BRAIN FEVER
[ic=Introduction]
Your name is Mildred Symes. You are very ill. The physician has come and gone, prodding your twelve-year-old body and plying you with tonics, his gaunt features contorted, bushy eyebrows knit and thin lips pessimistically pinched. You heard him say something about "brain fever" to your mother and father out in the hall.
Your skin is extremely warm. You lie in a large four-poster bed watching the rain patter against the window and listening to the sounds of London outside – the clip-clop of horses' hooves on the cobblestones, the hoarse cries of a watercress seller, the distant croak of a street organ. Downstairs, the grandfather clock strikes seven. You are unsure if it is morning or evening; your head feels full of smog. Flames crackle in the hearth, and on your chest of drawers the cat, Jinx, slumbers beside your old doll, Clementine, her bisque porcelain face shimmering in the firelight. Through the floorboards you can hear the servants busying themselves in the kitchen.
Your head nods. Your eyelids droop. Outside, a London particular is rolling in, tendrils of fog caressing the windowpane. You slip into unconsciousness...
You awake to the sound of the grandfather clock chiming once again. You count the toll:
One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten... Eleven... Twelve... Thirteen.
That doesn't seem quite right. Perhaps you miscounted. Outside it certainly looks dark. The fog has gotten thicker, though it is a queer colour – tinted dark pink, almost reddish. The fire still flickers in the hearth, though it is burning low. You can't hear anything out in the street, or elsewhere in the house, save for the distant, low ticking of the grandfather clock.
You are extremely thirsty, your throat parched and rasping. You quite desperately need a drink of water.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]
Nightshirt[/ic]
[ooc]I am feeling whimsical. Inspired by Nomadic's "Massively Multiplayer Forum Roleplaying Game" of several years ago, this is an experimental Play-by-Post game in which the first person to respond to the a post determines the protagonist's next action – in other words, a PbP in which
everyone controls the player character (the young lady of privilege Mildred Symes). I'm the GM, so I'll describe new areas, characters, story developments, etc - you just decide on an action for Mildred to take. I'm not sure where this will go, but hopefully it will be fun![/ooc]
Mildred gropes around on the nightstand, in search of a glass of water.
[ic=Nightstand]You feel for a glass of water - usually Henrietta leaves one for you - but don't find one. Instead your small hand touches the cold metal of a candlestick.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt[/ic]
Mildred struggles out of bed, and weakly stumbles to the door in order to open it.
[ic=Doorknob]You attempt to open the door, groping for the knob in the gloom, but your hand touches wood. Squinting in the darkness you realize that the doorknob appears to be on the left side of the door instead of the right, where you remember it.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt[/ic]
Mildred hesitates, but reaches to open the door. She sticks her head out past the doorframe, peering down the hallway. "Mother?" she calls. "..Father?" her voice rasping.
[ic=Corridor]There is no answer. The corridor is clotted with uncannily dense blackness - you can't see more than a few feet down the hall in either direction.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt[/ic]
Mildred shivers, her body seized by a momentary feeling of utter dread. She quietly closes the door and returns to the nightstand to fetch the candlestick. She slowly bears it over to the dying fire - careful not to stumble in the darkness - and tries to light the wick on the embers.
[ic=Candlestick]You light the candle carefully. Its ruddy glow throws strange shadows on the walls, the outlines of objects eerily distorted. As the room brightens in the candlelight you realize something odd - your doll, Clementine, is missing from her usual spot atop the chest of drawers.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred frowns in confusion. Something is very, very wrong; she can feel it. For a moment, she considers staying in her bed until the morning light arrives to dispel the burgeoning eeriness of this night, but she's just so thirsty. "Jinx? Where did you get off to, kitten?" she calls, glancing about the room as she makes her way over to reopen the door.
[ic=Jinx]Jinx, like Clementine, is conspicuously absent from the room. You quickly check in all of her favourite spots - by the fireplace, under the bed, snug up against the wardrobe in the far corner. No sign of her. How did she get out if the door was closed, anyway?
