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The Hunt is On- to Catch a Shade Messages in this topic - RSS

Posts: 190

Locke Lockhart’s Lamentable Legwork, Part 1: Lady Lavinia

Somewhere in London…

London teems with scents. The acrid smoke of the manufactories, the stink of the bustling crowds of hairless apes, the subtle splashes from other animals marking this place and that place as mine; they all add up to a cohesive whole, a gauge for the health of the city.

Today, London smells wrong.

The Ninefold Cat has the advantage of perspective. A strange smell in one location could be dismissed as an anomaly, but he can be in nine places at once.

The humans of London are struck by a silent panic. Walking through the streets, it’s scarcely noticeable, but watching and listening from the rooftops it becomes all too apparent. Whispered conversations drift out of windows. Sometimes a faint sob can be heard on the breeze. The city is under siege from within, and the Shadow of London is the culprit.

One of him finds a new victim of the Shade in the crooked alleys of Spite, one that hasn’t shown up in the papers yet. The corpse is not fresh. He smells the rot almost before he smells the blood. The young woman’s head lolls grotesquely, almost separated from her body, hanging on by a stray tendon. Permanently dead, then, like the others. Mortality does not suit these humans.

He is uncomfortably reminded of his own lives. As everyone knows, cats have nine lives. Thanks to Gideon’s experiment, the Ninefold Cat lives all nine at once. He is grateful for it most of the time – it has proved indispensable in his profession – but he does not know what will happen if one of him dies, and has little wish to find out.

The cat pounces down from his perch on a high fence to take a closer look. Rusty dried blood smears the cobbles around the body.

He is dimly aware of his other selves, going about their business of spying and eating and talking and occasionally fighting. The sensations are tightly knotted at the back of his head, ready to be teased out like a ball of wool if he needs to make contact with himself. For now, he shuts them out and focuses on his own surroundings.

There is little to distinguish the woman from the Shade’s other victims. Once you’ve seen enough dead humans, they all start to look the same.

Nevertheless, the cat makes an effort to notice distinguishing features. The gender is obvious from the long hair – why apes choose to differentiate their sexes like that he will never understand – but the clothing is important too. Her dress is drab and threadbare – clearly not a woman of means, then. The Shade may claim not to discriminate in the choice of its prey, but it seems to prefer those who won’t be missed.

From what he has heard, the Shade’s beheadings are usually done in a single stroke. This woman’s neck is a ragged mess; clearly the Shade had to give it a few tries before he got all the way through. Something is off here.

“Well, if it isn’t the Count in Exile himself,” says an arch voice from a nearby rooftop. The Ninefold Cat’s ears prick up and he whirls to face the speaker, an immaculately groomed tortoiseshell cat with a red leather collar.

He lets out a low, threatening growl, baring his teeth at the newcomer. “Lavinia,” he snarls, spitting the name out like a curse. “You seem to be doing well for yourself. Didn’t realise you’d gone native, though – the collar is new. Captivity suits you, apparently. Have you put on weight?”

Lavinia chuckles dryly, and begins making her way to ground level in a series of flowing jumps. “Captivity? Hardly. The Hampton family and I have merely entered a mutually beneficial arrangement. They give me a roof over my head, an exceptionally comfortable bed and an unlimited supply of tuna; in return I take my kills out to the coach-house where they won’t drip blood all over their nice carpets and occasionally sit in their laps and allow them to scratch my ears.”

She hops down to the cobbles and sits carefully out of pouncing distance, licking her paw. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the benefits of society, though. Your self-imposed exile made that very clear.”

“Is there any particular reason you deigned to talk to me, oh high-and-mighty Baroness,” the Ninefold Cat says, “Or did you just come to gloat?”

Lavinia tilts her head. “Actually, I do have a reason, although the gloating was certainly a perk. Word on the street is that you and that human you adopted – Gideon, was it? – are looking for the Shadow of London. Hence, I assume, why you’re sniffing around that dead human. Well, you should know that the Shade didn’t kill her. It was a nasty-looking tramp. Dreadful business, apparently.”

