TOPIC: Horror on the Orient Express - All Rotations

Rotation 8 – Begins 27th February 2025

STARRING THE MAIMED AND THE BROKEN - FEBRUARY 1923

Ludwig von Brunveldt III............Paul......German/Dutch. Psychologist. Ex Field Surgeon. Vampyre Slayer.
George Banks............................Hugh....English. Tailor. Entrepreneur. A God amongst men.
Lettice Jayne Rose Henderson...Doug...English. Detective. Unconventional. Unpredictable.
Nicolas Cartwright......................Mel.......English. Conjuror. Magnificent. Cyclops.
Pierre Boudin-Noir.....................Jim........French. Art Dealer. The Phantom. Ex French kisser.
Father Helmut ‘Mika’ Dhole.......Tony......German/East African. Man of the Cloth. Indestructible.
Simon Percy..............................Stew......English. Young Hotspur. Soon to be damaged goods.




CONSTANTINOPLE


THE SHORT VERSION

Thursday 14th February 1923
Ludwig uses the Mims Sahis to perform surgery on Pierre’s face.
The graft is successful, but Pierre looks like a freak show attraction.

Friday 15th February 1923
The lounge car is off-limits to passengers this morning—something about some minor damage.
Mutants at breakfast. Care to join us Mr Percy?
Constantinople at last. Wonderful. Full of culture. Full of shit. And extremely dangerous.
We take rooms at the luxurious Pera Palace Hotel.


THE LONG VERSION

Thursday 14th February 1923

Doctor von Brunveldt
Ludwig tends to the worst of everyone’s injuries. He bandages Banks’ deep laceration. The best Ludwig can do for Letty’s torn throat is to patch the wound for now. Poor Pierre is prepared for surgery—much to his alarm. The chloroform anaesthesia had to be forced upon him and before its effect could take him, his eyes widened with fear. Ludwig laughed. The patient subdued, skilled surgeon’s hands performed a skin graft operation. Flesh from Pierre’s thigh was used to repair his facial mutilation. Ludwig deftly wields the Mims Sahis and uses its supernatural power to fix the graft in place. The result leaves Pierre looking like Frankenstein’s monster—but at least he no longer has a gaping skinless hole from nose to chin. Surgery complete, the soft purple hue of the knife dims. Both surgeon and patient look drained of energy. Ludwig laughs maniacally*.

*Use of the Mims Sahis causes permanent loss of POW and heavy San loss. Ludwig gains a new mania—algomania, an obsession for pain and suffering.


Friday 15th February 1923

Morning glory
In the hour before dawn. Ludwig was already out of his cabin bunk and admiring the Mims Sahis again. He gave in to the compulsion to draw its keen edge across his own forearm. The blade cut deeply into his flesh. Blood rushed up and ran down his arm and wrist, dripping from his hand. Ludwig revelled for a moment in the sensation. The blood flowed. Pain, absent at first, now came in a wave of ecstasy. Several seconds, maybe minutes passed before Ludwig came back to his senses. He stemmed the blood and bandaged his arm. He pulled down the sleeve to hide his self-indulgence and returned the Mims Sahis to his breast in its leather wrap.

A new day
Today, at last, we are due to arrive in Constantinople. We rise early for breakfast. The Chef de Train announces that unfortunately the lounge car is off-limits to passengers this morning. Breakfast will be served in the buffet car. He declines to explain, but rumour has it the carriage suffered unexplained vandalism sometime last night. Pierre looks tired and wracked with pain. Apparently he was awake much of the night and occupied himself with a little light reading.

The mutants sit for breakfast
We assembled around our breakfast table and due to crowding in the carriage are joined by another passenger—an English gentleman by the name of Simon Percy, we hads earlier overheard someone addressing him as 'Northumberland." Describes himself as a Big Game Hunter. The son of the Duke of Northumberland somebody joked. “Yes. That’s right,” Percy replied. Percy is travelling alone to Constantinople for private affairs. As we pass introductions around the table, we realise how very odd we must appear to an outsider—we, the maimed and the broken.

