Post by F. B. Nightingale on Dec 30, 2014 3:53:57 GMT -8
In this OOC forum, I'd like to present a short story from a world far away, yet somehow familiar. Some readers may know more about this, while to others, this is quite new. Either way, I hope it is enjoyed.
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Posters advertising the Theatre Magique de Robert-Houdin certainly attracted attention. In the showcases outside the Paramount Theatre were pictured, painted in the manner of an old Vaudeville poster, an avenue of leaping fountains and gilded trees, leading toward a stage. Above the heads of the audience stood a man, featureless, seemingly made of brilliant white light, arms wide in a gesture of welcome. "Watch your dreams become reality," proclaimed the ads. "Tickets available December 6."
The tickets sold like proverbial hotcakes. The elite and the common, as in the glory days of the movie palace, rubbed elbows as they crowded in through the shabby old doors on the side of the building. Jaws dropped as the grand lobby was revealed. In the high rococo style, gilded columns framed ornately-papered walls. A parquet floor glistened, several shades of marble, granite and onyx inlaid in a great explosion of fleur de lis, royal scepters, cog-wheels, and rampant lions. Ornate, glittering frames surrounded French oil paintings, and marble statuary stood serenely on carved wood pedestals. Waiters in tuxes served flues of Champagne. Visitors marveled at the incredible double doors, filled with a symmetrical arrangement of gilded cogs and gears behind etched glass panels, centered around a massive keyhole. Flanking the doors stood two carved statues of nymphs; the signs below read "solid rock crystal," though they seemed free of the slightest vein or imperfection. To the left, one held an etched crystal bell from one hand and a beater in the other; though her hand could have been a separate piece, wearing a gold bracelet as it was, how would one hide a mechanism within a clear figure? The other, to the right, bore a deeper mystery, holding a golden ring containing a clock, its numerals etched on glass, gilded hands showing no sign of mechanical connection, yet it slowly ticked away the hours. From her other hand, raised high, hung a long pendulum, swinging to and fro, again without mechanical connection.
Anticipation grew as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the time came, a quarter to eight, and the statue rang her crystal bell three times. A man in a flowing black coat and glossy top hat approached, bearing an enormous key, which was inserted into the door's lock. Rather than rotating it in place, he stepped back and it was swallowed up by the keyhole, its ornate ends folding up until it was able to vanish into the lock. The clockwork spun silently. The doors rolled aside, revealing a blinding light. When it faded, the man was gone and the auditorium lay before them.
If visitors thought the lobby beautiful, it was easily overtaken by the auditorium of the Theatre Magique. One thousand dollars' worth of gold leaf, said the program, upon the walls, ceiling, columns, even the chairs' backs. Along the walls were four arches, two per side, each featuring marble-and-gilt statues, the Greek Horai, representing the four seasons: Eiar of Spring, Theros of summer, Phthinoporon of autumn, Cheimon of winter, each holding a bell and striker. Above and behind each statue, a recessed and arched space displayed a painting; each depicting a grand garden of Versailles in its respective season. Between these musical vignettes were framed paintings depicting scenes from a garden party of Versailles with ladies and gentlemen in elegant costumes, with neatly-trimmed miniature topiaries in pots below. The domed ceiling was painted with a pale blue sky and soft white clouds; painted cherubs appeared to hold the chains of two crystal chandeliers suspended from the blue. At the front of the room, two steps led to the stage, running the full width of the space. The rear wall was also painted with scenes of the Royal party, and in the center hung a great brass gong embossed with a smiling sun, wavy rays emanating from all sides; suspended before it on thin chains was another glass-faced clock within a golden ring. After but a few moments' examination, however, all of this became of only secondary interest as patrons marveled at what sat front-and-center upon the stage.
Seated in an ornate throne was a man made entirely of gleaming metal. His face, elegantly carved and handsome, was nonetheless also metal, as were his finely-jointed hands. He wore no clothing of any kind, barring a black silk hat, and a metal cane stood in a holder affixed to the side of his chair. Motionless he sat, staring forward; "he," for it was a man, but only a mechanical man. Beautiful, exquisite, but still nothing more than plates and joints and cogs. His torso's skeletal structure exposed masses of tiny gears and wheels, connected by spiraled shafts, a mess of mechanics so complex it appeared almost impossible as a functional machine. The visitors stared and examined and chatted with each other; could this man move? What kind of a prop would he be? Under command of the magician? His throne, carved with a great, gilded cog surrounding a monogram of "M T," awoke further conversations, and its back was topped by a great gold clock key, standing upright. Patrons had been requested to bring small objects, the more unusual and esoteric the better, and they compared their offerings, looking at rare books, old trinkets, even bits of machinery. The chatter went on, the speculation continued, and they found their seats and waited.
