The Magnus Archives - RQ Network Feed Drop – Remnants Ep. 1  

Episode Date: July 15, 2024

This month we are featuring a feed drop of one of many incredible podcasts on the RQ Network: Remnants.  Remnants is a weekly, thrilling, dark fantasy, audio drama filled with mystery and has just launched on the RQ Network.   When we die, the remnants of us return to the First and Last Place. Our fate is decided by Sir and his new Apprentice, who read our remnants to determine whether they should be re-shelved or discarded. But what are the criteria? What happens to discarded souls? How are new lives for the re-shelved determined? And why, after untold stretches of existence, has Sir decided that he needs help to do it? Remnants explores the boundaries between right and wrong, examining humanity from its brightest and best to its darkest and most frightening, and all the grey in between. The Apprentice soon discovers that when we judge others, we often expose truths about ourselves. Remnants is from Eira Major the same brilliant creator behind the Spirit Box Radio and Not Quite Dead.  Introduction and outro by Anusia Battersby. Listen to Remnants on The Rusty Quill website, on Acast, or listen wherever you get your podcasts, or to learn more about Remnants check out its official website.  Credits: Written and Created by Eira Major   Content warnings:  - Coarse language - Implications of child neglect and endangerment - Descriptions of a fascist regime - Descriptions of violence - References to sex - Implications of murder  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Rusty Fears, our legendary horror writing competition is back. As with previous Rusty Fears competitions, seven winners will be chosen to have their stories performed, produced and published right here on the Magnus Archives feed. Choose a theme, write your story and submit your entry before the 14th of December 2025. To view the list of themes, find the submission form, and for T's and C's, go to RustyQuil.com forward slash fears. That's rusty quill.com forward slash fears.

Hey everyone, it's Anushabattersby here. Today, we are bringing you the very first episode of a brand new show launched on the RQ network, Remnants, which is created by Ira Major, the talented creator of multiple amazing shows, including Spirit Box Radio, and not quite dead. Remnants is a thrilling, dark fantasy audio drama, releasing weekly, and each new episode brings a new mystery and a new terrible choice. When we die, the remnants of us are left behind. Follow the apprentice as he sorts through these remnants to determine if they should be discarded or res shelved. But he has no criteria to make this choice. You can listen to more episodes of this series

by searching for remnants and audio drama wherever you listen to your podcasts, by clicking the link in the show notes below, or for more information, visit Hangingsloth Studios.com forward slash remnants or RustyQuil.com. Have fun and enjoy the episode. Look alive, would you? Huh? Didn't you hear the bell?

Oh, right. Of course. Sorry, sir. Sir? Make haste. I'd move your head if I were you. What? A box.

Your powers of observation. astound me. Aren't you going to look at it? Yeah, that would make sense, wouldn't it? I should hope so. Um, no label, no name nothing, just returned stamped on the side.

Well. Well, sir. Aren't you going to process it? The box, sir? Yes. Oh, I, uh, I suppose so, sir. Very good. Yeah, how exactly do you...

What do you normally do with boxes, dear apprentice open them sir indeed oh right this uh tea cup a porcelain tea cup right glad it didn't break when it fell of course it didn't all right well well sir aren't you going to process it oh yeah of course just what do i need to do to process it you have to read it. Read it? Yes. But it's a cap, sir?

Indeed. But if you don't read it, how will you know how to process it? I don't know, sir, but I can't just... Oh, sir? Oh, you've... Sir? Where did he go? Right, wonderful.

Now I just need to figure out how to read a teacup. Okay, let's have a look. Just an ordinary teacup. floral pattern around the side it's well used the inside is all stained only I don't think it's stained by tea there's I think it's paint

the residue of paint yeah it's sort of chalky on the nose interesting but it's a pretty nice tea cup on the bottom Royal Dalton oh well that's the only writing on it

so I wonder if I'm supposed to find a place in one of the shelves for it to go Look for a sign. Look for a sign. Oh, big gold arrow on the floor. Processing this way, how helpful? God. This place is huge.

Ah, another sign. Processing. Oh, bugger me. Comey. Hello? The box! A little girl watches children playing on the beach. A little girl watches children playing on the beach. She wants to join him but she won't.