You open the door again. Your taper sheds a little light into the hall, but the thick darkness devours the candlelight after a few feet. Which way should you go - right, to your parents' chambers, or left, to the stairs?[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred heads right, in the darkness and to her parents chambers. However, her curiosity sometime seems to get the better of her, she can't help but turn to look to the stairs from time to time.
[ic=Door]Perhaps the darkness is playing tricks on you, but the corridor seems to go on quite a bit further than it should, and soon the flickering pool of reddish light spilling into the hall from the fire in your room looks quite distant, nearly swallowed by the seeping blackness behind you. You pass the door to your father's study on the left, a room you are not generally allowed into. Presently, after what seems far too long a time, you come to your parents' door, at the far end of the hall. As with your own door, the doorknob is on the wrong side, unless your memory deceives you.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred raps lightly at the bedroom door, "mother? father?". Without waiting she turns the knob and pushes the door open. "Is anyone here?"
[ic=Locked]How queer! The door is locked. You've never known your parents to lock their door before.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Strange indeed. Getting no response and feeling slightly uneasy, Mildred heads back down the hallway towards her father's study.
[ic=Study Door]The door to your father's study is slightly ajar. Dull red light streams from the crack in the door.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred stops by the door, hesitating. How could the light be so red? She stands there for a long moment staring at the odd illumination, before finally raising her free hand to gently widen the crack in the doorway, so as to get a peek into the room beyond.
[ic=Study]An oil-lamp bubbles on the desk of your father's study, though the light it casts isn't the usual warm sepia glow but a garish red. The curtains are drawn on the study window, so the only source of light comes from the evil glimmer of the lamp. Your father's marble bust of Lord Byron, which is normally so handsome and gentlemanly-looking, leers at you from its plinth, its features twisted grotesquely. The walls of the study are, of course, lined with bookshelves filled with books on a variety of topics.
Sitting on your father's splendidly carved oak writing desk, next to the hissing oil lamp, is a small silver key, as well as a half-full brandy decanter and a brandy snifter. You are, of course, strictly forbidden from drinking brandy, though in your current parched state you are sorely tempted to break the rule. In the unwholesome lamplight the drink looks ever so vile, more like blood than spirits.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred's urge to leave joins forces with her rising alarm over the current events. But there's the lingering thirst, a grainy dryness as if the distant wastes of Africa had visited London just to set up residence in her mouth. She knows that it's probably not nearly as bad as she's making it out to be but the growing dread hasn't helped. It almost seems to strengthen all the negative around her heightening the awareness of her own pitiful misery. Mildred tentatively approaches her father's desk picking up the decanter, unstoppering the decorative glass stopper to sniff at the contents within. In the back of her mind she's almost wishing her father would walk in now and catch her. Even his stern punishment would be better than this foreboding emptiness.
[ic=Into the Study]You step into the room and walk over to the desk to unstopper the decanter. As you pick it up the door to the study suddenly slams shut behind you, and you hear what sounds like the click of a key turning in the lock.
The brandy's smell attacks your nostrils and throat, prickling at them. The sensation is overwhelming, but not totally unpleasant.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit), Decanter (Half-full)[/ic]
Mildred gasps and jumps a little, startled by the sudden noise. She almost drops the decanter and the candlestick she's holding, but manages to maintain her grip on both. "Father? Is that you?" she whimpers, turning around.
[ic=No Response]Your question goes unanswered, though you think you hear someone walking down the hall with swift, clicking steps. The crimson light of the lamp throws your small shadow against the door.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit), Decanter (Half-full)[/ic]
[ic=Unusual Sound]Quite suddenly, you hear a strange fluttering sound outside, followed by a tapping on the glass of the window, currently concealed behind the curtains.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit), Decanter (Half-full)[/ic]
Mildred, forgetting her thirst for the moment moves to the door and attempts to open it.
[ic=Voice]You put down the decanter and make for the door. It appears to be locked - it won't budge an inch. The tapping on the windowpane continues.
