Victorian Nocturne

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:]

The Study
Early Evening



( This is why when Simon Alexander sidles over to John Abbott, it is unwise to listen to his proposal )


A Secluded Upstairs Room
The Present.




( If you insist on listening however, this kind of thing really is inevitable. )

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.]

The Dragon's Arms
Earlier in the Evening...

( The Bet )

Simon's Residence
The Present

( Ouch! That Smarts! )

[Takes place a few days after A Boy and a Girl]

There was no escape in this city, of that he was entirely sure. At least back home, there was a small forest, someplace far away from other humans. Here, if you didn't know the nooks and crannies and places that had been brushed out of the way, and even there you'd find some stung out opium fiend or destitute drunk or any kind of human, usually the kinds that had been kicked off the main streets because London had to hide her diseased masses somewhere.

But this had been entirely unexpected. Mrs. Daugney almost never gave him anything to get rid of, and when she did, it was never a full body. Tonight, she had, with a little look of disgusted disappointment on her face. The body was hardly recognizable as human, but he'd still cut it up to get it to fit in the sack better. As he'd looked at the mangled form, he'd thought for a moment that it could have been him. If whatever she'd done to him hadn't gone as well as it had, would someone be cutting up his corpse and throwing him in the river, a few bricks tossed in the bag to keep his dismembered form at the bottom?

He was incredibly lucky to be here; to have all he had, he hardly deserved it.

( Not someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley. )

Simon slammed open the door of the Aviary and made a direct route for Berdette, brandishing the days paper. Perfectly content to completely ignore the assorted staff and customers, he positioned himself directly in front of the woman and began to read aloud from the days headline:

"Mad Dogs Ravage London - Last night in the evening, around the hour of ten pm..." Oh this was taking too long, Simon thrust out the paper towards her and began to paraphrase, "It says there were six for certain, maybe more, wild animals unleashed into the city killing and wounding a number as of yet unknown! Berdette, were you out last night? Did you see the things? I swear upon my soul if I have ever seen such a creature--"

He cut himself off, taking a breath as if trying to steady himself still from the sheer thrill of such an unknown. Simon gave a strange breathless laugh, turning the paper over before continuing, "They were not dogs, Berdette. I don't know what they were, but they absolutely were not dogs. Not like any kind of animal I'd ever seen before! When it killed this girl, in front of us, it laid her body down and brushed the hair from her face! I swear to you I saw it with my own eyes, Madame! My colleague and I were lucky to have escaped with our lives the beast was so wild!"

He shakes his head in some level of awe, at which point he realises that just about every other soul in the place is staring at him. For a moment he considers changing his approach, before dismissing the thought and looking back to Berdette, waiting for her to take the paper from him.

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]

( There is an unexpected sight! )

( An American lady at an English dinner party? )

( It could only have ended in scandal! )

Kingdom's Variety catered to a broad range of customers and, with affordable ticket rates, sought to include a varied array of entertainment. It was the same venue which, a few weeks ago, had been the setting for the Great Alfonso, accompanied by song and dance routines, before and after.

Today, however, was the turned of a gentleman known as Professor Hartigan. Not a clue as to whether he actually possessed the relevant title and qualifications, of course, but that ceased to matter for an evening's fun for the crowds.

"And of course," he continued, "for this daring feat of hypnotism, I shall require a number of volunteers... Please make yourselves known - should you accept the challenge."

[OOC: Open to all.]

From the personal records of Simon Alexander.
August 25th, 1891

( Some Piece of Imperceptible Wizardry )

During the night of "Love you, Hate you." After the events in the thread.

( In which Izzy has lost sight of the vampires he was observing. )
( And in which Simon is absolutely unhelpful in the matter. )

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]

July 18, 1891
Kingdom's Variety

( How It Came About )

August 8, 1891
Somewhere Off George Street

( Rambling Along Quite Drunk )

It hadn't been easy for Simon to decide what to do with the dead vampire. Or the dead person. Simon still wasn't entirely convinced. Still, he had eventually decided that despite his own extensive knowledge of all things in the universe, this... really wasn't his area of expertise. So then it became an issue of finding someone for whom this was the area of expertise, and he had to get to that phantom person before his dead body began to rot.

