a bit confused at that question. How many rooms does this coot have that he gets to pick?

Able: H-Hm... Something small?

Able thought about a large room, but then thought about all the places his weasels could hide if given a larger space, and all the stuff they could potentially get hurt on!

The bandaged woman(?) turns the valve sharply, and the gaslights above wink out; the room goes perfectly dark, yet Able can still hear the sounds of the Bandaged turning the valve tighter still.

The Bandaged: That's fine by me, then; the unused servants room should do.

As the squeaking of valves continues, a small circular hatch slowly opens in the center of the spire, like the lens of a camera opening up; below, gaslight shines up, eerily illuminating the ceiling.

The Bandaged: If you'll head down, I can see about getting everything tidied up. . .

The bandaged person walks to the open hatch in the center. . .and, with their arms raised and holding onto their hat Charlemagne, steps directly onto it, allowing themselves to fall straight through like a pin falling through a pinhole (such a narrow fit!); Able doesn't hear a thump or thud indicating that they landed.

Able gathers all his weasels, and puts them into his pockets, which then all curl up into little fluffy balls. He then looks down the hatch, squinting. Why can't she just get some damned stairs?

Below, Able can see what looks to be a large, circular symbols, written in Violant ink (apparently, it's luminescence isn't due to it providing light but from it's quality of being hard to forget) and in the same type of script the bandaged woman(?) was writing with; the sight of peach-colored, shimmery fabric seems to be covering the floor. Nearby, they can see the bandaged woman(?) a long way down, looking upwards and staring at them.

The Bandaged: Well? Go on, the fall should be adequately comfortable.

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, and holds a hand to their chin.

The Bandaged: . . .at the least, you should only break your collarbone, and not your ankles..

He squints, not looking very convinced.

Able: Is there a way for me to.... not break my bones?.

The bandaged person muses, and holds up a finger, apparently enlightened.

The Bandaged: Have happy thoughts when you fall; the uplifting mood should soften your fall.

Able leans over, looking even more unconvinced. He looks at his pockets, then back at the Bandaged person. Is she truly crazy?

Able: I do not believe that is how that works. Do you....Have maybe a ladder...or....anything.... soft to land on...?.

The bandaged person sighs, lowering their head, before perking up again.

The Bandaged: Oh bother. . .oh! My first scuffle with my protege! . .I'm already becoming a brilliant teacher. . .

The bandaged person looks behind them, looking at something Able can't see.

The Bandaged: I have feather pillows, if that would put your mind to ease. . ?

Able is getting annoyed now, their suggestions doing nothing to make them less concerned.

Able: No that would not do..

He sighs, thinking to himself a bit. Could he dangle down....? No... falling on his back might still hurt his babies... No rope on him either...

Able: Can't you just... like I don't know.... Try to catch me or something? I'm not.... Heavy or anything I don't think.. hmm..

He wonders if that would be any safer, though.

The bandaged man (or is it woman) muses; then, they perk up, their posture standing taller as they ruffle in their pockets to pull out their ink and pen.

The Bandaged: Hm, well. . .oh! Heavy, that's right! . .

The bandaged woman(?) writes in air briefly, whispering to themselves; Able can barely catch what they're saying as they draw a simple curve in the air.

The Bandaged: -Whispering.- The uplifting thoughts of an orphan who had found their parents. . .

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, and adds another piece of script right beside what they written.

The Bandaged: -Whispering.- The gentle push to participate in a conversation with someone unliked. . .

The bandaged person suddenly whips their hand back, sharply whipping their pen hand at Able; the Violant streaks spatter onto Able, the unforgettable color fading quickly.

Before Able can react to being spattered, he feels himself being pushed forward, and their body (along with their weasels) suddenly falls forward into the hole, rolling forward with a shriek. . .a brief moment of adrenaline has pushed every other thought out of Able's mind, but, as the terror subsumes; is he falling? Why hasn't he hit the ground?

Able and his weasels are floating? . .no, they're definitely still falling, the floor is approaching them (if incredibly slowly). Ahead, Able can see several beds, modest in size but kept in much better shape compared to the one in his own home. Around, several windows opening into the bazaar. Above, pipes feeding gas to lit gaslights; below, the esoteric Violant script, and a strange peach-shimmered carpet taking up most of the wooden floor.

