The correct response for a newly commissioned scholar, presented with the casual bon mot, ‘Welcome to the Society, Thorne! Don’t mind the occasional… *spontaneous human combustion*. Rather, do mind it, but try not to make a mess!’ on his inaugural morning, is, Elias Thorne finds, a question without a satisfactory answer.
Indeed, no such answer exists. Yet, fortunately, his new colleagues, a Mr. Abernathy and Miss Eleanor, seemed to expect little in the way of a coherent reply, smoothly pivoting to less existentially threatening discourse.
“In any case, congratulations, Thorne,” Abernathy boomed, a man whose physique suggested less a life of letters and more a career in some forgotten pugilistic art, “on successfully navigating the Initiatory Ordeal.”
*The Initiatory Ordeal.* Elias’s internal monologue, often a crisp, cynical whisper, noted the bluntness. One might imagine such a nomenclature would be reserved for clandestine cults, not the hallowed, albeit slightly dust-choked, halls of the Royal Anthropological Society.
“But is it true you were at the apex of your cohort?” Miss Eleanor, a woman of sharp intellect and sharper spectacles, chimed in, her tone a delicate balance of genuine admiration and professional curiosity. “Remarkable.”
“Come now, Thorne, don’t be shy,” Abernathy urged, leaning back in his creaking leather chair. “Tell us your secrets. Brag a little.”
Elias considered this. His preternatural insight, gleaned from the esoteric texts of a life not quite his own, a pulp horror novel in another existence, whispered that such details were precisely what *they* sought to gauge his utility. “Such accolades, Mr. Abernathy,” Elias replied, his voice carefully neutral, “are often simply a matter of knowing which questions to ask. Were brilliance alone the sole prerequisite, we would all be comfortably ensconced in tenured positions at the Royal Academy.”
“Still, it’s quite an accomplishment,” Miss Eleanor conceded, adjusting a stack of obscure ethnographies on her desk. “You’ll be an invaluable asset to the Sublunary Salvage Corps.”
Being deemed ‘top of the cohort’ did seem to possess its advantages. This particular department, though clearly burdened by an overwhelming caseload of the bizarre and the unnerving, apparently lacked the energy, or perhaps the inclination, for the usual hazing rituals that often accompanied new appointments. A small mercy, Elias mused, as he’d rather conserve his energies for the inevitable confrontation with the truly monstrous.
“Professor Cadwell, our esteemed Corps Leader, is currently on an extramural excursion,” Abernathy continued, gesturing vaguely towards the window, beyond which a perpetual London drizzle smeared the grimy panes. “Just make yourself comfortable for now, Thorne.”
Elias followed Abernathy’s instruction, navigating the narrow aisles between towering stacks of forgotten dossiers and peculiar ethnographic specimens. His allocated workspace lay within a partitioned area, a small island of four desks, clustered intimately. Adjacent, a surprisingly plush velvet settee beckoned, flanking a low mahogany coffee table. Perched upon it, a truly magnificent, if anachronistic, brass-and-walnut gramophone, its horn dulled by time, hinted at a forgotten era of auditory marvels, or perhaps, as Elias suspected, something far stranger.
Miss Eleanor and Abernathy returned to their respective desks, both indicating the settee with a nod. “Go on, make yourself at home.”
No sooner had Elias settled into the yielding cushions than the gramophone, without human intervention, whirred to life. A rasping static, like the grinding of unseen gears, preceded an abruptly cheerful, if slightly tinny, orchestral tune. Then, a remarkably high-pitched announcer’s voice, imbued with an artificial jollity, sliced through the gloom:
*“—Good morning, London! This is your daily update from the Wireless Telegraphy Exchange! Today’s thoroughfares are reported to be remarkably clear, much like the glorious azure skies above us!”*
Elias, with a practiced detachment, turned his head to glance at the window. The persistent drizzle outside continued unabated, a grey curtain against the city’s muted palette. The glaring disconnect between the broadcast and external reality was precisely what he expected. This particular contraption, he knew from his grim, second-hand lore, was an Aetheric Resonator. A folkloric aberration in its own right.
***
**Royal Anthropological Society / Liminal Artifact Registry**
**Artifact Designation:** Aetheric Resonator (Minor)
**RAS Identification Code:** Qtrw-E-63-Ldn
**Description:** A peculiar gramophone-like device that broadcasts peculiar, anachronistic “traffic reports.” These reports often offer portents of the day’s fortunes, or, more disturbingly, provide advice so unsettling it invariably precipitates ghastly consequences. Verified Liminal Classification: Aetheric Resonator (Minor).
***
“Did you catch that, Thorne?” Abernathy’s voice broke Elias’s reverie. The man was already by the coffee table, a large hand hovering over the gramophone’s controls. “Splendid! You’re sharper than the average freshman, I’ll grant you. Picked up on the peculiar broadcast rather quickly, didn’t you?” He flicked a switch, and the gramophone fell silent, the abrupt cessation of the cheerful tune leaving a noticeable void.
“This little contraption,” Abernathy explained, tapping the brass horn, “offers one’s daily fortune, gleaned from its rather unconventional traffic reports. A relatively benign vernacular haunting, mind you. Liminal Classification: Aetheric Resonator (Minor). Verified, of course.”
He paused, his gaze fixed on Elias. “Oh, I see that look! You’re thinking, ‘What on earth is a vernacular haunting, or a Liminal Classification, you pretentious academic?’” Abernathy chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting. “For the uninitiated, such as yourself, Thorne, we’ve prepared a rather illuminating primer. Behold!”