As you're wrestling with the door, a haughty male voice speaks: "Aren't you going to go see what's making that noise? I would go myself, but as you can see, I lack the requisite limbs..."[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
"What?! Who's there? Who said that?" Mildred looks around frantically for the source of the voice.
[ic=Lord Byron]Your gaze settles on the bust of Lord Byron, which winks sardonically at you.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred takes a step back and feels a bit dizzy. Putting her hand to her head she attempts to regain her composure despite what she just witnessed. "...You can talk? Oh, I must surely be caught in a dreadful dream."
[ic="The Dream"]"Our life is twofold," the bust of Byron says. "Sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things misnamed death and existence: sleep hath its own world, and a wide realm of wild reality, and dreams in their development have breath and tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; they leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, they take a weight from off waking toils, they do divide our being; they become a portion of ourselves as of our time, and look like heralds of eternity; they pass like spirits of the past - they speak like sibyls of the future; they have power - the tyranny of pleasure and of pain; they make us what we were not - what they will, and shake us with the vision that's gone by, the dread of vanished shadows - are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind? The mind can make substances, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh..." The bust trails off, looking rather pleased with itself. "Perhaps you sleep, my dear; or perhaps your soul has passed from the world of light and life entirely. Both the shades of the dead and the semblances of the slumbering have been known to frequent this land."
The tapping on the window intensifies, and you hear what sounds like muffled squeaking sounds from outside.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
"I... I do not understand. Who are you? What is this place? Where is father?"
[ic=Delirium]"I am, of course, George Gordon Byron, the Sixth Baron Byron, as he existed in the year 1822, two years before his death, and I am a poet, not an oracle, sweet creature," the bust proclaims. "You are asking questions about which even the Whorl of the Puzzle Caves are uncertain. Some have mistaken Delirium for Hell, or perhaps Purgatory, though the Grecian Hades or the She'ol of the Hebrews - or even Milton's Limbo - might be a bit closer to the mark. But as to its true nature, or purpose, none can say for sure. As for your father, my dear, I haven't the faintest idea. I cannot be expected to keep track of your relations; I am, after all, a marble bust. Now... are you going to see to that racket? It's becoming most tedious." [/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
"Oh, right! Though I find it quite odd taking orders from an inanimate object, nobility or not. Please do excuse me."
Mildred cautiously approaches the window, candlestick in hand and reaches up to draw back the shades.
"Yes, who's there?"
[ic=Messenger]You pull back the curtain and stare into a pair of beady pink eyes belonging to a hideous white-furred face. A large albino bat wearing shabby genteel clothes cut for its bestial, misshapen frame regards you from its perch on the windowsill, one wing raised to tap at the glass. The impossibly ugly, pallid thing carries a satchel on its back stuffed with envelopes and small packages. The creature squeals shrilly at you.
Beyond the bat, the regular view of Bedford Square is obscured by the thick reddish fog.
"Ah, a messenger," Lord Byron's bust says, craning its marble neck round to look out the window. "Well, best let it in."[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
"If... if you say so sir. Though I'm not sure how father will take to animals in the study." Mildred hesitantly undoes the catch on the window and opens it to let the creature in.
[ic=Package]The white bat hops and flutters into the room and looks up at you with its tiny, pink eyes. Rooting around for a moment in its satchel the messenger extracts a small package covered in brown paper. There's a small note on the package, which reads:
"To Miss Mildred Symes,
I trust this device will prove useful to your in your endeavors. Whatever you do, don't listen to the music.
Cryptically,
A FRIEND"[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Candlestick (Lit)[/ic]
Mildred takes the package "Thank you, now what could this be?" She examines the note and then finding it unclear begins unwrapping the package. "I trust you had a good flight," she feels rather silly talking to a bat. "P-Perhaps a bit of brandy would be nice, I have some if you'd like. I imagine it's quite chilly out uh..." Mildred peers out into the red fog "...out there."
