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The Chronicle of Burne, and Some Others of Lesser Importance *Updated May 17th, 2009*
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<blockquote data-quote="Mallus" data-source="post: 4212867" data-attributes="member: 3887"><p>So here's the deal: Rolzup is so busy with family matters that he barely has time to <em>play</em> Burne, let alone chronicle his <s>bigoted</s> <s>reckless</s> <s>puzzling</s> thrilling exploits here, so I'm going to be filling in for the time being. Along with anyone else who'd like to lend a hand (hint hint). I'm going to <em>try</em> to write from Burne's point of view, imitating his... umm... inimitable voice as best I can (but I haven't figured out how to do that yet). So for now here's a LOST-style flash forward --made from old emails-- that I've been polishing up as writing practice. I'll pick up where we left off in a few weeks. </p><p></p><p></p><p><strong>A Series of Unfortunate Events in CITY, part I</strong></p><p></p><p>On a lovely late Spring day resplendent with the smell of lilacs and sulfur monoxide, Burne’s three apprentices stand staring at the door to his apartment-cum-laboratory in the decidedly working-class Mid-Tier district of Eris. Each looks perplexed. </p><p> </p><p>“This is an outrage!" says Mordecadai.</p><p></p><p>"An injustice!" echoes his colleague, Ritter.</p><p></p><p>"He's not going to like this. We'll be set afire for sure" concludes their dour associate Glum.</p><p></p><p>"On the other hand, there were warnings" says Mordecai.</p><p></p><p>"No more than several" counters Ritter.</p><p></p><p>"Perhaps we should have shown him the notices" opines Glum.</p><p></p><p>"Nonsense, it's our job to handle trifling matters for the Master" says Mordecai.</p><p></p><p>"Perhaps we shouldn't have 'handled' them by pitching them into the incinerator" says Ritter.</p><p></p><p>"How are we going to get the iron war gryphon off the roof?" whines Glum, mixing a little pathos into his usual melancholy tone. "It still doesn't fly too good."</p><p></p><p>"We'll think of something" says Mordecai. “Gravity, for instance.”</p><p></p><p>The three apprentices are referring to the Self-Winding, Size-Malleable Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha, a self-aware, not to mention self-deprecating clockwork flying machine on loan from the Gondoliers Guild, whose capabilities including vertical takeoff, hovering and in-flight drink service featuring spirits distilled in transit via an on board phlogistonic still. He was unfailing polite, and preferred to be called “Philip”. He regards the trio of scientists from above with unblinking steel eyes, sitting amidst several abandoned pigeon coops. </p><p></p><p>"We're doomed” says Glum. “Burne's going to combust us. I can feel it my marrow. It's feeling tinder-dry." </p><p></p><p>At that moment their master rounds the corner with his two prized creations tow; his famulus Abraxis the Ultimate Cat, fashioned out of steel and given the semblance of a soul via Burne’s own spotty knowledge of the Philosopher’s Algorithm, and the monstrous kludge known as MODOSS, which appeared to be spike-covered suit of animated armor. A wisp of gray smokes escapes from the grille of the helmet visor. In terms of their functionality, MODOSS acts as Burne’s bodyguard while Abraxis serves as his spy, confidant, and frequently, his unflattering biographer. </p><p></p><p>"What’s this all about" he bellows at his assistants, who fall away from his front door, exposing the large red-inked Eviction Writ nailed to it, along with the long scroll listing the Ninety Nine Reasons for it, which, according to close to a thousand years of Erisian bureaucratic tradition, must accompany every legal proclamation.</p><p></p><p>"Pardon me, sir, for eavesdropping" says the ever-polite polite Phillip from the roof, "but would you care for a drink?"</p><p></p><p>"Not...just...yet," the alchemist grits.</p><p></p><p>Burne stares at the notice, for a long, silent moment. The paper begins to smolder after a bit.</p><p></p><p>"What," he asks the world, "Is the meaning of this?"</p><p></p><p>He whirls around, directing his glare at his flinching subordinates. "Eviction? Of Burne? Are they mad? Blind? Stupid?"</p><p></p><p>"PRUDENT?' offers Abraxis. </p><p></p><p>"It's a stone building, by damn! If it burns, all that does is prove that I'm on the right track! Can't they see this? By Erebus, how can a man accomplish great things when he's burdened by the chains of petty bureaucracy?" Burne spins around again, snatching the writ from the door. "What sort of trumped-up charges are they offering, eh?"</p><p></p><p>Burne quickly scans the Writ and accompanying scroll. The ninety reasons are really only three, printed in triplicate eleven times. He reads them aloud.</p><p></p><p>“One: the emanation of un-natural Noises at tremendous Volume at all Hours of the Day and Night.”</p><p></p><p>"You can't beat the dings out of a war-gryphon without breaking a few eggs" says Mordecai, “Or hammers, as the case may be.”</p><p></p><p>“Two: the emanation of deadly Vapors in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Tanning of Animals or Execution of Political Prisoners.”</p><p></p><p>"Now that’s completely baseless. Orphans die from asthma all the time. Not to mention that their orphanage was damp and filthy, a veritable haven for the pertussis. On top of that the lot of them smoked" adds Ritter.</p><p></p><p>“Three: the Projection of dangerous Projectiles in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Expulsion of Projectiles at high Velocity.</p><p></p><p>"OK, that was us. We were testing the new pilot ejection system on the MODOSS unit" says a morose Glum. “We installed a rocket motor in the helmet… and… it was an accident...I tell you after the impact that nun’s head was hanging on by a prayer…”</p><p></p><p>“Naturally” deadpans Burne.</p><p></p><p>“PLEASE LET THIS DROP” implores MODOSS in an appropriately tinny yet strangely echoing voice. </p><p></p><p>"I applaud your initiative," Burne says absently, continuing to read, "If the ejection system can also function as an impromptu weapon, then it’s for the best."</p><p></p><p>"FOR. WHO?" MODOSS’s helmet visor pops open revealing a pneumatic lemur sitting, or perhaps welded into, a thicket of control levers. He is smoking a tiny cigar. After giving his master the mechanical stink-eye he shuts the grille. The pneumatic lemur was once a rival alchemist’s familiar until he ‘defected’ after his original master ordered him to become a suicide bomb. Not the wisest of career moves, the lemur later decided. </p><p></p><p>"This is entirely absurd," Burne concludes, incinerating the paper with a snap of his fingers. "We're advancing the cause of knowledge here, by damn! What right has ANYONE to interfere in matters of such alchemical import?" His expression hardens. "There's an old saying, you know: Smoldering piles of ashes tell no tales, and serve no eviction notices."</p><p></p><p>"THAT'S. NOT. AN. OLD. SAYING!" objects Abraxis, lashing its chain-link tail.</p><p></p><p>"It will be, when I'm done," Burne replies grimly.</p><p></p><p>He swings the crossbow-esque Heremetic Destructive Engine forward, sighting along its length. "You can do marvelous things," he tells his lackeys,"With a combination of fire and acid. Indeed, boiling acid is both exquisitely painful *and* leaves an absolutely fascinating pattern of scar tissue...."</p><p></p><p>Burne pauses, looking up at the building before him. "Or...is this a sign, perhaps? A sign that the time has finally come to found the Blatant College, and see what a determined man can *really* accomplish when he sets his mind to it?"</p><p></p><p>He turns, regarding the three men...and three devices...who have been slowly edging away from him. "I need," Burne says quietly, "A realtor."</p><p></p><p>"WE'RE. GOING. TO. BE. BEGGING. FOR. THE. ACID. BEFORE. THIS. IS. OVER," Abraxis mutters.</p><p></p><p>"Carpe diem!" says Mordecai.</p><p></p><p>"No time like the present!" adds Ritter.</p><p></p><p>"When you're presently out on the street" concludes Glum.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Mallus, post: 4212867, member: 3887"] So here's the deal: Rolzup is so busy with family matters that he barely has time to [i]play[/i] Burne, let alone chronicle his [S]bigoted[/S] [S]reckless[/S] [S]puzzling[/S] thrilling exploits here, so I'm going to be filling in for the time being. Along with anyone else who'd like to lend a hand (hint hint). I'm going to [i]try[/i] to write from Burne's point of view, imitating his... umm... inimitable voice as best I can (but I haven't figured out how to do that yet). So for now here's a LOST-style flash forward --made from old emails-- that I've been polishing up as writing practice. I'll pick up where we left off in a few weeks. [b]A Series of Unfortunate Events in CITY, part I[/b] On a lovely late Spring day resplendent with the smell of lilacs and sulfur monoxide, Burne’s three apprentices stand staring at the door to his apartment-cum-laboratory in the decidedly working-class Mid-Tier district of Eris. Each looks perplexed. “This is an outrage!" says Mordecadai. "An injustice!" echoes his colleague, Ritter. "He's not going to like this. We'll be set afire for sure" concludes their dour associate Glum. "On the other hand, there were warnings" says Mordecai. "No more than several" counters Ritter. "Perhaps we should have shown him the notices" opines Glum. "Nonsense, it's our job to handle trifling matters for the Master" says Mordecai. "Perhaps we shouldn't have 'handled' them by pitching them into the incinerator" says Ritter. "How are we going to get the iron war gryphon off the roof?" whines Glum, mixing a little pathos into his usual melancholy tone. "It still doesn't fly too good." "We'll think of something" says Mordecai. “Gravity, for instance.” The three apprentices are referring to the Self-Winding, Size-Malleable Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha, a self-aware, not to mention self-deprecating clockwork flying machine on loan from the Gondoliers Guild, whose capabilities including vertical takeoff, hovering and in-flight drink service featuring spirits distilled in transit via an on board phlogistonic still. He was unfailing polite, and preferred to be called “Philip”. He