When the hands of the great clock reached the top of the hour, a hush fell. Silence... and then, with a flash of light and a great stroke of the gong, the man who had opened the doors was standing before them. To applause, he took a bow, only to apologize. "I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry, but I am not your host. I am but his servant. With your gracious permission, I will prepare for his arrival." With that, he removed the great key from the throne and inserted it into a hole in the chest of the clockwork man. Turning it slowly, he explained, "I am winding up the magician." Then, inserting it into a hole in the stage and again turning, he added, "I am now winding up the theatre." A soft hissing began, as though some hidden mechanism had been set in motion, and the gears within the mechanical man began to turn. Replacing the key in the back of the throne, the assistant stood aside and bowed... and the mechanical man slowly, jerkily turned its head and, with a sharp motion, nodded in return. The head turned back to face the room, and the man slowly rose from his chair to stand. The audience gasped as "he" slowly, carefully extended one leg, then the other, stepping forward, took another full step, turned his head and arms in stilted, mechanical movements... and they gasped, again, as he suddenly took a deep and sweeping bow, as smooth as the motion of a living being, doffing his hat, snapping it flat with a flick of the wrist, before popping it out again as he replaced it on his head.
Reaching over his shoulder and producing a blank sheet of card, he inserted this into his stomach. Two long rows of wheels spun silently, clicking into place before coming together upon the card, imprinting rows of characters. He removed it and held it forward, displaying the printed message: "Welcome, beautiful ladies and gentleman of honor, to my grand Magic Theatre of Robert-Houdin." Flipping the card, he displayed its back, bearing the same message in French, before handing the card to the assistant and reaching for another. Again, inserted and printed, he displayed his message: "To demonstrate my ability and dexterity for you, I shall now perform a piece of music upon the violin. If I may have a request from my audience." With some hesitation, hands were raised, and the magician pointed to a man in the front row. Looking around with a bit of a smirk, he said, "Caprice number one by Nicolo Paganini." Removing a violin from a case and offering it to the visitor for inspection, it and a bow were then offered to the magician, who refused it, produced another card and printed, "Testing my extreme limits, are you sir?" before accepting the instrument and playing. The man's smug smile was quickly replaced by a quite different expression, as the magician-- bowing and fingering exactly as would a live performer-- laid out the staccato performance with skill and finesse, before taking a deep bow to thunderous applause. Like a human being, he was-- no, better, more perfect. So lifelike, yet more than that, so much more! Handing the violin and bow aside, he printed another message. "Allow me to play one of my personal favorites, Vittorio Monti's grand Csárdás in the Hungarian style. I will be accompanied by my mechanical orchestra." If the audience clapped hard before, this virtuoso performance brought down the house in a roar of applause not more than halfway through, as the thumpy bass and what seemed to be a real cymbalom resonated behind his playing, now slow and flowing, now lightning-fast. His bow was backed by the wall of noise, shouts and applause, as his assistant stood by and gestured to the metal man, who took another sweeping bow.
"And now, I shall present, kind ladies and genteel friends, illusions selected from the great works of Jean-Eugene Robert-Houdin, the grand clockwork illusionist." He changed cards. "Robert-Houdin's tricks, some of his own devising, others as old as magic and simply presented with new touches, become new again." Again, changing cards. "As magicians strive for newer and bigger feats of skill, we shall see whether these old tricks have lost their ability to charm and amaze. Thank you."
The assistant rolled forth a table on wheels. Made entirely of glass, the top being quite thin, it gave no room for concealment. He printed another card: "The oldest illusion in the world, the cups-and-balls, was performed by Robert-Houdin and is still performed today. What follows is my adaptation." The table was rolled in a full circle before being placed in front of the magician, who was handed three pucks of brass. With a flourish, each was unfolded to form collapsible metal cups, which were laid out in the usual arrangement. The routine was performed first using small metal balls, with the balls finally vanishing, to be replaced by large wooden ones. But as he then played with these, cups were smacked flat, collapsing onto the table, picked up and rearranged, then lifted to reveal large, red roses, pinned as boutonnieres, which were handed by the assistant to members of the audience.
