Table 7 at a certain Hallowmas Party

A young gentleman ducks in, a mask obscuring only his eyes. He is dressed in a fine suit laden with light, and wears boots that mark him out as a veteran of the year’s mayoral campaign. A positively devilish fedora sits atop his head, but his scraggly beard and the small, eager hound that sits by his feet are at odds with his attire that would not otherwise be out of place at a high society ball.

He looks around, surveying the crowded coffee-house, checking to see that he has, in fact, come to the right table, as it seems strangely empty compared to the others. Shrugging apathetically, he puts it down to the earliness of the hour and goes back to ruffling his dog’s fur and absent-mindedly toying with a dice in his pocket.
edited by hjguy12 on 11/1/2016

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

You hear a commotion on the far side of the table, as two gentlemen, Hazza and Leonard, begin to extract a disproportionately intricate series of playing pieces, from Persian Shatranj figures to the latest edition of Merill’s Most Excellent All-Parts Lead Toy Soldiers (2nd Neathy Rifles), before collectively putting together - seemingly out of thin air - a sprawling map of the London Underground, still freshly labelled with a Ministry of Public Decency redaction stamp. Somewhere, a Master is rolling in its(?) spire. Well, ‘map’ would be a generous term. Tapestry would be more appropriate. Curiously, upon further inspection, there appear to be Norman dukes on the edges, intersecting with the Metropolitan Line.
And, past Charing Cross - are those Correspondence sigils?

(A lively and quite possibly lethal game of Mornington Crescent has commenced, with Leonard playing the first move)

A quiet woman walks up to table seven and addresses the guests.

“If I’m not mistaken, your table is rather less involved with than the rest. As I’ve no desire to interrup any no-doubt fascinating conversations, would anyone here care to meet me on the dance floor? The cellist looks apoplectic enough that something interesting will be happening rather soon.”

Halfway through the party, a new (and very late) guest strides forward. Mostly, this is because he is stark naked, save for his mask of viric, clad in irrigo flowers.

He surveys the table with a look of some disappointment at the bleak attendance (though this is in part his fault at having arrived late).

“Perhaps…we should take this table, and PUSH it somewhere else!”

The woman, seeing that no one intends to take her up on her offer to dance, turns to the new arrival.

“A bit late to the party, are you? You might pull up a chair at table eleven, if you’d like. It could use some new blood to liven everyone up.”

A slight young woman, in a sombre charcoal dress and curly chocolate brown hair sits under table seven, hidden by the fall of the long silk table cloth. