The Tickell Arms, North Road, Whittlesford Cambridge. 7:53 pm, July 27, 1926.
“That'll be a shilling,” said the bearded landlord as he placed the second foamy beer on the bar.
A young man slid the silver coin across to the bar keep and picked up the two pewter tankards.
He made his way over to a table in the corner. The young man was clean shaven, had black hair and tanned shin akin to his Greek heritage.
He placed both jugs on the table and slid one across to a man in his thirties. This one had a moustache and dark brown hair in a neat cut. Both wore suits that were off-the-rack. The moustachioed man had removed his jacket and loosened his tie.
The pair had come in five minutes previous and joined the three older men who already occupied the table.
"Well, gentlemen," one of the older men said, raising his glass in a toast. "Good to see you all looking so well. Here's to our future endeavours.”
They all took a drink.
"I wrote to Dr Lung in Shanghai, and he has replied," said Dr Dash, an aged portly man who still sported mutton-chop sideburns.
"His translation of the texts has been most useful. He was intrigued by our interest in such a, and I quote, ‘whimsical subject’. I feel obliged to extend him an invitation to join the Society. Do you all agree?"
There were nods and murmurs of acceptance all round, until a voice spoke up.
"Well no, actually, I'm not,” the voice of Dr Nathaniel Chase said.
Dash, who had been looking rather pleased with his efforts suddenly looked furious. Dash was not a man used to people telling him no.
His position at St Mary's Teaching Hospital was a senior position in the medical profession, and he was used to students and junior doctors hanging on his every word.
This young upstart opposite him, objecting, was not something Dash was expecting nor did he like it.
But, one could not ignore a leading Harley Street surgeon who had operated on the King himself. And, Dash noted with annoyance, nor were several of the other doctors.
“You have an objection Dr. Chase?" Dash asked as civilly as his ire would let him.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase mused to himself.
Dropping the “I” meant Dash wasn't happy. "We should be cautious about whom we invite into the Society. Firstly, we have no idea how good Lung's translation is. And secondly, if we invite him in and our theory, theories, turn out to be fruitless, then the Society will appear like a collection of Whimsical old men clutching at fantasies. Both are grounds for rumour, and the latter could discredit much of our work outside of the Society."
There were grave faces around the table now.
Dash looked crestfallen, but nodded solemnly.
“Bloody hell, Chase, my boy. You're right, of course!"
Chase have him an apologetic smile.
"But should we be successful, then yes, invite the eminent doctor,” Chase placed a metaphorical bandage over Dash's wound. With the group conscious of the potential of their discovery they subconsciously decided to avoid talking "shop" and chatted amongst themselves about all sorts of things.
The Hermes Society was initially formed of like-minded doctors and physicians who sought better understanding of medical practices, utilising medical knowledge from across the globe. These like-minded men and women soon became friends as well as colleagues and were happy to talk about anything from movies to cars, to foreign travel.
All in all, Chase thought as he and Dr. Alexandros Petrou made their way home."That was actually pleasant."
He was even feeling very confident about the ceremony that was planned for the weekend.
The Hermes Society
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Re: The Hermes Society
The wind came in hard off the Atlantic, sharp with salt and the promise of rain, tearing at coats and scarves as if the island itself wished to cast them back into the sea.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase leaned into it, boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. “Steady—steady, man,” he called over his shoulder, though his own breath came in visible bursts. His gloved hands were wrapped around one edge of the curved wooden segment he and two others were hauling.
“It is not steady, my friend,” came the strained reply beside him. Dr. Alexandros Petrou—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed by British weather—grunted as he adjusted his grip. “It is madness. Scientific, yes—but still madness.”
“Then we’re in excellent company,” Nate said, managing a brief smile.
Behind them, another pair struggled with the second segment of the ring, while a third team laboured further upslope with the final piece. The terrain was brutal—rocky, bog-soft in places, and cut through with low heather that snagged boots and trousers alike.
They had been at it for hours.
Above them, the sky hung low and grey, pressing down on the island like a lid. Somewhere beyond the ridge ahead lay the site—the place The Hermes Society believed would reveal one of the mysterious Nexus Gates described in obscure notes tied to ancient Egyptian rituals.
If those notes were right.
If the device worked.
If they had not dragged half a ton of precision-engineered brass and wood across a forsaken Scottish island for nothing.
“Why here?” Alexandros muttered. “Of all places in the world—why must the doorway to infinity be in a place that smells of wet sheep?”
“Because,” Nate replied, shifting the weight as his arms trembled, “no one else thought to look.”
They crested the ridge just as the wind dropped slightly, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
The site lay in a shallow hollow beyond—a natural bowl of dark stone, scattered with ancient, weather-worn standing rocks. Some leaned at odd angles, others lay half-buried, as if pushed down by centuries of storms.
Nate stopped.
Not from exhaustion—though he had plenty of that—but from something else.
Recognition.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Alexandros glanced around, eyes narrowing. “You feel it too.”
Nate nodded. There was no visible sign of anything unusual. No glow. No shimmer.
And yet—
The air felt… strained. As though something unseen pressed against it from the other side.
“Set it down,” Nate called.
One by one, the teams lowered the three massive segments onto the damp ground with heavy, metallic thuds. Several of the group staggered back, flexing aching hands.
From further behind, the rest of the expedition approached—men and women in heavy coats, carrying crates of instruments. Among them was Andrea Meaner.
Nate noticed her immediately, though he did not turn.
She moved with purpose, her nurse’s satchel slung over one shoulder, her expression as composed and cool as ever. Where others showed fatigue, she showed control.
She always did.
“Try not to collapse before the important part, Doctor Chase,” she called dryly as she drew nearer.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you, Nurse Meaner.”
“Your consistency in that regard is admirable.”
Alexandros smirked. “Ah. The ice between you remains unbroken.”
Nate ignored him.
The assembly took the better part of an hour.
The three curved segments were dragged, levered, and coaxed into position, their edges aligning with painstaking precision. Bolts were driven home. Brackets tightened. The structure rose slowly—an immense ring of brass and darkened, aged ebony, nearly twelve feet high, standing upright against the bleak Scottish sky.
As the final fastening clicked into place, a hush fell over the group.
Even the wind seemed to ease.
Nate stepped back, wiping sweat and rain from his brow. “Power connections,” he said.
A pair of engineers hurried forward, attaching cables from a compact generator unit. The device itself—though elegant—was clearly experimental. Coils ran along the inner circumference. Small lenses and crystalline nodes were set at intervals, each one angled with deliberate care.
Andrea stood off to one side, arms folded, watching.
“You’re certain this won’t… explode?” she asked.
Nate glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”
“But I’m confident it won’t,” he added.
“That is marginally better.”
There was a pause.
Then, more quietly: “You should stand further back.”
Her gaze held his for a moment—cool, appraising.
“I’ll decide my own distance, Doctor.”
Of course you will, Nate thought.
“All right,” he called, turning to the group. “This is it.”
The Hermes Society—doctors, scientists, scholars—gathered in a loose semicircle around the ring. Faces drawn with exhaustion, lit with anticipation.
Years of research had led to this moment.
Nate moved to the control panel—a compact arrangement of switches and dials mounted at the base of the structure. His hands hovered for just a second.
Then he threw the first switch.
The generator coughed to life.
A low hum spread through the ring, deep and resonant. The coils along its inner edge began to glow faintly—first a dull amber, then brighter, threading with pale blue light.
“Voltage holding,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Stabilise the phase alignment,” Alexandros added, already adjusting a dial.
Nate flipped the second switch.
The hum deepened.
The air inside the ring shimmered—not with light, but with distortion. Like heat haze… but colder. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
“Do you see—?”
“Yes—there—!”
Nate leaned forward, heart hammering.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A shape.
Faint. Impossible.
A vertical plane, like a tear in reality itself, hovering just beyond the ring’s frame. It flickered, slipping in and out of perception—visible only when viewed through the aligned lenses of the device.
“Move it,” Nate said suddenly.
“What?” Alexandros asked.
“The ring—it’s not centred. The gate’s offset!”
Understanding flashed across several faces at once.
“Lift!” Nate shouted.
Groans of protest—but no hesitation.
Hands returned to the cold metal. Muscles strained anew as they shifted the enormous ring a few feet to the left.
“Stop—there!” Nate called.
The moment the ring settled—
The shimmer snapped into clarity.
A perfect oval of impossible depth hung in the air, framed exactly within the circle of the device. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Beyond it—
Something else.
Colours that did not belong to Scotland. Shapes that did not belong to this world.
A collective silence fell.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Andrea, ever composed, had taken a step forward, her eyes wide despite herself.
“My God…” someone whispered.
Alexandros removed his glasses, as though doubting them. “It is real.”
Nate felt it then—not triumph, not yet.
Something deeper.
A door.
Not metaphorical. Not theoretical.
A door.
He glanced sideways.
Andrea stood close now, nearer than she had been before. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he had ever heard it.
“You were right.”
Nate looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze, something warmer flickering beneath the usual reserve.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added quickly.
He smiled, just slightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Behind them, the Hermes Society stood on the edge of infinity.
And for the first time, the world felt… larger than history.
It felt endless.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase leaned into it, boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. “Steady—steady, man,” he called over his shoulder, though his own breath came in visible bursts. His gloved hands were wrapped around one edge of the curved wooden segment he and two others were hauling.
“It is not steady, my friend,” came the strained reply beside him. Dr. Alexandros Petrou—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed by British weather—grunted as he adjusted his grip. “It is madness. Scientific, yes—but still madness.”
“Then we’re in excellent company,” Nate said, managing a brief smile.
Behind them, another pair struggled with the second segment of the ring, while a third team laboured further upslope with the final piece. The terrain was brutal—rocky, bog-soft in places, and cut through with low heather that snagged boots and trousers alike.
They had been at it for hours.
Above them, the sky hung low and grey, pressing down on the island like a lid. Somewhere beyond the ridge ahead lay the site—the place The Hermes Society believed would reveal one of the mysterious Nexus Gates described in obscure notes tied to ancient Egyptian rituals.
If those notes were right.
If the device worked.
If they had not dragged half a ton of precision-engineered brass and wood across a forsaken Scottish island for nothing.
“Why here?” Alexandros muttered. “Of all places in the world—why must the doorway to infinity be in a place that smells of wet sheep?”
“Because,” Nate replied, shifting the weight as his arms trembled, “no one else thought to look.”