A wooden chest was brought out and its empty interior showed by the assistant, who placed it on the glass table. The magician printed, again first in English, then French, the idea of Robert-Houdin's once-famous Light and Heavy Chest. Using the then-new technology of electro-magnetism, he was able to make a trunk placed on the stage both light enough to be lifted by a child, yet too heavy to be hefted by an able-bodied man. Here, too, was a light and heavy chest, but placed upon a glass table, to prevent any sort of trickery. A powerful-looking gentleman, along with a young lady no older than fifteen, were invited to join him upon the stage. No matter how hard he pulled, the man could not lift it; he finally resorted to bear-hugging the chest, and was able to barely lift both it and the table a few inches off the stage. A moment later, the young lady picked it up, saying it seemed to weigh but a few pounds. Instructed to open the chest, its empty interior was shown to the audience; upon placing it back on the table, the man was again invited to lift it. Still unable to do so, the magician stepped in, opened and tilted it forward, and showed a wealth of golden coins and sparkling gems. Finally, closing it again, he walked down, strolled up the central aisle, opened the chest and handed down the rows long-stemmed roses for the ladies, before returning to the stage. As each illusion was performed, music played from around the audience; one hundred sets of pipes, proclaimed the program, and hundreds of bells, chimes and percussions, performing music written expressly for the performance. Surely they must be hidden within the walls, but there seemed to be no opening for the egress of sound.
The chest removed and set aside, the assistant brought out a great leather-bound portfolio, which was laid across the table. "This," printed the magician, "is my great portfolio of drawings. I have drawn sketches of my favorite things, and I shall produce them for you." Opening the great book, he first showed a drawing of a grand fireplace with a bubbling cauldron over the fire. Closing and reopening his book, he lifted, seemingly out of it, a black iron pot, bubbling and steaming, which was placed upon the stage to his left. Flipping to the next drawing, he showed an ornate cage full of finches, and closing and reopening the portfolio as his assistant brought out a metal tree, he produced a wire cage containing a live bird. He seemed to split this cage into two, both containing birds, before hanging one on the tree, and continued the replications until twelve birds in tiny cages hung, chirping and singing. Then, he showed a drawing of an old candy store, with apothecary jars full of bonbons and sugared plums, before bringing out a tray of candy, which was passed around. His last sketch depicted a fountain, around which stood men and ladies, gleefully accepting streams of colored liquids into their glasses and mugs, and he then produced a bottle. The assistant explained that he would serve any liquid they requested, and he walked up the aisle. Small glasses were placed in the backs of the aisle-side seats, and each visitor naming a drink-- sparkling water, Champagne, whisky, black rum, orange juice, Burgundy wine, these were poured from the same bottle and served. Whatever drove this magician, he seemed disconnected from any surface, able to walk the room; was he controlled remotely, or were programs of some sort stored internally? A man along the aisle began to ask-- but, remembering the secrecy of magicians, phrased his question delicately: "Does the magician use any electronics, or digital devices, or computers?" The magician himself turned to "look" at the man. He handed his bottle to the assistant and printed another card: "Neither I nor this theatre use any sort of computer or electronic device. There are no electric motors, and the only electrical power operates the electric lamps."
Returning to the stage, he explained that he loved to draw, and it was at this time that patrons were requested to bring forth the objects which they had brought. The assistant set out a large easel, and as the magician dipped his quill, the assistant wandered the auditorium. Choosing objects, he would request that they be held aloft, though the magician seemed not to have functional eyes. The assistant ringing a small bell, the magician proceeded to look towards the patron, then back to his easel. He would then sketch each object with a very relaxed, human hand, writing a short description below. The applause came with each drawing, and the images were handed down to each patron. The audience was enraptured, enthralled, almost forgetting that this was not a real, live human performing for them-- the tricks themselves were amazing, but when worked so masterfully by nothing more than gears and springs, configured into the shape of a man and apparently enchanted to act like one-- He paused and printed another card. "To dispel the notion that I may be commanded, mechanically, from beneath." A glass block was brought out and he stepped upon it. His assistant brought his cane from the holder beside the throne and, using that to steady himself, he continued to illustrate the obscure bric-a-brac shown by the patrons. Below sketches of books, he wrote their title and a brief description of their contents, which were verified by the audience members, some of whom had not read the books and had to thumb through for confirmation.
The magician explained that, being made of gears, he had a much deeper understanding of mechanics than can a living being. Balance, too, can be truly perfected only by mechanical means, and to demonstrate his point, his assistant was placed in an elevated chair, his outstretched hands resting atop two poles. Removing the chair left him seemingly suspended between them. The magician removed one pole, which did not release him from his perfect suspension. Removing the other and replacing it with his own hand, he swung the assistant, still balanced in his T-shaped form, out and around in front of the audience, before replacing the poles and the chair. "You would be forgiven for thinking," he printed, "that this is a modern illusion, yet Robert-Houdin perfected this great trick over one hundred years ago, and his belief in the wizardry of clockwork allowed its final perfection. And in one final demonstration of the wonders of Mssr. Robert-Houdin..."
