Magnus Ferrekrust

Mr. Magnus Ferrekrust is a man who likes to be busy.

He’s certain that’s what they must say about him, these days. It’s not untrue.

He has too much wealth not to do anything with it, and when they came to him about taking up Duke Edmund’s vacated seat on the Council, he saw it as the tool that it was, and accepted.

He’s a veritable fountain of silver, spreading his money and influence to even the farthest of his many friends.

With his help, the work of Owain Winde shines from the grandest stages of Zeivahr, and is known and played by troupes the world round.

With his help, Taekol is able to travel far and wide and publish their work to worldwide acclaim.

With his help, a corrupt Vyrhene noble falls to the smoking steel of an Egyországi gun. His Council seat, under the influence of Magnus’ recommendation, is offered to Sagitta of the distinguished Tarot family. Their husband, Deor, takes it up. Close enough.

Despite Egyország’s civil unrest, he maintains his connections with its industrialists.

He makes money. He makes more money. He makes more and more money. He—

He makes a visit to the Floating Market. He seeks his gun’s twin.

Fürge will not give it to him.

Hah.

Right, of course. That’s how it goes. That’s how it went. Nothing changes, even when everything does.

He returns to his work. For Mr. Magnus Ferrekrust is a man who likes to be busy.

Light cat feet on cold, wet wood. Sea air. Salt. Phosphor. Dice. The hum of words. Exchanging hands, money, paper, secrets. Duties neglected. Excuses made. Time taken. Time wasted.

Waiting. Pacing. Familiarity. A secret place. Secret enough, at least. Ears twitchy. Tail twitchier. Waiting. Questions, from the others. From the family. Excuses. Again. Waiting. Patient. Impatient. Fair. Unfair. Unfair! Again! Abandoned, again! Like you'd even expected -

- Oh, ah, uh, composure! Composure. Expected. Of course. Of course. Late! He's late. He's late, yes. That's all.

He is here. Of course he'd be here. You didn't doubt for a second that he'd be here.

Not that you… care, or anything like that.

…But… he is here.

Warm, heavy paper. Expensive paper. Crisp edges. Machined - produced. Manufactured. Industrialised. Wax-sealed, in familiar silver. Familiar…? Familiar…

Tick-tock.

An arrival. A reminder? No, the letter! Too far ahead. The letter… the reminder. Yes, of course. The promise. You remember. You remember. Tick-tock. Knock-knock.

Knock-knock?

A reminiscence. A moment of confusion. Recognition. Familiarity. A sensation of difference. A promise, though. A pot of tea! Hot, steaming tea. Steeped well. You mustn't forget. Just the right amount of time. Just the right temperature. Pay attention.

A lovely day. A lovely conversation. A lovely… memory. A lovely moment. A moment. Huddled on the floor. Huddled in the -

Tick-tock.

- the shards. Mended. Silver lining. But he's missing something. You're both -

Tick-tock.

- Where is - his arm? Simeon? Where - what's going on? The scent of the tea, it's just like -

Tick-tock.

…

It was supposed to be a lovely day. Why do you only remember the shouting? The running? The sound of stone rolling over stone. Why don't you remember? Why do you -

Tick-tock.

…Footsteps.

Tick-tock. No. No! -

- No, who is that? No, you know! You know him. Magnus! You know that - look of surprise? A funny face. A funny voice. He - he made a joke about Sauerkraut, and then - made that exact face. You were all laughing. You remember. You remember. What's he looking at? Who's he -

Tick-

No, no. No. You remember. You remember.

You promised him a tea party. You promised him. And he didn't - no. No, he's here. He did. He did come.

And he promised to come.

And he did. He came.

And you all had a tea party.

Together.

Mr. Ferrekrust keeps himself busy. He must.

Gifts are given. Dues paid.

A blade, granted to one whom once it was borrowed by. It is a blade that sparks memories. Foul? Fair? In equity? In absolution?

A visit is made. A useful item given. A simple idea - tap, and hear. In lieu of sight, the ear gains favour. A metal hand grasps a doctor's shoulder, and, in turn, the doctor gains a new limb, of sorts -

- and, ah, an armament. Best to be sure a blind man is not left wanting for self-defence; or the inability to perform an emergency amputation.

The mints roll out a new mark of credit. Cold, heavy, weighty in the palm. A comfortable sort of coin. Recogniseable to many. Recogniseable to a few.

The presses roll, too. Much changes. This is, of course, an era of change. The journals, the papers, the news. Word spreads by printed ink faster than by mouth, by letter, by dictation of the stars.

Busy. Everyone's busy, oh, yes. Oh so busy. None more than he. Not a moment can he spare for leisure, nor publicity - he is the man of the era! The man with the silver smile! The man with the unbreakable spirit and the iron palm! The man who bore his way through the tides of fate, and emerged on the other side! None the lesser for it!

No, none the lesser.

Nothing to worry about.

Nothing to think about.

…Nothing to haunt him.

Nobody to haunt him.

…Ka-chnk, ka-chnk, ka-chnk…

…The horn produces its sonorous roar, and belches its steamy brume. Your back vibrates against the seat, its uneven movements adding to the deafening cacophony that is the sound of being on a steam locomotive. There's no room to think. No room to ruminate. Only the sound of the rails, the steel, the jangling and jingling, rumbling, rushing wind -

- you recline, resting your aching skull against the headboard. You close your eyes.

No room to think. No room to ruminate.

The locomotive rumbles its way through the countryside. You are not its only passenger. It stops on a whim, whenever any unfortunate passenger can gather himself to take the hand of the conductor and plead for him to stop.

You take your time with it. But you know when you must get off. You give the conductor ample time to calm the engines, halt the steam, draw all the pipes and valves to a close. You own this train, after all. They wil do whatever you ask of them. The grey area, where Vyhren bleeds into the outskirts of Egyország. That's where you need to stop.

As it draws away behind you, you pad those same steps you've taken once-per-year ever since the palace collapsed. Your eyes unconsciously track the rutted pathway of the now-disused hansom track, recalling what curses you produced as Berius attempted to emancipate the two of you from the thorns upon your first arrival. You needn't think about where you must go. You know it well by now.

The forest is quiet here.

It's why you picked this place.

Tramping through the woods, up the hill, through the trees. You would've picked up a sweat, if you were able to do that anymore. Your metallic skin brushes dryly against your clothing. Your mismatched arms push apart bushery and foliage.

Your traveling-case impacts the ground with a dull thud. You look down. Here it is.