Victorian Nocturne

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!

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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...


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The shunting hiss of pistons was especially loud during the evenings, even in a city such as London, so crowded with the living that its own poor were almost guaranteed to suffocate their own existence. The train had arrived with little fanfare, save for that of coal-fed furnace and its belching forth of steam into the night air. At least one of its passengers was perfectly happy to keep things low-key, even if, taking the first steps to land feet on the station platform, this mechanised transport still felt like quite the novelty.

The face of Isaac Turner looked steadily around, but it no longer belonged to any man. It could smell the air, but did not breathe. It could feel the cold air, register a need to show its human guise wrapping coat tighter around chest, but extremes of temperature were unlikely to kill it. It could see, write, read, learn and even talk, but this voice was not its own; merely a borrowed construct. A means to an end, as all things were.

Calmly deciding to make its way to the exit, something had come to London with not only grand vision, but the will and means by which to see it through. Where metal, glass and electricity were starting to teach mankind new ways of ascending to something greater, so, too, would this newest presence seek to lead them astray by a perversion of the same.