Author: Peter Jones

As the weather outside was beyond miserable I took it upon myself to figure out at least the rough location of Uncle.  I began with a map of the area that showed everywhere he had been sighted, as well as a godly raids outside of that.  I placed a pushpin for each location, than added an opposite colour for each location that had proof of legitimate business.  My hypothesis ran that the only sightings that should be happening, would happen where people could be expected to see him.  In a third colour I marked each return address on correspondence waiting to be fooled away.  The third colour being needed due to my having no knowledge of the relative legitimacy off his transactions in these locations as they were all individuals of no means in the toughest of locations, with many of the addresses consisting of nothing more than a rural crossroads with a name like “quarter mile past burnt ash tree” or “corner of swamp creek and locust avenue”. What soon developed was a snail shell like curve originating from our location and moving outwards by date, not only slightly further away but also rotating around with the house as the pivot.
The most curious part of this projection I had created it seemed at first glance to map disparity in the means of the inhabitants, with the lowest of people living in the center of the spiral path, much like the rings in a snail’s while the most affluent and influential were the bright rings. While I began to ponder if the poor made the path our the path made the poor I heard a commotion downstairs. Within seconds of the first screams the hound began to raise a terrible ruckus. Being as curious as any 23 year old, I hurried downstairs, only to find the housekeeper, Ms. Pimms, passed out at the foyer.

I had never noticed some of my uncle’s peculiarities in my youth but now that I had been living there for the last six months, some oddities came to light.  Even asking his household staff failed to illuminate some of his outings.  On a regular basis he would depart for a few days to research some new item of interest, like the tarnished metal rosary on display in the library or the tome he put under lock and key and refused my reading until some unknown later date. These were his more transparent excursions, for, when posed he would typically give already an affirmation that he had been dealing with sundry individuals of a coarse nature. The other, more deeply concerning, occasions had him departing the house in the middle of the night. He would leave no word, nor send letters that hinged to wellbeing even that he might be gone anywhere from a fortnight to a month on the outside margin. We would hear from acquaintances from leagues away, telling of sightings, but when the claims were investigated, he was nowhere to be found not a witness to testify. Just as strange as his departure was his return. He would wake from his bed with no one being the wiser to his arrival. Often covered in bruises and filth. On more than one occasion we were forced to burn his clothes, so fouled they were.
Beyond this though, it was a happy time. I continued my studies, even going on a very select few of his travels, always hand picked I’m sure both for their relative safety and blandness. Positive that any day he would make some occult determination that I was prepared to be his assistant if not apprentice, I prepared a kit with all manner of useful implements. My rapier and revolver as well as two boxes of ammunition were joined with my ivory brush, one flask of good American whiskey (chosen for liquid courage and for disinfecting the aftermath of said courage), a case of sulfur matches, half dozen candles, 40′ of strong cord (at least it should be sufficient to hold my weight), a small hatchet, one bottle blue ink, two pens, this journal as well as a spare, folding knife, compass, and mirror. I figured I could grab all that at a whim but good stuffs would, by nature, require to be freshly acquired lest I enter the field with only spoiled rations. On his normal trips Uncle never carried more than a valise so I assume he rarely if ever slept in such dire circumstances to require an additional blanket, and if I’m wrong than my standard dress had enough fabric to keep me from expiring of exposure in most reasonable circumstances.
The seventh of March, a frigid day with grey clouds threatening terrible weather on the horizon, Uncle was on another of his later trips and had been for nigh on 11 days, having left in the middle of the night and leaving no message as was typical of these trips. This time there was a small amount mire agitation, as Misses Whimple swears she saw seven cruel looking magpies outside his window on the small rosebush that morning as well as the evening before.

Uncle Richard – a singular gentleman, throw back to an earlier age with periodic prescience of the post current

Anethesia – our heroine and narrator, being in her mid-twenties with a slight build.  The protege of her Uncle Richard, she has become passable with a revolver, expert with a rapier.  Versed in multiple dead languages, higher logic and applied physics at a minimum.  She calls station and family honor.  Conceited would be polite.

