They find a small passenger steam river-boat making its way downstream, and purchase tickets just in time to join the trip. The crew consists only of a caricaturish-looking weather-beaten man known only as "Tillman" (or THE Tillman), and his White Pawn assistant. As for the passengers, it's made up wholly of a brood of Lemmings excitedly on their great migration, and one White Bishop who seems to be enthralled in reading a newspaper. Several crates, barrels and bags of assorted goods destined for points downriver are what pass for furniture.
A canopy provides meager shelter, and a hatch provides access down to the boiler -- and the only source of heat against the bitter cold. At least the river hasn't frozen over.
"Last call!" the Tillman cries, as he tugs a chain that vents pressure from the boiler to make a shrill whistle.
GM Note: Map of Looking-Glass Lands - http://www.tripleacegames.com/Downloads/WonderlandNoMore/map-looking-glass.gif * present location is at Riverside.
Making sure Integra is seated, Gryphon eyes the sky beyond the canopy, looking at the weather.
Formerly a card-carrying reporter, now a reporter card, Achilles "Ace" Johnson stays close to the boxes, making mental note of their apparent weight and the location of possible hidey-spots. His trusty Paragon Imperial brolly, a tough steel-reinforced version of the umbrella species, is on hand as always. "You might want to get out of sight from the town, behind these," he suggests to Miss Lucky Rabbit. "Perhaps exchange places with Mr. March."
"Even without a train, we seem to be in a boxcar," Harrison quips. He's wearing the purchased 'winter garb' from the sheep shop, along with his top hat, and trusty boomstick cane by his side. His regular revolver is neatly tucked away in case of emergencies, and his travel pack is draped over his right shoulder. "Perhaps being flat has caused Ace to have some problems; all those strange schemes. I must say his humor is falling a bit flat these days," the hare mutters to himself.
To the best the Gryphon can tell, it's just more of the same: overcast sky with occasional dusting of snowflakes. It's cold, but not nearly as cold as London can get in winter. As further evidence that this isn't anywhere near London, the air is crisp and clear, as there are only a few chimneys putting smoke up in the air -- certainly none of those huge coal-fired plants. Still, there's something ... electric in the air, for lack of a better term, as something odd might happen at any moment. And, no, this feeling isn't the least bit more specific than that.
"He's a journalist, so becoming more paper-like has simply exaggerated his normal paranoid habits," Griffin suggests. "Doesn't look like it, but it feels like storm weather to me."
"Vait for me! Vait for me!" squeaks a diminutive fellow who flutters up toward the boat even as the ropes are being cast off, so the boat can begin to chug away (as the boiler is stoked up and ready to go). The bat is dressed in a little suit, with a tiny pair of spectacles perched on his upturned nose, and a pocket-watch chain dangling from his vest pocket. He has a carpet bag that's easily as large as himself, embroidered with "T.T.L.B, Esq."
The one-eyed reporter pulls a face at March's claim. "Lapine to conclusions, old chap? I'll have you know my jokes aren't falling flat-- they started that way!"
"Tickets," the Tillman prompts, as the Pawn assistant goes about, checking tickets. The tickets themselves are printed cards that look like they've been used over and over again, and some have stains and worried edges.
"T.T.L.B?" Harrison has to ask as he spots the strange, diminutive, follow. He also absently fished out his own ticker, purchased earlier.
The reporter steps forward to offer the small bat a hand onto the ship. "Hello! You're in the nick of time, sir."
The Lemmings all rush the poor Pawn assistant at once, eager to present their tickets. At last, the Pawn quietly gets that taken care of, as well as the other tickets presented to him in a somewhat less bowling-over sort of way.
Handing over Integra's and his own tickets, Griffin is surprised by the bat. "He doesn't look at all like a tea-tray," he mutters.
"Ah, zhank you," the little bat says to Achilles, looking relieved (as he had been flying with the weight of that bag, in a gravity-defying but still strained-looking way). He flutters over, depositing the bag on the deck with Achilles's help, then flies up and grabs a perch with his feet (somehow his glasses stay in place despite being upside-down). He digs around in his vest with a wing-claw, then produces a ticket to hand over to the Pawn assistant.
"I also have to say it does not instill confidence to be on a ship full of lemmings," Harrison mutters to himself as he hands over his ticket. Still, maybe in this world obviously dangerous traps and hints won't be, just be be obstinate.
The Lemmings are beside themselves with glee as the boat begins to push away. "Joy!" "Hoo-ray!" "Do you think there will be a waterfall?" "Now dears, tighten up those mufflers! Mustn't catch cold. We've got a long way to go before we pitch ourselves off the cliff and into the ocean."
Ace's mustache, normally thin and well trimmed, is at the moment a spectacularly brushy version thanks to a disguise kit he nabbed from the well, along with a monocle over his (non-working) eye. He twitches his mustache as he pats the bat's coat a bit to straighten him out-- all that frantic fluttering can so disarray one's person. Once this basic bit of gentleman's grooming is done, he offers his own ticket to the Pawn. "Cheer up, terror will soon be behind you," he says to TTLB, Esq.
One of the Lemmings, looking decidedly more sour than the others, mopes, "I wanted to get eaten by an alligator. But, nooooooo. It has to be a cliff."
"Oh, cheer up!" one of the Lemming's fellows urges. "I'm sure we'll see alligators. You might just get gobbled up yet!"
"You've been on boats before, haven't you Integra?" Griffin asks his niece, since.. well, he isn't that involved in her life to know such things offhand. "And you can swim?"
Integra looks at the Lemmings, wide-eyed -- and quite possibly horrified. She snaps out of her horror to say, "I've been to the beach before, Uncle, but I can only dog-paddle."
The card looks a little worried about this turn in the conversation. He was never the best swimmer in the grade, and now that he's vulnerable to a good soaking rendering him rather, well, flimsy... He edges away from the side of the ship.
"Don't worry about the lemmings," Griffin whispers to Integra. "I'm sure it's just act - no mother would lead her children over a cliff."
Integra nods solemnly. "Why, if they all did that, there shan't be any more lemmings, I suppose." Still, she sneaks furtive and worried glances over to the Lemmings.
Ace whispers to Griffin and March, "Our new visitor doesn't seem to be carrying any covert weapons, asides from whatever he might happen to have in the bag, so hopefully he shalln't turn out to be an agent sub Rosa."
"Quit being so paranoid," Harrison notes to Ace in whisper. "Lest you get bats in your own belfy." The hare for his part is mainly just looking around and trying to stay out of any further trouble.
Griffin eyes the hanging bat now, somehow expecting it to be asleep in the position. "What could it carry that could actually cause damage? A stiletto?" he asks Ace.
"Can't be helped, it's what comes of working the war desk," the reporter says with a grin. "You should hear some of the tales the older boys tell."
The steamboat chugs away from Riverside, cutting out across the water, toward the point where it narrows back into a proper river again, venturing eastward. The Lemmings are being the very character of misbehaving children, dangling themselves out over the edges, clambering down to investigate the boiler, playing around moving parts, and so forth. It's a wonder no limbs have been lost yet.
Achilles reminds Griffin, "Small things can do unreasonable amounts of damage, you know. Guns... Poison... Even a word in the wrong place at the wrong time could doom us all." The reporter seems in a good humor despite this apparently melancholic pronouncement.
The Bat wraps his wings around himself, suspended from one of the horizontal poles supporting the canopy, with his back to the main pipe-stack (and probably a warmer place for it). He closes his eyes as if he's planning on catching a nap after carrying that bag onto the boat.
A bit concerned about the curious (and reckless) behavior of the lemmings, Griffin makes a point of securing the safety on his loaded rifle, just in case some curious rodent decides to tug on the trigger when he's not looking. He isn't so sure the bat isn't listening in on things either, the way his ears keep tracking things.
"Ow!" the Tillman mutters. "My corn's acting up. That means the weather's going to act up, too. Wrongrook! Look lively, lad! Keep an eye out for shenanigans!"
The Pawn, who was checking the boiler, snaps to attention wordlessly, and begins to trundle about the deck, peering every which way, though it's not clear what he's looking for, if anything specific.
