Frost 3, 121
The maintenance trolley of the Pfenning Theater is a squat, narrow object of softwood and cheap brass, and it is older than any of the staff who use it. It consists of a rough, rectangular frame on four wheels, with a small shelf below the handles. A great sackcloth bag fills the frame, supporting the brooms, and the wet mop, and the long poker which you still need to adjust a few of the lanterns in the halls. Off the side, three containers hang.
The first container is the bucket, of course. There is a larger trolley just for mopping the halls, but the bucket on the maintenance trolley is large enough for cleaning up little messes- spilled concessions, broken bottles of wine, pools of blood. This is Imogen Ward’s second-favorite container, because she finds mopping to be a peaceful and engaging form of exercise.
Second, the basket for dry waste. By the end of a shift, the basket is largely full of dropped programs, fallen handkerchiefs and… less discernible, oddly sticky objects. This is Imogen’s least favorite basket, as filling it inevitably involves a great deal of ducking beneath aisle seats and scraping against the dirty stone beneath.
Finally, the small collections basket which holds those items that must go to the Lost And Found. Oculars, silken gloves, watches- all of these things go in the basket, for although the Theater’s signs disclaim any liability for lost items, it is good business to give the patrons some hope of reclaiming their misplaced treasures. Imogen loves this basket the best, not because she ever steals the lost valuables, but because she loves imagining what they must have been.
During most shifts, Imogen finds little in the way of treasures to take back to the front desk. Some evenings, however, when the last patrons have filtered out and the theater is quiet, Imogen finds many odd glimpses into lives she’ll never really see again. This is the story of one of those nights.
The first thing Imogen chanced upon was, in typical fashion, between the theater's general admissions seating. There was no mystery about how it got there. Every item lost and displaced on the floor of the auditorium had been in some outer pocket which tipped over- just a few, suboptimal degrees- when a patron had sat (or shifted, or stood from their seat) and spilled its contents silently into the shadows.
“F… 9.” Imogen said quietly, her voice lost in the cavernous auditorium like starlight in a thunderhead. “Got it.”
Patrons who returned to the theater, panting and wide-eyed, were asked to tell the front desk where they had lost their items, though no exact answer was expected. After all, the object might have been dropped from another seat, another aisle, and been shuffled over by busy feet and shifting bags. Still, the question was enough to deter most opportunistic thieves.
The orkhan janitor brought the compass over to the wall, where the electric lanterns still burned in their sconces. The trinket was round, cut out of some dark material doubtless meant to look like a teakwood and polished to a shine. Imogen’s fingers left noticeable prints on the compass; either the owner had worn gloves while handling it or made a habit of polishing it even during shows.
The compass top was inlaid with some kind of opalescent bone or horn in a stylized image of a beast which she had never before seen, a creature with four thick legs and a brutal-looking bone growth, presumably meant to stab and skewer. When she opened the top, however, she found with disappointment that something had gone wrong with the magnetic needle within. Instead of pointing to the unerring north, it seemed stuck.
Imogen shrugged, and spun in a quick circle herself, holding the borrowed compass in front. She stopped, consulted the compass, and grinned. “Guess that’s north now, then.” She would never bother to check later, and nobody else was in the theater to contradict her- north might as well be whatever way she was pointing.
The second item of the day was in the cloakroom, another favorite spot for losing things in the press of people trying to beat the rush out of the theater, and themselves creating it. There was a lesson in there, somewhere, but more importantly there was a doll nestled in the corner of a shelf above the hangers.
Imogen needed to think about this one for a moment, but no longer. The doll was clearly a child’s, tucked away in a parent’s coat pocket to keep it from being a distraction during the performance. It had been jostled loose when more coats were packed together, and someone, unsure where the doll had suddenly fallen from, had placed it surreptitiously on the upper shelf along with the handbags and other junk.
“Fine work, detective.” Imogen mused to herself as she collected the doll, easily able to reach the high shelves. Height- just one of the many blessings of the dragons upon her ancestors which did not grace the people of this land, and probably the one most relevant to janitorial duties besides.
Now in her hands, the doll’s features were plain. It was a small, bewinged man made of cotton and clad in rough sackcloth approximations of armor, holding a tiny felt sword. Imogen prodded the felt wings and blade with her pinky finger, giving the doll a skeptical glance as she did. She had heard of the winged folk, of course, but was certain that had any visited, the staff would have been whispering of nothing else.
Imogen wondered for a moment if the doll’s owner loved it because they liked to imagine themselves as someone different, soaring through the air on wings (presumably not of felt), free of the tribulations of earth. Even though she was no longer a child, Imogen momentarily felt that same pull, that dream of escape.