She never does. She's just old enough now to notice that the other children laugh at her, and she doesn't like it. Instead, she sits with her father. He paints them, faceless renderings, barely more than stick figures. You will sell the paintings in town tomorrow for two centimes. Perveyors will haggle down the price. Painted by my daughter, Celine, her father will say. Celine can yet barely hold a paintbrush, but her father smears oil colours on her stubby fingers,

gums it into strands of her half-matted hair. See how she will dance for you, he says. Celine spins in her worn leather shoes. Patrons clap. They throw a centaur two to the cobbles at her feet. Two summers later, her father leans on his crutch. He tells those who ask him that he lost his leg on the man, Jude Land, Vildun.

He is grubby and red face from the brandy he drinks from a small flask, never seems to empty. This is my trade, he tells Celine, as he paints wobbly figures. I was once a great painter, but they broke my hands, you see, he tells her. She takes his hand. His fingers are twice as big as hers, his skin rough and loose around his bones. In her grip, he trembles. Come, he tells her, and he pats the lap of his still their leg. Come tell me what you see. Selene looks across the meadow they are sitting in. It is high summer, and they've come out to the countryside beyond St. Cyramere. Her father says they've come to escape the heat, but it feels just as hot to Celine out in the

fields, only there is even less to do here than in town. Last night they slept in the tumble-down cottage, and Celine lay awake listening to the trills of crickets and the low crackling of toads. There is a hot, sweet stink of cow dung on the breeze, wafting from the farmland beyond the meadow's edge. A farmer turns a brown corner of field with a teller made of bright new metal that flashes in the early sunlight of the morning. Celine's father takes a swig from his brandy

Celine lifts a paintbrush from the porcelain tiquet by her father's feet to her tongue to lick off the excess water before she dips it in the paint she swirls golden yellows into muted browns and swirls of grey an hour later when she turns the canvas to her father it holds a shoddy portrait his eyes glisten my sweet you see me he tells her he kisses her hair

sweet girl but this will never sell Selina's grown tall and willowy. She walks with her hands behind her back. She keeps her head down, a red hair hidden under a beige scarf. She left her father sleeping at his pitch, paintings tied to the railings with yarn and string. She walks half a step behind a woman with a large perambulator. The baby inside is fussing, emitting loud squawks every few seconds. The woman pushing the pram is a governess.

Her clothes are neat, black, plain, expensive but worn. Celine can see bending on the hem of the skirt and dotted lines down the jacket centre back where the seams have been let out a little. Town is busy. There was activity on the hills outside the main part of town at the remains of a Roman villa. For months, the wealthier saint Syrians have been torn between complaining about the dust and disruption and being excited about the knowledgeable and important men it's been bringing into town. The research has set up long tables on top of the ruins, preserving mosaic, and pottery, and hundreds of other artefacts.

Celine hopes that the crowds will mean more people will buy hers and her father's paintings. No longer a hand-fisted toddler muscaraging as a prodigy, Celine has long overtaken her father's creative pace. She has learned how to perfectly mimic its style, starry once passed off as Celine's anyway, and has been developing it into something better and more refined, incorporating more figures into the landscapes,

thinking more carefully of composition. They are selling more paintings, and though her father is pleased, Celine senses something uneasy in him about it. Where once he complimented her skills, he has become increasingly critical. His own hands are becoming unsteady. A week ago he threatened to tear Celine's paintings to shreds and start selling broken crockery from the old villa like everyone else, as they seem to be seeing so much better than they are.

It's not true though, and Celine knows it. The crockery paddlers are an oversaturated market. Erz and her father's paintings are selling the best they've ever sold. But still, it is barely enough for them to live. Salim thinks it's a wonder the researchers have any artefacts left to study at all given the amount she's seen being sold on the town streets, except she did for a fact that most of the crockery shards being sold there weren't legitimate. That didn't really matter though in Saline's opinion. The people buying the shards weren't experts or even particularly interested in the Romans at all.

