Victorian Nocturne

It had just started to drizzle as Joachim stepped into the shelter that the stable provided, and he shook raindrops from his hat before putting it back on. He was early, but he'd wanted a few minutes to gather himself before Ms. Fry arrived. He'd gone back and forth about scheduling this meeting, but the last few nights had been sleepless due to the return of the nightmares. This time, the beasts weren't attacking him in the field; they'd somehow followed him to the streets of London and were intent on destroying him there. To finish what their kind had started.

The Major checked his breath. If Elspeth smelled alcohol on him, she would doubtless imagine him to be unstable. He'd been maintaining as best he could, but the previous attack had left him unsettled, to say the least. Surely such things could not be a common occurrence? He must learn more if he was to do...anything, really.

Joachim leaned the back of his head against the solid stable wall, closed his eyes for a few moments. He thought of the no-nonsense young woman that Ms. Fry appeared to be, wondered how many of his questions she could answer. He needed much more information on this subject.

Outside the barn, Elspeth attempted to reign in her nerves and don a veil of control. A pair of lace gloves dangled from the bite of her front teeth. Her hands smoothed wisps of brown hair into a bun and fastened them with pins. Often the picture of cool -- when she wasn't upbraiding a colleague, that was -- the twenty-six-year-old found herself wound rather tightly.

( Plans for a Partnership of Sorts )

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:]

( Might as well tell them now. )

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...



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

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]

The stables were freshly mucked out, clean hay put down for the animals, and Joachim inspected a mended stall door with a critical eye as he waited for James Thomas to appear. He'd scheduled this meeting for an early time, as the day was promising to be hot and he wished to spend most of it indoors, but at the moment he was quietly enjoying the smell of alfalfa as he lingered near the entryway. The cane was held loosely in his left hand, but he was limping less today. The physician he'd visited had offered a good prognosis and words of encouragement. He'd also provided a bottle of laudanum to assist with the sleeplessness, for which the major was grateful.

Still, it seemed as if he'd require a horse while he was in the city, as the injured limb still twinged far too often to be relied upon for long periods of walking. It was difficult not to become impatient with himself over it, this infirmity. He was assuaging his annoyance with the reminder of how much he'd missed riding since being put on leave. He'd trained Stormdancer, the animal who had died during the attack on his party, on his own, and although it would not be the same with a new mount, at this point even an echo of better times would suffice.

Joachim adjusted the cuff of his shirtsleeve, glanced at his pocket watch. He kept waiting for the point when he would get used to civilian clothes again.

At the end of the stables, there was a fuss as two people entered. A female voice admonished, "Honestly, Jacob, had I known James would be gone for the week, I would've brought my things. These little emergencies of his are ridiculous!" Elspeth's riding habit was long and brown, the skirt reaching her ankles, so that just her boots showed beneath the hem. Underneath, she wore a starched petticoat and little breeches. The end result was that she was quite warm, even at this ungodly hour. A hat with an ostrich feather was pinned to her hair.

( A Little Outburst )

( The Chestnut )

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? )

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]

The day began in a dreary fashion. It was rainy and warm, and the air like a soggy blanket, but by afternoon, gusts of wind pushed back the clouds. Sunlight evaporated the larger puddles around Sussex Square. Carriages rattled on the cobblestone and splattered people's skirts and trousers as they left their homes and ran errands at the shops.

Elspeth Fry rode in a brougham carriage, her nose hovering near the window as the wheels took them up Stanhope Street, near the boutique where she purchased fragrance from Berdette Daugney. The gift had been begrudgingly received by her sister-in-law, but was wildly popular amongst her friends, a few of whom had complimented Ms. Fry on her tastes and asked after the shopkeeper who kept it in stock. She hoped to drop off a hand-written note of thanks to the proprietress.

As the carriage rolled past her destination, she let out an exasperated grunt. "Good lord, has he fallen asleep?" Leaning forward, she rapped to get the driver's attention. "I beg your pardon, but we seem to have gone past it! Sir!" She half-lifted off her seat and struck the carriage wall with the flat of her hand. The driver brought the horses to a rough stop and Elspeth caught herself on the backward-facing bench. Through the little viewing hole, she gave his back her most severe glare. She waited for him to dismount and open her door.

Out on the street, she thanked him and sorted through her purse, looking for the square of stationary paper. "Please return for me in an hour," she said. The driver closed the door, climbed onto his bench, and set the horses moving. Unfortunately, Elspeth's skirt was trapped in the door, a fact she did not realize until she felt a backwards tug.

( Stop the Carriage! )

( A Proper Escort )

It was a dreary day in London. The clouds hung over the city as if they were God's spies, always waiting and looking for a sinner to strike with a lightning bolt. Despite the threat of holy smiting, the streets throbbed with life, from the highest Lord to the rats nibbling on the toes of some unfortunate soul. Today London showed her true face as a hole of shit, and even to true veterans it was enough to shorten the fuse on tempers. If the elbows were a little sharper, if the curses were a little harsher, nobody had time to notice. The sidewalks were just as crowded as the streets, and everyone KNEW what they were doing was the highest priority in the world. It was irrational to think another man's agenda even existed.

The Aviary was a beacon of light amongst the gloomy and forbidding storefronts around it. Literally so, as countless beeswax candles filled the windows and turned the store into a glittering treasure trove. It has been said their glow turns even the reddest skin porcelain, and the stringiest hair shining. Fitting, for a boutique focused on beauty and the pursuit of it. While one may think the smell inside would be a cacophony of contrasting perfumes, all of the samples sprayed seemed to come together and create a symphony of olfactory delight. Exotic birds roosted prettily in their gilded cages, not one squawking or screaming. If only the patrons weren't so self-centered, they might realize the atmosphere inside was almost like... magic.