The reporter gets out his notepad and jots notes to himself in reporter's shorthand... Or so it would appear to casual onlookers. However, the truth makes itself known to Griffin and March when he passes them the note. Bat not asleep. Reacted at mention of Rose. Watch your words.
Nodding to the others, Griffin returns to watching the sky and river for signs of.. shenanigans.
"I hope that corn is a joke," Harrison remarks as he adjusts his hat. He pats the pocket he's currently keeping his 'borrowed' watch in, just in case he needs to be in a bit of a hurry soon. He also moves closer to the bow of the ship in case anything pops up that might need "a shootin'"
Achilles pops his umbrella open in case of a sudden deluge. He eyes the clouds distrustfully.
Among the snowflakes, the Gryphon's keen eyes pick out what look to be the occasional specks of light drifting down with the dusting of snow. Little light-flakes swirl downward, most of them falling upon the surface of the river and vanishing in a shower of sparkles. However, one falls down on the bank, and before Gryphon's eyes, some of the snow starts to rise up and then roll itself about. Another light-flake falls, and soon there's another ball of snow rolling about. This continues, until before long the balls of snow are assembling themselves into a three-stage snowman, with pebbles for eyes and mouth, and stick arms. It trundles along the bank and disappears into the woods.
One of the light-flakes appears to be wafting and drifting its way down toward the river-boat. Where it's going to land is uncertain ... but there's a pretty good chance that with as large a target as the river-boat, it will hit something.
"Did your weather prognosis call for light snowfall with chance of spontaneous anthropomorphication?" asks Achilles of Griffin.
"No," Griffin notes. "But then I didn't read the newspaper's prediction. He spreads his wings as the light-flake approaches the boat, in the hope that he can blow it away with a few well-timed flaps.
"Please forgive me, Miss," Harrison says, addressing Miss Lucky, "But do you know what kind of weather this is?"
Lacking a weapon capable of shooting things at a distance... And depth perception for that matter as well, the reporter eyes the light-flake worriedly. "What are those, sir?" he asks of the Tillman. "They seem to be having an uncommon effect on whatever they touch."
"If any of the cargo gets persnickety," Tillman advises the Pawn, "give it a good caning!"
Miss Lucky Rabbit says, "Oh, it just happens now and again. I suppose the Alicians would call it the 'spark of life.' Usually it doesn't take for long. I suppose it's a good reason to take good care of your belongings. You never know when they might spring to life and take issue with their treatment so far."
"Don't try to catch one on your umbrella or tongue then, Ace," Griffin advises. "I'm sure you've abused both too much for their liking."
The reporter blinks. "Hm. I wonder if that's what caused that rather localized storm of knives, forks, and spoons back in the... I suppose you'd call this a lifening storm then?" He takes a grip on his umbrella, preparing to swat away unruly flakes.
As it so happens, the light-flake happens to flutter its way down toward Integra. As it gets closer, the Gryphon can be almost certain it's making a beeline for her -- or perhaps for something she's carrying. Fortunately, waiting and then snapping into action at just the right moment is just the sort of skill the photographer has exploited, and it pays off. He blows the flake away, where it flutters and falls into the water, exploding in a shower of glittering sparks.
Integra startles, gasping in awe at the display so close by.
The water seems to stir a bit where the light-flake hit, coalescing into what looks for a moment rather like a translucent tadpole or perhaps even a fish, but whatever it is, it just swims away, quickly lost in the rest of the water.
The flurry of snow subsides, and the Tillman lets out a sigh of relief. The Pawn returns to minding the boiler.
Harrison adjusts his hat again, then takes it off. "That sounds problematic. Aggressive animated items with attitudes annoyingly attacking?" he comments. It's not the greatest fan, but perhaps the hat will do for dissuading the light-things.
"If we had jars we could try to catch one, like a firefly," Griffin proposes. "They might come in handy."
"Or a lantern," Achilles says to Griffin, holding up the one he obtained from back in the inn. "I'm sure they'd liven it up a bit."
The boat ride continues on relatively uneventfully. The "lake" narrows to a river, then the river continues on in a rather straight and orderly fashion. Whereas at first there were mostly fields and a town to one side, and woods on the remote side, it suddenly shifts, and now there are white snowy fields to the south, and autumny-looking red woods to the north.
Achilles keeps an eye out for armies of abominable snowmen. Enough faux-yetis could put the boat and its crew in a hairy position.
Less concerned about mobile snow sculpture, Griffin keeps watch for the Manor.
The Lemmings, for their part, have managed to stay alive and intact, despite their very best efforts to get eaten by something along the way (alas, there's just not any of that to be found -- no alligators, in any case). The White Bishop is still going through his newspaper. The Pawn has gone around, sharing sack lunches with the paid passengers. The river boat has its own stocks of clear water, and facilities in the head, plus cots down below for those who wish to get some sleep.
Day and night seems to have scant meaning here. Just as in the poem of the Walrus and the Carpenter, the sun can be in the middle of the sky even in the middle of the night -- but thanks to the perpetually-overcast skies, there's no chance of seeing that in action. In any case, it seems as if a great deal of time has passed, perhaps even days, though there's considerable disagreement among the travelers (those who are used to measuring such things, in any case) about just how long it might have been.
The reporter jots notes by candlelight as it seems they aren't in imminent danger of enlifened creations. "Hmm. Queen's Retreat is just three more squares down, we should be there in..." He looks over at Harrison and asks, since the rabbit is the one with the watch. "How long would you say it's taken us to get this far?"
As it would happen, the sleep schedules of the Real-World travelers briefly coincide at a time that seems a bit darker than usual, and might be what passes for night. The Tillman dozes at the tiller, while the Pawn keeps watch.
Harrison pulls out the white-rabbit's watch to check, to see if there is any way he could possibly tell.
The Bat is nowhere to be seen, though his carpet-bag is still up next to the Tillman's station (where it would be hard to rifle through it without attracting the Pawn's attention, presumably). Off to the south, toward the woods, there are a number of faintly glowing blue lights hovering over the waters, rather like will o' wisps, but stronger and in greater numbers.
"I'm seeing spots," Griffin notes, watching the lights. "And I miss chewing."
Harrison retreats a bit back to talk to the others. "The bat is dining around the ship, I can hear him flap, snap, and chew. But ... that's not the big problem. Something is to the south, a swarm of blue-flame-headed bugs with weird holly leaf-wings. And worse, I know I've seen it before ... right, the holiday snapdragon game! Grabbing for alcohol-flaming raisins," he mutters to the others.
Drowsily wrapped up in his winter garb and shaded from the elements by his umbrella, the reporter stirs at Harrison's words and peeks out at the forest. "St. Elmo's Fire?" he wonders at first. "Wait-- firebugs?"
"Fairies?" Griffin asks.
March confirms, "Firebugs. Sort of."
"That doesn't sound good," the easily flammable card says. He shifts his grip on his brolly, then waves a hand at the Pawn to draw his attention and point him at the swarm. "We'd best tread lightly."
"Good thing we're surrounded by water then," Griffin jokes. "Maybe the fish will jump up and eat them."
"Don't you mean float lightly? Ships don't have feet," Harrison points out.
The reporter puts a hand over his face. "Oh, the agony of de-feet."
As any veteran of Wonderland would know, a Snap-dragonfly has a body made of plum pudding, wings of holly leaves, and for a head it has a raisin burning in brandy. It normally lives on frumenty and mince pie, and is partial to making its nest in a Christmas box.
"It's odd for them to be out here now though isn't it?" Griffin asks. "Unless the river is undergoing a Yule tide.."
Alone, it's a fairly harmless sort of insect, most often found during the wintry parts of what passes for Wonderland's seasons, given its association with holiday cheer. However, when encountered in a swarm, it's more associated with holiday terror. It has little fear of water, given that it can fly. It is much like any other swarm -- that is, in such numbers that the most skilled swordsman will accomplish little because there are just SO MANY to slay. What makes it worse, however, is that these little nasties have a chance of setting people on fire (and if people are already flammable, that "chance" is more like 100%).