A little ahead them, they can see the bandaged woman looking up at them with an unreadable expression before lowering her head, a hand to her chin and deep in thought.

The Bandaged: -Low.- Ah. . .hm. Perhaps that was too uplifting of a thought. . .maybe I ought to have written "best friend" instead. . .

Able had grabbed the weasels that flew out of his pockets midair, but it didn't seem to matter anyway. He looks down, then up, and then decides that this is somehow worse. What was wrong with his plan? Well, he was....falling anyway...? Sort of. He sighs a bit frustrated to himself, the weasels squirming out of his hands. The start exploring their new floaty-ness, wrestling midair as if this was just a new way to play. All four of them seemed to be having a grand time just pushing each other around, and watching them seemed to lighten Able's mood, if only mildly.

The Bandaged: Well, ignoring that mistake, you'll end up down here. Eventually. Er, this gives us a good opportunity!

The bandaged person points at the servant beds at one side of the circular room.

The Bandaged: A bed for each of the weasels, then?

Able looks a little miffed about the whole situation, and stares down at the bandaged person, waiting for themselves to reach the floor, but realizing that may take a while, sighs.

Able: One bed should be more than enough for all of us. It isn't much of a hassle to share..

The bandaged woman(?) shrugs.

The Bandaged: Your choice! . .oh, a couple of words. . .

The bandaged person points at the esoteric Violant scribbles on the floor.

The Bandaged: If you need to head up, just step onto this as if you were reading it upside down. If you wish to go down, or to turn off the lights. . .

The bandaged person points at a valve in the corner of the room, shaped similar to the valve on the topmost floor.

The Bandaged: . . .keep turning that valve to open the hatch. If I happen to be out and about, and you require your teacher. . .

The bandaged woman(?) points at the shimmery, almost mirror-like carpet.

The Bandaged: . . .feel free to spill some wine on the floor. I'll travel through Parabola to see you, if the need arises. What else. . .

Charlemagne: KEEP WEASELS ROOM! NO PESTS ELSEWHERE!

The Bandaged: Ah, that too! I've already phased tiny, weasel-throat clogging items away into the boilerworks, but, if you'd like to keep their lives, ensure they don't ferret away into places they shouldn't be.

Charlemagne: THEY'RE WEASELS.

The Bandaged: Ensure that they don't weasel away into places they shouldn't be.

Able is staring at the bandaged person, not sure how to currently feel or say, but regardless they were upset. This seemed like a whole lot of hassle for no discernible reason. He looks back at the weasels are fine, they are. He got so lost in his own head though, he didn't really register the bandage persons instructions and offered a merely "Yes, of course" as a limp answer. The weasels themselves were having a blast, absolutely thrilled to be bounding in air and tackling each other. Their little chittering squeaks were one of the few things Able was actually paying active attention to.

The bandaged woman(?) claps her hands.

The Bandaged: Well, that should be all, then! . .er. . .

The bandaged woman(?) stares up at Able and the weasels, who have fallen about 1/5 of the way down.

The Bandaged: . . .it may be a while before you finally land. . .

The bandaged woman's (or is it a man?) glasses shift to the side as they lower the brim of their hat.

The Bandaged: . . .well! I have some business to attend to. . .er, your first order of business as my new protégé is to. . .

The bandaged woman(?) claps her hands, clasping them a bit too tightly; they look around the bedrooms, furrowing their eyebrows.

The Bandaged: . . .to make yourself at home! In the mean time, I will be heading to the Echo Bazaar to. . .liven these quarters up with appropriate décor. . .hm. I haven't had anything in these rooms for a while.

The bandaged woman(?) steps a bit away from Able, looking down at the shimmery carpet; they whisper to themselves for a bit, closing(? It's impossible to tell.) their eyes. As they do so, they start sinking slowly, as if the carpet was quicksand pulling their body into a watery death.

The Bandaged: Well, toodles!

The bandaged woman(?) suddenly sinks, sharply pulled into the carpet; the surface of it warps, like melted glass and warming the room briefly. . .

. . .and in the next moment, she's(?) gone. Any trace of her having been here is only in the slightly warm light of the carpet, and even that's fading.