“A tramp, you say?” The Ninefold Cat has heard of the Shade’s hobo army, but he didn’t realise they were capable of such savagery.

“Indeed,” Lavinia smirks. “We had someone trail the wretch, of course. Secrets are the Council’s business, and this one is worth a pretty penny to the right buyer. You are interested in buying, no?”

He grits his teeth. He thought he’d got away from this sort of intrigue when he renounced his title, but such things always have a way of coming back to nip you in the tail. “Yes. Fine.”

“Come with me, then. The Council will want to oversee the transaction in person, and I’m sure they missed you just as dearly as I did.”

If there’s one thing he can be sure of, it’s that the toffs have a hidden agenda. Nevertheless, the Council doesn’t harm guests; he should be safe in body at least. Little good will come from entering that tangled web, but at least he no longer has a reputation to lose.

Lavinia pads off without another word, tail high in the air, and the Ninefold Cat reluctantly follows.


“I want to die,” groans Locke for the umpteenth time, slouched against a rack of chemicals in Gideon’s wine cellar. The Ninefold Cat regards him silently with what the bandaged bruiser assumes must be amused derision. Damn cats always look like they know something you don’t.

The Cat cocks its head, as if hearing something inaudible to human ears. “Hold that thought. You can die on your own time.”

“Guh?” says Locke eloquently.

“Grab your coat and your gun, and be quick about it. We are no longer safe here, and there’s someone I need you to kill.”
edited by JimmyTMalice on 5/17/2017

Gideon Stormstrider, the Episcopalian Esotericist
Vela Marek, the Studious Intriguer
Locke Lockhart, the Bandaged Bruiser
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.

A Squid in the Polls
+4 link
John Moose
John Moose
Posts: 200

(cowritten with Edward Frye, suinicide, Shadowcthulhu, Lord Gazter)

The coach drives away with considerable haste as the police rush into the Sad Spider. A constable spots the cab and demands it to stop, but the driver is in no hurry to be involved in the case, and the officer soon stops giving chase to the speeding cab. Within the carriage, Hamilton is tending to the unconscious Frye, and the others are checking whether they still are in possession of all their teeth.
“I am by no means a professional in information gathering” Noah begins. “However, I feel obliged to point out that we gained precious little information, unless we were after a demonstration on how old zailors fight. Was this the intended result, Erinyes? Or is taking part in a gang fight our official party doctrine by now?” Based on the doctor’s tone, he’s having trouble deciding whether to be annoyed or amused.

Noah’s displeasure does little to rust the glean of Dirae Erinyes pleasure with themselves. “It’s helped us make friends. If we ever need their help if the Shade turns to zee matters, they will be willing to fight by our sides. If we couldn’t learn anything there, I thought it would be a complete waste if our group didn’t make a few friends.”

“...Friends? But you beat them black and blue, why would they… Ah. A zailor thing, then? How… Quaint.” Noah leans back, with the annoyance in his expression replaced by bewilderment, still laced with amusement. “I suppose that’s something, then. I’ll ask you to refrain from such antics in Spite, though - they tend to memorize faces and approach those faces later on dark alleys, with some pointed questions about which appendage one is least attached to.”
“Would it be agreeable to all if we stop by my apartment first? I feel like resupplying on medical equipment shouldn’t wait too long, in light of recent events.”’

“Fine by me. Do you want a lump?” Dirae Erinyes holds out the stolen platter.

“Don’t mind if I do, thank you.” Noah holds out a hand in the direction of Dirae’s voice. “And the rest of you sirs? Did you have something planned for our stop at Spite?”

Henchard stirs from his seat. “No,” he said, cracking one eye open. “I feel we’ve attracted enough attention on our trip. I hope to keep our time in the Spite to a minimum.” He pats the hardtack above his heart, assuring himself it was still keeping him safe.

