Rasputina couldn’t help but smile when she saw Leveticus and Alyce standing across the train platform from her. The two of them were made for each other, she thought, despite the wide difference in their ages. Very few people had been kind to Rasputina since her arrival in this City; the Guild was notoriously cruel to its convict labor. She reminded herself that she had resolved to repay those two for their kindness when she had the means.
She noted, too, the fresh-faced woman in the striking red cape that conversed with them. The sword and its beautiful scabbard at her hip drew Rasputina’s attention. The sight of it gave her a sudden chill down her spine, for reasons she couldn’t explain.
All around Rasputina, mining labour had gathered, waiting to board the train to Ridley Station where they would then depart for their respective work sites to begin their shifts in the mines. Their impoverished appearance contrasted with the opulence of Malifaux station. The facade that the richly ornate train station tried to sell to incomers bore little relation to Malifaux as these rugged laborers knew it.
Jostled out of her momentary distraction, Rasputina joined the flood of workers who climbed aboard the train. Unlike the cars which were reserved for privileged guests to Malifaux, the cars that serviced the labor class were bare and utilitarian, filled with hard wooden benches and steel floors. Rasputina took a seat by one of the windows and looked onto the platform as it emptied. Now cleared of all the dusty workers, the station returned to a sparkling icon of Malifaux’s riches.
Though impressive, she only considered the empty platform for a moment. Reaching into her coat, she drew out the small, leather-bound journal she had taken from Phillip Tombers’ body. Its worn pages were well-used. Worked into the leather on the cover were the words, "The Philosophy of Uncertainty". The meaning, if there was one, escaped her. In Phillip’s final days, she knew he had suffered from a madness. She took the phrase to be the product of an ailing mind and prepared herself for the likelihood of more as she opened the book.
Phillip Tombers was a graduate student. He had travelled to Malifaux, accompanying his professor, Doctor Heilin, as part of a research group pursuing a new field of study he referred to as “meta-anthropology.” Rasputina thumbed through the pages, which detailed his journey west by rail and his impressions of the City of Malifaux. His notes included finely detailed sketches of almost everything he encountered, from the most mundane objects, like the rail car he rode in, to the most fantastic, such as a brilliant rendering of The Breach.
She stopped flipping when she came upon the image she was looking for, and glanced furtively around to make sure no-one else was looking. The car was crowded, but each passenger might have been alone for all the interest they took in one another. She returned to the journal. Phillip had done an incredible job in capturing the structure on paper. It rose from a lake of black water with tall spires reaching toward the sky. The ruins looked like a dying spider on its back, its crooked legs held in a tight rictus. Phillip called the ruins Kythera, a name arising from Doctor Heilin’s final words. All about the sketch, in a swirling cloud of maddened letters, were inked the words “Til Gran Kythera Dow,” repeated over and over. Rasputina’s fingers brushed the page, feeling the indentations in the paper where his pen had scored the words over and over, the texture of his madness.
She whispered the words to herself with a sense of foreboding, as if they were the components of some ancient spell, “Til Gran Kythera Dow.” There was magic in this world, and despite her soft whisper those words hung heavy in the air. The miner sitting next to her shifted in his seat, pushing a few inches away from her.
The page opposite the drawing was crowded with words. As the train rattled beneath her, Rasputina read from the journal, curious for real information about Kythera, about her ultimate destination.
Rasputina didn’t know what she would find there. To her, it seemed that Phillip Tombers had a penchant for the dramatic. He also had an inclination for very detailed notes. The maps and diagrams that he penned in this book would lead her to that place. She gazed out to the east, lost in thought.
The train began to slow. Around her, the open plains became studded with small buildings as the engine made the approach to Ridley Station. With its dilapidated structures surrounded by wilderness, the place couldn’t be more different to Malifaux Station. As for what lay beyond, on the way to Kythera, she could not begin to imagine.