About the only really good thing about snap-dragonflies is that, just like bread-and-butterflies, they are edible. A snuffed-out swarm can yield enough plum pudding and brandy-soaked raisins to serve as a helpful ingredient for a resourceful Gourmancer-on-the-go, to add a little extra something to that special holiday dish.
The flickering blue lights come ever closer, but not with any sense of great urgency -- only inevitability. The Pawn looks up and runs over to ring a bell next to the Tillman.
The Tillman wakes up, wipes the grog from his eyes, and makes a loud grumbling -- then shakes it off when he follows the Pawn's agitated pointing to see the approaching blue glows. "All right. Below-decks with the lot of you! Not unless you care to play a game of snap-dragon the hard way."
"There are quite a few of them," frets Achilles. His umbrella will be next to useless against so many small enemies. He thinks quickly. "I'm starting to remember something about these things... Something about them being attracted to... to..."
"They must deal with these regularly," Griffin notes, watching the crew react. "Integra, maybe you and Miss Lucky could go belowdeck though.."
"I suggest we change course or we might end up a flambe meal ... and really, I'm not that kind of Animal," Harrison remarks. "Do we have anything we can repel them with or shoo them away? Maybe Griffin can lure them away."
Integra snaps out of being mesmerized by the dancing blue lights, and nods smartly to her uncle. She tugs Miss Lucky Rabbit by the sleeve, and together they head for the hatch down below.
"Lure them away to where?" Griffin asks. "And how? Do I sing carols at them?"
"If it makes you happy?" March says.
"No, wait-- Integra, do you have wrapping paper and ribbons in your apron?" asks the reporter urgently. "If we fold Christmas boats, they might be attracted to those instead of to us. We just have to let them sail down the stream from us."
Integra stops mid-way through the hatch, and digs around in her apron pockets. "Oh!" she exclaims, and sure enough, she has the trimmings for packaging presents. Perhaps it only makes sense, this time of year.
"They like mince, which.. I don't have any of," Griffin notes. "Perhaps some jam?"
"It beats becoming a flaming pile of stinking fur," March says, shrugging at Ace. "Lets give it a shot."
"Squeak!" goes the Bat, as he flutters by in the darkness.
"You do have that cherry bomb jam," Achilles comments, though a worried look passes over his face. This is going to end in tears, I know it. He gets started making simple paper boats, and hands out some of his supply of matches to the others so that they can light them and attach them to the 'Christmas boats' to draw attention away from the riverboat.
"The little buggers aren't attracted to bats are they?" Griffin asks Ace after the flyby.
Achilles shrugs. "He could be out for a midnight snack."
"Hand me one of your.. ah.. nests," Griffin asks Ace. "I can try to get their attention with it before they get close to the boat."
The reporter passes out a boat to Griffin. "Feeling a little bird-witted? Nesting instinct getting to you?" he jibes.
Integra follows Achilles's lead, helping to fold gift-wrapping boats. She gives them little flags made out of pieces of ribbon.
"As long as he doesn't end up with egg on his face, does it matter?" Harrison contributes. "Though that might require a female griffin to ruffle his feathers."
"Nesting instinct, yes. Mine? No, their's," the gryphon assures.
"It's almost on us!" the Tillman warns. "I want that hatch shut and latched. All below who's going below!"
"Integra, you should get below decks now, this will have to be enough," warns Achilles.
"Right, well, time to launch some boats!" March decides as he gathers up the diminutive tributes to Christmas (and perhaps imitations of viking funerals if things go as planned). "Float, little boats! Lure them away like the ladies of the night do unto sailors at the docks!"
Fearful of his flammability, the only thing holding the card reporter on the deck are his friends-- he can't let them face the swarm alone! Achilles hurriedly goes to the side of the ship with Harrison to help launch a paper armada.
"Hjckrrh," Griffin comments on March's choice of analogy, given Integra is still on deck..
Paper fleet away! Now to see how many of them survive the wake of the steamboat's passing.
"That should be enough boats, Integra," the gryphon claims. "Please go down below now!"
The Tillman makes shooing motions at the Pawn (evidently wooden and therefore almost as flammable as Achilles). The Pawn rather reluctantly goes down the hatch, but keeps it propped open, gesturing to Integra to hurry it up and come on down.
"Let's hope this works," Achilles says, putting a match on scattered boats, lit with a candle, to ensure that they are visible.
Integra gives the Gryphon a quick hug. "Good luck, Uncle!" With that, she scurries down the hatch. The Pawn takes another once-over of the deck, then slams the hatch shut.
Just in case he has to dive into the river, Griffin removes the extra ammunition from his pockets (but holds on to his rifle, with the bayonet affixed). Wings spread, he launches to try and intercept the swarm.
With the boats launched on his side, the reporter stands up straight and salutes. "Go forth, our little holiday boats! Rule Britannia! Rule the waves, for we never will be slaves."
"Be thankful I don't have any rotten fruit to throw at you, Ace," March calls out.
Once he's close (but not too close) to the swarm over the water, Griffin hovers between them and the boat and prepares to try and blow them back with wingbeats if necessary.
"Hmm," can be heard from the night sky, in a squeaky voice. "What are these?" A shadowy form flutters down closer to the little paper boats.
"Christmas boats, for luring the dragonflies away from our flammable boat," calls out Achilles.
The swarm of snapdragonflies, meanwhile, continues flying right toward the riverboat. How unfair! However, they aren't particularly quick about it, since they have to catch up with the steam-boat in the process.
"Shoo!" whispers the Tillman. "Shoo! Nice burning Christmas boats for you! Yummy yummy! Y-- Do they EAT Christmas boats?"
"Anything they care to do that involves Christmas boats and not us would be greatly appreciated," avows Achilles as he slides himself carefully around the crates and to the front of the ship, toward March's position.
"I wonder if a fake star would lure them away?" March remarks, "I could make use some gunpowder to make a firework of a sort to attract their attention..." He pulls a couple rounds out of his pockets for just that and tries to work the lead bullet out of them.
Ducking out of cover behind the crates, Achilles discovers a useful property of being thin: he can flatten himself between these boxes and the barrels! He lurks in hiding, waiting to see what the swarm does... But, a thought occurs to him. Reaching into his travel bag, secured to the deck nearby, he fishes out some rope.
"Drop the cherry bomb jam through them to the water below!" Harrison calls out. "The blast might soak them!"
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Griffin notes, and carefully opens the jar of cherry-bomb jam. "Here we come a-wassailing.." he sings as he tries to fling the jam out of the jar at the swarm in hopes one of their heads will ignite it.
The highly flammable jam spills out of the jar, and bits of it come into contact with the flickering blue flames of the snapdragonfly heads. The Gryphon pulls up just in time. Ker-JAM! The air is filled with the scent of smoke, cherries and brandy.
The bird-lion's stomach rumbles.
"Nothing like sending out a holiday with a bang, eh?" March quips!
The Tillman rushes around, stoking the boiler with extra coal. He pulls levers, opens valves, and the steamboat lurches forward with greater speed (if less efficient use of the coal stores).
Behind the boat, the matches burn down, one by one, setting the little paper boats on fire.
Achilles, in the shelter of the crates, is busily tying himself to a rail in the event that he has to jump overboard to get rid of flames... He peers around the corner of the crate at the explosion. "That smells delicious," he sighs regretfully. Talk about food that's bad for him.
"Good heavens!" squeaks a voice from the darkness. "Whatever was th-- SQUEAK!" It would seem that the Bat has finally noticed the swarm.
As the smoke clears, and bits of glass jar rain down into the water and patter on the boat's sides and canopy, several smoking pudding-raisin bodies fall out of the air ... but there are still quite a few of the snapdragonflies flying about. For the moment, they are scattered, spread out, no longer a proper "swarm," but it's only a matter of time before they collectively draw together and find a target for their anger.
"Eh, you don't want it. It'll just give you heartburn," March quips to the lamenting, and hidden, Ace of Spades.