As the carriage hits a bump in the road Lord Gazter places a hand on his hat to keep it from falling off his head. “May I ask as to what happened?” He asks. “I’m afraid that I am in the dark in that matter.”

Noah responds, smiling. “Ahaha, likewise, I suppose. But from what I could glean from the flying furniture, Erinyes asked the good patrons of the establishment whether they knew something, and the specifics were discussed by an intricate choreography of smashing bottles on people’s heads. I fear nothing of use was learned.” Noah turns towards Gazter, frowning slightly. “Where were you, if you missed all that? It was hardly something one fails to notice, should they be present.”

Lord Gazter moves himself into a more upright position, and rest his hands on the head of his cane. “I’m afraid that I was indisposed at the time meeting with a “friend” of mine to acquire some information as to the current state of affairs in Spite. He did not wish to be seen in this part of London so unfortunately I had no choice but to meet him alone.” Lord Gazter shrugs apologetically. “I was intending to return to the establishment once I had concluded my conversation with the fellow, but then that occurred,” he says as he waves a hand towards the chaos behind them.

“I see. I feel like I should reprimand you for not notifying the rest of us in advance, but honestly it just makes me happy to hear someone managed to do some information gathering. Anything of use?”

“Yes, I’ve learned of a few things that I learned are quite pertinent to our cause,” Lord Gazter responds as he leans back into his seat. “Fortunately it appears that the Shade has not been making any movements in Spite, although I would recommend that we should still be on guard on the rest of our journey. Also the neddy men believe that there are individuals that they deem as troublesome around Flowerdene Street and apparently the neddy men will be “sorting it out” today. So unless we wish to find ourselves in their path, I would suggest that we should avoid Flowerdene Street.”

Edward wakes up, looks around. “I see that the fight at the bar has ended,” he says, “thank you to whoever brought me out of there”. He gets himself in a more comfortable position, “Are we headed to Spite then? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I have a, er… friend up in the Flit who might be helpful against the hoboes if we, or another group of the party, were to encounter them again. So if none of you have need of me, I shall ascend to the Flit at the next stop. Do any of you know of a good place to meet up?”

“If it’s take to take a few days, you can meet us in the side street that we will be meeting everyone else in.” Dirae Erinyes answers, as they finish their plate of rubbery lumps.

“That sounds good, it may take a few days to find him.” Edward replies “If anyone would care to join me, they would be very welcome to come.” He looks out the window and says “I will be leaving when we get to Spite then.”
Henchard pauses when Frye starts speaking. “I’ll come with you. Can’t leave you alone with your penchant for head wounds.” He wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to a non-combat member of the team. Something beyond what they all suffered, at any rate.
“Ah good. I will warn you, we will be going through urchin territory, so I would watch your pockets.” Edward replies, “Which reminds me, I am sorry for getting myself knocked unconscious on so many occasions. Thank you Erinyes, Henchard, and whoever carried me out of the tavern, for carrying me out, or, in Henchard’s case, unburying me from bricks.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t a problem,” Henchard says, “If I actually remembered doing so, your thanks would be a bit more warranted.” He paused. “That isn’t to say it wasn’t important, I meant I was not in my best state at the time.” The words trail off, his mouth moving for a few more moments before giving up.

“Oh, I’m sure no one minds, Mr Frye. Just count yourself lucky to still have all your senses and appendages.” Noah opens the window slightly, and hears further off the familiar hustle of a marketplace full of thieves - quiet ones between the stalls, loud ones inside them.
“So Frye and Henchard on the rooftops, and me, Erinyes, Hamilton and Gazter on the ground. We’ll rendezvous at the agreed upon location, this also if something unexpected happens and we end up even more separated. We’ll avoid the fracas on Flowerdene Street, but if we get into another fight, that sounds like a good place to lose pursuers. Let’s begin by replenishing supplies at my place, and afterwards I have a place in Blythenhale where we may be able to purchase some information as well as hear the latest word on the streets. I repeat my request for not picking fights; the people here tend to have an astonishing lack of a sense of humour.”