What have we become? (The Not-So Magnificent Seven)

George Banks winces occasionally due to the deep wound he hides beneath his tailored shirt. His gaze drifts away every now and again, trying to catch his own reflection in the glass of the window. He is an unashamed narcissist with a god complex. He was born to be adored. His right arm suffers with a constant dull ache; ever since he recovered the right arm of the simulacrum from Grandmother’s cottage in the Serbian woods near Orašac.

Lettuce Henderson repeatedly touches the bandage affixed to her throat. There is an unspoken angst amongst us as to how the bite of the vampire may yet affect her. Her patterns of behaviour and her physiology have changed much in the last six weeks; her penchant for sleeping in bath tubs, the catatonic trances that transfix her rigidly at inopportune moments, her atephobia (irrational fear of physical ruins and disastrous turns of event), her pediophobia (fear of dolls) and most noticeably now, her planomania, which has resulted in Letty abandoning all social norms. She stopped touching her neck bandage to concentrate for a moment on not dropping toast crumbs down the bath towel she was wearing to breakfast this morning.

Nicholas Cartwright introduced himself to Percy adding the moniker ‘Magnificent’ for effect. As if the steely stare of his single remaining eye was not, by itself, effective enough. Cartwright was still a strikingly handsome man. Perhaps the only one of us who could wear an eyepatch and become more devilishly attractive. With small talk turning to his skills as a conjurer, the Magnificent boasted, “I can pull a pigeon from my wife’s arse.” Everyone chuckled. And wondered how such a trick could be performed. Magnificent indeed. If you observe him long enough, you will see how Cartwright blinks his one eye in irregular patterns at times—a tell sign that one of his terrible headaches is assailing him again. He has suffered them ever since retrieving the head of the simulacrum from the hole in the vampire den at the Chukurovo caves in Bulgaria. Cartwright struggled with mental issues too, none of which he suffered until recent weeks. Hylophobia, the fear of forests (after our encounter with Grandmother in the woods, who can blame him). Also, ecclesophobia, fear of the church; and apotemnophobia, fear of amputation (like all phobias, a fear that is totally irrational).

Pierre Boudin-Noir was not himself this morning. The pain relief Ludwig administered to him barely sufficed to dim the searing agony beneath his crude leather mask. Pierre dribbled incessantly and spoke with impediment. He attempted to fork food to his covered mouth, most of it dropped to the table. “He’s French,” we explained to a bemused Percy. “Ah. Yes. I see,” Percy replied. Pierre’s left arm trembled. It did that sometimes. Ever since he found the left arm of the simulacrum in the ruined cellar in the grounds of Dr Lorien’s mansion at Poissy. Pierre had photomania, an abnormal fascination for light—any source of light. He also suffered from absurd fears: tomophobia (a fear of surgery—no wonder he tried to resist Ludwig last night) and scotophobia (a fear of darkness).

Mika Dhole was wearing his dog-collar this morning. He cut a striking figure with his wild display of untamed white hair and inane grin. His eyes were full of wisdom. His speech full of confusion. He was, for the most part, blissfully unaware of the immediate peril that surrounds him and yet held an implicit understanding of the hidden horrors of the world. An enigma. A mad man-in-waiting, suffused with an overdose of life. After sending poor Hubert home to England to convalesce, Mika inherited the strange chest infection Hubert developed in Milan, when we gained possession of the torso of the simulacrum.