They crested the ridge just as the wind dropped slightly, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
The site lay in a shallow hollow beyond—a natural bowl of dark stone, scattered with ancient, weather-worn standing rocks. Some leaned at odd angles, others lay half-buried, as if pushed down by centuries of storms.
Nate stopped.
Not from exhaustion—though he had plenty of that—but from something else.
Recognition.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Alexandros glanced around, eyes narrowing. “You feel it too.”
Nate nodded. There was no visible sign of anything unusual. No glow. No shimmer.
And yet—
The air felt… strained. As though something unseen pressed against it from the other side.
“Set it down,” Nate called.
One by one, the teams lowered the three massive segments onto the damp ground with heavy, metallic thuds. Several of the group staggered back, flexing aching hands.
From further behind, the rest of the expedition approached—men and women in heavy coats, carrying crates of instruments. Among them was Andrea Meaner.
Nate noticed her immediately, though he did not turn.
She moved with purpose, her nurse’s satchel slung over one shoulder, her expression as composed and cool as ever. Where others showed fatigue, she showed control.
She always did.
“Try not to collapse before the important part, Doctor Chase,” she called dryly as she drew nearer.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you, Nurse Meaner.”
“Your consistency in that regard is admirable.”
Alexandros smirked. “Ah. The ice between you remains unbroken.”
Nate ignored him.
The assembly took the better part of an hour.
The three curved segments were dragged, levered, and coaxed into position, their edges aligning with painstaking precision. Bolts were driven home. Brackets tightened. The structure rose slowly—an immense ring of brass and darkened, aged ebony, nearly twelve feet high, standing upright against the bleak Scottish sky.
As the final fastening clicked into place, a hush fell over the group.
Even the wind seemed to ease.
Nate stepped back, wiping sweat and rain from his brow. “Power connections,” he said.
A pair of engineers hurried forward, attaching cables from a compact generator unit. The device itself—though elegant—was clearly experimental. Coils ran along the inner circumference. Small lenses and crystalline nodes were set at intervals, each one angled with deliberate care.
Andrea stood off to one side, arms folded, watching.
“You’re certain this won’t… explode?” she asked.
Nate glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”
“But I’m confident it won’t,” he added.
“That is marginally better.”
There was a pause.
Then, more quietly: “You should stand further back.”
Her gaze held his for a moment—cool, appraising.
“I’ll decide my own distance, Doctor.”
Of course you will, Nate thought.
“All right,” he called, turning to the group. “This is it.”
The Hermes Society—doctors, scientists, scholars—gathered in a loose semicircle around the ring. Faces drawn with exhaustion, lit with anticipation.
Years of research had led to this moment.
Nate moved to the control panel—a compact arrangement of switches and dials mounted at the base of the structure. His hands hovered for just a second.
Then he threw the first switch.
The generator coughed to life.
A low hum spread through the ring, deep and resonant. The coils along its inner edge began to glow faintly—first a dull amber, then brighter, threading with pale blue light.
“Voltage holding,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Stabilise the phase alignment,” Alexandros added, already adjusting a dial.
Nate flipped the second switch.
The hum deepened.
The air inside the ring shimmered—not with light, but with distortion. Like heat haze… but colder. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
“Do you see—?”
“Yes—there—!”
Nate leaned forward, heart hammering.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A shape.
Faint. Impossible.
A vertical plane, like a tear in reality itself, hovering just beyond the ring’s frame. It flickered, slipping in and out of perception—visible only when viewed through the aligned lenses of the device.
“Move it,” Nate said suddenly.
“What?” Alexandros asked.
“The ring—it’s not centred. The gate’s offset!”
Understanding flashed across several faces at once.
“Lift!” Nate shouted.
Groans of protest—but no hesitation.
Hands returned to the cold metal. Muscles strained anew as they shifted the enormous ring a few feet to the left.
“Stop—there!” Nate called.
The moment the ring settled—
The shimmer snapped into clarity.
A perfect oval of impossible depth hung in the air, framed exactly within the circle of the device. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Beyond it—
Something else.
Colours that did not belong to Scotland. Shapes that did not belong to this world.
A collective silence fell.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Andrea, ever composed, had taken a step forward, her eyes wide despite herself.
“My God…” someone whispered.
Alexandros removed his glasses, as though doubting them. “It is real.”
Nate felt it then—not triumph, not yet.
Something deeper.
A door.
Not metaphorical. Not theoretical.
A door.
He glanced sideways.
Andrea stood close now, nearer than she had been before. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he had ever heard it.
“You were right.”
Nate looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze, something warmer flickering beneath the usual reserve.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added quickly.
He smiled, just slightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Behind them, the Hermes Society stood on the edge of infinity.
And for the first time, the world felt… larger than history.
It felt endless.
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- Magi
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Re: The Hermes Society
Field Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
The Hermes Society Expedition
28th October, 1926
We crossed today.
There is no elegant way to describe the sensation. It is neither stepping nor falling, neither passing through air nor water. One simply ceases to be in one place and finds oneself in another.
The jungle received us immediately.
Dense—oppressively so. The air is thick with moisture and life, every breath warm and heavy. Towering trees blot out much of the sky, their canopies layered like vaulted ceilings in some vast, living cathedral. The ground is a chaos of roots, ferns, and loam that seems to breathe beneath one’s boots.
No signs of humanity.
No roads, no tools, no structures.
And yet—this place does not feel untouched. Not entirely.
We established a provisional camp within sight of the Gate. The device continues to function, though its stability fluctuates slightly on this side. Alexandros assures me it is within tolerances. I trust him, though I do not entirely trust this world.
Andrea remained composed throughout the crossing. She said very little, but I noticed her hand lingered briefly against the ring before stepping through—as though committing the moment to memory.
I did the same.
30th October, 1926
We have begun our initial surveys.
The biodiversity here is… staggering.
Several plant specimens collected today exhibit properties that, if confirmed, could redefine our understanding of medicine. One vine secretes a clear sap that appears to act as a potent antiseptic. Another broad-leafed plant, when crushed, produces a vapour that eases bronchial constriction almost immediately.
Andrea has been tireless in assisting with cataloguing and preparation. She has a steadiness that grounds the rest of us—particularly the younger members, who are already overwhelmed by the scale of discovery.
We are not alone in our excitement.
Dr. Edmund Dash arrived through the Gate this morning.
Late, of course.
And already speaking as though the expedition were his.
1st November, 1926
We found it.
Roughly half a mile from camp, partially reclaimed by the jungle, lies what can only be described as the remnants of a settlement.
Not native.
The construction is crude but deliberate—wooden frames long since rotted, stones arranged in patterns that suggest shelter walls, fire pits, and storage areas. Tools—or what remains of them—are unlike anything produced in recent centuries.
Corroded metal. Strange alloys.
Alexandros believes they may predate modern metallurgy as we understand it—or come from a parallel development entirely.
Which raises the obvious conclusion:
We are not the first to find this place.
Whoever came before us did not stay—or could not.
There are no bones.
No graves.
Only absence.
Andrea stood beside me as we surveyed the site. “Do you think they made it back?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She didn’t press further.
3rd November, 1926
Tensions are beginning to show.
Dash has taken it upon himself to “organise” the expedition.
By which he means issuing directives to those he deems beneath him.
This includes nearly everyone.
His treatment of the junior staff is… unacceptable. He speaks to them as though they are instruments rather than colleagues. Today I observed him dismiss one of the assistants outright for mishandling a specimen—no injury, no loss of data—just wounded pride.
Andrea has borne the brunt of it as well.
He corrected her in front of others this afternoon—incorrectly, I might add—and did so with a tone I found difficult to tolerate.
She said nothing at the time.
That concerned me more than if she had argued.
5th November, 1926
Andrea sought me out this evening.
Not in the usual professional capacity.
She found me at the edge of camp, where the jungle thins slightly near a rocky outcrop. The light was fading, and the air carried the distant sound of water—something we have yet to fully investigate.
“He’s making it intolerable,” she said without preamble.
I did not need to ask who.
“I know,” I replied.
“He treats us as though we are… expendable. Decorative, even.” There was anger there, tightly controlled. “And no one challenges him.”
“I will,” I said.
She looked at me then—really looked.
“You already have,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
I hadn’t realised.
Or perhaps I had, and chose not to dwell on it.
We stood there for a while, the jungle alive around us, neither speaking.
The frost between us—so long in place—felt thinner.
7th November, 1926
We followed the sound of water today.
It led us to a natural basin carved into dark stone, where geothermal heat feeds a series of clear, steaming pools. A hot spring—utterly pristine.
The water is rich with dissolved minerals. Early tests suggest therapeutic properties—muscle relaxation, improved circulation, possibly even antimicrobial effects depending on composition.
But beyond the science—
It is… beautiful.
Hidden. Quiet. A place untouched even within this untouched world.
Andrea stayed behind when the others returned to camp.
I found her there at dusk.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“So should you,” she replied.
Fair.
The steam curled around her, softening the sharpness she so often wears like armour.
“You don’t have to endure him,” I said after a moment.
“I know,” she said. “But I won’t be driven out either.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
She smiled—just slightly.
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
There was a pause.
Then, almost casually: “You should come in. The water helps with the strain.”
I hesitated.
Only briefly.
Later
I am not certain how to write this with the same detachment I have tried to maintain.
Perhaps I cannot.
The water was warm—almost impossibly so after the damp chill of the jungle air. The tension I had been carrying for days, weeks perhaps, seemed to dissolve the moment I stepped in.
Andrea was already there, leaning back against the smooth stone, her usual composure softened by the heat and the quiet.
We spoke at first.
About the expedition. About Dash. About the absurdity of standing in another world arguing over professional hierarchies.
And then—
Less about those things.
More about ourselves.
About why we joined the Society. What we hoped to find.
What we feared we might.
At some point, the distance between us ceased to exist.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
When she reached for me, it felt less like a beginning and more like something long delayed finally allowed to happen.
The jungle continued its endless chorus around us.
The steam rose.
And for the first time since stepping through the Gate, I felt something other than awe or unease.
I felt… anchored.
10th November, 1926
Work continues.
Discoveries mount daily—plants, compounds, possibilities that could change medicine across worlds.
Dash has already begun drafting reports in his own name.
I will address that soon.
But not today.
Today, Andrea passed me a sample vial without a word, our hands brushing briefly.
A small thing.
But no longer a cold one.
And in a world beyond history, that feels like progress of a different kind.
The Hermes Society Expedition
28th October, 1926
We crossed today.
There is no elegant way to describe the sensation. It is neither stepping nor falling, neither passing through air nor water. One simply ceases to be in one place and finds oneself in another.
