Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. It is a draft; there are mistakes, many misspellings and sometimes long periods of no updates. copyright: ion fyr 2025
With the cabin door closed, Etelka settled her mind. In the cramped space, little room for more than a bed that folded down from the wall a tiny writing table with a stool, just low enough to fit under the bed in its open formation. Above the desk was her tiny library, the books of pleasure and reference that she could not bear to be apart from. There was a small closet opposite the bed and next to the table.
She took her most comfortable work pants from the closet along with a lighter shirt. She hadn’t changed her clothing since the excursion on the mountaintop, and those heavier garments were soiled with dirt and blood now. While she changed, she considered their situation.
They were safe…for now. Who knew what else the fates had in store for them.
The captain was dead. A dear, gentle man who will be missed.
Baba Yaga’s Hut, her unique and prized airship was shot through and through, grounded on this desolate island in the middle of the north Atlantic unless Mr Maron could come through on his designs.
Her dear friend Nila Tagore was maimed, temporarily held together by an arcane metal insect from the future.
Her other dear friend–if even he was the same man–Constable Pool was equally maimed, but beyond believe, appeared to not even be made of flesh and bone. This surprise was the most difficult to grasp. How long has Pool been like this? She wondered. Have I ever seen him bleed? He’s been beaten and bruised and once entombed in a tank, but a similacrum might have done the same.
He certainly exhibited the same personality traits, and to her memory of recent times, the same overall psyche. Is his entire body a finely tuned mechanism, or just the arm. He showed his characteristic curiousity and seemed as surprised as the rest of us. Was this done to him on the island? Is there another Pool out there somewhere in need of help?
Ion Fyr 