The cart comes to a halt where a small alley diverges from the street. “Here we are. To our next meeting, gentlemen, and best of luck in your search. ” As the Flit-bound duo departs, Noah turns to the rest. “The small alley, apartment number twenty-six. If you’d lead on, gentlemen.” A short frown. “...Erinyes.”

Gone. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/John Moose
A doctor with aspirations beyond his station, as well as an apiary enthusiast http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Noah Rache
+2 link
John Moose
John Moose
Posts: 200

Sergeant Driscoll is not a happy man.

He is currently on a night shift. This fact might escape the less vigilant observer, since it happens to be early noon. The truth of the matter is revealed from the dark bags under his eyes, the uniform half-soaked from last night’s light drizzle, the broad shoulders slumped after giving up on appearances and just wanting to get in bed, and the expression on his face that signals the end of patience approaching, barring an intervention by caffeine - or preferably something stronger. All of these telltale signs, however, escape the old widow whose attic he is currently in.

“Ma’am, I understand that they remind you of your husband. It does us, too. As does the crater on Cake Street. That’s rather the point.”

“No ma’am, you really can’t keep them. Because they’re dangerous, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, not to speak ill of the dead, but your husband would go to New Newgate just for possessing these. I’m afraid ‘his little hobby’ doesn’t quite cut it. We won’t press any charges against you, ma’am, but we do have to confiscate these.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”

“I will be sure to let my superior know, ma’am.”

“Good day ma’am, and thank you for your cooperation.”

As he makes his way to the Ministry, Sergeant Driscoll continues not being a happy man.


Sergeant Driscoll enters the office to find it mostly empty. All the other night-shifters have finished their reports and gone home, while the new bunch is already on the streets. As he dumps the leather bag on his table, a dreaded call rings forth from the bowels of hell.

“Driscoll! Excellent! I have a lead someone needs to check as soon as possible, and everyone else is on their rounds. You can finish your paperwork later.”

Driscoll turns around. The Inspector is a large, stocky man with neatly combed hair and a clean-shaven, red face. He’s a veteran from the ‘68 campaign, and unlike most of his old mates, relentlessly optimistic and vigorous. Driscoll has a suspicion that he survived the experience by simply being too dense for the bullets to pierce through. This, and a tendency to work his constables much like a slavedriver might, has secured him a cushy position in the Ministry, ordering younger men and women around to keep London a relatively sane and safe city. No one would dream of promoting him further, but since he believes too firmly in authority to ever dare complain to his superiors, everyone is mostly content with the situation. Except the constables under him.

Driscoll draws a deep breath, and turns towards the Inspector in what he hopes passes for Standing At Attention. “Sir, my shift should have ended five hours ago, and these really do need filing. I think it might be best to wait for one of the morning-shifters to drop by, they’ll be a bit more alert for...”

“Nonsense, Sergeant!” The Inspector puffs out his chest as his brow wrinkles in indignant anger. “Don’t be a ninny, man! If you’d been in the heavy cavalry you’d know a few sleepless hours is nothing! You’ve got a good career ahead of you, Sergeant, don’t ruin it by talking back to superiors!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man! Now take a look at these.” The Inspector hands Driscoll a thin bundle of papers, with a photograph on top. “Murphy, from Velocipede Squad, asked us to look into this. It’s about that business last night on Seven Devils’ Square.”

“I thought we already had people looking into that, sir?”

“There’s been a new development. Murphy’s lads went to stop a bar fight in Wolfstack this morning, and they recognized at least one person from the reports about Seven Devils’. ”

“Don’t get me wrong sir, but why aren’t they following it? They can question witnesses well enough.”

The Inspector points to the middle of the photo. “This is the one they recognized.”

“...Oh. Unfinished, maybe?”