"...the great Orange Tree." Another hush fell over the audience. Some had heard of this. The magician requested a piece of jewelry, or a watch, from the audience, as well as a lady's handkerchief. The assistant wheeled out a small orange tree, clipped into a spherical topiary, in a pot atop a glass stand. Stepping down from the stage, his assistant cleared away all other objects except the glass table and moved the glass block to the far left, before taking up a position behind the throne. Given a Vacheron-Constantin wristwatch, worth easily several hundred thousand dollars, as well as a lacy pink handkerchief, and with the assistant's promise that they would be returned unharmed, the magician returned to the stage and, laying the handkerchief on the table, rolled the watch inside. The noise of a buzzing fly wandered the room, and the magician seemed to follow it until it landed on the table in front of him. He smashed it flat, producing a loud crunch. Paused, looked up, then down again. Raised his hand, then picked up the handkerchief. Its contents clinked and tinkled, shattered, and the audience groaned. He shrugged slowly, placed a dish on the table and the handkerchief in it, brought a match near, and pop! it went up in a tiny puff of green flame. The resulting fluffy ash, shown to the patrons, was poured into a small hand-gun with a flared muzzle, then a ball was packed in. Pausing and taking aim, the assistant warned the audience that there would be a loud report. The gun was fired with a bang, discharging a wisp of smoke.
"Clair de Lune" began to play. Tiny blossoms appeared to bloom among the branches. Then, as the blossoms disappeared, leaves parted and showed small oranges. Finally, the last orange atop the tree split into quarters. Out of this rose two fluttering Monarch butterflies, carrying between them the handkerchief. Suspended from its center was the wristwatch. The assistant removed these and brought them back to their owners, as well as handing around the other oranges to show that they were quite real, to more thunderous applause.
After taking his bows, the magician printed another card. "Thank you, lovely ladies and fine gentlemen. I thank you, as does my helpful assistant, clock-maker Morris Tobias, creator of both me and my magical theatre." His assistant took a bow to deafening applause, as he changed cards. "All of the wonders you have seen were produced using nothing but sleight-of-hand and clockwork of the highest calibre, with no computers, electronics, motors or other human beings." He changed again. "With your permission, I will now conclude the show with a short symphony by my mechanical orchestra and my Theatre Magique." With a flick of the wrist he tossed a conductor's baton from thin air, caught it as it fell, tapped as if upon a podium (with an appropriate clicking sound) and raised it. The clockwork man began to conduct--
The music swelled around them: choruses of violins and cellos, liquid flutes and soft horns carried flowing melodies; batteries of trumpets called out regal fanfares; cymbals and chimes and bells filled in, as what sounded like a grand orchestra of a hundred musicians performed, invisibly. As the song played, the theatre began to transform around the audience. Out of pots standing along the walls rose sparkling fountains, visibly made of glass, yet startlingly realistic, with the artificial liquid jetting upward and falling from the mouths of gilded gargoyles. Potted topiaries began to produce assorted fruits and walnuts, while roses began to bloom from buds upon bouquets in vases. The party-goers in the paintings seemed to move, dancers bowing to their partners, and the cherubs fluttered around the ceiling in lazy circles, actually moving the chandeliers suspended below! As the four Horai played their bells, the paintings in the arches behind them rose out of sight, revealing arrays of organ pipes, brass horns, drums, cymbals, chimes and bells, and louvers behind them opened and closed as the music ebbed and flowed. Ornate cages lowered from out of the ceiling, the songbirds within chirping merrily, some hopping from one branch to another. As the tones of a great cathedral organ rose to a crescendo, the magician took one final bow before sitting again in his great throne, and the applause almost drowned out the last of the song!
What attention would this bring upon the humble clockmaker, Mr. Tobias, only forty-one years of age, who stayed after the show to speak with the audience? Only time would tell. And he had all the time in the world.
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December 31, 2073. The high society of the Paris Court was all abuzz. Rumor had it, the creator of the grand Camarilla Clock, which still performed for the Court, was returning to display and demonstrate his magnum opus. The night arrived, and the city gathered to witness the presentation of what was claimed to be the most lifelike mechanical man ever created. When Tobias entered, he took his bow before the Prince, then walked to and fro a bit, greeting the Court with a smile and his well-remembered warm tone. Finally, he stood front-and-center and took another bow. The Toreador looked around. A couple of Brujah tapped their feet. "Oui, and where is this great creation?" asked the Prince. "You promised a clockwork man, Monsieur Tobias. When will the man arrive?"
"Indeed I did, Your Highness" replied the clockmaker, removing his coat and vest and, to the utter confusion of the Kindred, unbuttoning his shirt. And as he opened the hinged panel beneath, he paused, observing the reactions of the assembled Court. "He has arrived."
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The preceding story is, for all intents and purposes, OOC, and has no connection to the current world in which our characters weave their weekly tales of politics and drama.
I do, however, wish to add one last great and deep "thank you" to all the players and storytellers involved in years' worth of epic plots. I only hope I gave as much to the game as was given to me.