They just wanted a little piece of the story to take home with them, so it didn't really matter if it was real, so long as they believed it was. In fact, Salim thought, it was probably better to sell these people fakes than the general article anyway. What good would a real bit of Roman pottery do sitting in the cabinet of some lady forgotten behind this week's fresh flowers. The governess stops to soothe the busing baby in its huge, ornate pram. Celine pads forwards, and with a deaf swish of the scalpel she uses to sharpen her pencils, severs the cords holding the governess's pocket in place. Celine slips the pocket into the folds of her dress and crosses the street, heading up towards the hills.

Once she's left her sufficiently behind, Celine settles behind a large rock and empties the contents of the governess's pocket onto the floor between her shoes. A silver rattle, a small sewing kit, an assortment of buttons, and a tiny coin purse. A few francs rattling inside. It's not much, but it's enough to buy bread for Salina and her father, and perhaps something sweet too. It's not a sensible use of money, but there will be more pockets to steal, and her father has seemed so tired for weeks. She takes the coins and the rattle and leaves the rest in the dirt and runs back into town. As Salina is a bakery, she notices a crowd is gathering near the town hall, something to do with the villa.

she supposes. The baker, eyes Selim with doubt as she approaches the counter and chooses a large round loaf and a small almond pastry, which, to the baker's surprise, she pays for in advance. She walks out with the goods under her arm. The crowd is still there. They've gathered around the edge of the market, as though some fancy new stall is set up in the hour or so since Selim was last there. But as Celine passes them, she realises that their tone is all wrong.

They're whispering fast. Some women are crying, anguishy veiled over downturned mouths. Celine wanders over, and as she does, curiously, the crowd begins to part. Many of the onlookers giving Celine strange and doleful looks. When finally she reaches the fence where her father has tied up her paintings to sell him, she sees him. He sat on the overturned crate he always sits on when he's selling their wares, but his posture is tumble down like an old cottage,

like the beams are rotten and the stones are falling in on themselves. His eyes are staring at Celine, but he's looking through her. At some scenes, Celine knows only the day. dead can see. When she takes his leathery hand between her own, the bread and pastry dropped and forgotten several feet behind her, her father's skin is beginning to cool. She thinks how strange that is on such a warm day. She realizes she'd never noticed before just how warm people are, how cold it is possible for them to become. Selene sways her weight from hip to hip, making a show her tapping her finger on her bottom lip, feigning consideration. A young

British military officer, examines the painting she has had the hotel's butler display on a small chaise. It's fairly small. A real collector would know that Monet usually worked out a much grander scale than this. The young man, Jules, whose hotel room Celine is standing in, very pretty and fancies himself an art enthusiast, but he incorrectly identified three paintings at the Louvre, so even if he is a true enthusiast, he's not a particularly knowledgeable one. Jules plays equal regard to Celine and her painting. And Monsieur Foverre has authenticity yet, Jules says, in broken French, Celine nods. looked at her for a long moment, eyes flitting back and forth between each of hers and then leaned in

close to the canvas, inspecting the outsized brush marks. Monet has a particular method of getting his paint from his brush, Saline has learned. In her first few attempts at this haystack, layered under the final image, which Jules has his nose just inches from now, looked evocative of Monet's work, but could not have passed for it even to a passing admirer. She'd returned to his display a dozen times and stood as closer to the works as she was allowed, trying to work out what it was exactly that she was missing. Something to do with the underpainting, she thought, and then the method of application was wrong. Monsieur Fovre will accept sterling, yeah? Asked Jules.

Celine's heart clenched. Ah, no, I prefer in francs. Jules frowned. My uncle told me to use Fovro because he's very reasonable about foreign currencies. Selene fidgeted. She can't take the whole payment in sterling. It will involve going to a bank and explaining how she came by this money. Nobody knows her in Paris well enough to vouch for her, and though she could pass as a shop's assistant to foolish Englishmen. Any Frenchman with an eye would recognise the pattern in his potter for what she was, someone attempting to appear to come from money when she did not.

Please, I'm trying to show initiative. I'm only Montrefervo's assistant shop girl, but I want to be a real art dealer like him. I want to prove to him I'm capable, you see? Jewell's size. We're due to head across France, I'd rather keep a hold of my francs. Who knows what we need to pick up on the way? Silly nods, hoping that biting our lip makes a look sympathetic. British soldiers have been passing through the capital all summer.

