Victorian Nocturne

The daylight was fading into the early evening hours. The dun blanket of night tucked in the city of London with as much care as any mother might her child. If one looked close enough, in the hustle and bustle of the early evening hours, one might notice a womanly shadow jumping down from the steps of a hackney coach. The woman paid the driver, then he sped away, off to the next well-pocketed passenger. The woman paused for a moment, dusting off her dress with one hand, and squinting at the scrap of paper in the other.

Yes, this would have to be his lodgings, she surmised, looking doubtfully at the building. She hoped in the early evening hours to catch the erstwhile English professor before he left his abode. This was going to be, she knew, more discomfiting than it might had he not been who he was. Why she had even to tell him of this new position--this new hope--she could never say. But surely he would not mind? After all, neither party had made any promises the one to the other. Sure, various fanciful notions had been tossed back and forth, but was that not that common in such things?

She bowed her head a moment, then took brisk, confident steps to the tenement. It would be nothing to him, and indeed it was less than nothing to her. What she had done with him--well, it was little more than passing fancy, and so must pass. Besides, new fortune awaited.

The interior of John Abbott's home made for a sanctuary of sorts. Each wall held up paintings or shelves. Books and journals lined the flat surfaces of those. His furnishings crowded the space, more a nest for the vampire's fleeting interests than a proper apartment. Necessities, such as a shaving stand, were crowded between superfluous items, like a globe and a wooden lectern. When the sun slipped behind his building, it became quite dark, but he kept his curtains open so he could view the street below and any passersby. If a coach stopped outside, John often went to see who was coming or going, provided he wasn't absorbed in a task.

( Never a Positive Omen )

( Strange Logic )

( This scene takes place on the second day of the house occupation )

Even demons from otherworldly realms had upper limits to their patience. While the inhabitants of the house engaged in plenty of speculation on the 'spirit' and its reasons for keeping them trapped, they were rarely correct, especially as time, exhaustion, hunger, and fear wore on them. Indeed, it did seek to provoke reactions from them, but not for amusement's sake. All it wanted were a few simple words to be spoken in the upstairs corridor... And a host body for its incorporeal form, of course. Quite reasonable expectations, these! Or so it thought.

One day became two. Two became three. Hallucinations, disembodied voices, bangs and screetches, spinning religious artifacts, even scratchings on the walls did nothing to evoke the proper response. Perhaps it overlooked the obvious answer. Rather than expecting frightened people to hold one-sided conversations with a spirit, it could cause ordinary interruptions in the environment... Make a person think a fellow occupant was near. After all, it was not necessary for the words to be spoken to the demon itself, merely aloud and within sight of the mirror.

In the end, the solution was simple. It waited for a person to step onto the threadbare rug that stretched from staircase to bedrooms, then it slammed a door behind them, just as a person might do...

( Unlucky Soul )

[Thread: Open to Participating House Plot Characters. Refer to OOC for Instructions:]

( An aborted letter to John Abbott, dated October 1891 )

Marguerite found that she was getting quite bored of being the prim Englishwoman she had created in Elizabeth Stoker. The woman she had become as a result of sudden fear of a priest was the very antithesis to everything she upheld as a modern woman. She was dull and easily afraid, and only cared about her sewing. How such women even managed to survive she would never know. She found herself wandering away from the others, wanting to be alone. Though it had been recommended that they stay in pairs, she grew weary of the idea after a while and parted with Miss Cramwell. Besides, she could take care of herself. She had done so for nearly one hundred years, with only a few scrapes to show for it.

She found herself wandering into a nursery, evidenced by the little wooden rocking horse in the corner, the small, covered bed, and the children's books which lined the shelves of a single bookcase. Leaving the door ajar, she knelt before a little chest and opened it, perusing the contents within. They were the jewels of childhood: a dirtied rag doll, several seashells, a book of a child's awkward sketches, a photograph of a family, a lock of hair. All were kept as though enshrined. She opened a Bible and found within it various pressed flowers, and another photograph, this one of a small girl, eyes closed as though in peaceful sleep, propped up in her own coffin. She looked at the picture for a moment, then dropped the book with a small thud, as though she had been burned.

John stood at the threshold of the nursery. The redhead made quite a picture kneeling there, sorting through the keepsakes of a little girl's childhood. At first, he thought her simply charming, but as the seconds ticked by, she took on the look of a grieving mother, and the idea of it settled poorly with him. Perhaps he was thinking of Virginia Abbott. Though it did not look like the sort of moment one should interrupt, her particular breed of madness made him afraid to leave her alone with the episode, if she was about to have one.