It was fitting the boutique be named The Aviary, as the ladies themselves chattered and flitted like magpies. Just like magpies as well, they were often after the shiniest thing, and there was many a conversation about which fabrics, perfumes, and men were simply the best. When your livelihood depended on what was said about you and who said it, such topics could be vital to social survival. While they appeared to be gentle kittens with innocent conversations, their silk gloves hid bloodthirsty talons just waiting to grab onto someone else's folly. Right now the folly belonged to Elizabeth Harridan, who had been seen with a notorious libertine at an opera last night. Each and every one of them had saying it by not saying it down to an art form.

( A Nest of Vipers )

( Awkward )

"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 )

Jack was still moderately annoyed from his interview with the Chief Inspector, and was more determined than ever to prove the existence of werewolves. To that end, he decided to pay a visit to the London Library in hopes of perusing their shelves in search of some clue that might help in his pursuit of a certain werewolf.

Afternoon found Jack, and his research, taking up most of one table in the occult section. Though much of what he had found he either knew already or was mindless prattle, there were still the occasional tidbits that seemed credible.

He had abandoned his table for a moment in favour of the racks of books. One title in particular caught his eye: Lycanthropes and Other Mythical Creatures. He was about to remove the book from the shelf when another hand, a gloved and very feminine hand, reached for the same tome.

Jack blinked in surprise as he looked to his right and down to the brunette standing at his side. His brow creased in confusion. What could a woman possibly want with lycanthropes?

"I beg your pardon, Madam," Jack said, moving his hand back to his side.

( Read more... )

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]

It was a rare day that found Henry Armitage still asleep in his bed past eight A.M., but they did occur from time to time and this happened to be one where he'd slept in very late indeed.

The scholar turned inquisitor had arrived at the Whitechapel late the previous evening, and the debriefing on the mission had lasted to a late enough hour that he had gone ahead and slept in the cabin assigned to him rather than make the trek back to his townhouse in the city. He hadn't returned to the land of the living until nearly eleven the next morning, when hunger roused him to wakefulness.

After taking just long enough time to wash with the towel and basin provided in his cabin, Henry dressed and made his way up to the open air dining facility aboard the ship. It was a warm day for London and he'd been able to see the sun shining from the porthole of his cabin, so it seemed perfect weather for dining outside.

Beneath the brim of a hat, Elspeth held up her silverware to the mid-day sun and inspected a spot. The cutlery had been polished to a shine recently, but the last washing cycle had left specks behind. Mildly put off, she set the fork down and put her hands in her lap. It was difficult to overlook such details. In her childhood home, she was coerced into sitting alongside a household cook and helping polish the inherited set of utensils, ostensibly so she'd know how to do so herself, or direct another in the proper way. Thankfully, she was never required to put her hands in the dishwater. The bits of soggy food floating at surface made her stomach lurch.

( Making Do )

( Powerful Spirits )

( Holy Perfume Spritzer? )

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 )

The boardinghouse where Fox lived was owned by a widow named Harriet Soames. She'd been a seamstress when she was younger, but after arthritis gnarled her hands to the point where she could no longer thread a needle without pain, she began to rent the rooms of the home she'd shared with her husband to supplement her income. The house was nestled on a quiet street, a rusty wrought-iron gate surrounding the property. The yard was a bit unkempt, one of the men who lived within occasionally doing minor tasks to keep the grass from getting too thick, but the inside was tidy.

In the kitchen, Fox was preparing a cup of coffee. Breakfast had already been served and eaten but as long as the tenants cleaned up after themselves the kitchen seldom closed. There was no work today; Mr. Templeton had told her before leaving last night that he'd be lunching with his wife and some prospective clients, so he wouldn't need her. Perhaps she'd visit the library, she was running out of reading material.

Carrying her cup into the front room, she picked up the newspaper she'd left behind and returned to the article she'd been reading. While not particularly educated, she didn't want to be ignorant of the world around her. Even while committing the most basic of deceptions, she could still learn if she wanted to.

( A Guest in the Parlor )

Elspeth's Journal
June 22, 1891

Another night onboard the ship and I dare not leave my cabin, because the corridors are rank with the stench of frying fish.

I have always despised fish, in part because I am stricken with a particularly delicate nose, but also because of the incident at the Millwall docks when I was not older than ten. Quite a dreadful day that was, dragged to the edge of the Thames by my father's hand in the suffocating heat of mid-afternoon. In those days, the Royal Albert docks were not yet complete, and the planners paraded many a clerk by Millwall to consult on the various options for expansion, now that the riverbank was overcrowded.

As we arrived, my father became engaged in conversation and I, with a child's natural curiosity, crept closer and peered into the murky waters. Tiny waves slapped against the wood, sounding like the tongues of thirsty dogs. A boat had only just docked, in from a fishing trip. It was called the 'Randy Seafarer'. My mind translated that into a proper name, a rich fellow by the name of Randolph who owned the vessel. The fishermen cast their monstrous net overboard. It was filled with the slick, silver bodies of sprat. They were dead, but as the small fish slipped the net and landed around my buckled shoes, I daydreamt they sprung back to life. Their vacuous eyes blinked, their mouths gaped, and they flipped and turned somersaults beneath my hem.

( Little Blessings )