Ludwig von Brunveldt III maintained his Teutonic pomp, but his demeanour was changing, albeit in slight ways; especially since he possessed the amulet and more so, the Mims Sahis—his own precious. Ludwig was losing a little weight—too much exercise (mostly running away from things) and not enough food—but remained plump of waist. He habitually wore his top hat, suit and his white cravat; the latter to hide his shrivelling scars. He still sported the fading mark of a vampire bite on his cheek, inflicted during the escape from the vampire den in Bulgaria. For a lecturer in hypomania and associated mental disorders he was fast collecting behaviours for self-study in the form of aichmomania (an obsession for sharp objects which he has had for years—he carries his surgical scalpels with him everywhere). Also, acromania (an obsession with heights) and algomania (an obsession for pain and suffering). Ludwig has developed a few issues with water since leaving England aboard the Orient Express, namely limnophobia (fear of lakes) and ablutophobia (fear of bathing). Ludwig suffers with a slight limp on damp days. A result of taking the left leg of the simulacrum from the clock tower in Venice.

Simon Percy is a man blissfully unaware of the true dangers that hide in the shadows of this world. As far as we can tell he is unbroken in mind and body. Not yet anyway. But should he choose to tread our path, he will undoubtedly become damaged goods before very long. Just like the rest of us. Welcome to your place at the mutant’s breakfast table Mr Percy.


Constantinople at last
The train whistles and steams its way around the sweeping coastal track. To our right stretches the Bosporus strait and looming ahead is our destination. We have travelled two thousand miles to be here. Glorious Constantinople. Well it looked glorious under the sun as we rode the track to its limits—but now we’re here it stinks of shit.

End of the line
At 12.30pm precisely, the Orient Express pulls in to Sirkeci Station. Our halt is accompanied by the hiss of released steam. Outside, the platform is bustling. The Chef de Train marches up and down the carriages warning passengers to keep their luggage close. We alight from the train and are struck by the claustrophobia of the place. Seemingly, Ottoman Turks place little value on personal space. The platform heaves with moving bodies. Colour, sound, clamour and odour wash over us. As soon as we clear the customs line we are unashamedly bumped and jostled all the way to the exit where we manage to procure the services of two taxi cabs.

The Pera Palace
Pierre instructs our cab drivers to take us to the Pera Palace Hotel. The hotel is one that promises luxurious quality and has been recommended by (and is owned by) the Wagon-Lit company that operates the Orient Express. We book four rooms and ask to deposit our valuables, including certain pieces of luggage, in the hotel’s secure storage.

Welcome to our wonderful country
We are given polite warning by hotel staff regards our safety, should we venture out into the city: War, national unrest (including murderous riots) and revolution have plagued the Ottoman Empire since the end of the Great War. The Turkish Nationalist leader, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, having ravaged his enemies, especially the Greeks, throughout 1922, is on the cusp of declaring an independent Turkish Republic—free from Greek control, free from the Old Ottoman Order and free from the political influences of the western powers. Constantinople, right now, is a hotbed of danger for foreigners. If we are planning to venture into the city, it is recommended we employ the services of a scribe. A scribe is a guide, negotiator and translator for visitors like us. We can find one at the bazaar.

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Fantastic write up again Garuda. The 'maimed and the broken' truly does describe your characters perfectly

II THE SHORT VERSION

Friday 15th February 1923
Turkish Nationalist thugs beat a young scribe senseless in the bazaar
We hire the services of the beaten scribe- a teenager named Feyar
For a pound a day, Feyar is at our back and call
At dinner, we drink the bar dry
Cartwright reads an article from The Orient- the local English-language newspaper
A Rash of Missing Children. A slave ring operated by Greeks is suspected.
Our waiter believes many children have gone missing over the last few weeks
Rumour has it, the child of a wealthy European is the latest to disappear

Saturday 16th February 1923
Research at the University library
We discover that the Sedefkar scrolls are held at the Topkapi Museum
We beseech Professor Azap to grant us access to the museum archives
Unfortunately someone has gained access before us and taken the scrolls
The Skinless One reclaims what is his. Cursed be Garaznet the Thief.
The case of the missing children. Banks’ carousing gets us a lead—Baylab the Perspirer
A night on the town. The gypsy and the dancing bear.
The British Deputy High Commissioner requests our presence
The Consulate will send transport to fetch us in the morning.

