Saturday, May 31
Never to be discouraged, they are feverishly building a celebration of their own! I do look forward to seeing what they come up with. Please lend them your support if you can. Their progress is being recorded at http://kids5b.blogspot.com
I'll not go into the heavy debate on the proper places of the Naughty and Nice factions of child avatars on the Grid. I will only state my personal opinion once and be done with it: what adult players do in their skyboxen is none of my business.
Now I will state the policy of the Caledon Red Cross. We are bound by Honor and Duty to help any avatar who seeks our aid to the best of our ability.
I must also reiterate that Caledon Regency Hospital is not a venue for Naughty Nurses or any other medical cliche found in those dirty pictures. This includes the Hysterical Paroxysm Generator. (And no, I don't know where you can find one.) I have already expelled one member of the staff who was obsessed with creating inappropriate situations within the facility. Luckily, this person's plans were thwarted before they were carried out.
And finally, as a Spark and Maker of constructs, I am skilled at repairing Doll avatars and will aid any who seek my help, the same as any other avatar.
Friday, May 30
Thursday, May 29
I am sorry. I cannot tell you yet.
The Foundation was built in defiance of the Founder, to find a cure for his curse on my family line, and to rid this world of his corruption forever.
The price was so very high...but I...we...have succeeded on both fronts.
I hereby declare both chapters, the ancient House Bloodwing and the modern Bloodwing Foundation, officially disbanded.
Our age still needs a place for adventurous souls to rally. Both the Foundation and the Risen Demons fulfilled this role, but both are gone.
I will contribute what I can to what follows, but I cannot be the center. I will lead by example, not by birthright.
Ladies, Gentlemen and Constructs, may I have the honor of introducing you to the High Tea & High Adventure Society.
Tuesday, May 27
Her strain of undeath seems to be resistant to my reanimation serum. In fact I nearly succumbed to it! I fear it more than likely she will return to contagious state tonight and attack more innocent people.
My heart is heavy. My oath as a Doctor and my duty as a Defender against the Darkness are in conflict. If the Foundation still stood I could at least place her in suspended animation until I could improve my reanimation formula. But as dangerous as she is (to say nothing of the pack she runs with), she is still a child.
G_d forgive me for what I must do.
Monday, May 26
My initial attempts at galvanic enervation did not produce,immediate results. After they soiled my labcoat I soon heard the ominous drone of "BRAIIIIINS".
Luckily there was a kitchen nearby where I was able to find them an alternative source of protein. What group of children, undead or alive, can resist a tall glass of milk? (Especially when laced with reanimation fluid?) The girl soon took on a healthy living complexion. The two boys wandered off to play, but I suspect they turned human by the time the sun rose.
Having been splashed with biohazardous waste, I immediately slipped to Port Babbage where Mrs. Merryman happily provided some extra-strong lye soap from her factory. It is a wonder of modern engineering, and definitely worth seeing.
Is it no surprise that Mr. And Mrs. Merryman, being so skilled, would try their hand at robot creation?
Hmmm. It says MADE IN CANADA.
Thursday, May 22
Of particular interest to my medical associates is a Gentleman I welcomed there last night, a Dr. Laird Laszlo, a graduate of Cambridge. He is building a Sanitarium across the street from Novem. Tricky words these are...Sanitorium and Sanitarium. He describes his project as something of a health spa, as opposed to Dr. Fourway's Sanitorium where avatars who have proven dangerous to themselves and others are restrained as they are treated for their maladies.
Dr. Fourway and I are already investigating a Magic Lantern therapy to be administered at the Sanitorium, based off of the training exercises the Sheriff and I underwent as members of the Capper Brigade. The cinematic presentations of dubious quality lift the patients' spirits and stimulate the brain centers for humour, irony and sarcasm, which are essential traits in a thriving mind.
Of interest to my fellow scientist (Herr Baron) is Dr. Laszlo's cautious steps into the field of reanimation, as we non-Europans are used to calling it. In fact the Doctor and I were so involved in our whispered "Sparkspeak" that was elbowed by the manager at least once to change the subject.