( You're Not..? )

Occurs several weeks previous to the Demonic Haunting

( The Confrontation )

( The Resolution )

Winter, 1890
( Love's Labors Lost )

In a neighborhood to the northwest of Whitechapel, there sat a two-story home, quite ordinary among its company, a row of homes owned by families of moderate wealth. It was brick and boasted dozens of windows that looked out on the street. Four chimneys jutted towards the sky. A row of low trees lined the property, as well as a wall at waist height. It was a stately place, but a few details kept it from being the envy of its neighbors. Only a rickety gate gave access to its yard, and inside, the house was well-appointed with sturdy furnishings and a piano, but little artwork covered its walls.

The Taylors once owned the property, but they had gone out of country on family-related matters and become gravely ill while away. After their deaths, the house stood empty of inhabitants. Dust cloths draped the furniture and the curtains were drawn tight. A demon, attempting to pass into this world from another, became trapped in the home. Forced to take up residence there, it dwelt in the physical structures of the house, unable to leave without a human host. Unfortunately, the original owners of the house could not return, and the conditions of the demon's release were so specific that brief visits to the house would not do.

Faced with an indefinite wait, the demon, a being eager to escape and wreak its brand of havoc upon London, decided to lure people to the property and keep them there. On one particular Saturday, passersby began to experience hallucinations. Some heard children crying. Others, screams for help, the scent of a delicious meal, or a familiar face calling their name from the front door.

Once inside, the door slammed shut and they were caught in the confines of a house that had become impervious to harm. The windows wouldn't shatter. People on the street heard no cries for help. Nothing burned in the fireplaces. The doors wouldn't open or be torn down.

Upstairs in the hallway, an oval mirror hung on a wall. Since the demon inhabited the entirety of the house, the mirror was no particular point of suspicion, and no one had reason to guess at the danger it represented. The mirror was the demon's portal out of the physical realm of the house and into a host, if a victim could be goaded into saying a particular string of words within sight of the mirror: 'Is anybody there? Make yourself known.' It was a simple phrase, but surprisingly difficult to match in its entirety.

Of course, the demon would do its best to inspire it from the guests...



[Thread: Open to All Characters. Click here for details before joining.]

( Let Them Eat Cake )

( Another Billet doux )

( Orientalism )

( The Challenge )

Phèdre having run its course, it was refreshing to Marguerite to have the silly humor of that satire, The Mikado. Gifted with a fine voice as well as acting abilities, she had been cast as Yum-Yum, the female lead. Every evening she would don the uncomfortable black wig and the rice powder. She wondered if Japanese women actually dressed like this, if they wore this much paint, if their kimonos were so burdensome as this. When she viewed herself in the mirror, she was much changed. Beneath the paint and wig she barely knew herself. She wondered if her audience would recognize her.

But recognize her they inevitably did. She was fast becoming a favorite in the theatres, heading toward the title of prima donna. And yet she had still not chosen a patron. Tonight this perturbed her as she sang her silly lines, becoming a comedienne when last she was a tragic figure. She had been receiving offers, gifts, and she accepted them, but she never gave a definite answer. She found herself relieved when she returned to the solitude of her dressing room, shutting out the sickening multitudes.

She sat down at her great vanity, leaving her maid to take care of her admirers. She liked to look at herself, though not, as one might think, for vanity's sake. She liked to see how the makeup changed her, how the costuming made her someone else. She stared at her reflection, wondering what it would be like were she one of those famed geishas, serving tea and sake in small glasses and entertaining dignitaries. She flipped open the fan prop she had. It was screened with a dragon. She peered out over it, fluttering her eyelashes in a coy, silly way. Like a girl, she made faces at herself for an unspeakable amount of time.

The performance was marvelous, or so John thought. The costuming, the song and dance, the music... All of it was bright and exotic, invoking images of the Orient, though the satire poked fun at the British Empire. On the first occasion, he purchased a ticket on a lark, wanting to see Marguerite on stage. He, unlike so many admirers, had been unfamiliar with her reputation prior to meeting the courtesan, so he was curious as to her talents outside the bed chamber.

( Privacy? Not Any Concept He Knows )

( The Scribblings of Mad People )

[Takes place before 'I Love You, I Hate You']

( The Courtesan's Boudoir (Adult Content: Strong Sexuality) )

( Regarding the Viscount )

By the late 19th century, public balls had fallen out of favor, with most hosted in private residences by London's elite. However, the public assembly hall retained some of its charm, in that the music was lively and attendance required no invitation. For a nominal fee, anyone could enter. That offer became more enchanting when it was a masquerade...

The Royal Oak was a two-story building. It boasted a large floor for dancing and additional rooms for cloaks, hats, and refreshments. The decor was simple, mostly dark wood and dim lighting, which was probably a blessing. A band of musicians perspired over their instruments at the head of the room.

