Rooms

[Locked to Victor F]

You've been making a lot of visits in the evening as of late.

[Locked to Mina M]

The party was quite enjoyable.

[Locked to Vanessa I]

Have you heard any new gossip about town?

[Delivery to "Mr. E" at Trafalgar Square]

[The letter comes by private courier several days after the initial conversation. In a tidy, angular handwriting, the author details his experience in odd jobs at the theatre and around town. He goes so far as to assure the recipient of his ability to handle even the most messy of situations as well as a promise to discretion.

There is no return address, and the letter is signed only 'Caliban'.]

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were -- I have not seen
As others saw -- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring --
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow -- I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone --
And all I lov'd -- I lov'd alone --
Then -- in my childhood -- in the dawn
Of a most stormy life -- was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still --
From the torrent, or the fountain --
From the red cliff of the mountain --
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold --
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by --
From the thunder, and the storm --
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view --

[locked to victor f]

How did you find Miss Murray? And have you read the news?

[locked to john w]

You gave me the impression that you were a doctor, sir.

Next time, I shall ignore such invitations and simply stay home.

The company was enjoyable, but I do not enjoy being whispered about.

Who: Whoever wishes to attend!
What: Party at the Murray House
Where: Penny Dreadful(s)
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Please place locations and warnings in subject headers. Feel free to "dibs" threads. Simultaneous threads per character are allowed.

The Murray House was situated at the end of the street in the affluent part of London. Imposing, it was a structure built by a man determined to leave his mark on the world in every possible way.

The door was answered by two footmen, and carriages were directed around the back. Men and women awaited announcement, all agog to see the disreputable women who inhabited the home. One fair and disgraced. The other dark and possessed. Or so the rumors said.

The lights were dim for the evening, as was the fashion for parties with darker themes. On silver platters, champagne and sweets were served, and there was a bar in the sitting room with stronger drinks and cigars for the gentlemen.

Beyond the grand entrance hall, the parlor was a room for the telling of fortunes. The woman at the table was not Miss Ives, but a hired woman from town, her fortunes daring and decadent. Low lights, and chairs around the table, the woman prophesied the strangest things for all to hear.

Theatricals were held in in the study, on a platform before Sir Malcom's impressive map. The performances were Grand Guignol in nature, with faux vampires feasting on innocent girls, pretend werewolves eating young lads, and much fake blood to go around in a room deliberately darkened and filled with the delighted screams of London's elite.

The grand staircase led to the upstairs halls, and the finely appointed rooms beyond, where none of the doors were barred for the evening. And surely the basement, with its darkness and random shackles, should have been locked for the evening, but it was not.

[As simply 'Caliban']

What curious things names are. A label given to one by a parental figure that you carry with you through life. It becomes something that both identifies you and you are identified by in the same breath.

Your name, are you fond of it? Are you attached to it? Or is there something else you would rather be called?

Petit l'infant, one inside of another inside of another inside of another inside of another [This goes on for a good while, before stopping abruptly.]

Infinite trees in but one seed, is that not how it goes? The question is, I suppose without supposition, if the snake eats his tail? Regurgitation is another matter entirely.

[The handwriting is sharp, ink blotted, but exquisite.]

We have come to a place between heaven and hell. Between the living and the dead. A glorious place with everlasting rebirth, perhaps even salvation. Is there a price to pay for such a residence? As there is with all things?

[The book has been filling in with words for days now, too long for it to be a vision or a trick, too varied and strange to be anything less than important. The hand is spidery and long, with hardly a drop of ink out of place.]

Automatic writing in reverse. How charming. I've never had letters from spirits before.