Able floats down slowly. So slowly. He spends an hour or so(he can't really tell) in the air before he reaches the ground. This is a relief. What isn't a relief is that the weasels were still bounding with energy.

They spring around the room, getting into spaces and crawling through the beds and around the frames. Able seems really tired, and sits against a wall. It gets later and later, and it takes a few more hours for these young ladies to tire themselves out. The weasels seemed to pick a bed for them, with blankets pilled all around them that they had stolen from the other beds to make a nest. Able watches them sleep for a while, and then covers them to explore the room a bit more extensively.

Able sighs to himself. Barren, but that at least meant that there wasn't much to break. He heads to the other side if the room, as far from the weasels as he can get. Annoyed that even after all that he was still riled up, he makes sure he's gotten that small bit of privacy, and deals with that.

---

Several peachy shimmers appears in the room at the far side of the circular bedroom; the carpet warps, and the bandaged woman(?) slowly rises from the carpet, carrying a small basket covered in an impossibly dark fabric. Around them, the carpet curves into the floor, and several pieces of furniture slowly rise into view. A wooden desk, tilted a small degree with a lip to hold papers; a chair seating one, with snake ornamentation on the armrests; a table wrought in iron with glim set along its edges; a large, curved blackboard, toppled on its side; and a small metal. . .rat?

The Bandaged: -To themselves.- Let's see. . .a student's desk, a table to spread out their creative works on. . .my own blackboard, of course. . .'s ridiculous, charging more simply because its curved, the buggers trying to wring me dry simply because he knows I live in the Spire. . .

The bandaged person looks over, and sees Able in bed, along with the covered pile of blankets; they walk a bit, moving around the furniture.

The Bandaged: Ah, they finally came down. Good, that's goo-

The bandaged person stutters as they stumble over the leg of the table; a several objects roll out of the covered basket that they're holding, making small thuds as they land on the Parabola Linen carpet.

The Bandaged: -Wincing; through gritted teeth.- Ah, blast. . .

The bandaged woman (or is it a man?) hunches down, picking up several objects; they look around a bit, before nodding.

The Bandaged: Now, lets see. . .hmm. . .

They go around the room, going to the unoccupied beds in the bedroom; they stand at the end of the bed, and lightly push down on the wooden bedrests. Immediately, the bed slowly sink into the carpet, and they move to the next empty bed. . .

. . .by the time they are finished, only two beds remain; the one holding the weasels, and the one Able is lying down in.

The Bandaged: Ah, there we are.

The bandaged woman(?) looks at the bed holding the weasels.

The Bandaged: -Chuckling.- Heh. I knew it; one bed for the weasels, as it were.

The bandaged woman(?) walks over to the furniture laying haphazardly in the opposite side of the bedroom; they lean down, picking up the bizarre metal rat, and set it down on top of the glim-edged table.

The Bandaged: . . .pah, I'll organize this later. . .oh, but first! One must make a good impression. . .yes. . .

The bandaged woman(?) reaches into the covered basket, and pulls out. . .

. . .a small, felt garment in red, a matching red dress. . ? . .a box wrapped in what looks to be silk. . .a plate, with strange blue-purple spheroids attached to a vine resting on it. The bandaged woman(?) seems to be talking to themselves in low mutters.

The Bandaged: Yes. . .traditionally, a mentor provides for one's clothing, one's luxuries. . .ordinarily, one wouldn't spend this much on. . .well. . .

The bandaged woman(?) gestures to the plate.

The Bandaged: . . .they ought to appreciate that memory, though.

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, and plucks one of the spheroids; they slip it between the bandages on their face, their jaw moving as they chew.

The Bandaged: . . .oh god.

The bandaged woman(?) pauses again, deliberating; in a second moment, they pluck a small bunch off of the vine.

The Bandaged: . . .maybe just a little more. . .right, I suppose I should be done. . ..

The bandaged woman(?) looks down at the carpet, and, looking upwards, sink into the carpet again; in a moment, they disappear, already gone.?

Something glints on the carpet where the bandaged woman(?) dropped several small objects.