A little snapdragonfly falls to the deck near Achilles, then another. The blue flame smoulders and dies out, as the little twig tail and legs twitch and then fall still, then fall away, leaving only a little dallop of plum pudding with a raisin top. It smells delicious!
"Get thee behind me, temptation," mutters the reporter.
But ... but ... it smells of BRANDY!
"Can we push one of these crates into the water to act as a decoy for us? It's large and ... woody! Kind of like a boat," Harrison asks of the boatsman.
Still singing, Griffin moves to stay between the moving boat and the swarm.
"I'm not that desperate yet!" the Tillman cries out. "I'm responsible for that cargo. If it gets too hot for you up here, I suggest you go down below before you start tossing things overboard." The boatman continues to shovel coal into the boiler, pausing only to wipe his brow as the heat builds up.
The swarm seems to be slowly coalescing back together, but slowly enough that it's being left in the wake of the riverboat. It remains to be seen if it can actually catch up at this speed.
The Bat flutters as fast as its little wings will take it, squeaking loudly, in hot pursuit of the accelerating riverboat.
"Love and joy come to you, And to you your wassail, too," Griffin continues to carol as he attempts to herd the recovering swarm back towards the line of burning gift-paper boats.
The reporter finishes tying himself to the rail. Now armored at least slightly against the possibility of having to jump into the river, he peers out again to see what Griffin is doing, and if he can be of help with the coal shoveling.
It looks as if shoveling coal, while a noble task, would also be a very DANGEROUS task for a Card such as Achilles is now, what with the occasional errant sparks from the open furnace and the rushed shoveling.
Ace shudders at the sight of the sparks.
March, after having come darn close to losing a few fingers ... decides to pocket the attempt at making a bomb for now and just go help the helmsman shovel coal!
The reporter peeks out from behind the crates again, to the gratifying sight of the swarm retreating into the distance. "Get your tailfeathers back on board!" he calls to Griffin. "You don't want to get left behind! How would I explain it to your niece?"
The Bat is ever-so-slowly gaining on the boat. Flutter-pant-gasp-flutter. He's juuuuuuuust out of reach of the rear deck.
The Gryphon does decide being left behind would problematical, and starts flying after the boat, but still a bit wary of putting the swarm behind himself.
"Good lad!" the Tillman says, as the Hare comes up to help. "There's a spare pair of gloves right over there, and a shovel. Mind the heat! Neither of us will like the smell of singed fur, after all."
The reporter catches sight of the bat. Should I help him on board or not? he thinks to himself. The bat could be an agent of the Rose... Or Queen Alice. On the other hand, if he's not, the bat's death would weigh on his soul. And maybe... He steps out from behind the crates. "Come on, sir, you can make it!" and heads for the back of the boat to give him a hand.
March dons the gloves and grabs a shovel. "Quite. I'd rather not become the naked hare, or the burnt hair, or the hare of ... nevermind," he quips as he sets to the task of shovelling.
Seizing upon a gaff pole as he runs, the card braces himself and extends it outward to the bat. "Here! Catch on, I'll pull you in!" he yells.
The swarm veers one way, then appears to change course and make after the Gryphon.
"Thank you, kind sir!" the Bat squeaks, as he grabs onto the gaff hook with his foot-claws. Behind him, the flaming Christmas-boats gutter out and vanish from sight, as they burn away and begin to sink, extinguishing themselves in the process. A short, glorious journey, they made!
Achilles reels the bat in, then prepares to catch Griffin next. "Come on, you can make it!" he yells.
"I knew I should have gone with 'Good King Wenceslas'," Griffin mutters. "I think they don't like me," he calls back, while hurrying after the boat.
The Tillman, apparently unaware that he's got a ticketed passenger overboard, keeps shoveling coal into the furnace.
The Gryphon ... is so close! But the boat is still building up steam. At full speed, there's no hope of keeping up with it.
The swarm is going all-out after the Gryphon now. If Gryphon can keep his pace up, they can't hope to gain on him -- but at this point, it's more a matter of endurance. At least the exertion is keeping away the cold.
Achilles looks at Griffin beating his wings as frantically as he can, then at the bat. "There's no help for it, you'll have to help him," he says. He thrusts the gaff pole into the bat's hands. "Get up there, catch him, and I'll reel you both in!"
The Bat flusters, looks back, squeaks an "Oh my!" and then flutters back into the air with the gaff pole, trailing the rope behind him.
A rope trails behind the gaff pole, connected to the hook on the end. The card makes sure it's secured tightly to the boat.
"In a bitter battle, the bet was on the batter," March quips. Maybe the heat of the furnace is getting to him.
"Squeeeeeeeak!" the Bat cries, as he more-or-less rides the gaff pole and rope back to the Gryphon. "Zhis is it! Grab on zhe rope!"
Griffin grabs the pole, inadvertently inventing the sport of parasailing.
Up they go, see them fly. Like a tea tray, in the sky?
The swarm can't hope to keep up with them, flutter and glow as they might. Eventually, the blue flames vanish into the darkness, and the boat chugs on ahead.
Just up ahead, the woods give way to fields again, and the fields to woods. Right as the boat crosses the transition -- either coincidence or just how things work here -- the sky begins to light up again.
Achilles hauls mightily on the line, reeling the bat and griffin in slowly with his feet braced against the back railing. "Ungh! What did you have for lunch, Griffin, cannonballs?!" he calls out.
"Well, it's not just me," Griffin notes. "There's the bat too!"
On the deck, there are still a few smouldering remains of snapdragonflies that were blown onto the ship. One of them, however, still has a faint flame rising from it. It seems to sparkle and shine with strange potency.
At last, Achilles manages to pull the Bat and Gryphon on board.
The Tillman looks relieved at the transition. "All right. That's good enough. We've got the boiler up to pressure. Good work there, lad."
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," Achilles says to TTLB, Esq. "The name's Achilles, but my friends call me Ace."
"Well, maybe after that Griffin and the Bat should be married. They almost had to tie a knot, after all," March quips as he sets the shovel down. Maybe he's still a bit annoyed at how quickly the other two tried to get him married. The glowing pudding catches his attention ... so he goes to get it.
"Ah!" the Bat says, with a strange, hard-to-place accent that sounds ever-so-vaguely Slavic. Emphasis on the vaguely. "Tvinkle Tvinkle, Little Bat, Esquire, at your service!"
As March picks up the pudding, he feels a strange tingling sensation run up his hand, paw, whatever you call it when he's like this. The little snapdragonfly is no bug at all. Rather, it's a little charm of some sort shaped like a snapdragonfly ... but made of pure, glittering gold!
"I hope that's a given name, and not an indication of some indelicate medical condition?" Griffin asks.
Achilles grins. "A pleasure. We've done each other a good turn now. Er, do you prefer to be addressed as Twinkle Twinkle, or Little Bat?"
"Whoo!" goes Harrison. He's always liked to take in gold at the shop. He sits down on a nearby crate so he can focus on inspecting the critter-charm.
The Bat gives the Gryphon a disapproving look, but turns his attentions back to Achilles. "My friends call me Tvinkle for short. I am a guide of zhe deeper-underground places of Vonderland."
The reporter nods thoughtfully. "Of course! It's well known bats have mysterious powers of subterranean navigation." His gaze is caught by the gold bug that the rabbit has caught. "Found something of interest, Harrison?"
"Nope. Nothing at all. Very dull and boring," Harrison claims.
"Well, be sure to catch a pudding for Integra, I'm sure she'd like to try a bit," Achilles suggests.
"Looks shiny," Griffin notes, narrowing his eyes.
The golden charm is exquisitely fashioned, if a bit peculiar subject matter. There's nothing abstract about its construction. However, it should also be noted that there's no visible clasp or pin or other means by which to wear the little charm.
The best that can be figured is that the delicate little golden wire legs might be bent in shape to clasp around one's finger, or perhaps a horn or whatever else strange Wonderland people might have here.
"Nope! Not shiny. Very dull. You wouldn't want it," March insists. Harrison tries to clasp its legs around one of his .. fingers? Well, whatever they are on the ends of his paws, er hands, er, grippy things!