So it was that Simon ended up ransacking just about every Fortean, Occult, and Scientific journal he had for someone who might know about vampires while at the same time... not being a complete imbecile. It was only after two hours of painstakingly going through his personal scholarly archive that Simon distantly reading some seemingly academic articles by a London zoologist on some of the more unconventional fauna of the city. That, was clearly the man to see about such things. It took him a few more hours of that night, and a few hours of the next morning to track down the man's name and current lodgings. By the next afternoon Simon was walking confidently towards the doorway of the house of Sciurus Thatch with a spring in his step, and a disembodied head in his bag. He reached up, and rapped smartly on the door of the other man's house, and waited.

Because who didn't want to look at the body parts presented to them by complete strangers?

( Sciurus and Simon coming out a-HEAD. )

London was never truly silent, even at this hour of the night. Perhaps to the average person it was, but it was very difficult to get into the right sort of mood to be an average person if you were paranoid. The merest whispers and squeaks and trickles in the dark alleys could have been anyone. They could have meant doom. Even in these dark, empty alleys there was the lingering sense that someone was watching, listening. Someone heard quick footsteps that just barely dodged the puddles, the rustle of fabric and the occasional sound of something that sounded remarkably like a head bashing against the brick, sometimes accompanied by a stifled curse.

( Clearly, you were meant to do other things... )

Many of these venues were largely theatrical affairs. Kingdom's Variety, however, catered to a broader market than most, with ticket prices set at relatively affordable rates. On the upper level, boxes existed for discerning customers to get a good view of the stage. Down below, various tables were set with chairs around them, instead of the rows of bench-like seating reserved for more formal theatres. Over to one side of the hall, a bar was open, allowing customers to get beverages while the entertainment was on show.

This evening's treat was to be a magician, the Great Alfonso, who would be preceded and followed by song and dance routines.

Add alcohol and a pleasant air of merriment, and a good time should be had by all...


[Group Thread: Open to All Characters]

A coin stood on its end, balanced under John Abbott's fingertip.

The shine had worn off after countless trips from trouser pockets to soiled fingers to cash drawers and back. Money was the dirtiest thing going. He crouched close to the bar and studied the grime caked on its lusterless face, imagining where rotation had taken the bit of currency. What societal ills had it touched? This occupied his mind for five or six minutes. Beyond the coin, the man tending bar was a blur. "I'll have another round," John mumbled, but he gathered that it went unheard when the man kept wiping the countertop. With sleepy eyes, the vampire straightened and tried again, wobbling on his stool. "I'll have another round, I said."

John was in a state. It looked as if he hadn't slept or fed in days, and he hadn't, thanks to all those dreams of young miss Brahms. His star pupil had been married off to a widower, a policeman whose previous wife was offed by a runaway horse carriage. Its driver, three sheets to the wind, had simply let go of the reigns and let it plow through London. So Angela was rescued from a life of spinsterhood, but not before she allowed her tutor a few gropes between lessons. John's memory was a frightful thing. He could still feel the warmth of her soft thigh on his knuckles. But gone she was, before he'd found out all her secrets, and so Angela would long weigh on his mind.

The vampire rubbed his eyes and blinked. A messy thatch of black curls obscured his forehead.

( Simon, An Unsociable Creature in Search of Company? )

( Puzzles )

The house, was large, but notably under furnished. Everything stood on hard wood floors that hadn’t been polished in far too long. The old desks pushed to the walls in most rooms were littered with parchments and dust, and stray traces of dark inks and candle waxes marred their surfaces. There was a great old chimney leading down to a fireplace in the middle of the house, and the walls swelled out in one line bisecting the walls to allow the chute to lead up into open sky.

The bedroom was much the same. A littered desk, a bookcase laden with aging tomes and occult or scientific paraphernalia, and an old double bed.

There was movement. It was brief, and rough, and then it was over.

Simon wasn’t the kind of man to stop and fret over the details of something, or to attach any more significance to a bodily function than he was accustomed too. So he tried not to linger upon his own physical demands. He dealt with them, and the moment he was done? Well, he saw no further reason to stand upon niceties, especially when he had other things to be doing.

Shifting off his bed, he winced slightly, before straightening up. The adjoining room led through to a makeshift study, which considering the kind of things that Simon studied, consisted of a mostly open room, with a desk and chair pushed against one of the walls, and a floor nearly completely inscribed with the details of various glyphs and sigils. Without a backward glance he approached the room, pushing open the door and knocking a stop into place beneath it, before calling back over his shoulder,

“Your money’s on the table. Let yourself out.”

( Read more... )

From the personal records of Simon Alexander.
June 28th, 1891


( The cat is dead. )