He produced from beneath his desk not a book, but a peculiar device of polished mahogany and brass, intricately fitted with lenses and glowing glass tubes. It was an ‘eidolon-projector,’ designed to display moving images. With a few deft adjustments and a soft hum, a kaleidoscopic pattern blossomed on the blank wall opposite, then resolved into a series of crudely charming, hand-drawn illustrations.
Cheerful, if somewhat distorted, orchestral music, reminiscent of a hastily composed theatrical overture, issued from the eidolon-projector’s own internal mechanisms. Two animated figures, a wise-looking Owl in a scholar’s cap and a coiled Serpent adorned with a monocle, bowed deeply, their stylised Victorian attire rendered with surprising detail.
*“To all new initiates, brimming with ambition and intellectual vigour! Welcome to the Sublunary Salvage Corps of the Royal Anthropological Society!”*
*“Today, esteemed colleagues, we shall elucidate, with the utmost clarity, the extraordinary undertakings of the Sublunary Salvage Corps!”*
An Owl and a Serpent. Elias catalogued the symbolism. Wisdom and cunning, yes, but also ominous harbingers of hidden depths and venomous truths. They smiled with disconcerting cheerfulness.
*“But before we delve into the thrilling particulars!”*
An overtly archaic, florid script materialized above the two animated figures:
**[What, precisely, is the Royal Anthropological Society?]**
“To the unenlightened masses, my dear Thorne,” Abernathy’s live commentary seamlessly overlay the film’s narration, “our esteemed Society is perceived as nothing more than a highly reputable academic institution, specializing in the study of obscure cultures and, naturally, the development of rather successful botanical remedies for various nervous complaints and ailments of the constitution.”
*“You believe our purview extends merely to exotic tinctures and harmless curiosities? Heavens, no! In truth, the Royal Anthropological Society is capable of fabricating any elixir or anodyne one could ever conceive!”*
*“A veritable arcane apothecary, crafting potions of impossible efficacy!”*
From potent tonics that quieted the most persistent opium cravings to ethereal elixirs promising a semblance of temporal immortality, the Society, the film revealed, meticulously brewed all manner of fantastical concoctions. These, it went on, were then discreetly exchanged with the uppermost echelons of society and the shrouded figures of political power. *This*, the film asserted, *was the true nature of the Royal Anthropological Society: a clandestine syndicate producing supernatural philtres.* A truth Elias already knew, yet still felt the cold caress of its impossible reality.
*“However,”* the Owl character winked, raising a clawed digit, *“magical potions, as any natural philosopher worth their salt knows, demand magical constituents.”*
*“That crucial constituent, dear friends, is… Numina Extract!”*
The words ‘Numina Extract’ shimmered into existence in bold, incandescent script, while on the screen, a shimmering, phosphorescent liquid swirled majestically. Hearts and stars, rendered in a deliberately whimsical fashion, erupted across the display, as if from a child’s storybook about benevolent magic. But its true essence, Elias knew, was anything but benign.
*“Numina Extract,”* the Serpent declared, its forked tongue flickering, *“is meticulously harvested from… supernatural phenomena!”*
The Owl extended a wing, and the scene transitioned. A charmingly rendered gas-lit London alleyway appeared, but then, scarlet eyes ignited in the deepest shadow beneath a flickering lamp, coalescing into a monstrous silhouette that menaced a terrified passerby. The animation then shifted, depicting, with exaggerated cartoon horror, a child’s doll, found nestled in an empty cradle, its porcelain eyes fixed with uncanny focus on the observer.
*“Did you perchance imagine that supernatural occurrences had ceased to trouble our modern, enlightened age?”*
*“The belief that speaking ill of the dead draws ill fortune, or that the perpetually ticking clock in a sealed room could steal one’s very soul… these are but quaint superstitions and mere vernacular hauntings!”*
*“But sometimes, dear colleagues, these very vernacular hauntings manifest as undeniable reality!”*
*Vernacular hauntings.* Elias acknowledged the euphemism. It certainly sounded less viscerally terrifying than ‘eldritch manifestation’ or ‘cosmic horror,’ a distinction he found rather characteristic of the Society’s disingenuous approach. And then, the true purpose, laid bare.
*“The Royal Anthropological Society, therefore, diligently manages these vernacular hauntings, collects the precious ‘Numina Extract’ they yield, and from it, crafts the wondrous magical potions that grant mankind’s deepest, most perilous desires!”*
*“Is ‘Numina Extract’ not the most vital resource for our revered Society, Serpent?”* the Owl inquired, tilting its head.
*“Indubitably, Owl! Our very existence hinges upon its constant procurement… But who, pray tell, shall undertake the perilous task of gathering this Numina Extract for us?”*
The Serpent coiled, its monocle glinting.
*“The courageous and sagacious Sublunary Salvage Corps, of course!”*
An animated sequence unfurled, depicting intrepid scholars in impeccably tailored suits and bowler hats, giving a collective thumbs-up, as they bravely navigated surreal landscapes where top-hatted gentlemen floated serenely above the Thames, and lampposts twisted into impossible geometries. The imagery was designed to be reassuring, but Elias saw through the thin veneer, observing the underlying terror it attempted to sanitise.
*“Thanks to the unwavering bravery and profound wisdom of the Sublunary Salvage Corps, the Numina Receptacles are once again brimming!”*
The screen then displayed a character, its brow thick with determined purpose, proudly hoisting an object in one hand. A portable, cylindrical apparatus of burnished brass and glass, marked with precise measurement lines. The Aetheric Condenser. The device for measuring the despair of the cosmos, Elias mused, packaged for academic consumption.