"I am most grateful vor your help in zaving me vrom zhe buggaboos," Tvinkle continues. "Ah ... let me zee vat I have." He rushes over and begins digging through his carpet-bag.
The gryphon sidles closer, head cocked to one side to stare at March with one large eye.
March appears to now have a golden snap-dragonfly ring. It's a bit gaudy, what with the wings sticking out like that, but memorable.
The reporter takes notice of the contents of the carpet-bag, but claims, "Any proper Englishman would have done the same, sir. Virtue is its own reward."
"Besides, you helped me save my errant friend there as well," Achilles observes. He spares a glance for Griffin stalking March.
Surprised nothing seemed to happen, March pulls the 'ring' off and sticks it in his pocket. "Can I help you with something?" he asks the Griffin, "For someone who doesn't have a nose, you're being rather nosy..."
"Here ve go!" the Bat proclaims, as he pulls out a small glass jar of ... smelling salts? "Zhe finest! Never travel vithout zhem! I inzizt!"
"Can I see your shiny?" Griffin purrs to the rabbit. "Pleeeease?"
"No. You might eat it," March says, crossing his arms.
"Alzo," the Bat continues, "if ever you need to zee zhe great underground empire under zhe Mountainz of Division, I, Tvinkle Tvinkle Little Bat, Ezquire, know all zhe vay!"
The gryphon clicks his beak a few times, but backs off from the hare. "We can tell the others it's safe now?" he asks the Tillman instead.
"Yes," the Tillman says. "I'm going to pull to shore soon, though, and get some more coal, just to make sure we have plenty to make it all the way to Queen's Retreat."
The reporter accepts the smelling salts with mild protests. I have to admit, he's right, this will most likely come in handy, what with the way we get on. "Well, if you insist, my good sir," he says. "Also, where might we look you up, if we need to embark in that direction?"
And once Griffin backs off, the evil hare pulls out the golden snapdragon and cradles it in his hand. "Besides, it is very boring," he taunts and lets the be-beaked see it for a few seconds.
"My main office," the Bat says, "Is in the Town of Zettled, two Zkvares vest of the Eighth Zkvare, by Qveensrook." He passes business cards all around.
The snapdragonfly, meanwhile, catches the light JUST so. It is so very, very shiny.
"Hjckrrh," Griffin notes in appreciation of the shiny..
Now a card-carrying card, Achilles makes sure to acquire some of the more mundane (but tasty) dragonfly remains to split between the party. "It's safe now," he calls to those below decks. "We've managed to escape those dragonflies!"
"Oh? Do you like this?" March asks and waves the snapdragon at Griffin; testing, perhaps, if he comes any closer.
"Hold still!" Griffin squawks as the rabbit teases him with the shiny bauble. "Where'd it come from?"
The Bat flutters around, stuffing a business card in the Gryphon's pocket while he's distracted.
"The flaming bugs, of course," March answers as he waves the gold dragonfly all around just so Griffin has to keep moving his head around. "Do you want it?"
"No," Griffin claims, trying sound all aloof now, sitting back on his haunches, crossing his arms and holding his beak up snootily. "Why would I want such a shiny ugly thing? Go show it to Miss Lucky."
"Ooo! Pretty!" Integra exclaims, as she sees it (since she's back up on deck and all).
The reporter divides up the snack bugs. One each to Griffin, March, Twinkle, Integra, Miss Rabbit and himself, and the last one he offers to the Tillman by way of compliments for a job well done getting them out of trouble.
"Aw. And here I was going to give it to you," March claims. And having nothing better to do with it at the moment, he clips it on his own ear!
"It'll attract more snapdragonflies I bet," Griffin claims. "It didn't turn into a pudding, so is probably their Queen."
To the south, the snowy white fields give way to a village surrounding a curious-looking manor, and a cluster of out-buildings. A dock is located on the water, near some store-houses and what looks like some sort of crane and winch. The manor itself is as snowy white as its surroundings, although occasionally trimmed in checkers of black. It looks as if it was once a rather regal estate, but seems to have undergone rather unorthodox "improvements," with gables and wings added here and there with no care for symmetry (or careful construction) at all. A tower sticks out at an odd angle, then jogs up, topped by what looks like an observatory.
"Aw, the little squawk of jealousy," March quips as he heads off the current part of the deck to go find Miss Lucky and show her the odd thing. Maybe she'll know what it really is.
"Oh, what a very high tower!" one of the Lemmings cries, longingly. "It looks like oh, such a VERY long drop from the top!"
"Now now, dears," the Mother Lemming chides, "we all AGREED on the beach. Let's not get distracted."
Achliles observes, "Besides, you'd make a dreadful mess that someone would have to clean up. I don't envy the groundskeeper." He shakes his head, giving some thought to their debarking.
Miss Lucky Rabbit leans out over the starboard side, to peer out from under the canopy for a better look up at the towers of the manor. "That's the White Knight's Manor," she says, as Harrison approaches. "He's an eccentric tinker and maker of all sorts of inventions, some of which even work."
"Inventions that work," Griffin mutters. "The most dangerous kind. Rawk.. Raaaaawk indeed. Save your pudding for afters, Integra. We should get some real food in town."
"Has anyone seen him recently?" Harrison asks the other rabbit as he leans on the ship's rail.
"Hmm," Miss Lucky Rabbit ponders. "The trouble with him is that he's very much a knight errant. His manor keeps changing hands, particularly since it's so close to the stronghold of the Red Chessmen. It's been broken and rebuild many times over. Much the same can be said for the town."
Indeed, the houses have a look as if they've been painted and repainted several times. Little hints of red paint can be seen underneath where the white paint has flaked away a bit.
Achilles goes forward to peer over the board at the laboratory, shading his eyes. A truly alert person might notice his false eye doesn't dilate, unlike his working eye. It's a subtle but unnerving effect. "I imagine they go through a lot of paint around here," he observes.
"Well, that's where we are headed right now," Harrison admits. "You are welcome to continue with us if you wish, but I also understand if you do not."
Chessmen can be seen milling about the docks. Most of them are White, but there are a few Reds milling about as well. The relationship between the Chessmen and the matter of conquest and ownership appears to be a very complicated one.
Collecting up his camera equipment, Griffin asks the Tillman, "Is there an inn that you recommend?"
"The only one in town," the Tillman says. "The Drop On Inn."
The reporter wishes Twinkle well, "We've got some business in this town before we continue on, but perhaps we'll have a chance to catch up later." He catches up his travel bag, coiling up his rope and re-stowing it tidily.
"Oh! Vell, it is very good to meet zou all!" the Bat squeaks. "May zhe bugs be ever plentivul and zucculent!"
Achilles cannot suppress a worried glance at the golden bug on Harrison's ear.
Miss Lucky Rabbit looks a bit doubtfully at the town and all the Red Pawns. She at last responds to the March Hare in a low whisper, "I'm very grateful for all you've done, but I think I will prefer to put more distance between me and Riverside for now, at least until I can sort out who all is after me. I have a feeling our paths will probably cross again, though." She makes a somewhat forced-looking smile. "Luck just works that way sometimes."
Before stepping off onto the dock, Griffin watches the pawns for a bit to see if they're doing anything or just waiting for cargo or passengers.
The reporter discreetly takes the lemmings' mother aside and discusses their upcoming travel, using a piece of notepaper to diagram the Looking-Glass Lands and the location of the ocean in relation to their current position on the river. "Just for point of clarity," he adds in an utterly soothing, boring tone of voice that suggests they're discussing Grown-Up Stuff that means nothing to little lemmings.
"Are you absolutely sure? Forgive me, but your company has been far better than that of my two strange friends," March says, "But if you are sure, then I wish you all the best. We won't be staying here long; just long enough to get nformation on the Manor, then we'll be gone."
It appears that the two Red Pawns are playing some sort of game at the end of the dock that looks like a slightly more complicated version of Jacks.