Able, not really watching them intently that whole time, but certainly mildly aware, seems to sigh. He would look at the stuff after he rested. It surely couldn't be anything too impressive if he was being given it. Surely not right? Able does manage to fall asleep, but not after a long time of just laying there, insomnia sneaking through them. He was thinking about what he could've gotten, but too tired to actually get up he resigns to just waiting till he passed out.

---

Able feels a sharp rap on their head; the bandaged woman (or is it a man?) has lightly knocked on their temples.

The Bandaged: Oy. Get yourself up out of bed.

Able snaps awake, but that quickly fades back into a half asleep self. He feels like his body is still tired, and his head feels like its buzzing.

The bandaged woman(?) ignores Able's noises, rapping lightly on their head again in threes.

The Bandaged: Oy! Get yourself up! . .hm. . .Mann, your weasels gone and broke their necks! Woe!

Able shoots up suddenly, half falling off the bed, half grabbing at the bandages person's clothing to keep from fully falling. His grip is poor though, and ends up falling anyways.

Able: h-HWHAT??!.

The bandaged woman(?) claps, before standing and grabbing Able to pull them up to a sitting position on their bed.

The Bandaged: Ah, perfect, you're awake! . .oh, don't worry, your weasels are perfectly fine.

The bandaged woman(?) gestures at the weasels running about in the bedroom.

The Bandaged: Least, they seem perfectly fine, but never mind that. . !

The bandaged woman(?) gestures at the new furniture set up in the room; a table trimmed with glim, a chair with snakeskin for armrests, a small student desk with a wooden lip. . .a metal rat. . ? . . .sitting on the table. . .and a bundle of various gifts, resting on the table. She (or is it a he?) points at each of them in succession as she(?) talks.

The Bandaged: I've gotten you a student desk, a table for general use if you find something interesting. . .oh, a cute little music box. . .precious, isn't it? It looks like a small rat, very cute. . .ah, some clothing! I didn't know if you were a dress type of gentleman or a suit type of gentleman, so I said to the merchant "well, my good sir, I don't appreciate you being nosy as to who I am buying this for and I do not have illegitimate children from a lover, thank you very much!" and stole both. . .a box. . .that's a secret, open it later when you want. . .

The weasels, while bounding around the room in newfound energy find themselves on the new stuff in the room. They seem to discuss with themselves what to do before they all started climbing up the chair, seemingly helping each other. They all seemed very excited to be up higher, except for one who seemed particularly concerned. On this higher area they started to climb the desk, all of them but the spooked one making it up. She curled in the chair, shaking a little. The desk weasels however were bouncing around playing with each other and generally rough housing.

Able: A-Ah... that seems like.....a lot... The suit, though. However it seems like, a lot for me to have to get dressed into.... anything like this...

Able is a little distracted, looking past the bandaged person at the weasels. A little relieved.

The bandaged woman(?) holds a hand to her(?) hip.

The Bandaged: Stuff and nonsense; this is traditional for a master taking in a protégé. . .ahh, 'tis delightful, one spending one's days and sweat and tears to learn under the eye of one's teacher. . .

The bandaged woman(?) seems to be reminiscing.

The Bandaged: . . .ahh. . .you know, an apprenticeship is something one should be proud about! I remember my first apprenticeship. . .I was a little one, working for a potter. I was good at the varnishing and glazing. . .

The bandaged woman(?) shakes her(?) head.

The Bandaged: Ah, but never mind that, you ought to get ready! We're going to have your first lesson, and you ought to be dressed in one's best befor-

A small click echoes in the bedroom.

The Bandaged: . . .hm?

The bandaged person turns their head, looking at a metal glint on the floor.

The Bandaged: Huh. I thought I had picked that up. Well. . .

The bandaged person walks over and pockets the object; briefly, Able sees what looks to be a stopwatch of some sort.

The woman(?) coughs, clapping her(?) hands and gesturing to the table with the clothing, the strange fruit, and the box wrapped in silk.

The Bandaged: Ahem. Anyways, one ought to be dressed in one's best before lessons! Oh, but before you do that, open your gifts! Enjoy their splendor!

Able glances at the weasels on the desk, who seem to occasionally get close to the edge, then back at the bandaged person.

Able: It.... that's just...

He's thinking about his nightly nonsense, and how much that would almost certainly ruin new clothes, not to mention his already existing filth.