Albert Jenkins – failed suitor, gave like a rat, brutish demeanor, terrible personal stench

Footmen

James

Stephen – Stephen balling the maid

Ms Adeline – Cook

Mss Pimms –

Sergei – Stable Master – Cossak

Gabriel – man-at-arms

Jenkins – Gardener

 

I decided I should add this section as the last three days have been quite hectic.  I can only assume it’s been the days, as the light here seems to go in a cycle and feel like I’ve had three suppers and the breakfasts.
As an introduction, in case my journal should be separate from my person which feels more and more likely, my name is Anethesia.  I come from old stock of a dignified standing.  We are well to do with no need of commerce, in part because my uncle Richard has a tendency to find the most particular investments.  Seven years ago he nearly broke the family leveraging not only his house but the main manor without my father’s knowledge.  When airships figuratively exploded into popularity after being used as command posts for the Battle for Redmond, his only comment was “I seem to forget exact dates more often lately.”  While the end did justify the means and my father was more than happy to spend his newfound wealth on extravagances like one of those godless automobiles he never seem to have forgotten Uncle.  Needless to say I was amazed when I was sent to live with Uncle to further my education.
I’m a disappointment to my parents, having twenty-three years, and yet refusing to even consider marrying any of the suitors who have deigned ask my hand in matrimony.  They are each below me and only want my name as a trophy to add to their lacking credentials.
This is not the first time I boarded with Uncle Richard, as every spring I would stay with him as my parents, in an ineffective effort to coddle me, would send me there to keep me from the noxious miasma coming off the moors. During my stay my education took a drastic turn from the misogynistic homemaking and pivot over to adventure. The only modern family I know of with a man-at-arms and an armourer, they took care of my physical training. Uncle’s opinion, which I value greatly, is that one needs to be only possible with revolver as the range is terrible but the damage terrible. For this reason I’m only passable with firearms, focusing instead on training with a rapier. Many of my contemporaries see the value of an eastern katana as being incredible, but being slight of frame I chose to go with a route more focused on finesse and passing than superior strength and a single deadly blow. Not to say that there is no skill employed by the throwbacks if the samurai class, but the stylized and honorable technique only works against each other, which it’s evidenced but the recent folding that foreign empire into being merely another barony beholden to the crown. Against Isaac, his man-at-arms, I now emerge successful three out of four, and against my uncle it comes down to a coin toss.
After three hours of the day, while with my uncle, and otherwise whenever left to my own devices, I further my education beyond the simplistic poetry reading, expanding into Latin, Aramaic, and the brutish Gaelic and other languages that are now whispers out of time, where the name of the culture itself has been forgotten. I’ve been given the opportunity to show my knowledge of modern physics, calling down a faux artillery airtime while uncle was considering the purchase of a specially crafted 20mm gun. I can debate a yogi and a priest on the nature of good and evil, and have them both agree with my supposition. In no quibling manner, I declare I have an excellent education well beyond the realm of my fairer sex peers.

This expansive knowledge led me to look at any suitor as substandard. They looked at me with the boorish perspective of a cattle buyer. Turn around, show your teeth, say something nice. The final straw for my parents, which is how I got sent to my uncle’s this last time, depsite having reached my majority, was Albert Jenkins. He came from a family of almost non-existant lineage, having a grandfather that at one time actually was more useful than the average pikeman. He was a pikemen. Albert was gangly with the face of a norsk rat, black stubbly facial hair appearing at odd angles, a perceptible hook to his nose. During a social, he, with the facilitation of mother, segregated me in the garden where he was to my wooing. The stecnch from his body, bathing once a week is not enough, caused my eyes to water and so I attempted to leave. He grabbed my hand to keep me under control, and I responded appropriately. With a suddeness, I pulled him towards me and then his using his momentum I acted most unfeminen by moving my knee up top catch him in his hurtling stomach. Unfortunately, not only is he from lesser stock, but he also is sickly, having difficulty catching his breath from even going up a flight of stairs. When his governess found him, he was practically purple in the face, and everyone was quite displeased. I indicated, rightly so, that if I had managed to cause him to expire down that lonekly garden path, that I would have been doing the world a great service, for that would mean one more fair maiden would never be the brunt of his odiferous advances nor his advancing odor.

Upon returning home, my biological parents had already begun to pack for my sojorn at a convent, as I was obviously not fit for marriage. My uncle though had been visiting a local bell founder when he heard what had happened and he pressured them to allow me to leave with him instead where he would lead me being a proper lady as was befit my station.

I’ve been working on various projects.  A little bit every day.  One of those is getting my images to automatically be converted to the look I want.  Using ImageMagick, I’m getting there, it’s just there is no interface so I have to figure what I’m doing and test until out looks right.  I’m getting close, just need to add a couple more options now and set it up with a batch file or hot folder.
One that’s done I’ll start posting all my other little projects, with most of them hopefully having some nice pictures attached.  Really I should do a post about automagically converting pictures.

While I could use a store bought temperature sensor, I’m doing it all old school like.  After verifying that there is a correlation between temperature and conductivity via Wikipedia.  I cut off a couple jumpers, realized they didn’t fit the breadboard, and then remembered I have precut jumpers that came with my arduino.
Put some tape on one and threw it in the freezer.  Put a second jumper in the fridge.  Going to use another for control.

That didn’t work. Cooper gave me infinite conductivity even being in the freezer for half an hour. Future efforts might use a different metal. Maybe a nickel or dime or whatever.