"Oh dear, oh DEAR!" the mother Lemming protests. "Oh, thank you ever so much! I see my problem now. I was supposed to take the ferry at Riverside! I was wondering why it was taking ever so long. Now it all makes so much more sense. Oh, that's the worst of this, you know -- it's not like you can have any experience at this sort of thing. You are such a blessing, you are!" The mother Lemming is so overjoyed, she gives the Card a peck on the cheek.
The card blushes. "Well, you're welcome, please enjoy your holiday at the beach. I'm told it can be a revitalizing experience."
"Oh! Hoo hoo hoo!" the mother Lemming laughs. "You're such a kidder!"
Ace ahems. "Well, that's just what others have told me. My own experience with beaches has been rather... Ahem. Grim, I'm sad to say." He tips his hat and goes to join the others as disembarking draws closer.
Griffin gives Ace an odd look after he gives the lemming family advice.
The newspaper reporter shrugs. "The public has a right to know!" he says.
Miss Lucky Rabbit looks a bit fretful, but finally nods. "It has been charming, but if I stay around for too long, I'm afraid my 'luck' works in peculiar ways. I haven't exactly sorted it all out, myself. You've been terribly sweet."
"Your luck didn't matter. Only that you were safe. Here," March says as he pulls the golden insect off his ear and then clips it onto Miss Lucky's instead. "You might need something to trade for help. I know it's not much, but ..." the hare then shrugs slightly. "It is all I really have to offer that might be useful to you. Be safe." He steps back, bows to the rabbit, then goes to join the others.
Miss Lucky Rabbit's ears blush furiously. She holds the glittering insect close, covers her mouth with one hand/paw, then waves, smiling sadly.
"Oh my," murmurs Achilles to Griffin. "So that's what he wanted it for." He reaches a hand out to restrain the bird from going after the shiny thing.
"We should go, if we want to see the inn," Griffin notes.
The Tillman and his assistant make arrangements with the dock-workers, once they've tied off the steamboat, and disengaged the engine, while the boiler cools down.
In short order, some of the workers start bringing in coal to restore the stocks that were heavily depleted by that urgent flight from the swarm.
Achilles tips his hat to the Tillman and the other passengers. "Farewell!" He tests the gangplank to be sure it's secure-- wouldn't want an accident-- and makes his way onto the dock.
Harrison goes to disembark now, his eyes focused on the odd manor in the distance. Maybe it has clues on how to get home. Best to focus on that than the people who come and go so easily here, it seems. "Come on, we've got to find our way home still," he says to the others as he disembarks.
"Come along, Integra," Griffin says, as he leads the girl over the gangplank.
Miss Lucky Rabbit examines the curious little golden insect, and its pliability (being gold and all). Giggling to herself, she uses it to ornament her hook, then holds it up so Harrison can see, before remembering herself and hiding it, blushing again.
Ace says to Harrison with a grin, "Now whenever she takes her hook out, she'll think of you."
"I always wanted to be remembered by bodily mutilations," the hare remarks a bit dryly. He waves his hat in his hand to Miss Lucky, then returns his attention to the matters at hand. "I suggest we need to conserve our money, too. Find an abandoned house to stay in, instead of paying for an Inn."
The reporter adds, "We can ask a few pertinent questions of the locals on our way through the village."
The snow flurries clear up, and the overcast sky reluctantly parts to make way for what looks like a fairly normal wintry day (aside, of course, from the fact that it shouldn't be winter yet, last you left London). The sky is a hazy blue, and the sun is high overhead, without any curiosities such as a moon or stars trying to share the sky at the same time -- just a few wispy, frosty-looking clouds.
"Good day out for a walk," comments Achilles as he heads for the village. He stops now and then to buttonhole bored-looking passersby and ask them about what things are like around the village.. If anyone's seen the White Knight... Or maybe the White Rabbit, or heard tell of the new Queen and her strange ways.
As the group walks into town, it looks like something out of a fairy-tale book, with daub-and-waddle buildings and wooden cross-braces, with thatched roofs blanketed in snow. Winding cobblestone pathways make their way between the buildings, but there's plenty of space to be had, lacking clear definition of the exact boundaries of roads, save for where fences and field-stone walls have been set to make the point clear.
"Reminds me of the countryside," Griffin notes to Integra. "Good fairy-hunting country, eh?" he asks with an awkward (because of the beak) grin.
The locals are peasant-looking folk, usually Pawns or what passes for Human in Wonderland (with very prominent, caricatured features that might be silly or frightening depending upon the context). Talking Animals don't seem to be common here, but nobody seems to pay much attention to the Gryphon. Harrison, on the other hand, draws more than a few glances. But then, perhaps it could be because of the solid gold gun-cane he's parading around with.
Achilles comments to Harrison, "We should check at the manor before we stake out an abandoned house and run the risk of finding it not as abandoned as we thought. Might be the White Knight's at home and there's no mystery to solve after all."
"True enough," Harrison agrees. to those who watch him, he just smiles and tips his hat politely.
The reporter wonders curiously, "Would you live here if you could?" He gestures around them.
The buzz among the villagers indicates that the White Knight is in and out so often, it's hard to tell, but they're reasonably sure that he's gotten back IN at some point, because there was an explosion at the manor but elevendy past yester-righthand ago. Or something like that. (When one gets a measurement of time, it's very vague and takes some getting used to. It kind of makes sense in the context and the inflection, but the words themselves seem like nonsense if you were to write them down.)
Griffin tries to look.. gryphonly. If nobody's paying attention to him, then he reasons he doesn't have to act in any particular way, beyond watching how the local react to the others and most importantly to Integra.
Integra buries herself deeply into her thick wintry garments (courtesy of the Sheep's shop), occasionally blowing on her hands for warmth, rubbing them, then putting the mittens back on.
"An explosion! Well, that's interesting," the reporter says. He digs into this a bit further, asking if the manor is occupied and if so, what they've been calling for in the way of supplies, or maybe if there are interesting persons who've been calling on the White Manor.
"Oh, no one's been in or out save for the Horse, of course," says an old woman with a beakish nose (not quite as beaky as Gryphon's but nearly so), with tangles of feathery grey hair spilling out of her shawl. "He's the one what gets the supplies and does the errands. Smart horse, he is. Not a one other calling on that house for ages -- let alone the Queen, neither."
"What about the White Rabbit?" Griffin asks.
"Rabbit?" the peasant echoes. "No white ones, I reckon. I heard tell the White Rabbit was wanted for treachery over in the western lands ... and then suddenly 'e wasn't. Not sure how that sort of thing turns about so quickly. But least I know for sure I've seen no White Rabbit in these parts."
The reporter tries to untangle the double negative, finally decides it's a colloquial negative, because he's sure the villagers would have been abuzz with the news if the Queen had visited recently. He nods thoughtfully at this news.
"But rest assured," the villager says, "no one saw hide nor hair of the White Knight and then -- boom! 'E's back to work, and nobody saw him come or go. Must've come back late at night while we was all sleepin'."
"No hares either, I assume, given how much people tend to stare at me," Harrison quips.
"Oh, pardon yer lordship!" the villager says, ducking her head. "I di'n mean to stare."
"Inventors have mysterious ways," agrees Achilles. To the others, he suggests, "Let's call on the White Manor and see who answers the door. If no one answers, we can seek out the Horse's help."
Griffin looks troubled by the revelations, but doesn't comment just yet - at least, not in front of the woman.
Harrsion's brow arches a little. "Must be the cane," he figures. "No harm done, lad," he says politely. To the others he nods, agreeing on the plan to visit the manor.
The White Knight's Manor
This grand estate is a combination of elegant architecture ... and architectural insanity. A basic structure has been amended time and again, it seems, with random gables, mis-matched windows, lookouts, random expansions (perhaps something was really big inside and needed the extra space?), pipes and gears jutting out, and the occasional tower -- including one with an observatory on top. It's mostly gleaming white, save for the occasional trim in black or red, with gargoyles and grotesques fashioned to look like chess pieces. The courtyard is neglected and overgrown, with only a narrow path cleared down the middle making the way up to the front doors.