“You tell me! They caught up to the cabby, who says he left the group on the corner of Beetle Alley, in Spite. So since the Velocipede pansies are too scared, go there, find the giant, and ask what the hell it knows about the business and why it’s trying to tear down my city one bar at a time!”

“Yes, sir.”

Sergeant Driscoll is, as it turns out, truly not a happy man.

Gone. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/John Moose
A doctor with aspirations beyond his station, as well as an apiary enthusiast http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Noah Rache
+3 link
Drake Dynamo
Drake Dynamo
Posts: 414

11 days ago
Cowritten with ForScience, Barselaar, JimmyTMalice and Phryne (Sketch, you can join the party when you're able to, no pressure)

Florence wrenches open the door, ready to harangue whatever poor University member interrupted her in the middle of her work. Blueprints are laid out across almost every inch of floor space, and an array of vaguely mind-boggling objects in every color of the Neathbow are casually strewn about the room. For her part, Flo has her mess of what could charitably be described as ‘hair’ pulled roughly back and is dressed in a once-white smock now stained every color imaginable and then some.

So when she opens the door to see her old friend Drake - and company - she can’t help but wish that she had at least washed the multicolored grime off of her face before having so many people over.

No sense worrying now, though.

“Drake! What a pleasure to see you! You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t shake your hand, though. Heh.” She holds up a gloved hand covered in apocyanic ink as her justification.

“And it looks like you’ve brought a few - oh!” She spots the Scorched Sailor and gives a cheery little wave. “Hello, captain! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The Sailor nods slowly and clears his throat, which she takes for his version of a pleasantry. “Well, come in, and you’ll have to introduce me to everyone. My apologies for the state of the laboratory. Try not to step on anything, please, some of it could probably hurt you.”

She leads the group through the neon-hued lab, idly chattering about her work while ensuring that nobody’s shoes are dyed irrigo. Eventually they reach what could be considered a sitting area, in that somebody resourceful enough could find somewhere to sit. Florence pulls up a stool that has seen better days and better paint jobs and cheerfully announces, “Please, everyone, make yourselves at home!”

With the utmost naivete of somebody who has not left the University grounds in quite some time, she turns to Drake and asks, “So what have you been up to? Nothing too dangerous, I hope?”

Drake nods slowly, before letting out a little sigh.

“Well, to be honest, we are doing something rather dangerous. Back before you joined our journey to Irem, I had an unpleasant experience with the Mountain’s blood, and it created a, uh, shall we say, copy of myself. And - I’ll save you an overly long explanation - it’s here in London, killing people. Permanently. Emma and I have built a little team to hunt it down, and we were hoping you might be able to help us, specifically by creating some way to kill it,” Drake explains. He pauses, and continues after a moment.

“I suppose I should introduce you to my compatriots. You of course already know our scorched friend. This good fellow is Gideon Stormstrider, a fellow inventor, and this… lady… is Phryne Amarantyne, who has some… special abilities,” Drake finishes, pointing at each member of the party in order.

Phryne tentatively shakes the many-coloured scientist’s hand. She is suddenly very much aware that this laboratory is probably not a very good place for her to be. So many things around her must be inflammable!

Just try not to breathe any fire and you’ll be fine.

She notices the woman is looking at her somewhat strangely. Ah, of course - the softly glowing luminescence emanating from within her body would not escape a scientist’s notice.

Distract her.

“So pleased to meet you, ma’am. What an unusual place you have here! I love the colour scheme.”

Florence shakes her hand, though there’s definitely something odd about her. “Thank you. If I ever quit science I’ll become an interior designer. So, what’s your stake in all this?”

“I’m, uh… just along for the ride really. You might rather want to speak to your esteemed colleague here…” She points at Gideon, who seems lost to the world, marveling over the curios on display. “He seems very intrigued by your… ah, stuff,” she finishes lamely.

Well, so much for small talk. Whatever happened to the eloquent salon lady who could chew anyone’s ear off for hours?