Like myself, he has had difficulty finding a lab assistant in these endeavors. (Despite the Frau's humility, I insist that she is no mere Minion but a full-fledged Spark and Builder in her own right!) If we can but find a suitable surgical theatre, I would love to build him one while demonstrating the techniques I have developed in the creation of construct servants.
In my efforts to be a good Host for a smaller audience, where for once the music was not center of the evenings activities, and not everyone in the crowd appreciated a discource on regenerative techniques for the central nervous system, I related my struggle with the Founder's legacy. How naive the applying entertainer was that she had never even beheld the Supernatural before! And again, Miss Vivian rolled her eyes. I think she might have heard the story before while passing through Steelhead. But as a fellow Spark, Dr. Laszlo understood all too well the struggles of carrying a powerful yet dangerous force barely contained within you.
All and all, it was an interesting night.
Tuesday, May 20
"Wormwood...fear the sky...one chance..."
The generator I had jury-rigged into a powerful but bulky energy weapon rested on the sand beside me. I needed both my hands free to force the mechanisms. My surgical prosthesis had a blade and a needle I could rotate to improvise as as lockpicks. However it, lacked a grip for holding the weapon. It was yet another disadvantage that would have slowed the retrieval and readying of the weapon. It turned around slowly.
I had already seen humanoid and feline Steel units. Now I was facing down a swarm of arachnoid Steels. From the waist up they resembled the humanoids, but below that were rows of legs positioned to suspend massive bodies bristling with weaponry. I felt the heat of their optical laser enhancements measuring my biometrics. They were trailing down from the ancient stucco walls and spiralling down from the intricate columns. Some of them silently descended from cables woven by their bodies that somehow attached to the vaulted ceilings above.
"Your vocalizations gave your positions away!" I barked. "I designed you for stealth, not gossip!"
The Steels froze. My ruse seemed to have caught them off guard. The pinpoints of the red lights converged on my mechanical arm. This would be a hole in my deception.
I raised the limb triumphantly. "This! This is a trophy of the capture of my errant clone! You do recognize the ruler of New Erebus, do you not?"
The arachnoids bent their human torsos as they dipped their front legs in a sign of obedience.
"Now...I need to make some...adjustments...to the current power configuration..."
I tapped the energy projector with my bare foot.
"Now...open this door!"
They seemed to vibrate as they whispered to each other, just below my threshold of hearing. Then their voices quickly rose into terrifying shrieks.
"OVERRIDE! OVERRIDE! WORMWOOD! WORMWOOD!"
The Steel closest to me sprung into the air, the light of the artificial sun was blocked by her shadow as it bore down on me with an array of sharpened limbs, ready to descend for a fatal, treasonous blow.
Monday, May 19
Thursday, May 15
And then we have swarming robots. The Steel units want to keep them as pets and dress them in little bows and fuzzy pink sweaters.
The Sheriff was the first to tap me on the shoulder to suggest a new name. While I admit it is tempting to resurrect (pardon the pun) the Capper Brigade (or the Captioneers as they were first called), it implies that our primary mission would again involve psychological warfare. Our activities may certainly involve such, it won't be the focus of our mission.
Not to say Neo-Victoria couldn't use their services again. I'd enthusiastically help revive it as a seperate entity. I still hope against hope that meQal Anna would come out of retirement to join us again, or that Cappers who stuck their toes in the Grid's reflecting pool before like Shadarus would give this world another try. And I still think a Glitterdome sim would be a catalyst for may interesting, if not slightly "funky" adventures.
One point I raised is that since the physical Foundation was levelled (I'll never get over that blunder) there isn't an over powering need to tack the word Foundation at the end. Fuzz had some other ideas, but they were already Taken.
- The League of Extraordinary Avatars
- The Futurian League
- The Aethernaut Society
- Ths Society of Steam & Sorcery
- The Stalwart Companions
- The High Tea & High Adventure Society
- Torchwood (no, that's taken)
- The Heterodyne (ah... that's taken too)
Wednesday, May 14
What to call this drama factory? Mason Foundation doesn't have that ring to it. And people might assume we're the ones with the secret handshakes and lambskin loincloths. But we need to call it something. Anything but...
