Victorian Nocturne

5 October 1891
The Royal Oak

The Royal Oak was a public assembly hall, often used for dances and gatherings. On this occasion, a private room had been reserved for the Inquisition's special use. Situated in the rear of the building, the stately room boasted a separate entrance, a fully stocked sideboard, and an oval table with chairs. The walls were wooden and hung with oil paintings. The air smelled of tobacco. Such meetings traditionally took place aboard the Whitechapel, unless Apprentices or informants were in attendance. Tonight, a small group of Inquisitors would gather, speak amongst themselves of recent occult developments, and then invite two recruits to enter. It was hoped that they could determine how the gentlemen might fit within the organisation. They also hoped to give Mr. Jack Doyle and Mr. Alistair Musgrave a better idea of the colleagues they would join, should they allign themselves with this arm of the Crown.

[Thread: Open immediately to Michael West, Sir Henry Armitage, Elspeth Fry, and Fr Verdoux. Open later to Jack Doyle and Alistair Musgrave]

( Flash-bangs and Elpeth's knickers: )

There was perhaps no worse time than this: a Saturday on the third night of the full moon, with the weather unseasonably cool and clear, and the moon partially obscured by clouds. Gas and lunar light illuminated Whitechapel. An hour before midnight, music jangled from taverns. Everywhere on the cobbled streets, people journeyed by carriage, horseback, or foot, or lingered on the doorsteps of inns, shouting as neighbors went past. Between the curtains of some windows, faces peered and watched the hubbub in the warmth of home.

From the southwest, near the river docks, came an other-worldly howl. Only those with sensitive ears heard the primal noise. Fewer still recognized it. Whether by accident or plan, someone loosed a pack of beasts from the bowels of a ship. Neither man nor wolf, they were something in between. They gobbled up the distance to Whitechapel on all fours and then stood on muscular hind legs to take the air's scent. Pronounced snouts dripped saliva.. Dark, matted fur concealed them when they crouched in the shadows, stalking and growling and pawing the cobblestone, pouncing if a meal came near.

Later, people would speak of the beasts that attacked the Effingham Saloon on Whitechapel Road, ravaged the patrons at the Pavilion Theatre on Whites Row, lurked near the old church and ragged school on Colchester Street, and surprised the injured that fled to the London Hospital at Turner Street. But just past eleven o'clock, all was well in Whitechapel, and none could predict the coming chaos.


[Thread: Open to all characters. Please establish their placement and activity before narrating the chaos of an approaching beast. You may use the ideas above or create your own! Feel free to join an existing mini-thread below!]


[Submitted by Moderator]

"You know, generally-speaking, I much rather prefer to do this sort of thing during the day..."

Nocturnal hours seemed to have little effect on the undead, save for it being a time when preying upon the living would go less noticed. Even so, Inquisitor West preferred having the advantage of daylight in the open air. For situational awareness, if nothing else. Besides, he reasoned, the things had to sleep at some time. Or at least, that was what Michael guessed they were doing, when being caught off-guard, every now and then, in that curiously death-like catatonic state. Whatever the reason for their slumber, a skilled hunter knew that it was best to strike at a dangerous foe when they were least likely to counter anything thrown at them.

Still, though, it was now late afternoon, and the latest mausoleum they had gained access to might well turn out like the last five: A dead end, in every sense of the phrase. Extending a hand to help guide fellow Inquisitor through the unlocked door, Michael coughed at the stale, dusty air found within. Even with sunlight still visible outside, he had to squint through the internal gloom.

"Looks like an adjoining chamber," he observed, pointing ahead. A moment taken while he lit a match, by way of illumination. "So, tell me... Did 'Alfonso' live up to his reputation?"

( A Noisy Entrance )

( Stakes and Mallets )

( Catching Their Breath )

Offenbach... Specifically, Barcarolle, from 'The Tales Of Hoffman'

By Michael West's estimation, it was going to take a while before phonograph cylinder could gain in sufficient quality to rival an actual night out at a concert hall, but it was the perfect cerebral accompaniment to a quiet evening's reading in the ship's library. Hearing the subtle crackle of contact, the crudely recorded sound of violins inching themselves into a tentative appearance of flutes, Michael closing eyes for a second or two's picturing of the orchestra. The melodic build was a careful one and, once assured of its tempo, a quiet smile was given, before the man eased himself down into seat; his book opening to lay spine upon crossed legs and renew its intellectual acquaintance with the reader.

London was quiet, the Inquisition was at rest and the Whitechapel was in no danger of sinking. All was well with the world and music gently began to fill the air.

What could possibly go wrong with that?

( Lightning in a Tube )

( Subtext )

( Project Phallus: )