Victorian Nocturne

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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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]

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]

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]

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.

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"Mister Doyle," the Chief Inspector interrupted. There was no concealing the irritation that coloured his words. "While I am very sympathetic to your loss, I needs must insist that there are no such things as werewolves!"

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