"Looks too straight and clear," Griffin notes. "That's worrisome. No maze? Garden full of Flowers?" He also busies himself retrieving the framed portrait of the group as children, just to see if it's changed any.
There's a gust of air that sends a flurry of snow flying overhead. However, it doesn't fall down on the path, which appears rather clear.
The reporter glances to the sides of the path. "Don't knights generally prefer crooked paths?" he wonders. He checks the tracks on the ground to see who's been passing by. There should be hoofprints, of course.
The portrait doesn't seem to have changed any since Griffin last checked. The new and strange child who has taken the place of the child who was once Randall White seems ... familiar, the more he looks at the picture. But it's a vague, unhelpful sort of familiar.
"Too simple is worrying in this place," Harrison admits as he scratches at his furred cheek. "It feels like a trap."
There are hoof-marks in the earth, and ruts from the wheels of a small wagon. By all appearances, it's the same wagon and the same set of hooves, again and again. If there are any other footprints to be found, they haven't been recent.
"I don't see any evidence of other visitors than the Horse-drawn wagon," Achilles reports to the others.
"Of course they could be riding in the wagon," Harrison points out.
Achilles agrees. "But then, they haven't left the manor by themselves, and they're taking great pains not to be seen, if that's the case. I'm thinking the explosion was a booby trap, or an invention of the White Knight they tried out, whomever 'they' might be." He sets down the path, watching the wagon tracks and hoof-prints in case of divergences... like the ones that befell Griffin back in the shop.
Putting the photo away, Griffin eyes the path with renewed suspicion. "Should we call out first?" he asks.
Harrison looks for some pebbles to toss along the path and look for traps.
"I was going to knock on the door," the reporter calls back to them as he moves forward.
Another gust of chilly winter air, another dusting of snow. Some of it settles down upon the ground ... but then there is a cranking of gears and a churning noise, and then a gust of air comes from amongst the trees to one side of the path. "Pshoo!" The snow is blown clear. The ground looks rather packed. There are no loose pebbles lying about. Very tidy, this path is, by comparison to the overgrown court to either side.
Just in front of Achilles, he spots it: there's something a bit off about those flagstones, partially-overgrown as they are by patches of browning, winter-dead moss. Could it be some sort of ... trigger mechanism?
"That does not look promising," Griffin notes, ruffling his feathers. "Maybe you need to step exactly in the same places as the wagon and horse have passed.
"Of course! He's invented a self-cleaning path," the reporter exclaims. He bends down to examine the flagstone a bit more closely.
Unfortunately, the flagstone, being stone, doesn't have marks on it that indicate exactly where the wagon might pass over it -- but it does seem as if the wagon would inevitably go over it one way or another, all the same. The flagstone itself offers no clue as to its exact purpose, but something about it doesn't look accidental or natural. With a digging implement, it might be possible to clear the dirt around it for a better look at what's going on -- but that could take a while.
The ex-soldier reporter goes to check out the boulders along the side of the path next, to see if they seem as suspiciously clean and un-snow-befallen as the straightaway. A suspicion comes to mind.
"What have you found up there, Achilles?" Griffin calls out.
The boulders DO look very clean and well-kept -- for, well, boulders.
"Thes flagstone looks different," reports Achilles. "If I had to guess, I'd suppose that there are weight detectors beneath them, and when they detect a small amount of weight, they trigger some sort of artificial wind. There's no telling what they'd do if they took a full grown person's weight, though... It depends on whether the White Knight really liked his privacy."
"Jump on it and find out!" Harrison calls out.
"Actually, I might want your help here," Achilles says to the rabbit. "But first... Integra, might you happen to have a few marbles in your apron?"
Integra checks her pockets. "Uhm ... no marbles. Just some shiny pebbles." She shows them off.
"Shiny," Griffin comments, then asks, "Which way does the wind blow? Look and see if there is any large debris there."
"This boulder's artificial too," the reporter advises. "I've seen better quality rocks at the yankees' World Expo in Philadelphia. Still, it would fool a casual passersby."
"Well, can we just go behind the boulders then and avoid the path?" Griffin suggests.
Undeterred, the reporter checks the other side's slope and boulders.
Another boulder on this side seems to be a match for the other strangely-sloped boulder -- a mirror image.
However, it would seem that the carefully-placed flagstones are not uniformly covering the courtyard. If one veers off the main path, amongst the boulders and tangles, it would seem it's quite possible to avoid the flagstones -- a little inconvenient, but not impossible.
"This one's a trap too, but I think I see a way through. All right, before I take a run... Griffin, would you oblige me by taking one of those pebbles and throwing it as hard as you can down the path?" suggests the reporter.
The gryphon holds a taloned hand out to the girl. "Pebble, please," he asks Integra.
The little girl passes along a pebble gingerly.
Griffin throws the pebble as far down the path as he can!
The pebble sails down the path, past Achilles, and past the flagstones he indicated. It lands on a different part of the path.
Suddenly, there's that strange churning noise again. Achilles sees that the strangely-shaped boulder right next to him is MOVING, lifting slightly. It makes a loud "SNIFFFFFFFFFF" noise. Then, "PSHOOOO!" gusts of air come shooting out of the udnergrowth.
Reacting quickly, Achilles drives his umbrella into the ground next to him and holds on for dear life!
The gusts subside. There's more churning. Then another gust! Fortunately, the anchor still holds. Then another! There's then a churning noise and what sounds like a wheeze. The boulder settles back into place.
From somewhere inside the manor, there's a muffled sound like a bell ringing.
"They must not get very many women callers here," Griffin notes. "Not with that sort of welcome."
"I... think they know we're here," huffs and puffs Achilles after a bit, sagging back down onto the ground. "All right, that was evidently one of the trapped flagstones, Griffin. What I was really hoping to do was to find out if the stones would react to a pebble flying over them though... So we could find out if you could just fly Integra across."
"Nothing like a brisk passing of wind," Harrison quips at the bemused blasting of bloomers.
Further down the path, near the door, one of the boulders rolls over -- or, rather, the top pops open, revealing that it was just a hollow shell. A white Pawn comes out, moving with a shuffling gait and a clickety-clacking and whirring of gears, sweeping a broom before it as it chatters along down the path.
The reporter card blinks at the Pawn. Hmm. He looks over at the others. "Are you seeing this too?" he asks.
"Or have my wits been blown off?" wonders Ace.
The clockwork Pawn is still approaching.
Harrison lifts his cane and waves it at the pawn. "Hello there. May we please enter without having our underwear blown up and out through our noses?" he asks.
"Integra, I pray that you will never repeat anything Mr. March says to anyone with manners," Griffin tells his niece.
The Pawn keeps approaching. And approaching, sweeping all the way. Finally, it sweeps the pebble off the flagstone. There is another churning noise. A bell rings somewhere. It stops. The Pawn turns around, and starts going back the way it came.
The reporter straightens himself up, now that he can stand without having to maintain a deathly grip on his umbrella. He tips his hat to the pawn, then motions for the others to come up to just before the indicated flagstones.
"It didn't attack the Pawn, so if you follow behind it you should be safe, Ace," Griffin suggests.
"They're just machines," Harrison observes. "Are we going to stand out here all way, or go across? Wind isn't fatal; even the kind induced by too much drinking."
Harrison also moves up to the indicated spot.
The reporter sets his hat on firmly, and goes to follow the pawn carefully, following his steps. "Step where I step... Unless I get blown away fiercely, of course."
"Or just climb over the fake boulders.." Griffin notes. "Or.. run?"
The way seems to be going just fine for Achilles ... until he for some reason steps back onto the path. Click. (Ding-dong!)
Harrison grabs onto his hat.
There's a churning and whooshing noise, and those two strange boulders lift up. There's a loud SNIFFFFFFF noise ... but then they settle back down again. No gust of wind. How odd.
The reporter braces himself mentally, his gaze whirling around to the boulders to see if... Hmm. How interesting. "This flagstone is the doorbell," he says after a bit. Then sets his hat and follows after the pawn.
It was even the very flagstone the Pawn was trundling across (rolling across?) but a moment ago, and IT didn't set anything off.
