An unexpected stroll through Bedfordshire

Forthwith, I give up on time 

for it has given up on me.

     It was my earnest intent to see to the clearing of the fallen trees yesterday.  My plans for reconstructing The Brubu's Servant have been forestalled repeatedly; a fact which has given rise to my ire for my own inability to administrate affairs when the temptations of exploration, study, or intrigue appear.  My poor, derelict airship, one day you shall go aloft bearing myself and my "cargo", this I swear.

     Self-deprecation aside, this morning's eve was must eventful.  Just as I was departing the town square bound for the Elder Willow's woods, I caught a most pleasant aroma wafting on the breeze, and followed it to its source.  Little to my surprise, I at once identified the scent after seeing through the open doors of the Bordello a tall pint of ale perched atop the bar, which beckoned me to breach the doors of the maison de tolerance.  A young athanasian wench with golden locks stood just past the threshold.  The unfortunate woman scarcely had a stitch separating her cock lane and kettle drums from any of the numerous corinthains that frequent this coffee house.

A Device Most Particular

The day the bridge was burned

     I am no stranger to oddities of technology.  On any given day, often stumble across all manner of items, which are difficult to categorize, the purpose of which is often unknown previous to careful inspection.  I am normally inclined to view such devices as trivialities and curiosities that may be dismissed in short order, with the appropriate attention.  This should have been the case of the odd clockwork necklace I discovered, and it indeed would have been, except that I found this device upon my own neck, making careful inspection a bit of an issue. 

     I am only sure that it is clockwork as the incessant ticking rings in my ears at every hour of the day and night.  Luckily, the works seem to be well-oiled and the clicking is subtle enough to be ignored, most of the time.  The incontestably placement beyond my line of sight has left me to only ponder the facts as I can apprehend via tactile investigation.  To date, I have only been able to ascertain that the device seems to have a time keeping function and an automated locking mechanism that has withstood  the greatest force I can exert on it without risking grievous harm to myself.

     After deep contemplation, I have concluded that the device is likely somehow connected to my sudden disappearance from the contemporary flow of time, and that it might be anchoring me to the here and now.  Despite that possibility, its presence around my own neck does worry me.  I am finding it impossible to even temporary leave this small island, even if only in my imagination; I am, at the moment, completely trapped.

     None the less, I have purposed to not loose any time, or at least no more than I have so far.  During my wandering of the island I was alerted to a most heinous crime by the billowing smoke of a raging fire.  The rope bridge which crossed a treacherous ravine from the main town square to the ruins of an old temple was set a blaze by a person unknown to myself.  Upon arriving at the scene, intent on offering assistance to the local authorities, I found the Honorable Elder Willow and the good Miss T were already on the case, and that they may have solved the crime before the flames had been extinguished.  Woe to the villainous arsonist in Glint!  As long as Elder Willow remains, whatever type creature she may actually be, no detail to small will be missed.

     Fortune shined on my attempted good deed.  Since there was little to discover at the crime scene, I was able to make my first contract on the island clearing dead-fall wood in the forest for my personal use and delivery to the future work-site of the next, more fireproof bridge.  With the Elder's blessing I was able to begin canvasing the forest for any loose wood that would be suitable.

     I quickly occupied myself in the search for the storm damaged woodpiles the Elder directed to me in the north-eastern corner of the island.

     While my trek did take me uncomfortably close to the alter, I felt more secure as Miss T was kind enough to direct my future search for the illusive cultists to the old temple on the southern rocky crag.  With the bridge in hopeless disrepair, I feel confidant that my search will be rather easier than I was beginning to suspect.

     With renewed spirits, I am more dedicated to repairing my airship and returning the the Ivory Towers with sufficient evidence to secure a grant for a proper expedition.  This island will give up its secrets to me.

Returning

Date Unknown, again

     I'm unsure as to how much time has passed since I last recorded anything in my journal even after lengthily inspection.  Turning through the pages of my research logs, I find that they are all mysteriously blank.  I was sure that I had taken a sample of some kind that I was intent on analyzing, but in the ebb of time it seems that even my samples have since slipped my grasp.

Friday last, a spot of blood, and a trade

Day 10

     Ah, to have enough leisure time to attend to my writings; it is simply divine.  There is altogether so much to record that it will be difficult to accurately recall all of the details.  I must pay more attention to this endeavor.  Where to begin ….