The jungle received us immediately.
Dense—oppressively so. The air is thick with moisture and life, every breath warm and heavy. Towering trees blot out much of the sky, their canopies layered like vaulted ceilings in some vast, living cathedral. The ground is a chaos of roots, ferns, and loam that seems to breathe beneath one’s boots.
No signs of humanity.
No roads, no tools, no structures.
And yet—this place does not feel untouched. Not entirely.
We established a provisional camp within sight of the Gate. The device continues to function, though its stability fluctuates slightly on this side. Alexandros assures me it is within tolerances. I trust him, though I do not entirely trust this world.
Andrea remained composed throughout the crossing. She said very little, but I noticed her hand lingered briefly against the ring before stepping through—as though committing the moment to memory.
I did the same.
30th October, 1926
We have begun our initial surveys.
The biodiversity here is… staggering.
Several plant specimens collected today exhibit properties that, if confirmed, could redefine our understanding of medicine. One vine secretes a clear sap that appears to act as a potent antiseptic. Another broad-leafed plant, when crushed, produces a vapour that eases bronchial constriction almost immediately.
Andrea has been tireless in assisting with cataloguing and preparation. She has a steadiness that grounds the rest of us—particularly the younger members, who are already overwhelmed by the scale of discovery.
We are not alone in our excitement.
Dr. Edmund Dash arrived through the Gate this morning.
Late, of course.
And already speaking as though the expedition were his.
1st November, 1926
We found it.
Roughly half a mile from camp, partially reclaimed by the jungle, lies what can only be described as the remnants of a settlement.
Not native.
The construction is crude but deliberate—wooden frames long since rotted, stones arranged in patterns that suggest shelter walls, fire pits, and storage areas. Tools—or what remains of them—are unlike anything produced in recent centuries.
Corroded metal. Strange alloys.
Alexandros believes they may predate modern metallurgy as we understand it—or come from a parallel development entirely.
Which raises the obvious conclusion:
We are not the first to find this place.
Whoever came before us did not stay—or could not.
There are no bones.
No graves.
Only absence.
Andrea stood beside me as we surveyed the site. “Do you think they made it back?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She didn’t press further.
3rd November, 1926
Tensions are beginning to show.
Dash has taken it upon himself to “organise” the expedition.
By which he means issuing directives to those he deems beneath him.
This includes nearly everyone.
His treatment of the junior staff is… unacceptable. He speaks to them as though they are instruments rather than colleagues. Today I observed him dismiss one of the assistants outright for mishandling a specimen—no injury, no loss of data—just wounded pride.
Andrea has borne the brunt of it as well.
He corrected her in front of others this afternoon—incorrectly, I might add—and did so with a tone I found difficult to tolerate.
She said nothing at the time.
That concerned me more than if she had argued.
5th November, 1926
Andrea sought me out this evening.
Not in the usual professional capacity.
She found me at the edge of camp, where the jungle thins slightly near a rocky outcrop. The light was fading, and the air carried the distant sound of water—something we have yet to fully investigate.
“He’s making it intolerable,” she said without preamble.
I did not need to ask who.
“I know,” I replied.
“He treats us as though we are… expendable. Decorative, even.” There was anger there, tightly controlled. “And no one challenges him.”
“I will,” I said.
She looked at me then—really looked.
“You already have,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
I hadn’t realised.
Or perhaps I had, and chose not to dwell on it.
We stood there for a while, the jungle alive around us, neither speaking.
The frost between us—so long in place—felt thinner.
7th November, 1926
We followed the sound of water today.
It led us to a natural basin carved into dark stone, where geothermal heat feeds a series of clear, steaming pools. A hot spring—utterly pristine.
The water is rich with dissolved minerals. Early tests suggest therapeutic properties—muscle relaxation, improved circulation, possibly even antimicrobial effects depending on composition.
But beyond the science—
It is… beautiful.
Hidden. Quiet. A place untouched even within this untouched world.
Andrea stayed behind when the others returned to camp.
I found her there at dusk.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“So should you,” she replied.
Fair.
The steam curled around her, softening the sharpness she so often wears like armour.
“You don’t have to endure him,” I said after a moment.
“I know,” she said. “But I won’t be driven out either.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen.”
She smiled—just slightly.
“I’m beginning to believe that.”
There was a pause.
Then, almost casually: “You should come in. The water helps with the strain.”
I hesitated.
Only briefly.
Later
I am not certain how to write this with the same detachment I have tried to maintain.
Perhaps I cannot.
The water was warm—almost impossibly so after the damp chill of the jungle air. The tension I had been carrying for days, weeks perhaps, seemed to dissolve the moment I stepped in.
Andrea was already there, leaning back against the smooth stone, her usual composure softened by the heat and the quiet.
We spoke at first.
About the expedition. About Dash. About the absurdity of standing in another world arguing over professional hierarchies.
And then—
Less about those things.
More about ourselves.
About why we joined the Society. What we hoped to find.
What we feared we might.
At some point, the distance between us ceased to exist.
Not abruptly.
Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
When she reached for me, it felt less like a beginning and more like something long delayed finally allowed to happen.
The jungle continued its endless chorus around us.
The steam rose.
And for the first time since stepping through the Gate, I felt something other than awe or unease.
I felt… anchored.
10th November, 1926
Work continues.
Discoveries mount daily—plants, compounds, possibilities that could change medicine across worlds.
Dash has already begun drafting reports in his own name.
I will address that soon.
But not today.
Today, Andrea passed me a sample vial without a word, our hands brushing briefly.
A small thing.
But no longer a cold one.
And in a world beyond history, that feels like progress of a different kind.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 604
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
Field Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
The Hermes Society Expedition
12th November, 1926
The rhythm of this place is beginning to settle into us.
Work, observation, cataloguing—repeat.
It would almost be peaceful, were it not for the undercurrent that has begun to take hold since the discovery of the ruins. No one speaks of it directly, but the question lingers in every quiet moment:
Why did they leave?
Or worse—
Why didn’t they?
Dash, meanwhile, has taken to conducting “reviews” of our findings. By which he means reassigning credit with a confidence that would be impressive if it were not so transparently self-serving.
Today, he referred to Andrea as “auxiliary staff.”
I corrected him.
He did not appreciate it.
13th November, 1926
The confrontation came this afternoon.
It was, by necessity, calm.
He had overridden Alexandros on a classification call—incorrectly again—and was in the process of dictating revisions to the record when I intervened.
“Dr. Dash,” I said, keeping my tone measured, “your conclusions are premature.”
He barely looked at me. “They are decisive, which is what this expedition requires.”
“What it requires,” I replied, “is accuracy.”
That earned his attention.
The others had gone very still.
“I am ensuring that our work is presented with clarity and authority,” he said. “Something that has been lacking.”
“You are ensuring that your name appears first,” I said.
A flicker—brief, but unmistakable.
“I will not have this devolve into petty dispute,” he said, voice tightening.
“Then don’t make it one.”
Silence stretched between us.
The jungle seemed to lean in.
Finally, I added, quieter: “Everyone here crossed that threshold. Everyone here is contributing. You will treat them accordingly.”
His gaze sharpened. “Or what, Dr. Chase?”
I held it.
“Or you will find yourself working alone.”
For a moment, I thought he might escalate.
Instead, he gave a thin, humourless smile. “Very well. We shall… collaborate.”
It was not a victory.
But it was a line.
Andrea said nothing during the exchange.
Later, she found me.
“You shouldn’t have to fight him,” she said.
“I don’t,” I replied. “I choose to.”
Her expression softened.
“That’s worse,” she said.
15th November, 1926
We have begun ranging further from the central site.
The jungle grows denser the deeper we push, but it also reveals more.
Today we documented a cluster of flowering plants whose extracts appear to accelerate clotting without the complications associated with current treatments. Another specimen shows promise in reducing fever with remarkable efficiency.
The implications are… staggering.
And yet, for all the life here, there is still no sign of anything resembling a native population.
No tools.
No pathways.
No fire marks.
Only that abandoned settlement.
And now, the growing sense that it is not the only trace left behind.
16th November, 1926
Andrea and I returned to the hot springs.
Not by accident.
The path is becoming familiar now—a narrow cut through dense foliage, the sound of water guiding the way long before it comes into view.
It has become… ours.
There is less hesitation between us now.
Less need for careful words.
The distance that once defined every interaction has eroded entirely.
We spoke, again—but not as we did before.
There is an ease now.
A quiet understanding.
When she laughed—genuinely laughed—I realised I had never heard that sound from her before.
It stayed with me long after we returned to camp.
18th November, 1926
We found the cave.
It lies along a cliff face several miles from the ruins, accessible only by a narrow, uneven ascent. The entrance is partially obscured by overgrowth, as though the jungle itself had attempted to conceal it.
Inside, the air is cooler. Still.
The light does not travel far.
We brought lanterns.
It was Alexandros who saw it first.
“Here,” he said.
The remains lay against the far wall, partially sheltered by a natural overhang of stone.
A body.
Or what remains of one.
Human.
There was no doubt of that.
Later
We conducted a preliminary examination on site.
The bones are old—significantly so, though preservation within the cave has limited decay. Clothing remnants are minimal, but what remains suggests construction techniques not typical of European origin.
More telling are the objects found nearby.
Fragments of tools—metalwork of a style that appears consistent with early East Asian craftsmanship. Not identical to any specific known period, but bearing clear similarities in form and method.
Which suggests—
Another group.
Another expedition.
From another world.
The injuries are the most troubling aspect.
Multiple fractures along the ribs and forearms. The pattern suggests defensive trauma—blows received while attempting to shield the body.
Ante-mortem.
Not accidental.
Not environmental.
Violence.
Andrea assisted in the examination.
Her hands were steady, but I could see the shift in her expression.
“This wasn’t a fall,” she said quietly.
“No,” I replied.
She looked around the cave, into the shadows beyond the reach of our lanterns.
“Then what?”
I had no answer.
19th November, 1926
The effect on the camp has been immediate.
Speculation spreads faster than any infection.
Some suggest conflict between earlier travellers. Others propose unknown fauna—something capable of delivering such blunt force.
A few have begun to voice a more troubling idea:
That whatever caused this… may still be here.
Two members of the Society have already requested passage back through the Gate.
I did not argue.
Fear is not easily countered with reason when the evidence lies in bone.
Dash, predictably, has attempted to assert control of the narrative—framing the discovery as an “isolated incident” and urging continued progress.
His tone has shifted, however.
Less certain.
Even he feels it.