-She died.-

Gideon has taken a great interest in the various bizarre artifacts scattered around the lab. He kneels in front of an irrigo-infused cloth stretched out under a searing limelight and stares, transfixed, at the rippling patterns of un-colour through the enhancing power of his clockwork monocle. As always, the monocle looks utterly absurd.

“Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary,” he mutters. As if startled at a sudden noise, he jumps to his feet - “Where are my manners?” - and offers a hand in greeting to Florence. “Such a pleasure to meet a fellow scientist! It seems our fields of study overlap somewhat - I share your interest in optics and Neathy colours. Our current business is urgent, naturally, and I would hate to bore the others with shop talk, but it would be marvellous if we could share some theories when you have the time.”

Florence turns to shake Gideon’s hand, too, though she really has no idea why everyone is so eager to shake hands with her when they’re dripping with colorful pigments that transfer to their own hands.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you! We really should discuss our work sometime. But, for now, it sounds as though I should start looking into the problem right away. Do you have any knowledge as to how this thing functions, or what its weaknesses might be?”

The Scorched Sailor rouses himself at the question. “We know e’s fast as wind, strong as riptide, and wantin’ to deliver the True Death.” His emphasis is not as dismissive as it might have been a few days ago, and his clay fingers drum against his thigh. “Not much in the way o’ weakness, though. S’pose Drake here knows the most ‘bout ‘im.”

Drake takes a moment to think.

“Well, I suppose brute force seemed to stagger it when we last met. If not that, I wonder if it might have something to do with the Mountain of Light and its vitality?” Drake poses.

Florence raises her eyebrows. “The Mountain of Light? It likely won’t go down easily, then, at least using conventional means… I wonder, do you have any physical samples I could analyze to see what it consists of?”

“Well, we have some people trying to find its lair. I do think we should get moving though, it’s unwise to stay in one place as public as this with the Shade at large,” Drake insists.

Gideon pulls out a handkerchief from his seemingly endless pockets and wipes the pigments from his hand. “Agreed. Do you have anything else planned for today? I have other business I need to attend to at the University, since we’re here. There’s no hurry, though - surely we have time for a cup of tea.”

Phryne absent-mindedly cleans her hand on the cheap second-hand dress she pilfered from Gideon’s stash back at the hideout - curious how many different clothes of all kinds and sizes the inventor has lying about…

“Actually, I don’t. Have time.” Everyone looks at her. “For tea. I have some things to do before our meeting tomorrow that I really should see to. My time is running out--I mean, time is of the essence here, I’m sure you all agree.” She slowly backs towards the door. “And it just so happens that my townhouse address isn’t far from here at all. So, lovely to meet you,” she nods at Florence, “and see you all tomorrow.” With that, she turns and leaves.

Well, that wasn’t conspicuous at all.

-I don’t care. I don’t feel safe around people, I know I can’t hold together much longer. And I’m not one of those mad Conflagrati, I don’t actually enjoy burning up inside. I want to get this over with.-

Outside, a terrified Normal Edgar watches the strange glowing woman walk away, muttering to herself in different voices. “Gids needs to get himself some friends that ain’t bonkers,” Edgar says under his breath.

Florence watches her leave, wondering exactly what her deal is. Though that’s probably a question for a bit later- there seem to be more pressing matters at hand.

“I’ll put the tea on right away!” She busies herself with the nearby kettle for a moment, then turns. “The tea is all blue, though. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just blue. Anyway, yes, I think I might just be able to assist you.”

“Excellent! I think it would be best we leave as soon as possible, though. Could we take that kettle with us?” Drake insists, looking increasingly apprehensive.

“Of course! Oh, wait, somebody will need to carry the teacups.” After a brief period of rummaging about, Florence pulls a tea-tray out of what had previously seemed to be a pile of junk. “I’m sure Murphy won’t mind. Wait! You haven’t met Murphy yet, have you?”

