Table 23 at Hallowmass 1894

Lucien Serafim is here.

Though they have of late fallen a bit out of the society game – it is known that they have retreated to a zee-snail’s shell somewhere on the shore – there are still a number of dark and whispered rumors about Correspondent Serafim. One – that Serafim came to London on the 7th of December 1887. They disappeared on the 22nd of April, 1888. They reappeared on the 2nd of October… 1892.

If Lucien remembers the details of those five missing years, they do not speak of those memories. It is difficult to tell if their silence on the matter is coyness, a calculated attempt to project an air of mystery; melancholy, a deep and broken sorrow; terror, of something dread that happened… or simply because the five years are truly gone, stained bleak and indigo with nothing in their wake.

There are rumors, of course. Rumors that while Lucien never uses candles for light, only kerosene lamps and peculiar glowing insects and fungi. Rumors that they lost their soul in '88 and only regained it in '92 (though that’s never stopped anyone else). Rumors concerning their study of the Correspondence. Rumors about why Lucien left their perfectly fine lodgings at the Bazaar for that distant home on the shore. But only ever rumors and speculation.

As it stands, Lucien is dressed in a suit of Parabola-linen, but one with something… wrong, something off. The colors are stained with a deep violet, more late evening than the splendid sunset of other such suits, and it is difficult to look at for too long without feeling like something’s missing. Their hat is a little too devilish for comfort (though it is known that Lucien despises devils), their shoes a splendid gold and red and black, made of serpentine skin, and they carry a frankly garish cane festooned with jewels.

Also, they are accompanied by a tiger. With a tiara.

They’ve circled the room and the tables at least three times now, finding no table conversation to suit their fancy, so they have settled alone at a shadowy table in the corner, where they watch the proceedings with grey, storm-stained eyes.

You hear the sound of a gong, seemingly emanating from everywhere (you suspect a clever cook with a very large soup pot). A space on the floor has been cleared, and a nervous looking string quartet begins to play.
(The dance floor is now open in a separate thread to anyone who wishes to dance)
edited by pillbox on 11/2/2016