Here is Paganini's Caprice No. 1:
This is the Monti Csárdás:
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Posters advertising the Theatre Magique de Robert-Houdin certainly attracted attention. In the showcases outside the Paramount Theatre were pictured, painted in the manner of an old Vaudeville poster, an avenue of leaping fountains and gilded trees, leading toward a stage. Above the heads of the audience stood a man, featureless, seemingly made of brilliant white light, arms wide in a gesture of welcome. "Watch your dreams become reality," proclaimed the ads. "Tickets available December 6."
The tickets sold like proverbial hotcakes. The elite and the common, as in the glory days of the movie palace, rubbed elbows as they crowded in through the shabby old doors on the side of the building. Jaws dropped as the grand lobby was revealed. In the high rococo style, gilded columns framed ornately-papered walls. A parquet floor glistened, several shades of marble, granite and onyx inlaid in a great explosion of fleur de lis, royal scepters, cog-wheels, and rampant lions. Ornate, glittering frames surrounded French oil paintings, and marble statuary stood serenely on carved wood pedestals. Waiters in tuxes served flues of Champagne. Visitors marveled at the incredible double doors, filled with a symmetrical arrangement of gilded cogs and gears behind etched glass panels, centered around a massive keyhole. Flanking the doors stood two carved statues of nymphs; the signs below read "solid rock crystal," though they seemed free of the slightest vein or imperfection. To the left, one held an etched crystal bell from one hand and a beater in the other; though her hand could have been a separate piece, wearing a gold bracelet as it was, how would one hide a mechanism within a clear figure? The other, to the right, bore a deeper mystery, holding a golden ring containing a clock, its numerals etched on glass, gilded hands showing no sign of mechanical connection, yet it slowly ticked away the hours. From her other hand, raised high, hung a long pendulum, swinging to and fro, again without mechanical connection.
Anticipation grew as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the time came, a quarter to eight, and the statue rang her crystal bell three times. A man in a flowing black coat and glossy top hat approached, bearing an enormous key, which was inserted into the door's lock. Rather than rotating it in place, he stepped back and it was swallowed up by the keyhole, its ornate ends folding up until it was able to vanish into the lock. The clockwork spun silently. The doors rolled aside, revealing a blinding light. When it faded, the man was gone and the auditorium lay before them.
If visitors thought the lobby beautiful, it was easily overtaken by the auditorium of the Theatre Magique. One thousand dollars' worth of gold leaf, said the program, upon the walls, ceiling, columns, even the chairs' backs. Along the walls were four arches, two per side, each featuring marble-and-gilt statues, the Greek Horai, representing the four seasons: Eiar of Spring, Theros of summer, Phthinoporon of autumn, Cheimon of winter, each holding a bell and striker. Above and behind each statue, a recessed and arched space displayed a painting; each depicting a grand garden of Versailles in its respective season. Between these musical vignettes were framed paintings depicting scenes from a garden party of Versailles with ladies and gentlemen in elegant costumes, with neatly-trimmed miniature topiaries in pots below. The domed ceiling was painted with a pale blue sky and soft white clouds; painted cherubs appeared to hold the chains of two crystal chandeliers suspended from the blue. At the front of the room, two steps led to the stage, running the full width of the space. The rear wall was also painted with scenes of the Royal party, and in the center hung a great brass gong embossed with a smiling sun, wavy rays emanating from all sides; suspended before it on thin chains was another glass-faced clock within a golden ring. After but a few moments' examination, however, all of this became of only secondary interest as patrons marveled at what sat front-and-center upon the stage.
Seated in an ornate throne was a man made entirely of gleaming metal. His face, elegantly carved and handsome, was nonetheless also metal, as were his finely-jointed hands. He wore no clothing of any kind, barring a black silk hat, and a metal cane stood in a holder affixed to the side of his chair. Motionless he sat, staring forward; "he," for it was a man, but only a mechanical man. Beautiful, exquisite, but still nothing more than plates and joints and cogs. His torso's skeletal structure exposed masses of tiny gears and wheels, connected by spiraled shafts, a mess of mechanics so complex it appeared almost impossible as a functional machine. The visitors stared and examined and chatted with each other; could this man move? What kind of a prop would he be? Under command of the magician? His throne, carved with a great, gilded cog surrounding a monogram of "M T," awoke further conversations, and its back was topped by a great gold clock key, standing upright. Patrons had been requested to bring small objects, the more unusual and esoteric the better, and they compared their offerings, looking at rare books, old trinkets, even bits of machinery. The chatter went on, the speculation continued, and they found their seats and waited.