     Ah, yes, Friday last.  After exhuming my wardrobe, intent on dawning an outfit suitable for the manual labor I have set out for myself, I found my old collegiate laboratory attire and a cache of those old miniature cigars I used to get so much pleasure from.  It was tucked away deep in the back of the crate, wrapped around my old walking cane.

OOC Note

((Just a quick OOC word about a few things.  I haven't exact met my goal of writing at least a little everyday, or even my secondary goal of writing something every day I was able to log onto PRG, but there are both RL and SL reasons for that.  I sincerely doubt, dear reader, that you'll learn much about me RL from this blog, other than maybe my music tastes.  However, the IC reasons is that something new, something darker arose in Vibia that I wasn't really expecting, but more on that a bit later.

So I swear I'll be posting IC soon, but first I'll need to setup and RP a continuing scene.  It'll be complex, it'll be dangerous, it'll take a long time, and with any luck it'll be both fun and engaging for the people it currently involves, those that might stumble upon it and me.  If you see Vibia in world, doing something odd, or in some strange spot on the island, feel free to walk up and say "hello, OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!!!" But don't be surprised if I OOC ask you to back up a few meters as I'll be taking more than a few photos.  I swear I'll get back to you in as short of a time as possible.  Also, there will be sections of my RP the might have to be roofied after the fact or changed slightly as things progress, but if what I'm doing runs that risk, I'll let you know before we get into RP'ing anything.  Stay tuned to hear the IC story unfold.

An unexpected package

Day 3

     Just what I need, more driftwood!  That now unmistakably erroneous memory of being alone when I crashed was lifted from me like the weight of a stack of books comfortably resting upon the top of my head.  I awoke this morning to the soft mewing of a bit of my forgotten cargo, thought to be washed away by the tide.  I was foolish enough to believe my involvement in that affair was lost along with that padded crate.

     It appears that the spiteful Neptune saw fit to deposit the oversized mahogany cat-kennel a short distance from my camp, with its contents relatively unharmed, royal command included.  If only I had taken to the skys as soon as I discovered that I had been misled to the nature of the cargo on the docks in Howling Valley.  If only I had turned a blind eye to the parchment baring Her Majesty’s seal…

The good Miss-Friday

Gwendoline Footman

     I previously met Miss Footman the night of our… I mean my arrival.  (I’m not sure why I can’t shake the feeling that there was another presence aboard The Brubu’s Servant.  Without a doubt, I was alone when the ship crashed.)  I met her again the other night during an informal social gathering in the Bordello.  I had arrived rather late to the gala to find only a few drunken lingerers discussing the location of a mislaid orange and myriad strategies for separating the rind from the flesh. 

PS Day 2

Post Scriptum for Day 2 entry

     I do try to hold to my usual diligence in faithfully recording the events of my travels, but on this day I have allowed an important turn of events slip my mind while writing.  Likely, it was the result of an excess of humorous fluid building pressure on my brain from dangling inverted for so long, or the lingering effects of the intoxicating vapors of exotic flora.  Some portion of my mind must have clearly recalled the event, or at least left dubious thoughts sufficient to cause me to label the date as “unknown”.

The Second Day

Day 2, Year Unknown

     Yesterday I was able to take a reasonably thorough stock of all the necessary repairs I would have to make to The Brubu’s Servant.  By no means is it a short task, as much of the ship lay in near ruin.  Top of the list was a clear demand for some properly shaped timbers to replace the planks that either were pounded by the cannon balls rolling around on deck, or were splintered on the uncontrolled landing.

     With that in mind, I headed out in the pre-twilight hours of the morning to take stock of the trees on the island.  While trekking through the deep deciduous forest, which seems to be slightly out of place somehow, I came across a most pleasant, and yet disturbing site.  Off in the distance, in the predawn light I could just make out what appeared to be an illuminated clearing with a sole individual of some height standing perfectly still.

Spring, 189*

So what is this anyway?

This is going to be my personal record of my travels, my thoughts, feelings and outlooks on the strange and wonderful things that I encounter.  This is simply for my own recollection and personal history, as I have not the coin to take into my employ a professional scribe, or even a cabin boy (oh, wouldn't the hoity-toitys in their stiff collars and outlandish hats be in such an uproar if I had).  So, if this volume should ever find its way into the hands of a good reader someday, let me just say that everything written here are all lies.  Figments of my imagination, and nothing more.  And if you're willing to indulge the ravings of a woman that is quite probably mad, such as myself, then you might just be willing to accept that only the sentences that start with 'F' or 'S' are  falsehood, and the rest was quite genuine... or perhaps it was 'A's, I forget.