Able: Ah..... I'm, sure I can figure it out.

He seems unsure of himself, but figures it can't be that bad right? Though suits were never comfortable for him.... He was starting to not want to change clothes a lot.

The bandaged woman(?) seems eager, clapping their hands together.

The Bandaged: Oh, that's good! You can show me how well it fits on you! . .oh, I hope it fits, I had to guess your size but it should stretch to accommodate. . .

Able looks very put off, looking away a bit.

Able: Well that seems like.... a waste...? I will just get it dirty anyway.

Able hopes this will get him out of new clothes. Surely this will convince her not to wear.... special clothing..

The bandaged woman(?) claps her hands again, apparently eager to inform.

The Bandaged: Oh, of course! That's why I decided to invest in getting you clothing made from Parabola-Linen. Observe. . .

The bandaged woman(?) walks over to the suit, holding it up; they pluck an orb off of the vine on the plate.

The Bandaged: Imagine; one is enjoying in one's desserts, and, in a moment of indulgence. . .woe!

The bandaged woman(?) suddenly violently crushes the orb, smearing it against the lapel of the suit.

The Bandaged: Egads! A formal disaster! Oh, what should one do? Ah, but watch. . .

The stained juice runs down the fabric. . .a blurring movement rushes by, swirling by the fabric, and the traces of juice. . .disappear? No, they get streaked away. . .in a manner startlingly similar to milk being licked away by a cat.

The Bandaged: Wonderful! Disappeared! One's dignity saved!

Able seems to get a little nervous now. This seemed like something that was going to be hard to get out of.

Able: H-Hm! I see... but ... you see...

Able nervously fiddles with his hands.

Able: I do not even....know how to wear something like this!

Able looks at the bandaged person, hopefully this works, right?

The Bandaged: Oh, it's very simple!

The bandaged woman(?) flips up the suit, showing it from below.

The Bandaged: The buttons on it are for show, really; it's just like a priest's cloak, where one pulls it over oneself and then they're done! Vicars are busy people, after all, and can't go about fiddling with buttons and the like. I thought that this sort of design would make it easier on you!

Able sighs, seemingly admitting defeat. He holds out his hand for the suit.

Able: I... see. Fine..

The bandaged woman(?) hands the false suit over to Able, clasping their hands together quietly, their face(? One might as well read in pitch darkness.) pensively excited.

The Bandaged: Well? Go on!

Able blinks, then shrugs. He doesn't take very long to start disrobing. He starts with his scarf and shirt. He clearly can't even afford an undershirt, but that doesn't seem to matter. He fiddles with the suit top a bit before clasping it on.

He starts removing his shoes, and socks, and then his whole pants. No underclothing, still. Seemingly unconcerned he swiftly pulls on the new pants. He sighs, looking exasperated and mildly annoyed.

Able: There..

The bandaged woman(?) claps, a bit more loudly than one would expect.

The Bandaged: Oh, it fits perfectly! Excellent, wonderful. . .never mind the shoes and underclothing, I'll get that tomorrow, but the outerwear looks lovely on you!

The bandaged woman(?) perks up, moving to the table and gesturing to the box wrapped in silk and the strange fruit.

The Bandaged: Ah, try your other gifts! I hope you find use in them, and that they are luxurious for your tastes. Literally, not figuratively..

Able seems a bit off in his new clothes, like it wasn't right? It isn't as it was uncomfortable physically, but the emotional discomfort. He pause watching this woman head to the desk, put off again.

Able:....more gifts...? Do I really....need this stuff ...?

Able remembers his time at the beach, that empty feeling in his stomach, his self leaving his body. It didn't feel..... correct?

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, and, slowly their posture relaxes. They lower their head as they hold a hand to their chin.

The Bandaged: Hm. . .well, I haven't any idea. I can't read your mind. . .as far as you know. . .and figure out if it's something you need or really want; only you can make that decision.

The bandaged woman(?) begins pacing around the room and around Able, still holding a hand to their chin.

The Bandaged: If you have no need for it, I will not be offended if you decide to re-sell it. . .burn it. . .whatever other ritual that will help you feel better about it. Though, I do ask that you have the social decency to do so when I'm not in the same room, but never mind that. . .