When the hands of the great clock reached the top of the hour, a hush fell. Silence... and then, with a flash of light and a great stroke of the gong, the man who had opened the doors was standing before them. To applause, he took a bow, only to apologize. "I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry, but I am not your host. I am but his servant. With your gracious permission, I will prepare for his arrival." With that, he removed the great key from the throne and inserted it into a hole in the chest of the clockwork man. Turning it slowly, he explained, "I am winding up the magician." Then, inserting it into a hole in the stage and again turning, he added, "I am now winding up the theatre." A soft hissing began, as though some hidden mechanism had been set in motion, and the gears within the mechanical man began to turn. Replacing the key in the back of the throne, the assistant stood aside and bowed... and the mechanical man slowly, jerkily turned its head and, with a sharp motion, nodded in return. The head turned back to face the room, and the man slowly rose from his chair to stand. The audience gasped as "he" slowly, carefully extended one leg, then the other, stepping forward, took another full step, turned his head and arms in stilted, mechanical movements... and they gasped, again, as he suddenly took a deep and sweeping bow, as smooth as the motion of a living being, doffing his hat, snapping it flat with a flick of the wrist, before popping it out again as he replaced it on his head.
Reaching over his shoulder and producing a blank sheet of card, he inserted this into his stomach. Two long rows of wheels spun silently, clicking into place before coming together upon the card, imprinting rows of characters. He removed it and held it forward, displaying the printed message: "Welcome, beautiful ladies and gentleman of honor, to my grand Magic Theatre of Robert-Houdin." Flipping the card, he displayed its back, bearing the same message in French, before handing the card to the assistant and reaching for another. Again, inserted and printed, he displayed his message: "To demonstrate my ability and dexterity for you, I shall now perform a piece of music upon the violin. If I may have a request from my audience." With some hesitation, hands were raised, and the magician pointed to a man in the front row. Looking around with a bit of a smirk, he said, "Caprice number one by Nicolo Paganini." Removing a violin from a case and offering it to the visitor for inspection, it and a bow were then offered to the magician, who refused it, produced another card and printed, "Testing my extreme limits, are you sir?" before accepting the instrument and playing. The man's smug smile was quickly replaced by a quite different expression, as the magician-- bowing and fingering exactly as would a live performer-- laid out the staccato performance with skill and finesse, before taking a deep bow to thunderous applause. Like a human being, he was-- no, better, more perfect. So lifelike, yet more than that, so much more! Handing the violin and bow aside, he printed another message. "Allow me to play one of my personal favorites, Vittorio Monti's grand Csárdás in the Hungarian style. I will be accompanied by my mechanical orchestra." If the audience clapped hard before, this virtuoso performance brought down the house in a roar of applause not more than halfway through, as the thumpy bass and what seemed to be a real cymbalom resonated behind his playing, now slow and flowing, now lightning-fast. His bow was backed by the wall of noise, shouts and applause, as his assistant stood by and gestured to the metal man, who took another sweeping bow.
"And now, I shall present, kind ladies and genteel friends, illusions selected from the great works of Jean-Eugene Robert-Houdin, the grand clockwork illusionist." He changed cards. "Robert-Houdin's tricks, some of his own devising, others as old as magic and simply presented with new touches, become new again." Again, changing cards. "As magicians strive for newer and bigger feats of skill, we shall see whether these old tricks have lost their ability to charm and amaze. Thank you."
The assistant rolled forth a table on wheels. Made entirely of glass, the top being quite thin, it gave no room for concealment. He printed another card: "The oldest illusion in the world, the cups-and-balls, was performed by Robert-Houdin and is still performed today. What follows is my adaptation." The table was rolled in a full circle before being placed in front of the magician, who was handed three pucks of brass. With a flourish, each was unfolded to form collapsible metal cups, which were laid out in the usual arrangement. The routine was performed first using small metal balls, with the balls finally vanishing, to be replaced by large wooden ones. But as he then played with these, cups were smacked flat, collapsing onto the table, picked up and rearranged, then lifted to reveal large, red roses, pinned as boutonnieres, which were handed by the assistant to members of the audience.
A wooden chest was brought out and its empty interior showed by the assistant, who placed it on the glass table. The magician printed, again first in English, then French, the idea of Robert-Houdin's once-famous Light and Heavy Chest. Using the then-new technology of electro-magnetism, he was able to make a trunk placed on the stage both light enough to be lifted by a child, yet too heavy to be hefted by an able-bodied man. Here, too, was a light and heavy chest, but placed upon a glass table, to prevent any sort of trickery. A powerful-looking gentleman, along with a young lady no older than fifteen, were invited to join him upon the stage. No matter how hard he pulled, the man could not lift it; he finally resorted to bear-hugging the chest, and was able to barely lift both it and the table a few inches off the stage. A moment later, the young lady picked it up, saying it seemed to weigh but a few pounds. Instructed to open the chest, its empty interior was shown to the audience; upon placing it back on the table, the man was again invited to lift it. Still unable to do so, the magician stepped in, opened and tilted it forward, and showed a wealth of golden coins and sparkling gems. Finally, closing it again, he walked down, strolled up the central aisle, opened the chest and handed down the rows long-stemmed roses for the ladies, before returning to the stage. As each illusion was performed, music played from around the audience; one hundred sets of pipes, proclaimed the program, and hundreds of bells, chimes and percussions, performing music written expressly for the performance. Surely they must be hidden within the walls, but there seemed to be no opening for the egress of sound.