21st November, 1926
We buried the remains today.
It felt… necessary.
Not scientific protocol.
Human decency.
We chose a site near the cave, marked with stone. No name to inscribe, no history to record.
Only acknowledgment.
Andrea stood beside me throughout.
Afterward, as the others dispersed, she remained.
“We’re not alone here,” she said.
It was not a question.
“No,” I said.
She took my hand.
Not in hesitation.
Not in uncertainty.
Simply because she wanted to.
“We’ll face it,” she said.
I looked at her—really looked.
At the strength she carries so quietly.
At the warmth that has, somehow, found its way through the cold distance we began with.
“Yes,” I said.
Whatever waits in this world—
We will face it.
The Hermes Society Expedition
12th November, 1926
The rhythm of this place is beginning to settle into us.
Work, observation, cataloguing—repeat.
It would almost be peaceful, were it not for the undercurrent that has begun to take hold since the discovery of the ruins. No one speaks of it directly, but the question lingers in every quiet moment:
Why did they leave?
Or worse—
Why didn’t they?
Dash, meanwhile, has taken to conducting “reviews” of our findings. By which he means reassigning credit with a confidence that would be impressive if it were not so transparently self-serving.
Today, he referred to Andrea as “auxiliary staff.”
I corrected him.
He did not appreciate it.
13th November, 1926
The confrontation came this afternoon.
It was, by necessity, calm.
He had overridden Alexandros on a classification call—incorrectly again—and was in the process of dictating revisions to the record when I intervened.
“Dr. Dash,” I said, keeping my tone measured, “your conclusions are premature.”
He barely looked at me. “They are decisive, which is what this expedition requires.”
“What it requires,” I replied, “is accuracy.”
That earned his attention.
The others had gone very still.
“I am ensuring that our work is presented with clarity and authority,” he said. “Something that has been lacking.”
“You are ensuring that your name appears first,” I said.
A flicker—brief, but unmistakable.
“I will not have this devolve into petty dispute,” he said, voice tightening.
“Then don’t make it one.”
Silence stretched between us.
The jungle seemed to lean in.
Finally, I added, quieter: “Everyone here crossed that threshold. Everyone here is contributing. You will treat them accordingly.”
His gaze sharpened. “Or what, Dr. Chase?”
I held it.
“Or you will find yourself working alone.”
For a moment, I thought he might escalate.
Instead, he gave a thin, humourless smile. “Very well. We shall… collaborate.”
It was not a victory.
But it was a line.
Andrea said nothing during the exchange.
Later, she found me.
“You shouldn’t have to fight him,” she said.
“I don’t,” I replied. “I choose to.”
Her expression softened.
“That’s worse,” she said.
15th November, 1926
We have begun ranging further from the central site.
The jungle grows denser the deeper we push, but it also reveals more.
Today we documented a cluster of flowering plants whose extracts appear to accelerate clotting without the complications associated with current treatments. Another specimen shows promise in reducing fever with remarkable efficiency.
The implications are… staggering.
And yet, for all the life here, there is still no sign of anything resembling a native population.
No tools.
No pathways.
No fire marks.
Only that abandoned settlement.
And now, the growing sense that it is not the only trace left behind.
16th November, 1926
Andrea and I returned to the hot springs.
Not by accident.
The path is becoming familiar now—a narrow cut through dense foliage, the sound of water guiding the way long before it comes into view.
It has become… ours.
There is less hesitation between us now.
Less need for careful words.
The distance that once defined every interaction has eroded entirely.
We spoke, again—but not as we did before.
There is an ease now.
A quiet understanding.
When she laughed—genuinely laughed—I realised I had never heard that sound from her before.
It stayed with me long after we returned to camp.
18th November, 1926
We found the cave.
It lies along a cliff face several miles from the ruins, accessible only by a narrow, uneven ascent. The entrance is partially obscured by overgrowth, as though the jungle itself had attempted to conceal it.
Inside, the air is cooler. Still.
The light does not travel far.
We brought lanterns.
It was Alexandros who saw it first.
“Here,” he said.
The remains lay against the far wall, partially sheltered by a natural overhang of stone.
A body.
Or what remains of one.
Human.
There was no doubt of that.
Later
We conducted a preliminary examination on site.
The bones are old—significantly so, though preservation within the cave has limited decay. Clothing remnants are minimal, but what remains suggests construction techniques not typical of European origin.
More telling are the objects found nearby.
Fragments of tools—metalwork of a style that appears consistent with early East Asian craftsmanship. Not identical to any specific known period, but bearing clear similarities in form and method.
Which suggests—
Another group.
Another expedition.
From another world.
The injuries are the most troubling aspect.
Multiple fractures along the ribs and forearms. The pattern suggests defensive trauma—blows received while attempting to shield the body.
Ante-mortem.
Not accidental.
Not environmental.
Violence.
Andrea assisted in the examination.
Her hands were steady, but I could see the shift in her expression.
“This wasn’t a fall,” she said quietly.
“No,” I replied.
She looked around the cave, into the shadows beyond the reach of our lanterns.
“Then what?”
I had no answer.
19th November, 1926
The effect on the camp has been immediate.
Speculation spreads faster than any infection.
Some suggest conflict between earlier travellers. Others propose unknown fauna—something capable of delivering such blunt force.
A few have begun to voice a more troubling idea:
That whatever caused this… may still be here.
Two members of the Society have already requested passage back through the Gate.
I did not argue.
Fear is not easily countered with reason when the evidence lies in bone.
Dash, predictably, has attempted to assert control of the narrative—framing the discovery as an “isolated incident” and urging continued progress.
His tone has shifted, however.
Less certain.
Even he feels it.
21st November, 1926
We buried the remains today.
It felt… necessary.
Not scientific protocol.
Human decency.
We chose a site near the cave, marked with stone. No name to inscribe, no history to record.
Only acknowledgment.
Andrea stood beside me throughout.
Afterward, as the others dispersed, she remained.
“We’re not alone here,” she said.
It was not a question.
“No,” I said.
She took my hand.
Not in hesitation.
Not in uncertainty.
Simply because she wanted to.
“We’ll face it,” she said.
I looked at her—really looked.
At the strength she carries so quietly.
At the warmth that has, somehow, found its way through the cold distance we began with.
“Yes,” I said.
Whatever waits in this world—
We will face it.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 604
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
Field Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
The Hermes Society Expedition
22nd November, 1926
The camp remains unsettled.
Conversations are quieter now. Shadows seem longer, even in the full light of day. The discovery in the cave has altered something fundamental in the expedition. What was once wonder now carries weight.
We continue our work—because we must. Specimens are still catalogued, notes still taken, sketches still made. The jungle has not diminished in its generosity. If anything, it seems determined to prove its value to us before we depart.
But there is caution now.
No one strays alone.
Andrea has taken to quietly checking on the younger members. She says little, but her presence steadies them. I suspect she does not realise how much she steadies me as well.
24th November, 1926
Dr. Harold Brighton arrived this morning.
A professor of chemistry at Oxford, and more importantly for our purposes, the Society’s treasurer. A man of figures, accounts, and cautious optimism—not the sort one expects to find knee-deep in prehistoric jungle.
And yet, upon stepping through the Gate, he was transformed.
I have rarely seen such astonishment so openly displayed.
He laughed—actually laughed—upon seeing the flora alone. By midday he had been led through the ruins, shown the catalogued specimens, and briefed (carefully) on the cave.
His enthusiasm was… infectious.
For a few hours, the camp felt as it once did.
Alive with discovery rather than burdened by it.
24th November, 1926 — Evening
Brighton called a meeting.
Senior members only.
Present: myself, Dr. Dash, Alexandros, Dr. Mercer, and Professor Winfield.
The atmosphere in his tent was markedly different from his earlier enthusiasm.
Measured.
Grave.
He did not waste time.
“The Society’s coffers are under significant strain,” he said. “Our expenditures have exceeded projections, and contributions have not kept pace.”
No one spoke.
“We cannot sustain this operation indefinitely,” he continued. “You have one more week. At the end of that period, you are to dismantle the site and return.”
The words landed heavily.
Dash was the first to object, naturally. Winfield followed. Even Alexandros, usually measured, pressed for reconsideration.
I did as well.
Brighton listened—patiently, but without yielding.
“I understand,” he said. “Truly. But this is not the end of the Society’s work. We are already seeking additional funding—private investors, institutional backing. There are other potential Gate sites under investigation.”
He looked at each of us in turn.
“This is a pause. A necessary one.”
No one was satisfied.
But there was nothing to be done.
25th November, 1926
I informed the team this morning.
Reactions varied.
Disappointment. Frustration. Quiet resignation.
A few—those already shaken by the cave—seemed almost relieved.
Andrea took the news with her usual composure.
“I suppose we’ll have to return to being unfriendly towards one another once we’re back in London, Dr. Chase,” she said, with the faintest hint of a smile.
“I would find that deeply regrettable,” I replied.
“Would you?”
“Very much so.”
She held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
“Good,” she said softly.
Later
Dash is gone.
We discovered it shortly after midday.
His tent—cleared.
Several crates of samples—gone.
More troubling: a significant portion of the expedition’s collected data—field notes, preliminary analyses, specimen records—missing.
He returned through the Gate during the night.
No word.
No explanation.
Just… departure.
Alexandros swore in three languages.
I considered following immediately.
Instead, I stayed.
“I will wring the pompous old git’s neck when I see him,” I said—perhaps less professionally than I ought.
Andrea did not reprimand me.
“Make sure you finish the work first,” she said.
I nodded.
Yes.
We finish.
Then we settle accounts.
27th November, 1926
The final days have taken on a strange clarity.
With time limited, the work has sharpened. Priorities have been set with ruthless efficiency. We gather what we can—samples, sketches, measurements—anything that might justify a return.
The fear remains, but it no longer paralyses.
It focuses.
No further signs of whoever—or whatever—left the remains in the cave.
No movement in the jungle beyond its usual restless life.
And yet…
No one forgets.
28th November, 1926 — Night
Our final evening.
Andrea and I returned to the hot spring.
It felt… necessary.
A closing of something.
The jungle was quieter than usual, or perhaps we simply noticed the quiet more. The steam rose in soft curls, catching the fading light.
Neither of us spoke at first.
There was no need.
“We may not come back,” she said eventually.
“We will,” I replied.
She glanced at me. “You sound certain.”
“I have to be.”
A small smile.
We slipped into the water, the warmth enveloping us, easing the accumulated strain of the past weeks.
For a time, there was only that—heat, quiet, and the unspoken understanding between us.