II THE LONG VERSION

Friday 15th February 1923

The Golden Horn
The city is divided by the magnificent Golden Horn bay. Considered the world’s largest natural harbour, it connects the Bosporus to the Alibey and Kağithane rivers. The mid-afternoon is cool, but not so much that it requires us to wear our overcoats, and the sky above us is a clear blue. We embark upon a ferry ride across the waters of the Golden Horn to reach the Büyük Çarşı, otherwise known to us westerners as the Grand Bazaar. On reaching the far shore of the bay, we divide into two parties. Letty, Mika and Ludwig continue to the bazaar as planned, to engage a scribe; meanwhile Banks, Cartwright, Pierre and Percy head to the Topkapi museum to conduct research.

The Grand Bazaar
The bazaar is a sprawling mass of narrow labyrinthine streets and alleyways. Fifty acres of claustrophobic chaos hemmed in by a black iron fence that rings the perimeter. The fence is pierced by numerous gates that are thrown open to the public each morning, and locked at night. The culture is very different to what we are used to. A mass of bodies moves without any sense of order, in a cacophony of noise and a wash of odours—some pleasant and some not. At eye level there is a sea of fezzes and myriad colours flowing between stalls and shops that hawk every imaginable good— brasses, glassware, incenses, spices, vegetables, linens, carpets, street foods, ironmongery and much more. Merchants thrust themselves among the throngs of people, straying from their shopfronts to impose themselves indiscriminately upon others in constant attempts to lure customers.

The scribes
We don’t speak Turkish, but we ask here and there in broken Arabic and French, for direction towards a scribe. Following what sketchy replies we can gather, it takes a long hour and a lot of luck to navigate the way towards the goal of our search. A small school of about a dozen scribes sits at wooden benches; most are busy transcribing, scratching away at wads of paper. The scribes are men and boys of all ages. Each wears a knee-length kaftan robe and has a red fez perched on his head.

Dirty Snatches
As we approach the scribes, somebody mutters something about a bunch of dirty snatches coming our way. We turn to see a commotion in the crowded street. Bodies part the way for a gang of brutish looking men to pass between them. The muscular men wear cheap western suits, red fezzes and grim countenances. As they bear down on us, Letty reaches for her pistol but Ludwig stays her action and urges caution. The determined men, Turkish Nationalists, push past us and single out their target—a young scribe. The scribe offers little resistance to the severe beating that he receives from the merciless thugs. Father Dhole is the only person brave enough, or foolish enough, to attempt to intervene—but his raised voice extolling restraint from violence in the name of the Lord does nothing to relieve the assault. Only when they are satisfied that the young scribe has been beaten enough, do the thugs turn and leave.

Feyar
The scribe, a boy in his late teens, was left bruised and bleeding. Ludwig attempted to stem the trickle of blood from the boy’s mouth and lip but the boy retracted at Ludwig’s touch and winced in pain. The boy introduced himself as Feyar and was almost apologetic that we had to witness the scene. When we asked what it was about he kept his reply vague. We got the gist that it was to teach him a lesson. The masses it would seem, should be supporting the rising power of the Nationalists. Indiscretions, such as Feyar’s recent stint of employment by the Ottoman government to transcribe some documents, necessitated a visit to remind him where the peoples’ loyalties should lie. Perhaps we could improve Feyar’s day? We require the services of a scribe—and it shouldn’t result in any beatings. For a handsome retainer, the equivalent of one pound sterling per day, a deal is struck. Feyar will meet us tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. in the foyer of the Pera Palace Hotel. Before leaving the bazaar, Letty, Ludwig and Mika purchase a few essentials plus a bundle of clothing that may help them pass for locals—should they be out any other time than in broad daylight.