In June, she overheard old men in cafes complaining about it. We'll never go to war with the Germans, they said. Our memory is too long. So much blood was spilled on French soil in the Great War, they said. Others disagreed. By July, there were heated arguments in every bar and cafe. It's our duty to go to war with the Germans, cried the young. You don't remember what we lost, raved the old.

Now in September there is war, but it still doesn't feel like it. The wealthy British officers, like Jules, seem to treat the start of their journey as an holiday. Celine wonders if perhaps all men treat war like this. Even when it's a proper war, perhaps it's because they are young and they are men, and so they've had the world handed to them, so they don't know how to be afraid when it might be taken away. Celine, who grew up with nothing, but the clothes on her back, glances at the paintings, then at Jules. Well, I suppose I will take sterling, she says.

Pay of what franks you have, and I will take sterling for the rest, Celine concludes with a nod. This way maybe she'll be able to spend money on a fancy dress, which will get her taken seriously in a bank. She'd been hoping to spend the money from this painting on renting somewhere to sleep instead of lurking around shop fronts and going home with strange men. Ah, says Jules, with an indulgent smile. Well, you see, I only have five francs in my name.

Perhaps I can pay some kind of premium for your trouble? I'm sure if I come by his office tomorrow and mention my uncle, and your incredible work as an assistant. Mr. Fovrat, no, no, says Celine quickly. I understand. I will take payment however you can manage it. How about a 20% premium? asked Jules, turning to the small writing desk in the corner of the hotel room. Will that impress your employer sufficiently?

"'Most definitely,' said Celine. "'She supposed she could take portions of the money to different banks. "'Maybe that would allow her to have the cash converted.' "'Jules hands Celine a stack of banknotes. "'She folds them into her pocket. "'Thank you, sir,' she says, with a little bow. "'A aren't you going to counter it?' "'Jules asks.

"'A hot thrill runs down Celine to sternum. "'Of course she should have counted it. "'She smiles her most broad and beautiful smile. "'I trust you,' she tells him. "'I'll be back in Paris in the spring,' says Jules. Perhaps I might call on you then at Mr. Fovres. That would be lovely, says Celine. She will likely have left Paris by then.

What a delight, says Jules. Celine bows and leaves the hotel room. As soon as the door closes behind her, a shudder racked her body. Her hands struck to her side, bawling into fists. She breathes shallow and hot, walking fast, her head down. She takes her coat from the cloak rooms, ignoring the maid sneer at all the poorly executed seams. She pulls up her hood and slips her hand into her pocket to pull the edges of the notes

Jules has given her. Selim buttons her dress, staring at the military dress coat hanging on the back of the chair opposite her. And it is a real monnet? Asked the man, smoking naked behind her. Celine glances at the painting. Oh yes, she says, with a small smile.

Almost as nice face as you, he says. in his German-accented French. Celine tries her best to smile. She finishes button in her dress. Thank you for the wine, she says, and she begins to head for the door. When she reaches for the handle,

the man grabs her wrist. Celine's heart thuds in her chest. Fragile as a bird, he says, his fingers closing tighter. Celine tries to smile. She closes her free hand around the keys in her pocket, nestled next to the money the Nazi officer has paid for her. painting. I hope to see you flying about, little birdie, he says. He lets her go. Selene smiles

and a little laugh tumbles out of her. The officer has already turned his attention back to the paper he has propped against his bare thighs. Celine closes the door gently behind herself. She takes a long, slow breath and hurries down the stairs. She leaves out the back door in case anyone is awake, though it is just before dawn. Though who do you think so little of her? To lean heads home, head down, ignoring the whistles from the other German soldiers she passes. When she finally reaches her little flat, she closes the door softly, as gently as she can, and slowly sinks to the ground with her back against it.

She buries her face against her knees. She has not cried for years, and for a moment she longs to. She aches to the prickle of fresh tears in her eyes, but none come. She gets up, dust herself off and sits at her easel. The piece she is working on is meant to be a Renoir, an early version of Le Bajnus. From Monsieur's workshop, rescued after his death, Celine practices saying the words in German under her breath, a priceless masterpiece that would befit a man of status like you.

