Myl stared with casual boredom at the
initials on the worn leather holdall, M S C, his eye dragged to the
veneered occasional table in the corner where dust motes danced carelessly
with the moths in the streams of light sprayed from slashes in his
lampshade. 'His', he wryly thought, soon it will be owner-less and
the dust will gather like soil on on a moon. As his thumb idly played
with the carved head on his walking cane he wondered what happened to his
things after he left... across the Magical Multiverse, or Majiverse, are there still rooms
and apartments mouldering with faithful possessions awaiting his return?
His eyes returned to the messenger satchel, besides his cane it was
his only constant companion. Everything else from hairstyle to clothes
changed with regularity. The thick leather straps round the
holdall were cinched tight through the metal eyelets as well as on each
of the bulging external pouches, crossing the magical multiverse can be
rough.
"Come on, I'm bored now" he
opined to the unlistening room.
Returning to his musings, that he still
called himself Myl when he'd only heard his heroic nicknames spoken for
so many aeons across, across... what is the majiverse?
He had been told that each universe contains time and space and the multiverse
contains many universes and that somehow magic enables transference
between some, not even the Gods knew if it's all, of them. There
is a core group of known universes and routes of communication between
some of them, that is the known majiverse. Myl had
visited plenty of them.
Even the gods called him by his heroic
names, depending upon which place he ended up. He doubted whether
anyone who remembered his real name lived still, and expected never to
see them.
"Do you even know my name my now-patron?"
He thought of Penthesilea , daughter of Enyalius, who had come to
him three, or was it four, gambade's ago. She knew him as Vermillion
Scree, a hero and with her he'd battled during the Cygnus and Brainiac
wars, from a mythical past to some dystopian technological future.
He never really knew whether a gambade would jump him across universes
or time and space within a universe. Over the years he'd had all
three. Still the magical winds had shifted and a day ago Penthesilea
had come to say fare well as she thought this wind would blow him from
her patronage. He looked at the pure white marble altar to his left
that faced the fire to the right and wondered who his next patron would
be; doe eyed Gabuleanin, the wildly energetic FeeNarfi or maybe the
inscrutable black faced Baalshi
Neither he nor the many Gods he'd met
in his travels could control the magical Eurean wind.
Myl looked around the room, the coal
fire had burned down and was radiating heat from the white hot rocks and
cast iron backplate. The plush burgundy curtains were drawn,
the ingenious methane lamps flickered in the corners of the room casting
plenty of light to read by. On the green velvet card table were several
volumes in the newfangled Novelletta style and a deck of cards.
He couldn't concentrate to read though, his nerves jangled with uncertainty
of what he would be thrust into. It was not usually a peaceful event
and the thought of playing Patience was almost as dire to consider as the
events awaiting him. Over the past couple of jumps he'd kept the
Deathwing Staff Penthesilea had granted him but a jump the size she intimated
would magically strip weapons and armour from him. The laws of transference
meant that only goods technically capable of being made in the time and
space he arrived could be worn. He sat in buckskin boots, dark rouge
heavy moleskin breeks and a plain white linen blouse shirt with a wide
open collar. An ornate heavy leather frock coat with heavy
cuffs and lined with vermillion spider silk stitched in waves of curling
patterns, was complemented by a leather D'Orsay hat. All of the leather
had a Burgundy stain that matched his boots and completed his attire as
a country dandy of old Vvina. They reflected the highest fashion
of this time but an unusual taste in colour, bright light colours were the
vogue this year but Myl had a reputation across the Majiverse to keep
up and a deep blood, or vermillion, colour was his.
Given the vagaries of his life Myl trusted
handmade excellence over faster, industrial means of manufacture as he
examined the leather on the holdall, each section had his common rouge
stain but closer examination showed a variety of leathers were excellently
stitched to make up the case, giving it a red patchwork effect. There
were sections containing a variety of deer types which drew forth memories
of weird animals hunted across a kaleidoscope of landscapes, there was
a pocket made of Ariel Ray shagreen and another from a rare Axbill on Snaefell
. Looking at a small crack in the vacchette leather of the strapping,
he decided his time would be better used maintaining it. Myl stood
to reach some oil on the writing desk to his left...
Which is when the tightening in his
gut, that first indication of the Eurean wind came. Myl spun and
with the smooth flow of repetitive action he transferred the bag from floor
to his back, the strap going crosswise from his left shoulder to his right
flank. A second strap was cinched around his waist to hold the bag
tight to his lumber. In the same motion he stepped forward and picked
up the dark carved walking cane and moved into a ready stance, legs
bent with his left leg and shoulder slightly forward as if he was braced
against a headwind. His back slightly bent and his cane held firmly
in front so that his two legs and cane formed a stable tripod. The
room itself was still, the fire continued to glow and there was no change
in the flickering of the gas lamps but around Myllion his jacket whipped
back and forth, his hair was blowing and his spare left hand reached up
to secure his hat to his head.
And he was gone... leaving a quiet room,
carpeted with Saffavid rugs heavily patterned in rich colours of blue,
red and gold. The brass and iron rococo-esque gas lamps continued
to burn and the florally tiled cast iron fireplace still glowed.
The bookcases of dark, hard wood were unmoved and uncaring and the cards
did not mourn their lack of a player. The small statue of Penthesilea
in the marble alter that faced the fire may have waved a bronze hand, or
maybe it was just a flicker in the light.