“I don’t believe I have,” Drake replies.

“He’s a great fellow, really. My assistant. I’m sure he would only be an asset to this project,” Florence assures him. Moving towards the door, she peels off her color-streaked gloves and lab coat and hangs them up, donning her overcoat instead. Allowing her to come along on the voyage of the Reck was a great kindness on the part of Drake and the Scorched Sailor, and she intends to repay that any way she can.

Besides… who knows what sorts of new discoveries she can make along the way?

Gideon looks round, startled to see the group making ready to go before tea. He hurriedly puts the biscuit tin back on a nearby shelf loaded with scientific equipment and wipes the crumbs from his mouth. He had been hoping to at least dunk a few of these marvellous digestives in his tea, but clearly the very fabric of polite British society is being unravelled by the Shade’s continued existence. The inventor returns to the rest of the group, ignoring the Scorched Sailor watching placidly from a corner with bandaged arms folded. He leans on a metal table idly, only to yank his hand back with a startled hiss when it proves to be unaccountably hot.


Surreptitiously dipping his scorched hand in a nearby sink, Gideon speaks up. “Your assistant, Murphy - that’s an Irish name, isn’t it? I knew a Murphy once. Probably not the same one, though, unless someone’s managed to coax him out of his old pub on the Surface. Marvellous place, Ireland. Quite a far cry from the grim smoky burgs of old England. The people there still understand the old ways, and if you take a look at the night sky you can see more stars than I ever knew existed. I learned a fair bit there, out spreading the Good Word.”

He frowns, seemingly unsure of what he was saying. “Long time ago, mind you. Perhaps they’ve paved over the whole place now.”

There is a shuffling in a back room, and the sounds of collapsing machinery.

“Perhaps Mr. Murphy can catch up with us,” Drake says, quickly jotting down a note of their plans to reunite at the Bazaar, and leaves it on a table for Murphy to find, “I’ll carry the teacups.”

And so, with a flurry of coats and teacups, the party is out the door and back on the streets of London.
edited by Drake Dynamo on 7/13/2017

Oh no. Another post from that goon who goes on about statistics.

Drake Dynamo -Correspondent, Hesperidean Cider Drinker & Matchmaker
Emma Dynamo- Pulled from the past, ready to make a splash
The Antioch - The Coffee God (I do not check this account often)
Mr. Mauvais - A ghostly skulduggerous fellow, chopped up for the time being (Only active during seasonal events)

If you need to discuss RP matters, I can typically be found on the IRC in #Argo.
The Shade Hunt has commenced, PM if you want to look at the relevant google docs.
+3 link
Posts: 190

10 days ago
At the appointed time Gideon heads to the Old Quad, munching a still-warm croissant in a paper bag from a nearby French café. Snails may not be to his taste, but the pastries are to die for.

The Quad is a small cobbled space hemmed in between austere stone buildings. The earliest parts of the University are not known for their elegance, and these days the walls are draped with hanging vines and infested with cobwebs. An aged professor’s voice drones from the high windows of a lecture hall. The Quad has served as a clandestine meeting place for centuries before the Fall; the only entrance is a rusty metal gate in a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Edgar has left it unlocked.

The gate squeals on its hinges and Gideon makes his way into the Quad. Left to its own devices, nature has run wild. Every available crack between the cobbles is filled with little red and brown mushrooms. The bushes around the edges have burgeoned into thorny tangles. The roots of the gnarled oak tree in the centre push up the paving stones; its branches stretch out to brush against the windows with spindly fingers.

“Were you followed?” says a bush. Normal Edgar’s face peeks out from it momentarily, looking for imagined pursuers.

Gideon looks behind him. Nothing but the closed gate and the alleyway. “Unless I’m being tailed by someone invisible, I rather think not. And besides, as I’ve told you, I’m incognito.” He taps his luminous Neathglass goggles.

“If I can recognise you, who’s to say that someone else can’t, Gids? They’re everywhere.”