[ic=Music Box]You put down your candlestick to unwrap the package, which reveals itself to contain a small, ornate music box and a pair of earplugs. The music box is enameled with various designs, most prominently an image of a strange, lizard-like creature with the head of a rooster and leathery wings.
At your invitation, the white bat squeaks in appreciation and pours itself a snifter of brandy, which it tosses back at a gulp. As it wipes its pale lips with a wing the creature hiccups. Though it might just be your imagination, or the queer light of the lamp on the desk, the creature seemed to increase perceptibly in size when it hiccuped. It hiccups again, and this time you're sure of it - the bat definitely grew larger. Its sudden growth knocks the desk slightly, making the lamp shake dangerously and opening a desk drawer in which you catch a glimpse of your father's snuff box. The force of impact also startles a small rat that had been hiding under the desk; the creature scuttles across the floor and disappears into a tiny hole at the base of the wall, between two bookshelves.
Squealing a pteropine thank-you, the albino bat hops back up to the window and flutters back out into the fog. The marble bust of Lord Byron peers from its corner to inspect the music box.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Music Box, Earplugs[/ic]
Mildred hesitantly inspects the music box after the bat leaves, but her curiosity is piqued at what happened to the bat. After a moment's hesitation, perhaps the growing loss of any realistic inhibitions, she takes a delicate sip from the brandy.
[ic=Hiccup]You pour yourself a small brandy and take a tentative sip. The meager swallow does little to slake your thirst, the fiery spirits prickling your mouth and throat, filling your body with warmth. As you lower the snifter you gently hiccup once. Instantly you grow taller by an inch. The experience isn't painful, and your clothes stretch to fit your larger frame and elongated limbs. You feel stronger now, as well as bigger - the brandy has filled you with vigour.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Music Box, Earplugs, Brandy Snifter (Mostly Empty)[/ic]
"Oh my... did you see that Lord Byron? I think I've grown!" She examines her new size carefully, measuring herself against the wall. Her curiosity and thirst getting the better of her, Mildred downs the last of the brandy and waits with great anticipation what new heights she might ascend to.
[ic=Hiccup]You down the rest of the decanter, finally quenching your terrible thirst. The brandy is sweet and heady. With each gulp of the powerful liquor you feel progressively stronger - though by the end, you're getting more than a bit dizzy. Then the hiccups set in. With each hiccup you grow perceptibly larger. Soon you are as tall as your mother. A few hiccups later you're taller than your father. The hiccups, however, show no sign of stopping. After a few more hiccups your head is brushing against the ceiling, your arms brushing against the walls. Panic begins to grow in your chest. You're still hiccuping, and now you have to hunch over to fit in the room at all. You end up with one leg dangling out of the open window, an arm wedged up against a bookshelf, another arm crooked over the desk. Your nightshirt is feeling a little tight and has ridden up to your knees but seems to have stretched as you grew.
The bust of Lord Byron eyes your ankle with a marble eyebrow raised. "Your dimensions seem to have expanded to Brobdingnagian proportions, my dear. You might be mistaken for one of the Titanesses themselves."
Your hiccups seem to have stopped, mercifully.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Music Box, Earplugs[/ic]
[ic=Sneeze]While pondering what to do and feeling tremendously dizzy, the small rat that scurried into a hole on the wall returns, scuttling out from its hiding place and over your leg. It continues up over your knee, tickling you terribly. Unable to contain a spasm of laughter, your leg kicks out, flinging the rat away. Your foot strikes the door hard. The hinges groan in protest, and with a sound of splintering wood the locked door creaks open.
The force of the kick also knocks out the drawer in your father's desk. The snuff box opens, and a small cloud of tobacco drifts up into your face. Involuntarily you inhale some of the snuff and sneeze violently. As you do, you diminish slightly in size. You are still too big too fit through the front door, but you're a bit smaller than you were before.[/ic]
[ic=Inventory]Nightshirt, Music Box, Earplugs[/ic]