His name is whispered in dread by many and in reverence by a few.
I have to let him go. I leave him to feed upon the few who still invite him to their dreams.
He has hurt too many people. He has driven a wedge between me and the community I did my best to support. He threatens my sanity. He has almost destroyed my family. Trust is gone. I must try to rebuild it. If things don't change Love will soon wither as well.
I'm not the only one who's felt the need to step back lately. Admitting it is the first step.
The goal was to be self-sufficient in SL. It used to be easy to keep up with one-and-a-half properties by hosting. Even when his skin switched from pale kabuki to fiery red people still told me he is the "pervect av". He's the one people pay to see. Arrogant nobility with a razorsharp wit, cut with a dash of self-deprecating humor, all steeped in burning libido.
Then those three f*cking words ruined everything. All because somebody didn't read the memo that his brother had left Steelhead behind to go fight Orks in another Grid.
I had to choose between keeping a Foundation without a Founder, or keep the CRC going. I made my choice. The other half of the Hospital could no longer contribute (get well soon, Doctor) and the deed was always in my name. Why not take the top floor for myself?
I tried ripping him out of me before. He just takes a new body. He's been banished before. He just makes a new roost. And still people want to hire him on the spot. He's lead me to places I should never have gone. Putting him in entirely among his own kind just made things worse.
It has to be different this time.
At the end of the Legion of Steel storyline, I must relegate him to NPC status, if any status at all.
I still love Steelhead. I want to be able to explore the harbors and mineshafts as the territory expands. Maybe someday I'll feel like I belong there again. I love Caledon...I even wrote a song about it. The twisting alleys of Babbage I am still getting to know. And as mean as the polluted streets are they're packed with innovations and defiantly cheerful urchins and the occasional reincarnated philanthropist. And every week it seems someone else opens a new sim to put a new twist on the theme.
This is where I belong. Not in the Underworld. Not in the streets of a dying Future.
The key to me keeping my Family and Home and Health intact while still sharing this wondrous New Victorian Age with all of you is so simple and yet so difficult. By admitting my faults, perhaps I can get closer to the vision of a Proper Victorian Gentleman.
The bartender does not drink on duty. I cannot mix work with pleasure. A smile and a wink, but no further. I beg of you...Lead me not into temptation.
Tuesday, May 13
While the Guvnah was busy tidying up the sand of Saint Kitt Island, he was surprised by the sole surviving...er...remaining aboriginal inhabitant, Dr. Oogah Boogah, of the Witch variety. Judging from his bleached bones that rose from the depth of the lagoon, Dr. Boogah had been waiting a long time for visitors indeed.
It took a bit to overcome the language barrier and dispensing of the traditional threats and demand for sacrifices to throw in the Volcano. The arrival of Mr. Hassanov ("the machete-skin kettle man")quickly convinced him to take a more diplomatic tack. Dr. Boogah settled for a crate of Caledonian Tea and ceramic teapot, as well as a crate of ice-packed Kintyre Chocolate.
Guvnah Shang graciously granted Dr. Boogah the title of Regional Guvnah. Dr. Boogah in turn gave the Guvnah a very long ceremonial title roughly translating to "Nice White Chief Who Dresses Too Hot With Sheep Hair Around Torso and Dead Sea Snake Around Neck."
The Guvnah suggested Dr. Boogah "dig up" some more natives to add local color to the expanding crown colony. He would even supply a stake and cauldron for Caledonians wishing to experience an authentic Crown Native Greeting and Feast. All Dr. Boogah managed to recover at the time were a few moai.
Having experience with Angry Natives myself of the torch-and-pitchfork-wielding variety I was a bit unnerved to learn of this proposal, but I do agree it's good for Tourism. We could export them, dress them in grass skirts and trade the pitchforks for machetes. We would need a name for this group. Caledon Angry Native Mob?