But… dreams were nice because they didn’t have to include all of the realities of the waking world. Doubtless, Avialae had their own problems they wished they could escape from, just like humans, or orkhan.
Imogen walked to the back of the coatroom and positioned the little doll in one hand, straightening out the felt wings, then tossed it lightly into the Lost Items pouch on the trolley, still parked at the door. The doll took flight for a moment, the felt wings fluttering in the air as though they were about to begin flapping… then it plummeted directly into the basket, and was gone.
The notebook was a worrying find, because it was in the haunted foyer.
Technically, this was not accurate; the room was a side entry, not a foyer; the object in question appeared to be some kind of journaling tool and not a note-taking one; and the little leather-bound book was actually on a windowsill in the stairwell leading down from the main concourse to the side entry, not inside.
The room might have been haunted, though. Actually, that issue had long played on Imogen’s mind. The haunted foyer was located close to one of the blocked hallways, the complex within the theater that the Railrunners maintained which had no proper entry or exit without the use of magic, and so Imogen once naturally presumed that at some point, staff must have heard muffled voices in the walls or seen someone disappear nearby and assumed that spirits were the cause.
It was a neat theory, but it happened to be wrong. The stone wall separating the Railrunner complex from the haunted foyer was almost a foot thick, and there were no little cracks or gaps which would have let noise through. Furthermore, Imogen had soon learned that the Railrunners of the Theater had very strict rules about how and when to use Traversion on the property, and she simply could not imagine anyone violating that rule in a little side entry in the public area of the theater.
Was the ghost confirmed, then? No, probably not. It was just an annoying coincidence.
The book itself was leather with little brass bindings, and a chain attached to a lock so dainty that Imogen doubted she could have gotten a claw inside. There were no markings on the front, but the leather was dyed a rich, vibrant azure, which put her in mind dragonscale. Although the book could be locked, the chain was not affixed..
Imogen agonized over the book for almost a minute. She was not, by nature, a nosy soul- but who wouldn’t be tempted to look inside such a fancy little book? Although the orkhan girl was a smuggler by trade and an all-around felon in many ways, she found herself strangely protective of the privacy of whoever owned the book. If it was a diary, as she suspected, to read it would be to steal a part of another’s life, their thoughts, their very self. Could she really do that to someone else, even if they would never know?
Yes. Imogen prised the cover carefully apart, relocating to the sunlit spot beneath the window. And so she learned that-
“Oh. This isn’t Common.”
It wasn’t Ecitherse, either. Frankly, she had no idea what tongue the book’s pages contained. Feeling guilty and disappointed in equal measure, Imogen closed the little diary and placed it into her basket.
After completing her last round of the Theater, Imogen pushed the maintenance trolley back through the halls, pulling it up the stairwells with a practiced bounce, and up to the front office, where a senior clerk was still running lazily through the day’s logbook to tally up the sales. She stopped for a few minutes before going in, having spotted a soiled section of stone near the door- thankfully, it looked like nothing more than mud, and she was done with any further sleuthing today.
Having applied the mop vigorously to the entryway, Imogen unlatched the lost items basket from the trolley and slid into the front office, earning no more than a momentary glance from the calculating clerk. She pulled a larger wicker case from behind the desk and opened it, gratified to see that less than half of the dozen or so items from the start of the week now remained. Imogen tipped her small basket into the larger one, letting the compass, doll, and booklet bounce gently into the cloth-lined Lost And Found bin, then slid the treasures back under the desk.
Would she ever see them again? Probably not. Didn’t really matter.
“Hey, Immy.”
The girl looked up, startled for a moment, to find the clerk looking her way. He dug carefully through a small messenger bag which she hadn’t noticed on the desk, then produced a single slip of paper. “Something for you, Sam says an extra shift, some kind of special event. Can’t read it, myself.” The clerk rolled his eyes, a special kind of disdain for the bad handwriting of an employer he wasn’t brave enough to criticize in any open way.
Imogen took the paper and scanned it. The page was, indeed, mostly illegible. The writing was a purposeful scrawl, because the only important information on the sheet was the time and date hidden in the middle of the scribbles. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” the clerk responded. “Hey, do you get overtime for special cleaning shifts?”
“Overtime? Yes.” said Imogen, her mind elsewhere, “You could say that’s why I took the job.”
With that dramatic statement out the way, the orkhan girl left the office, heading for the Theater’s exit, her mind full of speculation and fancy as ever.
“Hey? Hey!” the clerk shouted after her, “Immy, you forgot to put away the trolley! Immy!”
The maintenance trolley of the Pfenning Theater is a squat, narrow object of softwood and cheap brass, and it is older than any of the staff who use it. It consists of a rough, rectangular frame on four wheels, with a small shelf below the handles. A great sackcloth bag fills the frame, supporting the brooms, and the wet mop, and the long poker which you still need to adjust a few of the lanterns in the halls. Off the side, three containers hang.
The first container is the bucket, of course. There is a larger trolley just for mopping the halls, but the bucket on the maintenance trolley is large enough for cleaning up little messes- spilled concessions, broken bottles of wine, pools of blood. This is Imogen Ward’s second-favorite container, because she finds mopping to be a peaceful and engaging form of exercise.
Second, the basket for dry waste. By the end of a shift, the basket is largely full of dropped programs, fallen handkerchiefs and… less discernible, oddly sticky objects. This is Imogen’s least favorite basket, as filling it inevitably involves a great deal of ducking beneath aisle seats and scraping against the dirty stone beneath.
Finally, the small collections basket which holds those items that must go to the Lost And Found. Oculars, silken gloves, watches- all of these things go in the basket, for although the Theater’s signs disclaim any liability for lost items, it is good business to give the patrons some hope of reclaiming their misplaced treasures. Imogen loves this basket the best, not because she ever steals the lost valuables, but because she loves imagining what they must have been.
During most shifts, Imogen finds little in the way of treasures to take back to the front desk. Some evenings, however, when the last patrons have filtered out and the theater is quiet, Imogen finds many odd glimpses into lives she’ll never really see again. This is the story of one of those nights.
~The Embossed Compass~
The first thing Imogen chanced upon was, in typical fashion, between the theater's general admissions seating. There was no mystery about how it got there. Every item lost and displaced on the floor of the auditorium had been in some outer pocket which tipped over- just a few, suboptimal degrees- when a patron had sat (or shifted, or stood from their seat) and spilled its contents silently into the shadows.
“F… 9.” Imogen said quietly, her voice lost in the cavernous auditorium like starlight in a thunderhead. “Got it.”
Patrons who returned to the theater, panting and wide-eyed, were asked to tell the front desk where they had lost their items, though no exact answer was expected. After all, the object might have been dropped from another seat, another aisle, and been shuffled over by busy feet and shifting bags. Still, the question was enough to deter most opportunistic thieves.
The orkhan janitor brought the compass over to the wall, where the electric lanterns still burned in their sconces. The trinket was round, cut out of some dark material doubtless meant to look like a teakwood and polished to a shine. Imogen’s fingers left noticeable prints on the compass; either the owner had worn gloves while handling it or made a habit of polishing it even during shows.
The compass top was inlaid with some kind of opalescent bone or horn in a stylized image of a beast which she had never before seen, a creature with four thick legs and a brutal-looking bone growth, presumably meant to stab and skewer. When she opened the top, however, she found with disappointment that something had gone wrong with the magnetic needle within. Instead of pointing to the unerring north, it seemed stuck.
Imogen shrugged, and spun in a quick circle herself, holding the borrowed compass in front. She stopped, consulted the compass, and grinned. “Guess that’s north now, then.” She would never bother to check later, and nobody else was in the theater to contradict her- north might as well be whatever way she was pointing.
~The Stuffed Doll~
The second item of the day was in the cloakroom, another favorite spot for losing things in the press of people trying to beat the rush out of the theater, and themselves creating it. There was a lesson in there, somewhere, but more importantly there was a doll nestled in the corner of a shelf above the hangers.
Imogen needed to think about this one for a moment, but no longer. The doll was clearly a child’s, tucked away in a parent’s coat pocket to keep it from being a distraction during the performance. It had been jostled loose when more coats were packed together, and someone, unsure where the doll had suddenly fallen from, had placed it surreptitiously on the upper shelf along with the handbags and other junk.
“Fine work, detective.” Imogen mused to herself as she collected the doll, easily able to reach the high shelves. Height- just one of the many blessings of the dragons upon her ancestors which did not grace the people of this land, and probably the one most relevant to janitorial duties besides.
Now in her hands, the doll’s features were plain. It was a small, bewinged man made of cotton and clad in rough sackcloth approximations of armor, holding a tiny felt sword. Imogen prodded the felt wings and blade with her pinky finger, giving the doll a skeptical glance as she did. She had heard of the winged folk, of course, but was certain that had any visited, the staff would have been whispering of nothing else.
Imogen wondered for a moment if the doll’s owner loved it because they liked to imagine themselves as someone different, soaring through the air on wings (presumably not of felt), free of the tribulations of earth. Even though she was no longer a child, Imogen momentarily felt that same pull, that dream of escape.