"Come along, Integra," Griffin says, offering his elbow after checking that the girl's shoes were clean.
Harrison shakes his head and continues on. HE intends to get inside and out of the cold.
Integra bundles herself up a little more tightly and hunches down, as if bracing herself against certain gusts of heavy wind, but nonetheless keeps up with her uncle.
Achilles continues on, trying to step where the pawn stepped and take note if the pawn happened to jump over any of these flagstones. So far though it seems like a straight roll.
The Gryphon walks. Click. The boulders move. SNIFFFFFFFF!
There's a distant "ding-dong!" Nothing too alarming.
Griffin does pause at the disturbing sniff, but marches on with Integra.
"It's a nose bell. IT sniffs what stepped on it, and reacts accordingly. It smells people, so it rings a bell. It's obvious," March remarks to the others. "Just walk. We're fine."
Then, Harrison steps along. Click. Rumble. SNIFFFFF! Churn. Ding-dong! Click. Churn. Harumph. (Harumph?)
"Perhaps the path is set not to trigger as long as the groundskeeper is on his round?" wonders Achilles as he trails the Pawn.
It sounds as if some machinery is winding up. A few rocks on the sidelines pop open, and out come what look like the muzzles of great blunderbusses! "Taran-tara!" ... or trumpets.
"Ah, that must be the proper bell then, announcing guests," Griffin guesses.
"Oh come on, I don't smell that bad," Harrison complains at the boulder. Right up until he finds himself nearly deafened by trumpets! "...ow," he says.
Tinny voices sing in chorus: "Hail Sir Haigha! All across the land! -- Fastest ever messenger, Our King's Good Hand! -- Don't cross Haigha! None would ever dare! -- With Anglo-Saxon temper, and kicks like a wild hare!"
Achilles muses, "You might be right about your theory, Harrison. Remarkable! A guests-sniffer. I don't think the Philadelphia World Expo had anything quite so astonishing in the realm of olfactory detection." He pauses listening to the chorus. "I think the villagers would have commented if they'd heard that recently."
"Taran-tara!" The trumpets blare again, a bit off-key, and then they ratchet back into their hidey-holes, and with a click and a clack and a harumph, the boulders snap back into place, and there's no sign of the strangeness that happened just a moment ago.
"... what?" Harrison remarks as he scratches his cheek. "Wait, what, when ... wasn't that my name back when? Haigha?"
The clockwork sweeper Pawn, meanwhile, dutifully returns to its hidey-hole, the boulder closes back up, and it's gone.
"Was it?" says Ace. He turns around and blinks. Now where did the pawn go?
"Well, at least this place knows when respectable people enter, such as myself. You two are on your own," March quips and continues on towards the door!
"Perhaps they sensed the watch somehow?" Griffin suggests.
Deciding there's nothing for it but to continue to the door, the reporter begins walking forward again with the intention of giving them a good firm knocking.
No obvious deathtraps produce themselves. However, there's the unsettling way the flagstones keep going "click," "click," "click," each time they're stepped onto or off from.
The girl and gryphon follow, although Griffin is a bit wary about automated heralds.
"Well, you can be our messenger then," the reporter says, moving to let Harrison by. "Perhaps you'd like to announce our important message for the White Knight?"
"What is our important message?" Griffin whispers to Ace.
What's that We killed the White Rabbit?" March asks.
"Wait.. White had wind up bunny bombs," Griffin recalls. "Do you suppose he got them here from the Knight?"
Achilles shrugs. "All we really know is that the White Knight disappeared some time ago... Around when the White Rabbit showed up... And that they looked nearly identical. Are they related? Inquiring minds want to know!"
With a ratcheting and clanking and another "taran-tara," the front doors roll open, revealing an entry hall tiled in the red and white regalia of the Chessboard Fields.
"Come to think of it, weren't there White Knight Armaments markings on that case where your revolver-cane came from?" asks Achilles.
Above the front door is a stone-worked shield emblem bearing the profile of a white Knight chess-piece in profile -- the emblem of a white knight, or, for that matter, the White Knight.
"Well, they're certainly welcoming of the White Rabbit - or in this case, March the Mighty," Griffin notes. "Best take advantage while we can.."
"Sure were. He's connected somehow. We should go find out," March states. He steps up and doffs his hat to the symbol of the White Knight. "A pleasure and thank you for the greeting. My comrades and I will go to the main hall," he announces.
The reporter follows like a good comrade. Well, better than staying in some run-down abandoned house, he muses.
Griffin leads Integra in behind the reporter.
March's voice echoes down the hallway. The walls are sections of panel that don't quite line up with each other perfectly. Here and there are gaps, behind which can be glimpsed gears, pistons, levers, and other mechanical bits. Perhaps this mansion isn't as spacious as it seems on the outside, if quite so much space is taken up with mechanical things.
"Of course this could also be the source of all those munching machines from the other side of the door and all we're really doing is walking into a giant meat grinder. Wouldn't that be a kick in the trousers?" Harrison remarks a bit dryly to ace. He taps the brim of his hat with his cane, then proceeds in.
Ow. That cane has gotten awfully heavy. And since when was it solid gold?
"I'd rather approach from a direction where we can see them, than right into their innards," says Achilles, remembering how the voracious machinery ripped that slip of paper right out from his hands. If he'd slipped his hand or head underneath as Griffin had suggested... He shudders, but follows Harrison nevertheless, keeping an eye out for any sudden ceiling panel drops, swinging walls, and the like.
The inner doors open up for the March Hare. Beyond, there is a room where the checkerboard panel pattern continues, but with wood panels instead of marble or enamel. Furnishings are all about, plus a few potted plants. Over in the corner, however, there appears to be a large black spot where something must have exploded. There are the remains of a potted plant that must have been at the epicenter of the accident.
Griffin and Integra peek through into the room. "Does it look safe?" he asks.
"We're not yet folded, spindled, or mutilated, but give it time," Achilles says humorously.
A panel slides away, and a large mechanical hand comes out of the wall, carrying a complete tea service. It sets the "tiny" (actually, full-sized) tea service down on a chessboard-patterned table, with a piping-hot teapot, then retracts back to the wall.
"I suppose hoping for another door is out of the question," the gryphon notes, and steps inside to get a good look.. including look up.
"Well, if we're going to die, at least we can have a good cup of tea," Harrison quips as he lugs the gold cane along. It'll also give him a chance to test if touching anything else turns it to gold too.
"Just watch out for explosive devices, someone appears to have potted that plant on our left," Achilles cautions. He pauses. "Remember what the White Rabbit had on his table. If he was here, this might not be safe for us either."
There's a "ding" sound, and then a very distant voice, sounding something like a trained crow speaking through a series of metal pipes, says something vaguely like, "Wrfff mmmble glaw you mffle. Thaw whadd niii is BUSY IN HIS WORK ROOM am wff SEE YOU SHORTLY. Pfffse enjaw ysssssf aww hawa niii CUP OF TEA."
The reporter sniffs at the tea, checking for anything that seems... off about it. Or the cups for that matter. "There was this penny dreadful once, about the villain who was slowly poisoning his rich auntie with specially painted cups."
"This tea seems safe enough though," Ace says.
There is a ratching noise, and then a boom and a grinding noise. The doors to the room have closed, but are slightly askew, bumping against each other and rattling before they finally settle to a halt. There's another boom and a clatter from somewhere beyond the doors.
and so Harrison takes a cup and drinks. It has been a very long couple of days and too many people have come and gone. There still seems no way to get home, and now they're in the lair of a mad inventor. So if he's going to die, he's going to do it in a very British way. After tea.
"Is there lemon with the tea, or bicuits?" Griffin asks, feathers still ruffled as he gets some tea as well. "Integra likes the bicuits.."
The reporter settles in for a nice cuppa. "Well, if the White Knight is busy in his workshop, there's nothing to it but to wait a bit." He sighs with relief. The mansion may be ticking, but he's learning to ignore certain doom, when there's just so much of it around. A man couldn't stay sensible otherwise.