Monday, May 12
Do you dare to think you can destroy me, Darien? I am eternal. Even the Deva cannot follow me to the realms of Dream where I am summoned. I am no longer the pale faced clown diluted by your mortal shell. I have no need for a legacy in the Age of Steam, in Steelhead nor any other land. I need not a sanctuary with the Brood in the Dark Future. I am in all of these places as I speak, where my name is whispered in fear, in adoration, and even disgust.
Finish your quest, Darien. Slay the one who crafted you in his image. But his soul is mine. As is yours. Do not think you can hide from me behind your faith. You were claimed before you were conceived, as are all my kin. If you stare full into the blinding light of your Spark or the deepest Shadow of your Magick, you will find me laughing back at you. Keep fighting your Madness and your Corruption, but you know you shall lose. Only the Vampire has escaped my grasp thus far. But not even the Undead can evade Final Death forever.
My daughters shall be as Princesses in Erebus. The Vortex awaits glory in his Mother's realm. Tumim may grow from my bones as Qlippothic grew from Azazel's, and find his Destiny. Jerimiah shall be punished for mocking my Grand Designs.
But you, Darien...you shall wear the fool's cap!
When you return to Caledon, Darien...take down my banner. You are not worthy to fly it. Rename your Foundation. You are not worthy to carry my name.
My legacy passes to my Children. Let them fight for my Gifts. Only one shall triumph.
Friday, May 9
The air here is warm, almost stagnant...except for the sandstorm. I was blacted from every direction. I did find a corner to hide in but it did rip the false skin off the arm. It nearly ripped my mustache off. I can only presume there is a perfectly hidden ventilation system that spread the force storm through all levels of the ship.
One huge complication: I am now leaving footprints in the light layer of sand on the floor. I must hurry.
There. That must be it. Multiple combination locks of immense size. It looks like it's meant to be opened by a Legacy Guardian Unit.
Do I blast my way through? Smash the engine so we float away in the aether as the atmosphere rips away? What if I destroy the soul that was my son in the process? Or wait for the Steel Units to finish me off as I blother? G_d help me! I'm losing my MIND!!
*heard from behind*
...Fear the sky...
Thursday, May 8
The front yard is pleasant enough. The luxurious bed on the main level so close to the front door did confuse me. Perhaps it was a display, in which case it did not match the more spartan setup I found upstairs.
There were about a dozen single beds, adequate for a minor outbreak in Caledon. More beds will be needed if there is ever a pandemic like the dreaded One-Point-Nine disease that paralyzed the Mainlanders in compromising positions years ago. There was also an examination table and a padded room with restraints for patients that may pose a danger to themselves or others.
Afterwards, I paid a visit to Babbage Pallisades. Sadly I had missed the Grand Opening, but Mr. and Mrs. Dagger were eager to discuss business with me. While we had never much interaction before Mr. Dagger was aware of my reputation as a Doctor as well as a Host. Mrs. Dagger realized a Master of Ceremonies was required from the joyous chaos of the Grand Opening and inquired as to he conventions of such a position. She was amenable to my standard rates, and promised to conact me after consulting with her sister who is the other half of the management, besides herself.
The facilities reminded me of the old Jardin, but with a more muted palate of dark greens. The grand staircase was elegant, but difficult to manage. Some poor absynthe-muddled fellow could easily snap his neck falling down. I would suggest installing a steam-powered lift.
And, there was the discussion of medical services. I reiterated that I have treated all manner of ailments that arise form such an establishment as hers. I do believe I can retool one of my prosthetics for the calming of nerves. And let us not forget the Hypnotic Inducer...
Tuesday, May 6
I received an invitation from Mr. Jakeups to survey the renovations to the Sanitarium in Tam, but I was delightfully sidetracked. Perhaps tomorrow.
Monday, May 5
The story is not done, but the aftermath has begun. I became that which I despised the most. The restored memories won't let me keep an Angel Heart. I have seen the symptoms before in the wake of battle. The tremors and the white hot tears. The explosive outbursts. Always they whispered if I could do it over again. But for me it was why did I let it happen again. Even for a moment if I were still possessed...
IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! I cried as I slammed the door never to see him again, and I knew he was right.
I had not been to the Supportforhealing sim in at least a year. The cherry petals floated in the warm breeze on a palate of fragrance. The shining idol of the Reclining Buddha watched the circling swans from over my shoulder. The unmanned kiosk offered a yellow ribbon as a lifeline to every passerby.
Desperately striving to save her kin even as they begged me for an end to it all. I only conceded when the snakes hatched.
Exactly the same events, from two vantage points. Two Dariens. One young, one old. One innocent, one scarred. One struggling with his destiny, one fatelocked. One master and one heir...and one neko. And the secret suffering patients. So many victims. One tormentor.
I missed her so. Now she's mine again. But I never wanted her like this.
It's enough to drive one mad.
Jealous of myself. Jealous of myself.
Concerned friends prodded me. I was not in a talkative mood. But I was being honored in SteamSkyCity as a Misunderstood Genius along with Caledon's other resident Sparks and their loyal servants. The Vaudeville Villain. The Enlightened Dictator. The Scheming Kitten. And yet more examples of Darkness harnessed and embraced. It was a chance to revel in what I had become.
They kept a safe distance as I danced with my sharp prosthesis. Except for the damaged Doll with the intriguing arm and intricate designs, a Minion who sought a new Genius to serve. Protected but underutilized. Over absinthe we only barely began to discuss the Paths of Genius and the anguish of being a labelled a Doll.
Doll: Noun. 1) A child's toy in the shape of a person or baby. 2) A woman or girl who is pleasant to look at. 3) A nice or helpful person.
The description is so dangerously vague. Of all the constructs that have sought me for repairs and advice and sympathy, I have seen the entire range. Built to be pretty? Built to be adored? Built to model? Built to serve? Built to satisfy unspeakable urges? Indeed...the word is as dangerously vague as...Genius.
I will see if I can help. I will see if she can help.
Thursday, May 1
The deva was complaining bitterly about a failed event the demon had hosted, when I should have been sent to Caledon to watch the Beltane fires. So much had changed since the last Spring rite.
I had just been freed of the demon's possession. I danced shirtless with Nurse Christensen, ecstatic in my liberation. The Founder's markings had not yet faded from my skin. Qlippothic..."Qli-1" as I posthumously refer to her now...was revelling in a new magickal form of lust and lava swirling in wings of flame. Sharing hushed laughter and sighs with her closest companions. Koen, who had just become my apprentice, made an appearance. Even my clockwork daughter ARI showed up to leap into my arms. It was a time of such hope and happiness...
Now that hope is tinged with bitterness and loss. The shadow of Doom overtakes my family like gathering stormclouds. And the lightning will strike more than once.
This year I stood guard at midnight beside Frau Lowey, guarding the revelers against unknown dangers from the West. We breezed by a circle of standing stones to greet some friends I have seen far too rarely as of late. We then converged at the Consulate for the Germanic Spring festival, Walpurgisnacht. The facade of a mountain with lit campfires along the peak's silhouette made the bonfire on the front lawn seem gigantic. I felt the presence of my friends, but could not identify them beneath the masques.
Dancing around a campfire is a rare event for me. Sadly it was not in the cards this holiday as the energies were rising just as my deva's spirit was sliding into troubled sleep.
Yet still it was a marvelous sight to behold. And being surrounded by friends old and new left me with a shining sliver of hope to pierce the dark clouds as my adventures continue.
I am not privy to the specifices of her deva's situation, but I do know the anguish of having to ponder the decision to let go of this Virtual World and all the joys and wonders contained therein.
I will fire your Chimney Sweep Cannon in a 21-gun salute in your honour, Madam! Bloodwing has guaranteed you a safe trip across the Styx, should your trail wander in that direction. And as my daughter Qli-3 told you, should you ever wish to reincarnate or be re-animated in any form, my ouija board is always open.
On behalf of the entire Bloodwing Foundation I convey our most solemn respects.
~Dr. Darien Mason