“Incognito isn’t just a disguise, Edgar, it’s a state of mind. Would you mind getting out of that bush? It’s rather off-putting talking to a face surrounded by thorns.”

“Can’t. Stuck.”

FOR GOD’S SAKE, blusters Voice 2.

“What do you mean, stuck?” Gideon knuckles his brow. “Do you want me to get you out?”

Edgar’s face scrunches up. Given its usual wrinkled-prune state, it looks rather like it has collapsed in on itself.

“Fine,” he says, at length.

One extraction later, the vagrant-philosopher stands hunched in the Quad while Gideon picks out the worst of the thorns. Edgar winces at the inventor’s ministrations.

“You shouldn’t be crouching around in bushes, my friend,” says Gideon. “Not with your knees.”

“Ow! That bloody hurt!”


“I’m sorry too, Gids. You’re my best mate, y’know that?”

“Are you drunk? It’s barely past midday!”

“Drunk?” Edgar waves away the outrageous accusation. “Not on your life! I’ve just been indulging in a little… Libation of Night.”

“Right. Come on, let’s get you sat down.”

Gideon leads Edgar over to a wooden bench. Fortunately, it doesn’t collapse immediately when they sit on it.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, anyway?”

“Oh. That.” Edgar looks around surreptitiously. “Remember our little friend? Word on the street is that he’s back in town.”

Gideon’s heart lurches. In his head, all three Voices speak in unison. Father! Creator! Lord above all! He has returned to stride the streets, to exert his dominion! All shall be one, and he shall look upon his creation and call it good!

“Gids. You don’t look so good. Gids?”

Gideon catches himself before he falls off the bench. “How can he be back? There’s no returning from where he went… where we sent him... isn’t that right? That is right, isn’t it?”

Edgar frowns. “How much do you remember?”

“Not enough. Not enough by far. Why did it have to be now? We’re hunting the most dangerous thing in London, and he just comes back out of the pits of Hell to put the fear of God into me.”

“Gids. I wasn’t there for most of it, but after what he went through – after what you went through, too – he’s not just going to walk up to you in the street and say how-do-you-do. He’ll need time to rest. Time to set his plans in motion. And even though that’ll mean no end of ill for the rest of us, it means you do have time.

“Go and deal with your monster, Gids. I’ll get what’s left of the old crew back together. We’ll make him pay for what he did to us.”

Gideon summons up a careless smile, though his heart isn’t really in it. “Marvellous! When next I see you, I’ll have the Shadow of London’s head mounted on my wall! On second thoughts, that might be a bit macabre. Maybe I’ll just keep a finger or two. Regardless, thank you for the warning!”

Gideon bounces out of his seat and shakes hands with Edgar, then presses the rest of the bag of pastries into his hand.

Edgar accepts the bag with a nod. “Stay safe out there, Gids.”

"You too, Normal Edgar! And maybe lay off the drink, eh?"
edited by JimmyTMalice on 7/15/2017

Gideon Stormstrider, the Episcopalian Esotericist
Vela Marek, the Studious Intriguer
Locke Lockhart, the Bandaged Bruiser
Jimmy T. Malice, gone.

A Squid in the Polls
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The Atumian Sputum
The Atumian Sputum
Posts: 120

8 days ago
Murphy is jogging across London, old London, to catch up with the gang when suddenly a rabid rat kills him in the blink of an eye.
His mother misses him dearly and his father regrets lending him that money that he's never getting back now.
He had a wife, too, I suppose, but she was rather short, so no one noticed her very often, and the rats got to her soon enough, too.
Eventually, the rat ends up vomiting his remains into the zee after a rowdy night out with the boys, and Murphy finally gets to explore the Neath as a wandering pool of bile and intestines. He makes good friends with the bloated, floating corpse of a dandy, to whose shirt some of Murphy attaches. They have a wonderful un-life together.

Straight outta Dahut.
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