It would've been an ordinary night, had not a mischievous serving girl stolen potions from her mistress and dumped them in two of the many punch bowls. One brew could cultivate love at first sight; The other, hate. After consumption, the effects took only minutes to appear, but lasted for twenty-four hours. It should make for an interesting evening, indeed!

[Group Thread: Open to All Characters]



[Submitted by Moderator]

Impressionists in England. It was far too strange. Marguerite, French through and through, could not help but attend such an exhibition. She wondered what the English thought of a movement which was already developing into something else in France. They must indeed have been lucky to receive the graces of Manet and Degas in their stolid, musty halls. Such things were always a treat to see, even in France.

Being a courtesan, Marguerite could go to such things escorted or unescorted, as she wished. She preferred attending alone. Nonetheless she was resplendent in soft green satin, the train of her bustle a bit shorter than it might have been. She often worried about careless gentlemen stepping on and tearing her gown. An elaborate necklace of emeralds and jade adorned her neck, the neckline of her bodice dipping to almost scandalous proportions. Her hair boasted an elaborate gold and jade flower, the fiery curls creating a wild frame for her face. Long, satin gloves completed the ensemble, climbing up to her elbows. She liked to be looked at. Indeed, if she were not viewed as much as the art, it would be a pity.

She stood before Degas's L'Absinthe. This was the first showing of the painting in England, if she recalled correctly. Others were crowded near it as well, murmuring in outrage and disgust. But she ignored them. She looked at the woman, the expression of her face. She was a plain thing, but she looked blank. Before her stood a cup of that illicit spirit, absinthe. It moved her. She imagined the cup flowing with blood and placed herself in the painting. Yes, sometimes things were too much to bear, sometimes life seemed to trundle on aimlessly, with no rhyme or reason. She wondered why people could not see past the act of drinking the absinthe and into the woman's soul.

A man approached the courtesan's shoulder. It wasn't his intent to hover, but in the press of bodies before the piece, space was at a scarcity. A small pick of wood clenched in his teeth, John observed the muddied colors of the painting. His tolerance for impressionism was higher than other artistic movements, such as neo-classisism, whose works could be so patently obvious, so empty of the need for interpretation that it made him wonder why one bothered calling it art at all.

( Lifeless Art )

( A Study of One Another )

"Truly the best theater in all of London!" Charles Nielson enthused, gesturing around at the complex stage. The back was full of ropes and pulleys for various backdrops and props, while the front had trap doors and risers to allow for actors to magically appear or disappear from the stage.

"The Savoy is no longer the only theater with electric lighting or numbered seats!" Nielson continued "We have more seats and better facilities for the intermission."

Henry nodded, looking at the vast array of seats visible from the stage. A few of the cast and crew from the play currently showing at the theater were sitting in the front row, chatting before the daily rehearsal due to start shortly. "Truly an impressive facility Charles, I'm sorry I haven't had the opportunity to inspect it before now." Nielson was an old acquaintance, a performer turned theater owner that he'd first met in Austria years before. Henry had helped him get started in running his own theater about a decade ago with some seed money, and the other man provided box seats for free whenever Henry felt the desire to attend the Opera or see a play.

( Introductions )

The various smells of heated flesh filled her senses as her girl gave one final pull to Marguerite’s corset. She delighted in the way the whale bone tugged and pulled at her skin and organs. There was something so scintillating about having one’s breath snatched from one in such a way, something so dangerous. Though of course, she mused, such things as breathing had long deserted her. It had been years since she had done so in the natural, human way.

As the virginal white satin of the costume slid over her head, she could not help but smile ironically, the narrow fangs of her teeth revealing themselves. A small gasp behind her. Looking in the dressing mirror, the actress beheld the girl, the Grecian robe having slipped from her work-worn hands. One of those hands covered her mouth, eyes wide in shock if not horror.

“Cherie.” Marguerite spoke in calming tones. “I do beg pardon. It is a dreadful family trait. Perhaps you know of a dentist here who deals with such things?” Marguerite smiled sympathetically, sure to keep her mouth closed. The girl had by now apologized and expressed her sympathy, being sure to quickly finish the ensemble with the crown of laurels before awkwardly taking her leave.

The flesh, how it dazzled the senses. Marguerite sometimes pitied humans for their deadened senses. The scent of each person was like a new perfume, ready to be savored. Oh, she was pale. She knew it. The hunger welled up within that corseted belly, a hunger which only increased her skill on the stage. She rose from her chair, the robe swishing softly on the floor as her sandaled feet made measured paces toward the backstage. An entire audience at her feet, revering her every word. Oh, she would take England by storm!