The chest removed and set aside, the assistant brought out a great leather-bound portfolio, which was laid across the table. "This," printed the magician, "is my great portfolio of drawings. I have drawn sketches of my favorite things, and I shall produce them for you." Opening the great book, he first showed a drawing of a grand fireplace with a bubbling cauldron over the fire. Closing and reopening his book, he lifted, seemingly out of it, a black iron pot, bubbling and steaming, which was placed upon the stage to his left. Flipping to the next drawing, he showed an ornate cage full of finches, and closing and reopening the portfolio as his assistant brought out a metal tree, he produced a wire cage containing a live bird. He seemed to split this cage into two, both containing birds, before hanging one on the tree, and continued the replications until twelve birds in tiny cages hung, chirping and singing. Then, he showed a drawing of an old candy store, with apothecary jars full of bonbons and sugared plums, before bringing out a tray of candy, which was passed around. His last sketch depicted a fountain, around which stood men and ladies, gleefully accepting streams of colored liquids into their glasses and mugs, and he then produced a bottle. The assistant explained that he would serve any liquid they requested, and he walked up the aisle. Small glasses were placed in the backs of the aisle-side seats, and each visitor naming a drink-- sparkling water, Champagne, whisky, black rum, orange juice, Burgundy wine, these were poured from the same bottle and served. Whatever drove this magician, he seemed disconnected from any surface, able to walk the room; was he controlled remotely, or were programs of some sort stored internally? A man along the aisle began to ask-- but, remembering the secrecy of magicians, phrased his question delicately: "Does the magician use any electronics, or digital devices, or computers?" The magician himself turned to "look" at the man. He handed his bottle to the assistant and printed another card: "Neither I nor this theatre use any sort of computer or electronic device. There are no electric motors, and the only electrical power operates the electric lamps."
Returning to the stage, he explained that he loved to draw, and it was at this time that patrons were requested to bring forth the objects which they had brought. The assistant set out a large easel, and as the magician dipped his quill, the assistant wandered the auditorium. Choosing objects, he would request that they be held aloft, though the magician seemed not to have functional eyes. The assistant ringing a small bell, the magician proceeded to look towards the patron, then back to his easel. He would then sketch each object with a very relaxed, human hand, writing a short description below. The applause came with each drawing, and the images were handed down to each patron. The audience was enraptured, enthralled, almost forgetting that this was not a real, live human performing for them-- the tricks themselves were amazing, but when worked so masterfully by nothing more than gears and springs, configured into the shape of a man and apparently enchanted to act like one-- He paused and printed another card. "To dispel the notion that I may be commanded, mechanically, from beneath." A glass block was brought out and he stepped upon it. His assistant brought his cane from the holder beside the throne and, using that to steady himself, he continued to illustrate the obscure bric-a-brac shown by the patrons. Below sketches of books, he wrote their title and a brief description of their contents, which were verified by the audience members, some of whom had not read the books and had to thumb through for confirmation.
The magician explained that, being made of gears, he had a much deeper understanding of mechanics than can a living being. Balance, too, can be truly perfected only by mechanical means, and to demonstrate his point, his assistant was placed in an elevated chair, his outstretched hands resting atop two poles. Removing the chair left him seemingly suspended between them. The magician removed one pole, which did not release him from his perfect suspension. Removing the other and replacing it with his own hand, he swung the assistant, still balanced in his T-shaped form, out and around in front of the audience, before replacing the poles and the chair. "You would be forgiven for thinking," he printed, "that this is a modern illusion, yet Robert-Houdin perfected this great trick over one hundred years ago, and his belief in the wizardry of clockwork allowed its final perfection. And in one final demonstration of the wonders of Mssr. Robert-Houdin..."