Then—
A sound.
Movement in the undergrowth.
Andrea stilled. “Someone’s coming.”
Instinctively, she moved deeper into the pool, submerging herself.
“I’ll get a towel,” I said, moving toward the edge.
The sound came again.
Closer.
Not the careful approach of one of our own.
Something heavier.
I turned.
And it stepped into view.
A man—or something close to one.
Broad, powerful, covered in rough skins. His features were… primitive. Not animal, not entirely human as we know it, but something earlier. Older.
In his hand, a length of bone—a thigh bone, used as a crude but formidable club.
For a moment, we simply stared at one another.
Andrea gasped behind me.
I shouted—more in shock than intent.
The figure recoiled, equally startled. His gaze flicked between us—confusion, alarm—
Then he turned and fled, crashing back into the jungle with astonishing speed.
Silence returned.
But it was no longer peaceful.
Later
We did not linger.
Partially dressed, we ran back to camp, breathless, shouting for the others.
There was no debate.
No hesitation.
Orders were given. Equipment secured only where immediately possible. The rest abandoned.
Within the hour, we were moving for the Gate.
No pursuit.
No further sign.
Just the jungle watching.
29th November, 1926
We are back.
All accounted for.
No injuries.
The Gate stands as it did before—silent, contained, almost deceptively mundane.
London feels… smaller.
The world we left behind does not.
We were not alone there.
That much is certain.
And whatever we encountered—
It was as surprised by us as we were by it.
Which may be the most unsettling thought of all.
The Hermes Society Expedition
22nd November, 1926
The camp remains unsettled.
Conversations are quieter now. Shadows seem longer, even in the full light of day. The discovery in the cave has altered something fundamental in the expedition. What was once wonder now carries weight.
We continue our work—because we must. Specimens are still catalogued, notes still taken, sketches still made. The jungle has not diminished in its generosity. If anything, it seems determined to prove its value to us before we depart.
But there is caution now.
No one strays alone.
Andrea has taken to quietly checking on the younger members. She says little, but her presence steadies them. I suspect she does not realise how much she steadies me as well.
24th November, 1926
Dr. Harold Brighton arrived this morning.
A professor of chemistry at Oxford, and more importantly for our purposes, the Society’s treasurer. A man of figures, accounts, and cautious optimism—not the sort one expects to find knee-deep in prehistoric jungle.
And yet, upon stepping through the Gate, he was transformed.
I have rarely seen such astonishment so openly displayed.
He laughed—actually laughed—upon seeing the flora alone. By midday he had been led through the ruins, shown the catalogued specimens, and briefed (carefully) on the cave.
His enthusiasm was… infectious.
For a few hours, the camp felt as it once did.
Alive with discovery rather than burdened by it.
24th November, 1926 — Evening
Brighton called a meeting.
Senior members only.
Present: myself, Dr. Dash, Alexandros, Dr. Mercer, and Professor Winfield.
The atmosphere in his tent was markedly different from his earlier enthusiasm.
Measured.
Grave.
He did not waste time.
“The Society’s coffers are under significant strain,” he said. “Our expenditures have exceeded projections, and contributions have not kept pace.”
No one spoke.
“We cannot sustain this operation indefinitely,” he continued. “You have one more week. At the end of that period, you are to dismantle the site and return.”
The words landed heavily.
Dash was the first to object, naturally. Winfield followed. Even Alexandros, usually measured, pressed for reconsideration.
I did as well.
Brighton listened—patiently, but without yielding.
“I understand,” he said. “Truly. But this is not the end of the Society’s work. We are already seeking additional funding—private investors, institutional backing. There are other potential Gate sites under investigation.”
He looked at each of us in turn.
“This is a pause. A necessary one.”
No one was satisfied.
But there was nothing to be done.
25th November, 1926
I informed the team this morning.
Reactions varied.
Disappointment. Frustration. Quiet resignation.
A few—those already shaken by the cave—seemed almost relieved.
Andrea took the news with her usual composure.
“I suppose we’ll have to return to being unfriendly towards one another once we’re back in London, Dr. Chase,” she said, with the faintest hint of a smile.
“I would find that deeply regrettable,” I replied.
“Would you?”
“Very much so.”
She held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
“Good,” she said softly.
Later
Dash is gone.
We discovered it shortly after midday.
His tent—cleared.
Several crates of samples—gone.
More troubling: a significant portion of the expedition’s collected data—field notes, preliminary analyses, specimen records—missing.
He returned through the Gate during the night.
No word.
No explanation.
Just… departure.
Alexandros swore in three languages.
I considered following immediately.
Instead, I stayed.
“I will wring the pompous old git’s neck when I see him,” I said—perhaps less professionally than I ought.
Andrea did not reprimand me.
“Make sure you finish the work first,” she said.
I nodded.
Yes.
We finish.
Then we settle accounts.
27th November, 1926
The final days have taken on a strange clarity.
With time limited, the work has sharpened. Priorities have been set with ruthless efficiency. We gather what we can—samples, sketches, measurements—anything that might justify a return.
The fear remains, but it no longer paralyses.
It focuses.
No further signs of whoever—or whatever—left the remains in the cave.
No movement in the jungle beyond its usual restless life.
And yet…
No one forgets.
28th November, 1926 — Night
Our final evening.
Andrea and I returned to the hot spring.
It felt… necessary.
A closing of something.
The jungle was quieter than usual, or perhaps we simply noticed the quiet more. The steam rose in soft curls, catching the fading light.
Neither of us spoke at first.
There was no need.
“We may not come back,” she said eventually.
“We will,” I replied.
She glanced at me. “You sound certain.”
“I have to be.”
A small smile.
We slipped into the water, the warmth enveloping us, easing the accumulated strain of the past weeks.
For a time, there was only that—heat, quiet, and the unspoken understanding between us.
Then—
A sound.
Movement in the undergrowth.
Andrea stilled. “Someone’s coming.”
Instinctively, she moved deeper into the pool, submerging herself.
“I’ll get a towel,” I said, moving toward the edge.
The sound came again.
Closer.
Not the careful approach of one of our own.
Something heavier.
I turned.
And it stepped into view.
A man—or something close to one.
Broad, powerful, covered in rough skins. His features were… primitive. Not animal, not entirely human as we know it, but something earlier. Older.
In his hand, a length of bone—a thigh bone, used as a crude but formidable club.
For a moment, we simply stared at one another.
Andrea gasped behind me.
I shouted—more in shock than intent.
The figure recoiled, equally startled. His gaze flicked between us—confusion, alarm—
Then he turned and fled, crashing back into the jungle with astonishing speed.
Silence returned.
But it was no longer peaceful.
Later
We did not linger.
Partially dressed, we ran back to camp, breathless, shouting for the others.
There was no debate.
No hesitation.
Orders were given. Equipment secured only where immediately possible. The rest abandoned.
Within the hour, we were moving for the Gate.
No pursuit.
No further sign.
Just the jungle watching.
29th November, 1926
We are back.
All accounted for.
No injuries.
The Gate stands as it did before—silent, contained, almost deceptively mundane.
London feels… smaller.
The world we left behind does not.
We were not alone there.
That much is certain.
And whatever we encountered—
It was as surprised by us as we were by it.
Which may be the most unsettling thought of all.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 604
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
Private Journal of Dr. Nathaniel Chase
London
17th December, 1926
London continues as though nothing has changed.
That is, perhaps, the strangest part of all this.
Omnibuses rattle along the streets. Patients fill waiting rooms with their familiar ailments. The newspapers concern themselves with politics, trade, and the small, cyclical dramas of a world that believes itself complete.
And yet—
I have stood in a place untouched by any of it.
I have seen a sky through leaves that no map records.
I have looked into the eyes of something that should not exist.
And now I am expected to return to stitching minor wounds and prescribing tonics as though that world were no more than a dream.
It is… difficult.
19th December, 1926
The Hermes Society has dispersed, at least outwardly.
For most, it has returned to its role as an intellectual curiosity—meetings in quiet rooms, papers exchanged, discussions held over brandy and lamplight.
But beneath that façade, something has changed.
We are no longer theorists.
We are witnesses.
Correspondence continues, of course. Letters pass between members—coded in tone if not in content. Discoveries are referenced obliquely. Questions linger between the lines.
No one speaks plainly of the jungle.
Not yet.
21st December, 1926
I saw Andrea today.
Not in a jungle. Not beside a steaming pool hidden from the world.
But in a hospital corridor.
The contrast was almost absurd.
White walls. Polished floors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic. Nurses moving with brisk efficiency, their uniforms immaculate.
And there she was—composed, professional, entirely at ease in a world that now feels… smaller than she deserves.
“Dr. Chase,” she said, as though we had not shared something far removed from this place.
“Nurse Meaner,” I replied.
A pause.
Then, softer: “Andrea.”
She glanced around—habit, caution—and allowed herself the smallest smile.
“You’re adjusting well,” I said.
“Am I?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m hiding it better than I thought.”
We walked together for a short while, speaking of ordinary things—patients, schedules, the mundane structure of daily life.
But beneath it—
Something unspoken.
Unresolved.
At the end of the corridor, she stopped.
“We can’t be the same here,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to be strangers.”
“No,” I agreed.
It was not a resolution.
But it was… something.
23rd December, 1926
A letter arrived this morning.
From Edmund Dash.
Of course.
It was written in his usual tone—measured, authoritative, and utterly devoid of apology.
He has already begun presenting preliminary findings to select audiences. Carefully curated, of course. His name prominently attached.
No mention of the full expedition.
No mention of those who remained.
No mention of how he came by the data.
I should be surprised.
I am not.
What concerns me more is what he did include.
References to “indications of prior human presence across multiple environments.”
A suggestion—subtle, but deliberate—that the Gates may connect not merely places, but timelines of human development.
He is shaping the narrative.
And doing so without us.
24th December, 1926
The Society convened this evening.
A smaller gathering than usual, though the core members were present. Brighton, looking more weary than I remember. Alexandros, impatient as ever. Winfield, already speculating on future expeditions despite the financial strain.
The mood was… restrained.
We are all thinking the same thing.
When do we go back?
Brighton spoke of progress—funding inquiries, potential investors, renewed interest following preliminary reports (no doubt aided by Dash’s activities, however misrepresented).
“It will take time,” he said.
Time.
That word again.
We have seen what lies beyond.
Time feels… insufficient.
26th December, 1926
I cannot shake the memory of that figure.
Not the fear of it.
The recognition.
It was not a beast.
Not an unknown creature of the jungle.