But… dreams were nice because they didn’t have to include all of the realities of the waking world. Doubtless, Avialae had their own problems they wished they could escape from, just like humans, or orkhan.
Imogen walked to the back of the coatroom and positioned the little doll in one hand, straightening out the felt wings, then tossed it lightly into the Lost Items pouch on the trolley, still parked at the door. The doll took flight for a moment, the felt wings fluttering in the air as though they were about to begin flapping… then it plummeted directly into the basket, and was gone.
~The Unsettling Notebook~
The notebook was a worrying find, because it was in the haunted foyer.
Technically, this was not accurate; the room was a side entry, not a foyer; the object in question appeared to be some kind of journaling tool and not a note-taking one; and the little leather-bound book was actually on a windowsill in the stairwell leading down from the main concourse to the side entry, not inside.
The room might have been haunted, though. Actually, that issue had long played on Imogen’s mind. The haunted foyer was located close to one of the blocked hallways, the complex within the theater that the Railrunners maintained which had no proper entry or exit without the use of magic, and so Imogen once naturally presumed that at some point, staff must have heard muffled voices in the walls or seen someone disappear nearby and assumed that spirits were the cause.
It was a neat theory, but it happened to be wrong. The stone wall separating the Railrunner complex from the haunted foyer was almost a foot thick, and there were no little cracks or gaps which would have let noise through. Furthermore, Imogen had soon learned that the Railrunners of the Theater had very strict rules about how and when to use Traversion on the property, and she simply could not imagine anyone violating that rule in a little side entry in the public area of the theater.
Was the ghost confirmed, then? No, probably not. It was just an annoying coincidence.
The book itself was leather with little brass bindings, and a chain attached to a lock so dainty that Imogen doubted she could have gotten a claw inside. There were no markings on the front, but the leather was dyed a rich, vibrant azure, which put her in mind dragonscale. Although the book could be locked, the chain was not affixed..
Imogen agonized over the book for almost a minute. She was not, by nature, a nosy soul- but who wouldn’t be tempted to look inside such a fancy little book? Although the orkhan girl was a smuggler by trade and an all-around felon in many ways, she found herself strangely protective of the privacy of whoever owned the book. If it was a diary, as she suspected, to read it would be to steal a part of another’s life, their thoughts, their very self. Could she really do that to someone else, even if they would never know?
Yes. Imogen prised the cover carefully apart, relocating to the sunlit spot beneath the window. And so she learned that-
“Oh. This isn’t Common.”
It wasn’t Ecitherse, either. Frankly, she had no idea what tongue the book’s pages contained. Feeling guilty and disappointed in equal measure, Imogen closed the little diary and placed it into her basket.
~Coda~
After completing her last round of the Theater, Imogen pushed the maintenance trolley back through the halls, pulling it up the stairwells with a practiced bounce, and up to the front office, where a senior clerk was still running lazily through the day’s logbook to tally up the sales. She stopped for a few minutes before going in, having spotted a soiled section of stone near the door- thankfully, it looked like nothing more than mud, and she was done with any further sleuthing today.
Having applied the mop vigorously to the entryway, Imogen unlatched the lost items basket from the trolley and slid into the front office, earning no more than a momentary glance from the calculating clerk. She pulled a larger wicker case from behind the desk and opened it, gratified to see that less than half of the dozen or so items from the start of the week now remained. Imogen tipped her small basket into the larger one, letting the compass, doll, and booklet bounce gently into the cloth-lined Lost And Found bin, then slid the treasures back under the desk.
Would she ever see them again? Probably not. Didn’t really matter.
“Hey, Immy.”
The girl looked up, startled for a moment, to find the clerk looking her way. He dug carefully through a small messenger bag which she hadn’t noticed on the desk, then produced a single slip of paper. “Something for you, Sam says an extra shift, some kind of special event. Can’t read it, myself.” The clerk rolled his eyes, a special kind of disdain for the bad handwriting of an employer he wasn’t brave enough to criticize in any open way.
Imogen took the paper and scanned it. The page was, indeed, mostly illegible. The writing was a purposeful scrawl, because the only important information on the sheet was the time and date hidden in the middle of the scribbles. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” the clerk responded. “Hey, do you get overtime for special cleaning shifts?”
“Overtime? Yes.” said Imogen, her mind elsewhere, “You could say that’s why I took the job.”
With that dramatic statement out the way, the orkhan girl left the office, heading for the Theater’s exit, her mind full of speculation and fancy as ever.
“Hey? Hey!” the clerk shouted after her, “Immy, you forgot to put away the trolley! Immy!”
~The End~
