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:]

( Might as well tell them now. )

Verdoux decided to remain in the study. As the others left, he found himself lost in thought. Even for a discerning man such as himself the situation was utterly bizarre. Was there, he wondered, a veiled connection between all of the parties involved, or was it sheer coincidence? Why did the house choose them, if indeed the house was sentient at all.

He paced to and fro, examining his environs to the most minute of details. The positioning of the chair at the secretoire, the number and titles of the books on the shelves, the choice of decor, including the paintings and prints which lined the walls. The way in which the rug puckered at one edge, not quite smoothed. The various accounts and ledgers kept in the secretoire, the letters, the notes, the bills. But none of this, he thought, was helpful. Something was indeed far more sinister, though he doubted it had anything to do with the choice of furnishings.

( And will not know. )

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 courier had stood outside the servant's entrance of Mrs. Daugney's house for about two and a half hours, refusing to speak to anyone aside from a Mr. Israel Alderdice. Unfortunately, Mr. Alderdice happened to be working at the moment, and would not be for another couple of hours, would you like to come in and have some tea, mister? The courier had answered no and had seemed somewhat arrogant about the whole process so that the kitchen staff hadn't felt too bad about leaving him out in the rain. He had an umbrella, anyway.

It would have been foolish to say that Izzy hadn't been expecting anything for the past week, but he still had no idea what the courier was about, no matter how many times he was asked, even by Mrs. Daugney herself. Mostly, he wondered what all the fuss was about. It was only when he took the letter that he got really, really excited but refused to show anyone.

His head had been buzzing all week. A contract. He might not have been getting paid much for it, but he was getting paid and more than that it meant that they knew his name. He was officially getting jobs as a hunter now, and from The Crown no less. He'd hardly been able to focus all week, much less all day, and had been quite surprised he'd slept at all last night. Even though he didn't know how it was going to go, he'd written home even though he had no idea how it was going to go.

( Trimming the Verge )

( In the Rectory )

( The Hunt Begins )

( Death and a New Acquaintance )

( In which Izzy proves that he is, if nothing else, a teenage boy. )

[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. )

Today was the day that Mrs. Templeby had pulled him aside when he hadn't been and whispered something in his ear that was more explicit than anything he'd ever been told by any john. He'd blushed horribly, sent all the ladies tittering, and tried to turn her politely down. He wasn't sure if it had worked or not, but she'd left soon after that. It seemed that he was getting more chances to move up in the world, but he thought he would pass this one by.

However, today was also the day that he was unduly excited for. He'd met up with Fox a few days ago, and it seemed that they were finally going to meet in a way that didn't involve bumping into each other. There were a few minutes left in his shift and they seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. Miss Lascelles noticed him goofing off and hit him with a medium-sized novel to get his attention.

Now he was standing outside the shop, taking a drag from his cigarette, glancing around and wondering if he was here too early.

( Something to Talk About )

[A few days before "Werewolves in London"]

Shifting for himself when it came to meals wasn't difficult for Joachim. His father employed a single cook/housekeeper who came in twice a week, and her found her fare passable if plain. He'd spent the afternoon that day at the Fry stables feeding and grooming his new horse, debating internally on what to name the animal. There would never be another Stormdancer, but the colt he'd found was spirited and lively. He was even considering a new saddle, something less worn than the one he'd used before. One step at a time, his life was evening out again.

He was moving with a bit more care today. His physician had provided a brace for his leg, and he was still getting used to the confinement at the joint of his knee. When he decided to take a late lunch at a pub, he stumped to a table near the front where he could watch the traffic outside. London was the most bustling place he'd been to outside of Delhi, and he was still a bit awed that so many people lived so close together.

The major ordered a meat pie and some sausages, as well as a mug of beer. Tea was for lunch, and while he didn't often imbibe, the heaviness of the meal would offset the alcohol. He could come to enjoy this city quite a bit, really.

( Though quite unexpected by a shop-boy. )

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]

[Two days after " The Odd Fairytale That Is Your Life "]

There was a book lying on the night-stand next to him, he was only just coming to grips with its existence and realizing that...probably the doctor...had put it there for his edification if he should so need it. The title was one he thought he'd seen before, perhaps in the cafe. And here it was, right next to him, so close that he could grab it. That wasn't as nice a thought as it had been a few minutes ago. And, come to think of it, he was beginning to be able to feel his insides, particularly the ones that hurt. The laudanum must have been wearing off.

He hadn't been fainting as much as he had been, but in return he'd been unable to sleep without the assistance of drugs, whether by sickness, pain, or his own mind. His own mind seemed to be the main cause, as he had a great deal to think about, and it tended to intrude on his nightmares. Above all else, though, he felt weaker than he'd ever been in his entire life. When it wasn't hindering him, it just felt incredibly alien.
 
With a few moments to spare before she left for the concert at the park, Berdette decided it would be good to go ahead and check up on Izzy. She still hadn't decided if she was going to tell him that the effects had been much more severe than she intended. Only a day of sickness! Instead, he had to suffer several weeks of... well, what did the doctor say? Internal pain, nightmares, feverish skin... completely dreadful.

[Immediately after I Love You, I Hate You.]

( So it's good that you're here. )

[Sometime after the ball and before the hypnotist's show.]

( I think it's only just gotten started. )

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]

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...nice. He would have liked to believe he was in heaven, to fall down on his knees every day and give thanks to whatever miserable entity had been assigned to guard over his fate, but for whatever reason, he hadn't done that since the first day. No, now he was simply enjoying himself, an strange concept but he didn't question it.

( Now, apparently. )

Overall, tonight couldn't have been that bad. At least, he'd gotten paid adequately for that that bloody party, the one he hadn't known he'd be dragged to or passed around at. Unfortunately, this was the week that it would be most of what he was sending home. Bad things came in threes, as the saying went. Dead bodies, completely broke, and Tuesday.

( You've just got to hum along to the music and keep up with the dance steps. )

It could have been worse. For instance it could have been raining which, quite surprisingly, it wasn't. Indeed, it was blisteringly hot out, especially for this time of night. Or morning, whichever one preferred. It was the kind of heat that made everything more tangible, when right now his conscious mind wished for nothing more than to be in a little steel box where he didn't have to experience any kind of reality, especially the one in a dark little alley where everything smelled of death.

( It's like being violently knurd. )

( Selected quotes from the questioning of one 'Oliver Norwood.' )

The Jerusalem was exactly the kind of place he'd imagined it. Lots of working-class types, a little rough around the edges, decent beer - the kind of place he shouldn't have felt out-of-place in. This was the kind of place he would have lied about going to with his mates from the factory every Friday after work, if alternate Izzy had wanted to get his mother to come down to London and knock some sense into him. There were very few times when he'd actually gotten to sit down and have a drink while not with a customer, which seemed a little strange for someone who hung around a hotel bar most nights.

But, unlike the hotel bar, this place didn't depress him. This was partly because he'd gone here of his own volition and a few shillings to spend on drinks, and partly because he'd had enough alcohol in his system so that everything was starting to become enjoyable. This place had been a good recommendation on Cullen(?)'s part.

Izzy knew that he was celebrating something, though all in all it seemed like a mixed blessing. He was celebrating managing to both get and lose his first client as a vampire hunter over the course of about an hour - not that he really wanted to see the bastard again. In retrospect, it was a good thing he'd blatantly overcharged. He'd probably never see that much money again until things got better. He was celebrating making a small, but not insignificant dent in his late father's mountainous debts.

( False Pretenses )