Victorian Nocturne

Elspeth stood in the little study, gone quiet since the others left to wander the residence. A capable woman would be a fish out of water in this group, so after carefully considering her options, she thought it best if she remained with the growing collection of supplies. Left to her own devices, she began sorting items of use into piles... Even if it made her feel like a perfect idiot. A blanket hung between her pinched fingertips. She held it to the light and inspected it for holes or bugs. Judging it appropriate for their use, she laid it against her chest and folded it into neat squares. Its faint smells of wool and moths offended her nose.

While she worked, she kept an eye on the room. Shadows seemed to bulge from corners that looked normal upon closer inspection. One moment the air chilled her and rattled her teeth; in the next, it warmed until perspiration beaded on her nose. Was she coming down sick? Elspeth dismissed that as nonsense. She hardly ever caught cold.

A figure moved beyond the door. Laying a blanket across her arm, Elspeth rounded the desk and peered into the corridor. "Oh! Mr. Musgrave, it's you. May I speak with you?"

Alistair had made to follow those who had swiftly deserted the study, but paused as he thought a moment upon his situation. It had become clear that what he had seen to draw him there - or, rather, what he had thought he had seen - had been nothing more than some sort of illusion. How then could he trust anything else he was confronted with in the strange house? Stranded with an assortment of strangers, Alistair found himself drawn to familiarity above all. Mrs. Fry, as the others had called her, and the boy Fox were the only familiar faces in the crowd, and when Fox journeyed out into the corridors, Alistair stepped back towards the strange woman he had encountered in an East End charity ward.

( Oh Dear...That's Not Good )

( Communication Woes )

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...



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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]

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

It was not normally Fox's custom to loiter around the workhouses when she already had a job, but the workday was over and she'd loaned Charlie Horton a few pounds when he was short last week. Now she was scanning the knots of men out front for the lout, wondering if he wasn't lying somewhere drunk, having spent whatever he might've earned that week along with what she'd loaned him. It would certainly be the last time she parted with any of her hard-earned money for his sake.

"Oi, Cullen!" The apprentice turned at the sound of her name, saw another of her acquaintances lounging in a chair, and she made her way over. "If yer lookin' for Horton, his wife called 'im home early to help her with the young ones. Something 'bout colic."

"If ye see him about in the next few days, tell him he owes me ten pounds. Money doesn't grow on trees!" She'd have said something rougher, but it had been a fairly good day overall and she didn't want to head home with a scowl on her face. At least she had reliable work, unlike poor sod Charlie. Fox re-tucked her shirt into the waistband of her trousers, headed back outside. The evening was going to be warm and breezy, the few clouds scudding past the sun as if racing to get somewhere.

( Down by the Workhouse )

The reek of sickness and infection permeated the air, but Alistair paid it little mind. He had grown well accustomed to the stench in recent days, since little Abigail had fallen so dreadfully ill. When taking up Joshua as an apprentice, the boy's family had become quite dear to his heart, and Alistair visited their youngest daughter in the charity ward of the Children's Hospital on Hackney Road as much as time would permit. Abigail had always been sickly, much the way Alistair himself had been as a child, and yet all the worse for it. The girl had been born with an unnaturally curved spine, and mere months prior to her sixth birthday, she had been struck down by a carriage while begging in the streets. The physicians had counted it a miracle that she had survived, though the accident had crippled the child further.

Alistair himself thought it might have been a small mercy if she had never opened her eyes again after the accident.

( Bite Radius )

( Like Clockwork )

( Nefarious? )

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]

"Mr. Musgrave, sir," the boy's voice broke in to the noisy workshop.

The inventor paid him no mind, hunched over a wide wooden box on the workbench in front of him, muttering to himself even as the mechanical clicks and whirs drowned out the noise. The sight was not a strange one for young Joshua, a boy plucked from the workhouse to serve as apprentice to the clockmaker. It was a strange duty indeed, and not what the child had expected, but far better than the backbreaking labor and cruel taskmasters of the workhouse. The boy was lucky, and he knew it.

"Mr. Musgrave!" he called again, louder to finally rouse the inventor from his work.

Alistair Musgrave glanced up in surprise, a pair of thick tinted magnifying goggles on his face. "Oi! Joshua, what is it?" he asked his apprentice.

( Lady Asher and the Clock )