Not the largest cathedral, nor the most grand, but it suited Dayport's higher standards and industrial tastes. From a great hall filled with pews and banners, to many smaller prayer rooms, a modest library and a small graveyard, the Builder's Cradle was 'humble' compared to it's Mechanist neighbour. It's only exceptional feature was it's solitary tower, which sat like stiff, stone owl perched on the eastern roof.
Originally serving as a belltower but now converted to living quarters, this was Marlowe's nest. The man had never liked being close to the ground (and outright hated being beneath it), so naturally when the time came for him to choose his placement, he chose here.
Inside the tower looked like a museum for the grotesque. Jars, vials, rotting books and pots filled with unknown plants filled the shelves that lined the walls. Scrolls and shreds of paper took up the remaining spaces. Ink pots, quills, books, cups and empty potion vials then scattered themselves ontop of that. The four cramped rooms which made up his living quarters were a shrine to Marlowe's insanity.
Only one section of stone wall remained uncluttered. Rosaline's. In the centre of the tower stood a thick stone collumn, four foot wide, and in the first of the tower's rooms (the one most resembling a living space fit for a high priest), hung the ghostly portraite of Marlowe's Rosaline. She was beautiful - pitch black hair, porceline skin, with lips as red as wine, softly parted as if to whisper beyond the confines of paint and canvas. Her eyes followed you as they peered from the beneath the delicate black veil that fell across her eyes. There was a terrible sadness and anger to those pale grey eyes that seems to hang in the very air around the painting.
The second room, hidden by a cast iron door, held darker secrets.
But it was the third level and room which was the most exciting. Marlowe's laboratory. Through all hours of the night its intricate glassware apparati bubbled and boiled. A great old desk lined with unidentifiable stains took up the entire east wall. The ammount of trinkets, ingredients, bottles and books was suffocating.
Marlowe sat at his table, leaning over a stone bowl, and gently pressed the small, wickedly sharp silver knife into his unbandaged palm. With a soft growl he unleashed a stream of blood which dripped steadily into the bowl, each droplet giving a hiss of steam. He had long ago discovered that the blood of a fire mage remained reactive to magic long after it left its host body. Combined with the right ingredients, it could then be used by anyone to create a fireball... for a few brief minutes after being harvested. It was his strongest drive in life to create a potion which lasted days, that could grant the ability of a mage to any who used it.
The ammount of scars and wounds (in all stages of healing) that lined his hands and arms were a testament to his dedication to his work. He was not learned in the art of healing and did not discuss his techniques with others, so as he watched yet another reaction fizzle into a failed flame, he growled and reached for fresh gauze. He carelessly wrapped his left hand and bit his lower lip over the sting, before showing a great deal more care to his work as his gently poured the foul concoction into a glass vial. Labelling it, 'periconum absoli', he placed it delicatly in a box on the shelf by his side.
His heart thudded dully in his chest. He knew he wouldn't succeed at work tonight. There was a disturbence in his mind which gave him no calm nor patience. Mechanists. Even if he did succeed, what then? To be overshadowed by some mechanical apperatus that tends the kitchens of the rich? Who would look twice at the ability to create fire, when Karras had the ability to create life.
He went to his window and peered over the city. The sun was pulling back it's last few rays of light and the chimneys were busy with smoke. He knew that in this very district, Mechanist patrols were starting. Roughly tugging off his Hammerite vestments, he dressed once more as a commoner and headed down the long dark stairway.
Subject: The Builder's Cradle cathedral. 
Sat Jun 26, 2010 11:23 pm
