When I regained consciousness, I instantly regretted it. A veritable horde of strangers clustered around me and stared as though I had a vase of flowers for a nose and they were trying to decide if they smelled good or well. Given their appearances, I found their staring rather unfair. Half of the men wore top hats adorned with cogs and gears and wire; half of the women had extravagant head pieces decorated in much the same way but with additional lace and feathers. Gears, glass, and leather combined into every form of monocle or goggles imaginable and more. From what I could see from my supine position, their clothes consisted of leather, silk and brass reinventions of the 19th century. It seemed somewhat unreasonable that they should stare at me.
"Hush now, he's coming around." I recognized the voice as that of the man who snatched me out of the sewers. "Well, sir. how are you feeling?"
"Where am I and who are all of you?!" I demanded, or rather attempted to demand but really whimpered dazedly.
"You see!?" a tall, black haired woman (successfully) demanded of my rescuer, "I told you that he wasn't in the guild. No proper member would have wandered blindly into the STORM and then fainted. You should never have brought him here!"
"Oh come now, Ivy. Have a heart. Would you have us choose secrecy over humanity? Besides, I would like to point out that the sewers are dark and he's wearing a frock coat, so don't blame me for not noticing he was an E-Worlder."
As he spoke, I struggled to my feet and took a better look around me. The majority of men did in fact wear frock coats, though theirs had the elaborate designs and augmentations that seemed to characterize the party. Mine, in contrast, seemed a barren desert of black. The room itself was wrapped in heavy curtains and illuminated by gas lamps. I say gas lamps because I do not know a more appropriate term for the Bunsen burners protruding from the walls and spewing yellow flames toward the ceiling.
"Excuse me," I said, interrupting a rising debate between my rescuer and the woman called Ellen, "Could someone please answer me? What is going on?"
A rotund man with the largest, best curled mustache I had ever seen blustered forward.
"Good Lord, man. You're already in a pretty sticky position from what you've seen. The last thing you need is more information." He clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder. "It would be best for everyone involved if you just keep your ears and eyes shut."
"And your mouth as well," spat Ivy. The mustachioed man swiveled with surprising speed to face her.
"Miss Morphan, keep a civil tongue! Wanted or no, this man is our guest and should be treated as such. Now, sir, would you mind terribly standing in that corner and plugging your ears for a while? There you go. We'll retrieve you when we've decided."
"Decided wha-" he cut me off with a disparaging look and shoved me gently into the darkest corner of the room. Too lost to argue, I pressed my hands over my ears as the group of strangers commenced to bicker. "I can still hear you," I informed them. Silence, then the soft scuffling of feet followed, then silence once more. While I waited, I pondered my predicament. Just a handful of hours ago, I had been safe and sound, a bit put out by my dog chasing a raccoon through old sewers, but safe none the less. Now, I was staring at a curtain with my hands over my ears while the drivers of impossible vehicles decided something, likely my fate. The day had undoubtedly taken a turn for the worse.
I had nearly decided to eavesdrop on the conversation behind me when I heard feet once more and felt a solemn tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw the rotund gentleman, backed by a row of his grave faced fellows. He gestured for me to uncover my ears, which I hastily did. "Well, have you decided on whatever needed, um, deciding?" I asked lamely. Sweat beaded on my brow. Whatever they had discussed, it had involved me. The man fixed me with a gaze so penetrating that my hair stood on end.
"What do you think of my mustache?"
"Er, its, um, that is to say..."
"I want your honest opinion, nothing less."
"It's brilliant. You remind me of an old fashioned cartoon villain, in a good way. Now, why do you ask?"
As I spoke, the somber expressions lifted from the strangers surrounding me, giving way to satisfaction and relief. The rotund man grasped me on each arm and beamed beneath his mustache.
"Sir, we believe in all things flamboyant, grand, and nostalgic. We live in an anachronism that we have nurtured into greatness, all in the name of style."
"Like your... mustache?"
"Precisely! Welcome to the Guild!" He released my shoulders and transfered his mighty grasp to my hand, pumping it so hard that the rest of my body shook along with it. "The name's Farley, Orpheus Farley. If you have any questions about life here, feel free to ask someone else. I'll in all likelihood be damned busy." He at last released my hand and allowed the others to introduce themselves. Not quite knowing how to respond to this shift, I slipped into politeness.
"My name's Stanly Collins," the man who had saved me said, shaking my hand with a mercifully light grip, "Call me Stanly."
"It's a pleasure," I replied, "I should really thank you for getting me out of the tunnels."
"You needn't mention it. Just remember it." He tipped his top hat in a roguish salute and sauntered away.
"How do you do"s, "pleasure"s, and "nice to meet you"s tripped off my tongue in time with the welcomes, names, and nicknames. I suspect that a handful of overly excited greeters sneaked back into the throng to introduce themselves a second time. However, my memory quickly realized it was not up to the task of recording the mass of names and faces and subsequently took a nap. One woman managed to wake it up for a few moments.
"Relax; take a few deep breaths; I can guarantee you that if you keep a level head, your life will be just fine. I'm Eleanor Whit, by the way." I know that she did not introduce herself twice. She had no need to.
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