Topkapi Palace Museum
Part mosque, part palace, part treasure house, the Topkapi is a repository of history and cultural learning. It is 4pm, only an hour before closing time, when Banks, Pierre, Percy and Cartwright enter the building. They are immediately impressed by a large artwork depicting Frankish knights of the Fourth Crusade forcing entry to Constantinople during the siege of 1204. The attack is bitterly resisted by the defenders and a pair of Frankish knights is depicted unhorsed, sprawling on the ground. Other Crusaders are charging the city gates, led by a warrior-priest who holds aloft a cross. Following a quick reconnaissance of the museum’s galleries, there is nothing discovered that relates to our quest. It’s too late to seek access to museum archives. The trip to the museum is abandoned—for now.

Shocking Headline
Having decided that a night on the piss in the hotel bar is in order. We ablute and change in our rooms before gathering for dinner. We exchange accounts of our afternoons and set about a mission to deplete the hotel bar of alcohol. From reception, Cartwright brings a copy of the local English language newspaper—The Orient. He quietens us to read aloud the shocking front page article:



A Word with the Waiter
Cartwright questions staff about the story. Our waiter tells us that children have been going missing over the course of several weeks now. He personally suspects the number of children is much higher that the article suggests. Although he then went on to admit this supposition is based on popular gossip, and also that prejudice may be a factor in everyone blaming the Greeks. The waiter bends close to Cartwright and lowers his voice: “The latest rumour is that another child has gone missing. This time the child of a wealthy European. Maybe now the authorities will treat this case seriously?” The waiter straightens up once more, and after depositing our drinks on the table, he turns and walks away.


MORE TO FOLLOW

Saturday 16th February 1923

Plans for the Day
After we have breakfasted we ready ourselves for a day in the city. Feyar, blackened with bruises, dutifully arrives at none o’clock prompt. After we avail him of our indistinct plans for conducting some historical research, he suggests to us that aside from the Topkapi Museum, we might also want to visit the city’s University library. The hotel doorman raises his hand to signal for two horse-drawn cabs to pull forward from their rank. We divide ourselves between the two cabs and head first for the library. Feyar directs the cab driver to take us to Beyazit Square.

The University Library
Though the subject of our researches should be a matter of discretion, the need to rely on natural Turkish speakers to consult the massed volumes of the library leaves us little choice but to be explicit in our instruction. We are looking for any references to The Shunned Mosque, Sedefkar, the Skinless One or The Brotherhood of the Skin. Of the Shunned Mosque there is nothing. Of the Brotherhood of the Skin and the Skinless One there is nothing; although we do discover obtuse references, of no specified historical period ,alluding to a cruel criminal cult rumoured to have cannibalistic leanings. Of Sedefkar our researchers assist us to uncover two items of note. Firstly, the story of a man named Sedefkar, a supposed scholar of ill-repute, who disappeared from Constantinople during the siege of 1204. Secondly, a mention of the Sedefkar scrolls. The scrolls are briefly described as ancient documents, today held at the Topkapi Museum.

Back to the Topkapi
After a stop for a light lunch of kebabs, dates and cous-cous, we next make our way to the Topkapi. At the museum, we ask to speak with whomever is responsible for the care of historical documents—an appointment is made for us to meet with Professor Azap, Head of the Learning department. We pass several minutes in admiration of some of the exhibits until the professor presents himself to us. The professor doesn’t bother to disguise the fact that he’d rather be doing anything else but greeting patrons. As he opens up to conversation it becomes obvious he’s a proud Turk with little love of foreigners. Mika steps up and explains he's an academic historian who has travelled to Constantinople to further his study of ancient texts written in unidentified languages of the ancient world. With no time to waste, Mika mentions the Sedefkar Scrolls by name and makes it clear we know they’re here. As a group, our resolute obstinacy shows we’re not budging until we receive some cooperation. Professor Azap gives a resigned sigh and beckons us to follow him.