The bandaged woman(?) stops pacing, and looks at Able, the bandages on their forehead furrowing slightly.

The Bandaged: If these gifts do bother you, though. . .

They pause, just standing there with their head tilted slightly downwards with a hand on the side of their head, thinking thoughtfully without responding.

Able seems like they're very confused, this was not the response they expected. The pit in his stomach deepens, he feels almost sick.

Able: You.. You don't..

He sighs, composing his words in his head a bit before speaking again.

Able: I would prefer you spend these things on yourself. I did not... I do not...

The thought fills him with some anxiety. He steps forward a bit.

Able: I have not earned these things. Aren't you supposed to teach me something before I.... Get things?.

The bandaged woman(?) shifts their gaze to look(? One can't tell easily.) at Able.

The Bandaged: . . .I suppose, if you believe that. . .Well, that's. . .I suppose that is what Londoners say things ought to be, down here, isn't it? . .

The bandaged woman(?) moves to the gifts, looking over them; they lightly thumb the knot tying the silk-wrapping together, and flick lightly at the purple-blue fruit on the vine.

The Bandaged: . . .well, I. . .I suppose I'm more inclined towards the values I knew before. . .well, before I came to. . .

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, standing mute for a bit.

The Bandaged: . . .child, I hope you wouldn't say things such as that, but. . .I will not pretend that I'm not surprised. I am used to a world of sun, where one's mentor was expected to provide for their apprentices, their protégés, so that they have the flexibility to strive. . .

The bandaged woman(?) pauses, plucking a piece of fruit off of the vine.

The Bandaged: -Inspecting the fruit.- Perhaps there isn't room for. . .that kind of thought, down here. . .

The bandaged woman(?) muses, before slipping the fruit between the folds of the bandages covering their mouth; they chew, sighing quietly as they swallow.

The Bandaged: . . .mmf. . .heh. That's the problem with London, in'nit? . .

The bandaged woman(?) plucks another piece of the fruit, stuffing it into the folds of the bandages again and chewing again.

The Bandaged: . . .mmph. . .too suspicious. . .of each other. . .

The bandaged woman(?) plucks another piece of fruit, eating it; then, another; vitality seems to be rushing back into their body, as they perk up a little more.

The Bandaged: Mmf. . .perfectly fine, of course, but. . .mmf. . .you ought to not be as suspicious of yourself. . .

The bandaged woman(?) suddenly slams their hands on the plate, cracking it but leaving the fruit unharmed; a familiar maniac-ism courses through them.

The Bandaged: Well, now, I simply refuse for my apprentice to have such rubbish thoughts!

The bandaged woman(?) plucks another ball of fruit, swallowing it without chewing; they suddenly whirl around, the loose clothes hanging from their body flaying by how sharply they turn to face Able.

The Bandaged: Enough of gifts! Enough of introductions! We ought to be teaching you then! Come!

The bandaged woman(?) walks to the center of the room, with a peculiar infuriation that has no anger; they stand on the esoteric Violant sigils.

The Bandaged: Your lessons begin now!

The bandaged woman(?) stamps her(?) foot, and she(?) immediately flies up to the top floor, passing through a narrow hole in the bedroom's ceiling; through the hole, Able can hear a manic discussion.

The Bandaged: -Echoed.- We will have words! We will have writings! We will have all manners of lessons in aquatic geography!.

Able seemed to look like he might as well have been beaten. He doesn't understand this outburst, nor does he get why it shifted so suddenly. This was concerning. He looks trapped where he stands, staring at his hands, wringing them together. This feeling filled his stomach with a cold burn, it made his face flush, he didn't get it. He doesn't understand what he didn't and that same incredibly crippling feeling from before claws at him.

Above, Able can hear the echoing voices of the bandaged woman(?).

The Bandaged: -Echoing.- We will have texts on the manners of polite society! We will have lessons on the proper way to hold one's fork! We will. . .

The manic speech has continued for quite some time, and he expects that it'll continue for a bit more after that.

Able, a bit abruptly wakes himself back into his body, slapping his still wounded side. He hisses in pain, which helps him focus, looking up at the hatch and sighs.

Able: Yes.. I guess I still have to go..