It was… a man.
Or something close enough to unsettle the distinction.
Which raises the question I find myself returning to again and again:
If we found our way there—
Who else has?
And more importantly—
Who stayed?
28th December, 1926
Andrea and I met again.
Not by accident this time.
A small café, tucked away from the busier streets. Neutral ground.
She was less guarded there.
Or perhaps simply less required to be otherwise.
“We’re pretending,” she said after a while.
“Yes,” I replied.
“At being ordinary.”
“Yes.”
She stirred her tea absently. “Do you think we can keep doing that?”
“For a time.”
“And after that?”
I considered the question.
“The Society will go back,” I said. “You know that.”
“Yes.”
“And when it does…”
She looked at me.
“And when it does?” she prompted.
“We won’t be the same people who left,” I said.
A quiet moment passed between us.
Then she smiled—not the restrained version she offers the world, but something warmer. Familiar.
“Good,” she said.
31st December, 1926
The year closes.
A year ago, the idea of stepping into another world would have been dismissed as fantasy.
Now it is memory.
And promise.
The Hermes Society waits.
The Gates wait.
And somewhere beyond them—
A jungle still stands.
A camp long abandoned.
A grave marked in stone.
And a figure in the trees who saw us—
And ran.
We will return.
Of that, I am certain.
London
17th December, 1926
London continues as though nothing has changed.
That is, perhaps, the strangest part of all this.
Omnibuses rattle along the streets. Patients fill waiting rooms with their familiar ailments. The newspapers concern themselves with politics, trade, and the small, cyclical dramas of a world that believes itself complete.
And yet—
I have stood in a place untouched by any of it.
I have seen a sky through leaves that no map records.
I have looked into the eyes of something that should not exist.
And now I am expected to return to stitching minor wounds and prescribing tonics as though that world were no more than a dream.
It is… difficult.
19th December, 1926
The Hermes Society has dispersed, at least outwardly.
For most, it has returned to its role as an intellectual curiosity—meetings in quiet rooms, papers exchanged, discussions held over brandy and lamplight.
But beneath that façade, something has changed.
We are no longer theorists.
We are witnesses.
Correspondence continues, of course. Letters pass between members—coded in tone if not in content. Discoveries are referenced obliquely. Questions linger between the lines.
No one speaks plainly of the jungle.
Not yet.
21st December, 1926
I saw Andrea today.
Not in a jungle. Not beside a steaming pool hidden from the world.
But in a hospital corridor.
The contrast was almost absurd.
White walls. Polished floors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic. Nurses moving with brisk efficiency, their uniforms immaculate.
And there she was—composed, professional, entirely at ease in a world that now feels… smaller than she deserves.
“Dr. Chase,” she said, as though we had not shared something far removed from this place.
“Nurse Meaner,” I replied.
A pause.
Then, softer: “Andrea.”
She glanced around—habit, caution—and allowed herself the smallest smile.
“You’re adjusting well,” I said.
“Am I?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m hiding it better than I thought.”
We walked together for a short while, speaking of ordinary things—patients, schedules, the mundane structure of daily life.
But beneath it—
Something unspoken.
Unresolved.
At the end of the corridor, she stopped.
“We can’t be the same here,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to be strangers.”
“No,” I agreed.
It was not a resolution.
But it was… something.
23rd December, 1926
A letter arrived this morning.
From Edmund Dash.
Of course.
It was written in his usual tone—measured, authoritative, and utterly devoid of apology.
He has already begun presenting preliminary findings to select audiences. Carefully curated, of course. His name prominently attached.
No mention of the full expedition.
No mention of those who remained.
No mention of how he came by the data.
I should be surprised.
I am not.
What concerns me more is what he did include.
References to “indications of prior human presence across multiple environments.”
A suggestion—subtle, but deliberate—that the Gates may connect not merely places, but timelines of human development.
He is shaping the narrative.
And doing so without us.
24th December, 1926
The Society convened this evening.
A smaller gathering than usual, though the core members were present. Brighton, looking more weary than I remember. Alexandros, impatient as ever. Winfield, already speculating on future expeditions despite the financial strain.
The mood was… restrained.
We are all thinking the same thing.
When do we go back?
Brighton spoke of progress—funding inquiries, potential investors, renewed interest following preliminary reports (no doubt aided by Dash’s activities, however misrepresented).
“It will take time,” he said.
Time.
That word again.
We have seen what lies beyond.
Time feels… insufficient.
26th December, 1926
I cannot shake the memory of that figure.
Not the fear of it.
The recognition.
It was not a beast.
Not an unknown creature of the jungle.
It was… a man.
Or something close enough to unsettle the distinction.
Which raises the question I find myself returning to again and again:
If we found our way there—
Who else has?
And more importantly—
Who stayed?
28th December, 1926
Andrea and I met again.
Not by accident this time.
A small café, tucked away from the busier streets. Neutral ground.
She was less guarded there.
Or perhaps simply less required to be otherwise.
“We’re pretending,” she said after a while.
“Yes,” I replied.
“At being ordinary.”
“Yes.”
She stirred her tea absently. “Do you think we can keep doing that?”
“For a time.”
“And after that?”
I considered the question.
“The Society will go back,” I said. “You know that.”
“Yes.”
“And when it does…”
She looked at me.
“And when it does?” she prompted.
“We won’t be the same people who left,” I said.
A quiet moment passed between us.
Then she smiled—not the restrained version she offers the world, but something warmer. Familiar.
“Good,” she said.
31st December, 1926
The year closes.
A year ago, the idea of stepping into another world would have been dismissed as fantasy.
Now it is memory.
And promise.
The Hermes Society waits.
The Gates wait.
And somewhere beyond them—
A jungle still stands.
A camp long abandoned.
A grave marked in stone.
And a figure in the trees who saw us—
And ran.
We will return.
Of that, I am certain.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 604
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
Morning light crept reluctantly through the thin curtains of Nathaniel Chase’s flat, turning the edges of everything a pale, wintry gold. London was already awake beyond the glass—distant carriage wheels, the low murmur of voices, the steady pulse of a city that neither knew nor cared what lay beyond its world.
Nate sat at the small table by the window, a cup of tea cooling at his elbow, a slice of toast forgotten in his hand. He had a medical journal open before him, though he had not turned a page in several minutes.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
They had been, more often than not, since the jungle.
A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness.
“Post!”
Nate rose, crossed the room, and opened it just long enough to take the small bundle of letters before shutting the cold out again. He flipped through them absently—bills, notices, a handwritten note from a colleague—
Then paused.
The envelope was heavier than the others. Cream paper. Wax seal, pressed with the insignia of the Society.
He frowned.
Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter inside.
An invitation.
An extraordinary meeting of the Hermes Society Council.
Location: Oxford University.
Host: Dr. Harold Brighton.
Signed—
Nate’s eyes narrowed.
Edmund Dash.
“Of course it is,” he muttered.
He read it again, more carefully this time.
The tone was formal, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. Attendance strongly requested. Matters of significance to the future of the Society.
Nate set the paper down slowly.
Dash did nothing without purpose.
And whatever that purpose was—
Nate doubted it would be simple.
He drained his tea in one swallow, already thinking ahead.
If Dash was convening the Council, then something had shifted.
And Nate intended to be ready for it.
Oxford carried a different weight than London.
Older. Quieter. The kind of place where decisions felt as though they echoed longer.
The chamber Brighton had secured lay within one of the older buildings—high-ceilinged, wood-panelled, the air faintly scented with polish and age. Tall windows admitted a cold, grey light that pooled across the long table at its centre.
By the time Nate arrived, several members were already present.
Alexandros stood near the far wall, arms folded, expression sceptical. He gave Nate a brief nod as he entered.
“Summoned like schoolboys,” he muttered. “I do not like it.”
“Nor do I,” Nate replied.
Across the room, Professor Winfield spoke quietly with Brighton, the latter looking as though he had slept very little in recent days.
And at the head of the table—
Dash.
Composed. Immaculate. Entirely in control.
He inclined his head slightly as Nate approached. “Dr. Chase. I’m pleased you could attend.”
“I imagine you would have been more pleased had I not,” Nate said evenly.
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—touched Dash’s expression.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Your presence ensures a… lively discussion.”
Nate took his seat without replying.
He would not be drawn—not yet.
The meeting began once all were assembled.
Brighton offered a brief introduction, his tone measured but strained. “Thank you all for attending at such short notice. I will defer to Dr. Dash, who has been… instrumental in arranging this gathering.”
A ripple of curiosity moved through the room.
Dash rose smoothly.
“Colleagues,” he began, his voice calm, assured. “In the weeks since our return, it has become abundantly clear that the work of the Hermes Society cannot simply resume its former pace.”
No one disagreed.
“We stand,” he continued, “on the threshold of discoveries that could redefine not merely medicine, but our understanding of human development across—” he paused, just briefly, “—multiple worlds.”
Nate watched him carefully.
Dash was a skilled speaker. That had never been in doubt.
What had changed was the audience.
“And yet,” Dash said, “we have been constrained. Financially. Logistically. Structurally.”
A glance toward Brighton, who inclined his head.
“I have taken it upon myself,” Dash went on, “to address those constraints.”
There it was.
Nate felt Alexandros shift beside him.
Dash turned slightly, gesturing toward the doors at the rear of the chamber.
“They have travelled a considerable distance to be here. Gentlemen—if you would.”
The doors opened.
Three men entered—well-dressed, precise in their movements, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of those accustomed to influence.
“Representatives of Merick & Co.,” Dash said. “A pharmaceutical concern of considerable standing in the United States.”
The effect was immediate.
Interest sharpened across the room.
One of the men stepped forward, offering a polite nod. “We’ve been following certain… developments with great interest.”
Dash resumed. “Merick & Co. have expressed a willingness to support further expeditions. Not only a return through the Scottish Gate—”
A stir.
“—but the investigation of a second potential site. In Ethiopia. Near the source of the White Nile.”
That did it.
Voices rose—surprised, excited.
“A second gate—?”
“If it’s viable—”
“The implications—”
Brighton himself looked momentarily overwhelmed.
Nate did not speak.
He watched.
Dash continued, allowing the reaction to crest before guiding it. “This partnership would provide the Society with resources we have never before possessed. Equipment, personnel, sustained funding.”
One by one, the Council members began to respond—questions, expressions of enthusiasm, even outright praise.
“Well done, Dash—”
“Extraordinary initiative—”
“You may have secured the Society’s future—”
Dash accepted it all with measured humility.
But Nate noticed something.
