Post by F. B. Nightingale on Nov 17, 2013 16:20:28 GMT -8
Morris Tobias stood in front of the Triangle Garage. This was as close as he dared get to what was left of 506 2nd Ave., the great, and now late, L.C. Smith Tower. The smoking crater was too deep, and dark, to see into, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see what might be down there. Evil was best left alone. And to think this was lurking just beneath his feet...! It was a frightening thought and this, combined with the deep feeling of loss, was nearly driving him to tears. It had been years since he felt so moved. The passing of Wesson Carmichael, of Jean-Lionel Martin, of...
...Shannon. Those had done it.
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He walked into the Great Hall, his steps echoing back from the high ceiling. Stood turned slowly, surrounded by quiet ticking. The galleries along the sides had been filled. And not simply filled, but converted. A shopkeeper, a craftsman, who deals with renovations must suffer a temporary loss of productivity-- unless he has the money to change that. Here in the southwest corner was the wood shop, with its polycarbonate walls to keep the sawdust in. Followed by the forges, the kilns. The lathes and punches, drill-presses and metal tools. The hand-work shop, with racks of tiny, handmade tools and blocks of tiny drawers. Across the east side ran the finishing shop and its rose-engines, the gear-cutting area, the computer-assisted devices for faster work on simpler pieces. The diamond-creating machines, four hulking white tanks flanking the gem-cutting bench. The safes for precious stones and metals. The assembly shop, parts laid out tidily on tables. The drafting boards, with computers for electronic designs. Plans for the Seven seas Clock, the Thirteenth Hour Clock, the Camarilla Clock, the Bellevue Tower and others were pinned to the walls in each area.
The mechanical magician-- his heart would have skipped a beat, had it been functional. He smiled at the sight of the legs and torso of the mechanical man, the gryro wheel spinning silently within. The headless, armless figure stood up from its chair, took two steps forward and bowed, before retreating, the action repeating endlessly, with a quiet thump each time magnets in the small section of stage locked its feet to the wooden surface.
...his mind returned to the smoking crater on 2nd Avenue, and Morris wobbled slightly. Had all of this still been there... He had ignored the signs, and it was only a serendipitous decision to upgrade, to renovate the shop for the starring role it might soon play, which saved all of this. Seven years at Tobias Limited. Over ten years in Seattle. One hundred twenty three years in the making. Changed in one day, disaster averted by one week. The feelings were staggering. He needed to sit down. Not only to think, but to plan.
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Joyous music filled the Great Hall. The Grand Organ, its gilded pipes looming over the entrance, alternately boomed in cathedral-like majesty and poured forth lush orchestral warmth, a fitting accompaniment for the auspicious task at hand. Morris Tobias commanded the high seat at the central meeting table. Spread out in front of him were the blueprints for the L.C. Smith Tower. John, his shop ghoul, and Vincent, his beloved Childe, pored over the layouts and measurements. Curta in hand, Morris cranked out figures passed from Vincent, as John took notes. It would be as good as before. Better. Every asset and resource coming together to bring history back to life, the greatest piece of historic renewal the country had seen. Herr Faust's plan was genius: the loss of a landmark prompting not a replacement, but a rebuild, a recreation of what once was, out of pride for the past. It has been said that Seattle is a follower, not a leader, in new architecture, but this was something entirely new in all respects.
He poured more vodka and smiled. Facing adversity head-on was the city's way, and this attitude toward the past, present and future was one of many aspects that kept him here. The Emerald Domain was like no other, and it was about to prove itself all over again.
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OOC stuff: If this post contains anything you don't know about, you don't know about it. Not that I really have to say that.
My everlasting thanks go to this game's wonderful Storytellers, who aided me in bouncing back from what could have been complete ruin. I will always try to put back into this game everything that this game puts into me.
...Shannon. Those had done it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He walked into the Great Hall, his steps echoing back from the high ceiling. Stood turned slowly, surrounded by quiet ticking. The galleries along the sides had been filled. And not simply filled, but converted. A shopkeeper, a craftsman, who deals with renovations must suffer a temporary loss of productivity-- unless he has the money to change that. Here in the southwest corner was the wood shop, with its polycarbonate walls to keep the sawdust in. Followed by the forges, the kilns. The lathes and punches, drill-presses and metal tools. The hand-work shop, with racks of tiny, handmade tools and blocks of tiny drawers. Across the east side ran the finishing shop and its rose-engines, the gear-cutting area, the computer-assisted devices for faster work on simpler pieces. The diamond-creating machines, four hulking white tanks flanking the gem-cutting bench. The safes for precious stones and metals. The assembly shop, parts laid out tidily on tables. The drafting boards, with computers for electronic designs. Plans for the Seven seas Clock, the Thirteenth Hour Clock, the Camarilla Clock, the Bellevue Tower and others were pinned to the walls in each area.
The mechanical magician-- his heart would have skipped a beat, had it been functional. He smiled at the sight of the legs and torso of the mechanical man, the gryro wheel spinning silently within. The headless, armless figure stood up from its chair, took two steps forward and bowed, before retreating, the action repeating endlessly, with a quiet thump each time magnets in the small section of stage locked its feet to the wooden surface.
...his mind returned to the smoking crater on 2nd Avenue, and Morris wobbled slightly. Had all of this still been there... He had ignored the signs, and it was only a serendipitous decision to upgrade, to renovate the shop for the starring role it might soon play, which saved all of this. Seven years at Tobias Limited. Over ten years in Seattle. One hundred twenty three years in the making. Changed in one day, disaster averted by one week. The feelings were staggering. He needed to sit down. Not only to think, but to plan.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Joyous music filled the Great Hall. The Grand Organ, its gilded pipes looming over the entrance, alternately boomed in cathedral-like majesty and poured forth lush orchestral warmth, a fitting accompaniment for the auspicious task at hand. Morris Tobias commanded the high seat at the central meeting table. Spread out in front of him were the blueprints for the L.C. Smith Tower. John, his shop ghoul, and Vincent, his beloved Childe, pored over the layouts and measurements. Curta in hand, Morris cranked out figures passed from Vincent, as John took notes. It would be as good as before. Better. Every asset and resource coming together to bring history back to life, the greatest piece of historic renewal the country had seen. Herr Faust's plan was genius: the loss of a landmark prompting not a replacement, but a rebuild, a recreation of what once was, out of pride for the past. It has been said that Seattle is a follower, not a leader, in new architecture, but this was something entirely new in all respects.
He poured more vodka and smiled. Facing adversity head-on was the city's way, and this attitude toward the past, present and future was one of many aspects that kept him here. The Emerald Domain was like no other, and it was about to prove itself all over again.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OOC stuff: If this post contains anything you don't know about, you don't know about it. Not that I really have to say that.
My everlasting thanks go to this game's wonderful Storytellers, who aided me in bouncing back from what could have been complete ruin. I will always try to put back into this game everything that this game puts into me.