regards the trio of scientists from above with unblinking steel eyes, sitting amidst several abandoned pigeon coops. "We're doomed” says Glum. “Burne's going to combust us. I can feel it my marrow. It's feeling tinder-dry." At that moment their master rounds the corner with his two prized creations tow; his famulus Abraxis the Ultimate Cat, fashioned out of steel and given the semblance of a soul via Burne’s own spotty knowledge of the Philosopher’s Algorithm, and the monstrous kludge known as MODOSS, which appeared to be spike-covered suit of animated armor. A wisp of gray smokes escapes from the grille of the helmet visor. In terms of their functionality, MODOSS acts as Burne’s bodyguard while Abraxis serves as his spy, confidant, and frequently, his unflattering biographer. "What’s this all about" he bellows at his assistants, who fall away from his front door, exposing the large red-inked Eviction Writ nailed to it, along with the long scroll listing the Ninety Nine Reasons for it, which, according to close to a thousand years of Erisian bureaucratic tradition, must accompany every legal proclamation. "Pardon me, sir, for eavesdropping" says the ever-polite polite Phillip from the roof, "but would you care for a drink?" "Not...just...yet," the alchemist grits. Burne stares at the notice, for a long, silent moment. The paper begins to smolder after a bit. "What," he asks the world, "Is the meaning of this?" He whirls around, directing his glare at his flinching subordinates. "Eviction? Of Burne? Are they mad? Blind? Stupid?" "PRUDENT?' offers Abraxis. "It's a stone building, by damn! If it burns, all that does is prove that I'm on the right track! Can't they see this? By Erebus, how can a man accomplish great things when he's burdened by the chains of petty bureaucracy?" Burne spins around again, snatching the writ from the door. "What sort of trumped-up charges are they offering, eh?" Burne quickly scans the Writ and accompanying scroll. The ninety reasons are really only three, printed in triplicate eleven times. He reads them aloud. “One: the emanation of un-natural Noises at tremendous Volume at all Hours of the Day and Night.” "You can't beat the dings out of a war-gryphon without breaking a few eggs" says Mordecai, “Or hammers, as the case may be.” “Two: the emanation of deadly Vapors in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Tanning of Animals or Execution of Political Prisoners.” "Now that’s completely baseless. Orphans die from asthma all the time. Not to mention that their orphanage was damp and filthy, a veritable haven for the pertussis. On top of that the lot of them smoked" adds Ritter. “Three: the Projection of dangerous Projectiles in a residential Neighborhood not Zoned for the Expulsion of Projectiles at high Velocity. "OK, that was us. We were testing the new pilot ejection system on the MODOSS unit" says a morose Glum. “We installed a rocket motor in the helmet… and… it was an accident...I tell you after the impact that nun’s head was hanging on by a prayer…” “Naturally” deadpans Burne. “PLEASE LET THIS DROP” implores MODOSS in an appropriately tinny yet strangely echoing voice. "I applaud your initiative," Burne says absently, continuing to read, "If the ejection system can also function as an impromptu weapon, then it’s for the best." "FOR. WHO?" MODOSS’s helmet visor pops open revealing a pneumatic lemur sitting, or perhaps welded into, a thicket of control levers. He is smoking a tiny cigar. After giving his master the mechanical stink-eye he shuts the grille. The pneumatic lemur was once a rival alchemist’s familiar until he ‘defected’ after his original master ordered him to become a suicide bomb. Not the wisest of career moves, the lemur later decided. "This is entirely absurd," Burne concludes, incinerating the paper with a snap of his fingers. "We're advancing the cause of knowledge here, by damn! What right has ANYONE to interfere in matters of such alchemical import?" His expression hardens. "There's an old saying, you know: Smoldering piles of ashes tell no tales, and serve no eviction notices." "THAT'S. NOT. AN. OLD. SAYING!" objects Abraxis, lashing its chain-link tail. "It will be, when I'm done," Burne replies grimly. He swings the crossbow-esque Heremetic Destructive Engine forward, sighting along its length. "You can do marvelous things," he tells his lackeys,"With a combination of fire and acid. Indeed, boiling acid is both exquisitely painful *and* leaves an absolutely fascinating pattern of scar tissue...." Burne pauses, looking up at the building before him. "Or...is this a sign, perhaps? A sign that the time has finally come to found the Blatant College, and see what a determined man can *really* accomplish when he sets his mind to it?" He turns, regarding the three men...and three devices...who have been slowly edging away from him. "I need," Burne says quietly, "A realtor." "WE'RE. GOING. TO. BE. BEGGING. FOR. THE. ACID. BEFORE. THIS. IS. OVER," Abraxis mutters. "Carpe diem!" says Mordecai. "No time like the present!" adds Ritter. "When you're presently out on the street" concludes Glum. [/QUOTE]
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