The way Dash turned, slightly, when addressing the representatives.
The subtle shift in tone.
Deferential.
Careful.
Not the commanding presence he showed the Council—but something… tempered.
And that, more than anything else, set Nate’s teeth on edge.
When the initial fervour began to settle, Nate spoke.
“Generous,” he said.
The word cut cleanly through the room.
All eyes turned.
Dash’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad you see it that way.”
“I didn’t say I did,” Nate replied.
A murmur.
He leaned forward slightly. “Corporate backing on this scale is not… casual. What, precisely, are Merick & Co. expecting in return?”
The representative closest to Dash smiled politely. “Access. Collaboration. The opportunity to assist in developing applications from your findings.”
“Applications,” Nate repeated.
Dash’s voice sharpened. “Dr. Chase, if you have a point—”
“I do,” Nate said. “We are explorers. Researchers. Not a supply line.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Dash’s composure cracked—just slightly.
“You are suggesting impropriety where there is none,” he said.
“I am asking what you have agreed to,” Nate replied.
Silence.
Then—
“You are undermining this Society,” Dash snapped, the restraint gone now. “At a moment when it stands on the brink of unprecedented advancement.”
“I’m ensuring we understand the cost of it.”
“The cost?” Dash laughed, sharp and humourless. “The cost is relevance, Dr. Chase. Without this, we fade back into obscurity while others seize the opportunity we discovered.”
Nate held his ground. “Better that than surrender control of it.”
“That is not what is happening.”
“Then explain it.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Dash might.
Instead, anger won.
“I will not be interrogated in this manner,” he said coldly. “Not by someone who has shown consistent resistance to progress.”
A beat.
“Perhaps,” Dash continued, voice tightening further, “it would be best if your involvement with the Society were reconsidered.”
The words hung in the air.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Alexandros was on his feet before Nate could respond. “You do not have that authority,” he said, fury barely contained.
“Nor would we grant it,” Professor Winfield added firmly from across the table. “Removal of a member requires Council consensus. You know this.”
Dash’s gaze flicked between them, calculating.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
Then—
He exhaled.
The anger did not vanish, but it was forced back behind control.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us not descend into procedural debate.”
He looked to Winfield.
“Then I suggest you ensure Dr. Chase’s… impulses are kept in check.”
Winfield’s expression hardened. “He requires no such management.”
Dash’s lip curled faintly.
“Perhaps not by you,” he said.
Then, with a thin, cutting edge: “Though I imagine that pet nurse of his might prove more effective.”
The words landed like a slap.
Silence.
Cold. Absolute.
Alexandros took a step forward.
Nate did not.
He simply looked at Dash.
And in that moment, whatever tentative reconsideration had begun to form earlier—
Died completely.
The room did not erupt.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.
And this time—
It would not settle quietly.
Nate sat at the small table by the window, a cup of tea cooling at his elbow, a slice of toast forgotten in his hand. He had a medical journal open before him, though he had not turned a page in several minutes.
His thoughts were elsewhere.
They had been, more often than not, since the jungle.
A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness.
“Post!”
Nate rose, crossed the room, and opened it just long enough to take the small bundle of letters before shutting the cold out again. He flipped through them absently—bills, notices, a handwritten note from a colleague—
Then paused.
The envelope was heavier than the others. Cream paper. Wax seal, pressed with the insignia of the Society.
He frowned.
Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter inside.
An invitation.
An extraordinary meeting of the Hermes Society Council.
Location: Oxford University.
Host: Dr. Harold Brighton.
Signed—
Nate’s eyes narrowed.
Edmund Dash.
“Of course it is,” he muttered.
He read it again, more carefully this time.
The tone was formal, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. Attendance strongly requested. Matters of significance to the future of the Society.
Nate set the paper down slowly.
Dash did nothing without purpose.
And whatever that purpose was—
Nate doubted it would be simple.
He drained his tea in one swallow, already thinking ahead.
If Dash was convening the Council, then something had shifted.
And Nate intended to be ready for it.
Oxford carried a different weight than London.
Older. Quieter. The kind of place where decisions felt as though they echoed longer.
The chamber Brighton had secured lay within one of the older buildings—high-ceilinged, wood-panelled, the air faintly scented with polish and age. Tall windows admitted a cold, grey light that pooled across the long table at its centre.
By the time Nate arrived, several members were already present.
Alexandros stood near the far wall, arms folded, expression sceptical. He gave Nate a brief nod as he entered.
“Summoned like schoolboys,” he muttered. “I do not like it.”
“Nor do I,” Nate replied.
Across the room, Professor Winfield spoke quietly with Brighton, the latter looking as though he had slept very little in recent days.
And at the head of the table—
Dash.
Composed. Immaculate. Entirely in control.
He inclined his head slightly as Nate approached. “Dr. Chase. I’m pleased you could attend.”
“I imagine you would have been more pleased had I not,” Nate said evenly.
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—touched Dash’s expression.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Your presence ensures a… lively discussion.”
Nate took his seat without replying.
He would not be drawn—not yet.
The meeting began once all were assembled.
Brighton offered a brief introduction, his tone measured but strained. “Thank you all for attending at such short notice. I will defer to Dr. Dash, who has been… instrumental in arranging this gathering.”
A ripple of curiosity moved through the room.
Dash rose smoothly.
“Colleagues,” he began, his voice calm, assured. “In the weeks since our return, it has become abundantly clear that the work of the Hermes Society cannot simply resume its former pace.”
No one disagreed.
“We stand,” he continued, “on the threshold of discoveries that could redefine not merely medicine, but our understanding of human development across—” he paused, just briefly, “—multiple worlds.”
Nate watched him carefully.
Dash was a skilled speaker. That had never been in doubt.
What had changed was the audience.
“And yet,” Dash said, “we have been constrained. Financially. Logistically. Structurally.”
A glance toward Brighton, who inclined his head.
“I have taken it upon myself,” Dash went on, “to address those constraints.”
There it was.
Nate felt Alexandros shift beside him.
Dash turned slightly, gesturing toward the doors at the rear of the chamber.
“They have travelled a considerable distance to be here. Gentlemen—if you would.”
The doors opened.
Three men entered—well-dressed, precise in their movements, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of those accustomed to influence.
“Representatives of Merick & Co.,” Dash said. “A pharmaceutical concern of considerable standing in the United States.”
The effect was immediate.
Interest sharpened across the room.
One of the men stepped forward, offering a polite nod. “We’ve been following certain… developments with great interest.”
Dash resumed. “Merick & Co. have expressed a willingness to support further expeditions. Not only a return through the Scottish Gate—”
A stir.
“—but the investigation of a second potential site. In Ethiopia. Near the source of the White Nile.”
That did it.
Voices rose—surprised, excited.
“A second gate—?”
“If it’s viable—”
“The implications—”
Brighton himself looked momentarily overwhelmed.
Nate did not speak.
He watched.
Dash continued, allowing the reaction to crest before guiding it. “This partnership would provide the Society with resources we have never before possessed. Equipment, personnel, sustained funding.”
One by one, the Council members began to respond—questions, expressions of enthusiasm, even outright praise.
“Well done, Dash—”
“Extraordinary initiative—”
“You may have secured the Society’s future—”
Dash accepted it all with measured humility.
But Nate noticed something.
The way Dash turned, slightly, when addressing the representatives.
The subtle shift in tone.
Deferential.
Careful.
Not the commanding presence he showed the Council—but something… tempered.
And that, more than anything else, set Nate’s teeth on edge.
When the initial fervour began to settle, Nate spoke.
“Generous,” he said.
The word cut cleanly through the room.
All eyes turned.
Dash’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad you see it that way.”
“I didn’t say I did,” Nate replied.
A murmur.
He leaned forward slightly. “Corporate backing on this scale is not… casual. What, precisely, are Merick & Co. expecting in return?”
The representative closest to Dash smiled politely. “Access. Collaboration. The opportunity to assist in developing applications from your findings.”
“Applications,” Nate repeated.
Dash’s voice sharpened. “Dr. Chase, if you have a point—”
“I do,” Nate said. “We are explorers. Researchers. Not a supply line.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Dash’s composure cracked—just slightly.
“You are suggesting impropriety where there is none,” he said.
“I am asking what you have agreed to,” Nate replied.
Silence.
Then—
“You are undermining this Society,” Dash snapped, the restraint gone now. “At a moment when it stands on the brink of unprecedented advancement.”
“I’m ensuring we understand the cost of it.”
“The cost?” Dash laughed, sharp and humourless. “The cost is relevance, Dr. Chase. Without this, we fade back into obscurity while others seize the opportunity we discovered.”
Nate held his ground. “Better that than surrender control of it.”
“That is not what is happening.”
“Then explain it.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Dash might.
Instead, anger won.
“I will not be interrogated in this manner,” he said coldly. “Not by someone who has shown consistent resistance to progress.”
A beat.
“Perhaps,” Dash continued, voice tightening further, “it would be best if your involvement with the Society were reconsidered.”
The words hung in the air.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Alexandros was on his feet before Nate could respond. “You do not have that authority,” he said, fury barely contained.
“Nor would we grant it,” Professor Winfield added firmly from across the table. “Removal of a member requires Council consensus. You know this.”
Dash’s gaze flicked between them, calculating.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
Then—
He exhaled.
The anger did not vanish, but it was forced back behind control.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us not descend into procedural debate.”
He looked to Winfield.
“Then I suggest you ensure Dr. Chase’s… impulses are kept in check.”
Winfield’s expression hardened. “He requires no such management.”
Dash’s lip curled faintly.
“Perhaps not by you,” he said.
Then, with a thin, cutting edge: “Though I imagine that pet nurse of his might prove more effective.”
The words landed like a slap.
Silence.
Cold. Absolute.
Alexandros took a step forward.
Nate did not.
He simply looked at Dash.
And in that moment, whatever tentative reconsideration had begun to form earlier—
Died completely.
The room did not erupt.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.
And this time—
It would not settle quietly.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 604
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: The Hermes Society
The silence in the chamber did not last.
It broke—not in a shout, but in a sharp intake of breath, the kind that ripples outward and becomes something larger.
Alexandros moved first.
“You will apologise,” he said, each word measured, but edged with unmistakable fury.
Edmund Dash did not flinch. “I will do no such thing.”
“Then you will find yourself alone in this room,” Alexandros shot back. “Because I, for one, will not sit at a table where colleagues are spoken of as property.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you implied.”
Professor Winfield rose more slowly, but his presence carried equal weight. “This has gone far enough.”
