Victorian Nocturne

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]

The docks stink of fish, spice, and blood. Blood shed more in industry than violence. The midnight tide was out, and the muddy water lapped far below against the wood pylons of the pier. Rusting iron above creaking and settling. The rain continued in an annoying drizzle, essentially soaking everything in sight without a real downpour. Bramble pulls his bowler down over his eyes, the heavy tufts of his sodden eyebrows drooping either side of his eyes, and his side-whiskers platted to his cheeks.

He reaches into his inner coat and removes an amber vial about the length of his thumb and of equal circumference. He unstoppers it, and begins dripping a viscous ochre onto the dock alongside his stride. In this fashion, he describes a semi circle at the mouth of a tatterdown pier, and along the pier's length, the swollen boards complaining even of Thomas' modest load. He returnes the cork to the empty glass and secretes it back in his coat. A faint wisp of mist oozes out of the red-orange droplets. The occultist makes a half turn from his perch at the shattered end of the pier in time to watch a truncheon-toting docksman leave the pier dexter, and walk right past the ruined thing, and off among the warehouses.

The night wears on, and Tom squats at the terminal edge of the pier, watching the black water slosh and slap. He smells the boatman long before he sees the dinghy. The pilot smells of citrus, sweat, herring, and confusion. Thomas stands, forcing himself to stay calm, remain rigid. The plunk of the oars becomes louder, the smell more refined, and a silhouette emerges from the clouded half-moon night. The tiny craft pulls up alongside the pier, the pilot tosses the mooring rope, Tom catches and pulls him in before tying off. The smuggler is dressed entirely in black, a slick oil-skin raincoat over coveralls and galoshes. He hefts a plain, gray oaken box from his cache. Without a word, Bramble takes the box under one arm, and returns the rope to the boat before turning around to make his way back home.