Celine swirls the paint on her palette. From the workshop of Monsieur Renoir himself, it's a real treasure, almost lost a time. Such a thing deserves... selene swipes a gently muddled shadow the implication of her jaw onto the face of the woman she had painted yesterday her cheeks are plump blood-red the lines of her body are soft like her clouds she's full and well fed and with every careful brushstroke selene is filled with more and more envy It's a treasure. My old master, Monsieur Fouffre, was lucky to come across it. It's from Renoir's own workshop. It was not discovered until after his death. It's one of a kind, an early version of his famous piece, La Bajunus. See how the shapes here are a little more refined, a little less organic than there?

I see in her a self-consciousness, an insecurity. The love of the final piece here is overtaken by a certain kind of rage. Celine throws her paint aside. She breathes happily. She puts her face in her hands She does not cry Seline tucks a short strand of hair behind her rear rearranging a bag of oranges slung over her shoulder

The scabs on her scalp have long healed But sometimes when she combed her hair The teeth meet the scars there and make her shudder The day the Germans were forced out of the city Was a day of celebration until it wasn't Until they grabbed at Celine and cut her hair with shears To all her dresses And threw her into the mud

Her hair would have grown to her shoulders by now if she had let it, but instead she keeps it crop short, a little higher than her jaw. It makes her look bold and chic, this flash of neat blonde waves. She likes to dress all in one colour. This is a statement too. She has become a go-to seller for the wealthy Italian enthusiast of French paintings. She is known to be able to make almost anything happen for her client, and none of them will talk about how much she costs to make it happen. At home, her son, six years old, is spread out on a large rug, drawing in a sketchbook. Mama, he cries when she walks in.

His grin is filled with half-grown teeth. The older he gets, the more he looks like his father. He was shot against a wall in Paris, the night before Ville day by a man from the French resistance. Benoit was born six months later. Benoit shows Celine his drawing. There's you, he says, pointing at a sausage-shaped figure with a yellow scribble at the top,

two dots for eyes and a sideways per emphasis for a smile. Here's me, he says, waiting at a dark-haired circle with stick arms and legs pointing out at the sides where are my arms and legs you silly cabbage she says lifting him up onto her hip Benoit giggles and Celine promises herself she will never ever tell him who his father is selene laughs indulgently at a joke she didn't listen to across the ballroom her eyes catch a young man leaning against the back of a chair those coat and tails are well tailored there's something to miss with him his posture is

off his hips swung casually. He reminds Celine of her paintings. Ah, I see you've spotted young Perry, says Celine's acquaintance, whose name she cannot be bothered to remember. You know him, says Celine. You don't, says her friend. Goodness, that doesn't happen often. I'm being ghost, calling him Perry. He's the Lord de Perrier. I'm surprised you don't know him. His wife is a Parisian like you. I see, says Celine, hiding her bristle with a smile. A shame we have not yet been acquainted. Oh, would you like me to introduce you? That would be a delight, says Celine. The boy holds Celine's gaze as she makes her way around the dancers in the centre of the room. He is a boy, too, at least 15 years, Celine's junior. She prized herself

on her looks and is certain nobody in the room would know that, however. Selene's friends make their introductions. I've heard of you, says De Pereux, in French that is accented but smooth. You're the French art dealer that everyone's been raving about. guilty, says Saline. She sips her champagne. I love your work, says De Perey. Cillian smiles, frowning. It's nothing. I'm a middleman, really, she says.

Ah, says the Perrier with a smile. He looks at Celine's hands. Of course, he says, with a wink. Silly laughs. I'm sure I don't know what you mean, she says. De Perrier smiles again. He grabs another flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. He sounds up straight, and it's as though he's assuming in his. skin. His boyish grin is softer, more dignified. Selene cannot help but smile back. Monet and

Renoir, the masters would quake in their boots, De Perrier mutters. Hours later, Celine is pressed up against the wall in a hallway, De Perrier's nose on her throat. His hands on her bare shoulders are not a gentleman's hands. They're rough and scarred, but his touch is gentle. He pulls Celine's dress up around her hips and kisses his way down to meet his fingers. They lie on the rug in Selene's living room afterwards, smoking. De Perey never took his trousers the whole way off. Celine's dress is crumpled, but likewise still covering her. De Perrier is staring at Celine's latest piece.