The Topkapi Archives
By the standard of most archive stores we’ve seen, this one is clean and orderly. Shelves brim with well-organised folders and boxes. Professor Azap walks briskly to the rear of the room and carefully selects a register from a desk drawer. He perches a pair of spectacles on his nose and flicks through the register pages. He stops. Gives a contented hum. Puts down the book and strides with purpose to a row of shelves filled with cylindrical leather containers. He traces his finger along a few containers, skimming the labels, until he pulls one tube from its place. He removes the cap of the tube and peers inside. His face contorts into a flummoxed expression. “Bollocks!” whispered Banks, “this don’t look good.”

Foiled again
Azap returns to the desk and consults the register once more. “Something is wrong” muses the professor out loud. He reaches inside the container and pulls out a thin wrapping—we can tell this is almost certainly human vellum. We already possess the Scroll of the Head and expect the remaining scrolls to be of similar style. This piece of vellum is not what we’re expecting to find. A message is written on the vellum—‘The Skinless One reclaims what is his. Cursed be Garaznet the Thief.’ "Bollocks", repeated Banks.

Turkish delight
Having spent yesterday evening drinking the hotel bar dry, we decided tonight we venture out on the town—to cheer ourselves after the disappointment of the afternoon. With pretty much no availability of alcohol in the entertainment spots of an Islamic city, perhaps we could get drunk on culture instead. The evening streets were full of life, bustle and gossip. We spent a good while drinking coffee, consuming snacks and appreciating the belly-dancers who gyrated before us to the accompaniment of traditional çiftelli and fasil rhythms.

Whispers from the shadow man
Banks took the opportunity to ‘work the locals’, as he calls it. He caroused among the tables of patrons as they clapped and cheered the belly-dancers, asking about the mystery of the disappearing children. His work paid off. One shifty-looking local, garbed in black, the type that nobody but Banks would deign to trust, leaned into him from the shadows and spoke in hushed tones: “There is a man who knows things,” said the shadowed man.”He knows a lot of things. If you wish to consult him about the children, you can seek him out at the baths on the waterfront. His name is Baylab the Perspirer.” After this, Banks reported back to the rest of us. “Are you taking the piss? Baylab the Perspirer? At the baths?” we asked incredulously. Banks continued unperturbed. “I think there’s something in this,” he insisted. After mulling it over, we agreed. After all, why would a nefarious black-robed, shifty-looking Turk make up such a ridiculous contact.

The Dancing Bear
After an hour or two of enjoying the culture in smoky bars, we decided to take the air. The hour was starting to get late, to the point that Pierre was getting anxious, but the city still brimmed with life. An audience had gathered round a street entertainer, a gypsy who oozed an abundance of personality. With him was the real attraction—a dancing bear that accompanied the gypsy in the street. The bear had no restraint—no chain or leash—and stood at least seven feet high on its hind legs. The bear danced and waved its enormous paws at onlookers, much to their delight. Swept along by pedestrians we quickly found ourselves in the forefront of the crowd ringed around the gypsy and bear.

Nicholas makes a new friend
Cartwright is impressed. The bear is much better trained than the white rabbit The Magnificent pulls from his hat, or the dove he produces from his wife's arse. “You like my city? You like my bear?” the gypsy said to Cartwright in English. “His name is Bear,” joked the gypsy. “Wave to the man, Bear,” The bear obediently raised its paw—the size of a man’s head—and waved at Cartwright. Cartwright raised his own hand and the two touched. Cartwright immediately felt a connection with the animal—but was this feeling natural or supernatural? Cartwright succumbed to the urge to hug the bear. The bear hugged him back. And then the gypsy-bear duo were gone. They continued down the street; the gypsy working up the crowd and the bear dancing for their entertainment.

Back at the Pera Palace
It’s just before midnight when we return to the hotel. As we pass through the lobby, an attendant attracts our attention. A message has been left for us. We are handed a sealed envelope. The letter within is written on headed paper from the British Consulate. The letter is an invite. The Deputy High Commissioner requests our presence at the Consulate tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock. Transport will be sent for us.

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marvellous...

Cyclops, Ex French kisser & Soon to be damaged goods.

lol