Lord Vaustus crouches on a gargoyle. Its been a while since he’s done this. Ever since knife and candle closed down, he’s been hunting less and less. A pity, since the gargoyle makes a very dramatic waiting location. There. Vaustus stands up. Below him, making his way through the crowd, the insufferable leech awaits. Mauvais. Checking his gear, Vaustus walks to the nose of the gargoyle, waits…
And jumps. After merely a few seconds of falling, he catches himself on the a window sill below, and begins to scale downwards, down to his target. Arriving at the ground, Vaustus hops down into an alley. He strolls out into the crowd, and relocates Mauvis. Adjusting the mask on his face and checking his knife, he nudges his way through the crowd, closer
And closer
And closer
Now right next to Mauvais, Vaustus draws his knife, perpares the strike and slices Mauvais open at. The carefully calculated blow cuts not only Mauvais flesh, but also his belt. As the fool falls backwards the last thing he sees is the crowd laughing. Looking down, he sees why. Groaning, the pant-less Mauvais leans back, and dies.
Flesh-Stick: THAT’S MEAN. YOU’RE MEAN.
HE CAN STAY WITH ME. I THINK ONE OF THE BROOM CLOSETS IN THE THIRD FLOOR HALLWAY OF MY ZNAIL ZHELL IS STILL EMPTY.
JUST LET HIM KNOW HE HAS TO REMEMBER TO BRING ANY TRASH DOWN TO THE FRONT STOOP ON THURSDAYS CAUSE THAT’S WHEN GARBAGE PICKUP IS.
Vaustus, the mask left behind, Is laughing hysterically over Mr. Mauvais’ pants-less body.
Flesh-Stick: AWW, C’MON! I DON’T HAVE BEDBUGS ANYMORE! I SWEAR! I ALSO THREW AWAY THAT MOLDY CHEESE IN THE FRIDGE!
walks off muttering something about smelly ingrates
Only one person knows what Mister Mauvais has done to the earn the ire of a certain agent of the Foreign Office. Perhaps his presence ruined an assassination, a trade-off, an investigation. Perhaps he has unwittingly learned information in his drunken stupor that he was better off not knowing. Perhaps he choose to vomit on the wrong church’s alter. Perhaps his mere existence is considered a bane on London. For whatever reason, his pocket is picked while he stumbles through the crowd. A bottle of laudanum is replaced with a bottle of something more then laudanum. Definitely mostly laudanum in this bottle. A little something her spouse learned from a misadventure with the Empire of Hands. A little something learned from a long friendship with a certain Cheesemonger. A little something brought back from Port Carnelian, A little something grown in the mushroom plagued swamps.
And a little lacre. Just to be sure.
Evensong pulls out a pair of binoculars and watches from underneath her parasol. Her smile is faint but clearly there.
(OOC: I figured it would be nice to give Evensong a few chances to shine on her own.)
The mad doctor walks into the room, clutching a sewing kit and a half drained bottle of absinthe.
“Doctor LaRoux at your service. I can patch that up for you. Payment is expected, of course. Clearly a man of your…distinction can cover the costs, no?”
That surgeons gown looks more like a butchers apron. It might actually be a butchers apron. This could get messy…
(OOC: Hey all, sorry for the short post, Im kind of new to this >_< Also, are you ready for someone to try and keep this man ALIVE?!)
[OOC: This is the sort of thing that deserves a Blabbing story.]
THE HOOK AND THE BAIT
A card. The sacred rectangle! A tryst of trust and distance in a lawless world! "Fascinating, darling. Do you write?" She knows I don’t, but she would never say so. "Why do you put such value in these calling cards!?" They would not understand. They are in solitude. They live in peace, while I must struggle. "We all struggle. What makes you different?" That I’m no cloth nor handkerchief, vest! "Oh, captain, who are you…"
…
I’ve passed out. Again. Stand up and check the poster beneath me. A bounty on some Mr Mauvais. Cards. "Cards." I own this man. What would I be if I didn’t? Yes, stand guard near the exit. Stop anyone with or without a weapon. "We have the instruments for that, captain!" My hand grips the Antique Hunting Rifle. I’ll be ready, and most would not know what hit them when it hits them. "Good thinking." I lounge at the apartment’s front entrance. Lounge, and wait. Wait.
[OOC: I presume the offer is open for anyone to join in on the fun?]
The Ticking Scientist approaches, suitcase in hand. "Good evening, I hear you have a certain resident you wish to be rid of? Well, I would be more than happy to take them off your hands, no questions asked. Test subj- Err, assistants are always in demand, you know."
One of the many hooded figures watched the abrupt murder and trouser removal with interest. She laughed when appropriate then dispersed with the rest of the crowd once a noble surgeon stepped in. But this particular hooded figure didn’t disperse very far. Instead she found a small spot in the shadows and continued to watch.
(Occ: is mister mauvias actually dead right now? I can’t accept his chess requests.)
Unless the not-so-good doctor wishes for me to recount in greater detail what happened to Mauvais, I will simply pass the ball to him. Mostly because with that combination of poison, I think it’s funnier to leave most of it to the reader’s imagination.
[OOC: This is before Dr Ticking.]
Mr Mauvais braves the grand outside, having freshly left their house by the front door. Suddenly, a wild… humanoid (One better not hazard a guess as to what that thing was.) jumps upon his shoulders. The critter swings around an old-fashioned rifle, pulling the trigger wildly and without reason. A combination of Blabbing’s unexpected intrusion upon Mauvais’ backside and a ricochet from a passenger’s ferrous hat resulted in a dead menace to Drake’s well-being and Blabbing producing an impossible roar/weeping noise. Many run away. Many more stay and attempt to fight the Hobo-Murderer.
edited by Vavakx Nonexus on 7/30/2016
The Mirthless Colonist’s approach is rather straightforward: on a damp London night, he knocks sternly on Drake’s door. When Drake opens, the Colonist storms in and grabs Mauvais by the collar. He repeatedly slaps Mauvais with a stern, brass knuckled hand. This goes on for some time. The night is concluded when the Mirthless Colonist drags Mauvais out and throws him into the Stolen River.
"You’ve got to be direct with these kinds of wretches, you understand?"
edited by Infinity Simulacrum on 7/30/2016
Leading Mr Mauvais back to the laboratory was quite the surprising ordeal. In between his drunken stumbling and his tendency to whine about "being oppreshed in modern shosciety, hic" and how people kept trying to kill him. It was not hard to see why. Nevertheless, The ticking scientist really did need a new guinea pig for his experiments. Such as finding the precise limit on what people can and cannot return to life from. In that, Mr Mauvais would finally be useful to society. (It helps that Mr Mauvais is probably so high/drunk on laudanum I can skimp on painkillers. Those are expensive, you know.)
He met with the leader of the Regiment. "Is everything arranged?" "Yep mister, we got everything ready. Bit overkill though ain’t it for one bloke?" "That’s my business. You are getting paid well for it." "true. Ave him here 6 PM sharp."
Mr Mauvalis was there at said time, lured by the promise of a good time, a blast he heard it described. Alas, the only blast there was instead the sound of cannonfire as a cannonball landed stright on top of him with a mighty bang!
edited by Kylestien on 7/31/2016