Where did you learn to paint like that? My father hated portraits, said Celine. That's not an answer, said De Perrier. How did a beggar become a lord? said Celine. De Perrier grinned. I was never a beggar. What then? A thief? De Perrier shakes his head.

Are you a thief? thief, he asks. Celine thinks on this a moment, she shakes her head. De Perey runs his hand over his face. Do you ever wish they knew it was yours? They love your work, Celine. They hang it in their homes, pay thousands for it, but they don't know you made it. Doesn't that hurt?

Celine does not know how to answer this. When she wakes in the morning, De Perrier is gone, not leaving even a note. For some reason, this, of all things, makes Celine's eyes think. She touches her most recent painting. Celine sees D'Perrier three times over the next years. Once he stays three days meets Benoit.

Celine is horrified to think that if D'Perey were just a couple of years younger, he and her son would make fast friends, not that she wanted Benoit to keep such a man for company. Since that first night he has not mentioned her paintings again. She has heard a few rumours about him, about what he may be doing with his time. time. Each time she feels she may be getting closer to the truth, it makes her shudder. He's a nobody boy. That's what she likes about him. They can be real with each other without needing to speak the truth. Fuck the truth. It has offered Celine nothing. Reality is all about believing. The truth has nothing to do with reality. To Celine's clients, those paintings are real monnets and

Renoir's. To Benoit, his father really was René-Fra, even though he had been killed by German soldiers two years before Benoit was conceived. Celine and DiPereo meet for the last time in Valencia, in the height of summer. The little house where he is staying stinks of oranges. It seems to be all he eats. His hands are often sticky with them. There is something off about him, something strange and hurried. He seems older now, old the way Celine has begun to feel.

When they sleep together, it is hurried, frenetic, and it makes a worry. Perry, she says to him, as they lie in his bed afterwards. De Perrier runs his hands over his face. Celine touches his spine and thinks back to their conversation on the rug many years ago the night they met. The paintings are not mine, she answers. If they were, nobody would love them. De Perrier turns to Celine, his expression filled with disgust. In silence, he dresses and leaves her in the house. Celine stays there all day, all night, all the next day and night too.

She wanders around the little house that stinks of oranges. That hollered out husks sit mouldering on the counters. There are no clean linens in the cupboards, no clothes in any of the wardrobes. The drawers and cupboards in the kitchen are all empty, except for a single teacup. It looks almost exactly like the one her father used to use to wet his paintbrushes. She thinks of him sharpening the bristles on his tongue. Celine takes out the teacup and weighs it in her hands. She squeezes several oranges into it, mashing their flesh from the fork,

licking the juice that spills down her wrists. As night begins to fall, Celine stands in the small courtyard at the back of the house, listening to the creek of nearby crickets. She sips the juice. It tastes odd, too sweet. There's something metallic about it. She hears something, a sound, in the house. She strains her ears, but all is quiet again. Celine takes a few steps back towards the door.

Perry, she calls, but this is not his name, nor is the Perrier. Do you want to talk? she calls. There is a crack of cold pain on the back of Sillin Ted. Her vision flashes white. She hears the teacup shatter on the tile floor and feels her balance failing. She looks out across the ocean of St. Sir Samir. She will not play with the other children, but they do not like her. So, what do you think?

Shelf or discard. What do you... What do you even mean? Are you asking for a more precise definition or an outline of the task? Yes. That is not an appropriate answer to my question. Well...

Okay. What's the criteria I'm using to make this decision? You will need criteria to pass judgement. Yes! Ah, I see. Well, I didn't think of that. we shall try again What? When? When I have your criteria

For now Go to sleep Remnants Remnants is an audio drama Created, written Performed and Produced by Aera Major under a Creative Commons non-commercial 4.0 attribution license. To support the show and get early access to new episodes, go to patreon.com forward slash hangingsloth studios.

You can leave a one-off tip at cofi.com forward slash hanging sloths and find out more at hangingslust studios.com forward slash remnants. To listen to more of remnants and check out their other content, please search remnants and audio drama wherever you get your podcasts, or click the link in the description of this episode. And as always, you can visit rusticwell.com for more information. You can find the creator behind Remnants on Twitter at Hanging Sloths, or on their website, hangingsloth studios.com. Thanks for listening.