The representatives from Merick & Co. had withdrawn slightly, watching now with polite detachment—their earlier enthusiasm tempered by the fracture opening before them.
Brighton looked stricken, caught between authority and collapse. “Gentlemen—please—”
Nate had not moved.
He stood where he was, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, his expression unreadable. That, more than Alexandros’ anger, seemed to give Dash pause.
“Dr. Chase,” Dash said, forcing composure back into his voice, “surely you do not intend to let this… derail matters of far greater importance.”
Nate met his gaze.
“You’ve already done that,” he said quietly.
There was no raised voice. No theatrical anger.
Just certainty.
It carried further than any outburst could have.
Dash’s jaw tightened. “You mistake personal sensitivity for principle.”
“And you mistake control for leadership.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Nate straightened, finally stepping forward—not aggressively, but with intent.
“You’ve secured funding,” he said. “That matters. I won’t deny it.”
Dash blinked, just slightly—caught off guard.
“But you don’t get to decide who here is worth less than the rest of us,” Nate continued. “Not in this room. Not in this Society.”
Silence again.
Different this time.
Winfield nodded once. “Well said.”
Alexandros folded his arms, still bristling, but no longer advancing.
Dash looked around the table—measuring, recalculating. The balance had shifted. Not entirely away from him, but no longer entirely in his favour.
At last, he exhaled.
“…Very well,” he said. “Let us return to the matter at hand.”
It was not an apology.
But it was a retreat.
And everyone in the room knew it.
The meeting resumed, though the tone had changed.
Where there had been excitement, there was now caution. Questions sharpened. Assurances were requested, and not always accepted at face value.
The representatives from Merick & Co. remained composed throughout, offering careful answers, emphasising partnership, mutual benefit, shared advancement.
But Nate noticed how often they deferred to Dash.
And how often Dash, in turn, chose his words more carefully when addressing them than he ever had with his own colleagues.
By the time the meeting adjourned, nothing had been formally decided.
But everything had, in a sense, already been set in motion.
That evening, London felt colder than usual.
Nate found her where he expected he might.
A quieter ward, late in the day. Fewer patients. Fewer eyes.
Andrea stood by a window, reviewing notes, her posture as composed as ever.
She did not turn when he approached.
“I heard,” she said.
Of course she had.
Nate stopped a few paces behind her. “I’m sorry.”
That made her turn.
“For what?” she asked.
“For letting him—”
“Finish that sentence carefully,” she said, though there was no real bite in it.
He held her gaze. “For not stopping it before he said it.”
A pause.
Then, softer: “That wasn’t yours to stop.”
“No,” he admitted. “But it was mine to answer.”
“And you did.”
Something in her expression shifted—not quite anger, not quite relief.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” she added.
“Neither should you.”
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
“He thinks I’m something you can use,” she said eventually. “A lever.”
Nate’s jaw tightened. “He’s wrong.”
“I know,” she said. Then, after a beat: “Do you?”
He frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, stepping closer now, “that you have a habit of deciding what battles to fight without asking who else gets pulled into them.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
Another step closer.
“But it’s not entirely untrue either.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because he couldn’t.
Andrea studied him for a moment, then sighed—quietly.
“I’m not angry,” she said. “Not at you.”
“Good,” he said, though it came out more uncertain than he intended.
“I am,” she continued, “very interested in making sure he’s never given the chance to speak about me like that again.”
Nate let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “We agree on that.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
Closer now than they had been all day.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said.
“No.”
“It complicates things.”
“Yes.”
A flicker of a smile.
“We seem to be good at that.”
He returned it, faintly.
Then she reached for him—not hesitantly, not cautiously, but with quiet certainty.
And whatever the world outside that corridor demanded of them—
For that moment, it didn’t matter.
The following days made it clear that the meeting had not been an isolated event.
Representatives from Merick & Co. remained in England.
Meetings multiplied.
Private ones.
Selective ones.
Nate attended two.
That was enough.
They asked the right questions—on the surface.
Extraction methods. Preservation techniques. Scalability.
But beneath those—
“How quickly can specimens be stabilised for transport?”
“What protocols are in place for exclusive handling?”
“Would field discoveries be documented centrally—or… curated?”
Curated.
An interesting choice of word.
More troubling still was their growing interest in personnel.
“Your nurse,” one of them said during a smaller discussion, tone casual. “Miss Meaner, is it? Her observational notes were… remarkably thorough.”
Nate’s expression cooled. “She’s not available for recruitment.”
“Of course not,” the man replied smoothly. “Merely an observation.”
Of course.
Preparations for the second expedition began in earnest.
New equipment.
Expanded teams.
Formal structures where there had once been improvisation.
And contracts.
Always contracts.
Brighton tried to maintain balance—ensuring the Society retained oversight.
Winfield pushed for academic integrity.
Alexandros watched everything with growing suspicion.
And Dash—
Dash stood at the centre of it all, orchestrating, negotiating, presenting.
Building something larger than the Society had ever been.
Whether it would still belong to them by the end of it—
Remained an open question.
One Nate intended to answer.
Before they stepped through another Gate.
It broke—not in a shout, but in a sharp intake of breath, the kind that ripples outward and becomes something larger.
Alexandros moved first.
“You will apologise,” he said, each word measured, but edged with unmistakable fury.
Edmund Dash did not flinch. “I will do no such thing.”
“Then you will find yourself alone in this room,” Alexandros shot back. “Because I, for one, will not sit at a table where colleagues are spoken of as property.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you implied.”
Professor Winfield rose more slowly, but his presence carried equal weight. “This has gone far enough.”
The representatives from Merick & Co. had withdrawn slightly, watching now with polite detachment—their earlier enthusiasm tempered by the fracture opening before them.
Brighton looked stricken, caught between authority and collapse. “Gentlemen—please—”
Nate had not moved.
He stood where he was, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, his expression unreadable. That, more than Alexandros’ anger, seemed to give Dash pause.
“Dr. Chase,” Dash said, forcing composure back into his voice, “surely you do not intend to let this… derail matters of far greater importance.”
Nate met his gaze.
“You’ve already done that,” he said quietly.
There was no raised voice. No theatrical anger.
Just certainty.
It carried further than any outburst could have.
Dash’s jaw tightened. “You mistake personal sensitivity for principle.”
“And you mistake control for leadership.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Nate straightened, finally stepping forward—not aggressively, but with intent.
“You’ve secured funding,” he said. “That matters. I won’t deny it.”
Dash blinked, just slightly—caught off guard.
“But you don’t get to decide who here is worth less than the rest of us,” Nate continued. “Not in this room. Not in this Society.”
Silence again.
Different this time.
Winfield nodded once. “Well said.”
Alexandros folded his arms, still bristling, but no longer advancing.
Dash looked around the table—measuring, recalculating. The balance had shifted. Not entirely away from him, but no longer entirely in his favour.
At last, he exhaled.
“…Very well,” he said. “Let us return to the matter at hand.”
It was not an apology.
But it was a retreat.
And everyone in the room knew it.
The meeting resumed, though the tone had changed.
Where there had been excitement, there was now caution. Questions sharpened. Assurances were requested, and not always accepted at face value.
The representatives from Merick & Co. remained composed throughout, offering careful answers, emphasising partnership, mutual benefit, shared advancement.
But Nate noticed how often they deferred to Dash.
And how often Dash, in turn, chose his words more carefully when addressing them than he ever had with his own colleagues.
By the time the meeting adjourned, nothing had been formally decided.
But everything had, in a sense, already been set in motion.
That evening, London felt colder than usual.
Nate found her where he expected he might.
A quieter ward, late in the day. Fewer patients. Fewer eyes.
Andrea stood by a window, reviewing notes, her posture as composed as ever.
She did not turn when he approached.
“I heard,” she said.
Of course she had.
Nate stopped a few paces behind her. “I’m sorry.”
That made her turn.
“For what?” she asked.
“For letting him—”
“Finish that sentence carefully,” she said, though there was no real bite in it.
He held her gaze. “For not stopping it before he said it.”
A pause.
Then, softer: “That wasn’t yours to stop.”
“No,” he admitted. “But it was mine to answer.”
“And you did.”
Something in her expression shifted—not quite anger, not quite relief.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” she added.
“Neither should you.”
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
“He thinks I’m something you can use,” she said eventually. “A lever.”
Nate’s jaw tightened. “He’s wrong.”
“I know,” she said. Then, after a beat: “Do you?”
He frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, stepping closer now, “that you have a habit of deciding what battles to fight without asking who else gets pulled into them.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
Another step closer.
“But it’s not entirely untrue either.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because he couldn’t.
Andrea studied him for a moment, then sighed—quietly.
“I’m not angry,” she said. “Not at you.”
“Good,” he said, though it came out more uncertain than he intended.
“I am,” she continued, “very interested in making sure he’s never given the chance to speak about me like that again.”
Nate let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “We agree on that.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
Closer now than they had been all day.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said.
“No.”
“It complicates things.”
“Yes.”
A flicker of a smile.
“We seem to be good at that.”
He returned it, faintly.
Then she reached for him—not hesitantly, not cautiously, but with quiet certainty.
And whatever the world outside that corridor demanded of them—
For that moment, it didn’t matter.
The following days made it clear that the meeting had not been an isolated event.
Representatives from Merick & Co. remained in England.
Meetings multiplied.
Private ones.
Selective ones.
Nate attended two.
That was enough.
They asked the right questions—on the surface.
Extraction methods. Preservation techniques. Scalability.
But beneath those—
“How quickly can specimens be stabilised for transport?”
“What protocols are in place for exclusive handling?”
“Would field discoveries be documented centrally—or… curated?”
Curated.
An interesting choice of word.
More troubling still was their growing interest in personnel.
“Your nurse,” one of them said during a smaller discussion, tone casual. “Miss Meaner, is it? Her observational notes were… remarkably thorough.”
Nate’s expression cooled. “She’s not available for recruitment.”
“Of course not,” the man replied smoothly. “Merely an observation.”
Of course.
Preparations for the second expedition began in earnest.
New equipment.
Expanded teams.
Formal structures where there had once been improvisation.
And contracts.
Always contracts.
Brighton tried to maintain balance—ensuring the Society retained oversight.
Winfield pushed for academic integrity.
Alexandros watched everything with growing suspicion.
And Dash—
Dash stood at the centre of it all, orchestrating, negotiating, presenting.
Building something larger than the Society had ever been.
Whether it would still belong to them by the end of it—
Remained an open question.
One Nate intended to answer.
Before they stepped through another Gate.