"...the great Orange Tree." Another hush fell over the audience. Some had heard of this. The magician requested a piece of jewelry, or a watch, from the audience, as well as a lady's handkerchief. The assistant wheeled out a small orange tree, clipped into a spherical topiary, in a pot atop a glass stand. Stepping down from the stage, his assistant cleared away all other objects except the glass table and moved the glass block to the far left, before taking up a position behind the throne. Given a Vacheron-Constantin wristwatch, worth easily several hundred thousand dollars, as well as a lacy pink handkerchief, and with the assistant's promise that they would be returned unharmed, the magician returned to the stage and, laying the handkerchief on the table, rolled the watch inside. The noise of a buzzing fly wandered the room, and the magician seemed to follow it until it landed on the table in front of him. He smashed it flat, producing a loud crunch. Paused, looked up, then down again. Raised his hand, then picked up the handkerchief. Its contents clinked and tinkled, shattered, and the audience groaned. He shrugged slowly, placed a dish on the table and the handkerchief in it, brought a match near, and pop! it went up in a tiny puff of green flame. The resulting fluffy ash, shown to the patrons, was poured into a small hand-gun with a flared muzzle, then a ball was packed in. Pausing and taking aim, the assistant warned the audience that there would be a loud report. The gun was fired with a bang, discharging a wisp of smoke.
"Clair de Lune" began to play. Tiny blossoms appeared to bloom among the branches. Then, as the blossoms disappeared, leaves parted and showed small oranges. Finally, the last orange atop the tree split into quarters. Out of this rose two fluttering Monarch butterflies, carrying between them the handkerchief. Suspended from its center was the wristwatch. The assistant removed these and brought them back to their owners, as well as handing around the other oranges to show that they were quite real, to more thunderous applause.
After taking his bows, the magician printed another card. "Thank you, lovely ladies and fine gentlemen. I thank you, as does my helpful assistant, clock-maker Morris Tobias, creator of both me and my magical theatre." His assistant took a bow to deafening applause, as he changed cards. "All of the wonders you have seen were produced using nothing but sleight-of-hand and clockwork of the highest calibre, with no computers, electronics, motors or other human beings." He changed again. "With your permission, I will now conclude the show with a short symphony by my mechanical orchestra and my Theatre Magique." With a flick of the wrist he tossed a conductor's baton from thin air, caught it as it fell, tapped as if upon a podium (with an appropriate clicking sound) and raised it. The clockwork man began to conduct--
The music swelled around them: choruses of violins and cellos, liquid flutes and soft horns carried flowing melodies; batteries of trumpets called out regal fanfares; cymbals and chimes and bells filled in, as what sounded like a grand orchestra of a hundred musicians performed, invisibly. As the song played, the theatre began to transform around the audience. Out of pots standing along the walls rose sparkling fountains, visibly made of glass, yet startlingly realistic, with the artificial liquid jetting upward and falling from the mouths of gilded gargoyles. Potted topiaries began to produce assorted fruits and walnuts, while roses began to bloom from buds upon bouquets in vases. The party-goers in the paintings seemed to move, dancers bowing to their partners, and the cherubs fluttered around the ceiling in lazy circles, actually moving the chandeliers suspended below! As the four Horai played their bells, the paintings in the arches behind them rose out of sight, revealing arrays of organ pipes, brass horns, drums, cymbals, chimes and bells, and louvers behind them opened and closed as the music ebbed and flowed. Ornate cages lowered from out of the ceiling, the songbirds within chirping merrily, some hopping from one branch to another. As the tones of a great cathedral organ rose to a crescendo, the magician took one final bow before sitting again in his great throne, and the applause almost drowned out the last of the song!
What attention would this bring upon the humble clockmaker, Mr. Tobias, only forty-one years of age, who stayed after the show to speak with the audience? Only time would tell. And he had all the time in the world.
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December 31, 2073. The high society of the Paris Court was all abuzz. Rumor had it, the creator of the grand Camarilla Clock, which still performed for the Court, was returning to display and demonstrate his magnum opus. The night arrived, and the city gathered to witness the presentation of what was claimed to be the most lifelike mechanical man ever created. When Tobias entered, he took his bow before the Prince, then walked to and fro a bit, greeting the Court with a smile and his well-remembered warm tone. Finally, he stood front-and-center and took another bow. The Toreador looked around. A couple of Brujah tapped their feet. "Oui, and where is this great creation?" asked the Prince. "You promised a clockwork man, Monsieur Tobias. When will the man arrive?"
"Indeed I did, Your Highness" replied the clockmaker, removing his coat and vest and, to the utter confusion of the Kindred, unbuttoning his shirt. And as he opened the hinged panel beneath, he paused, observing the reactions of the assembled Court. "He has arrived."
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The preceding story is, for all intents and purposes, OOC, and has no connection to the current world in which our characters weave their weekly tales of politics and drama.
I do, however, wish to add one last great and deep "thank you" to all the players and storytellers involved in years' worth of epic plots. I only hope I gave as much to the game as was given to me.
Here is Paganini's Caprice No. 1:
This is the Monti Csárdás: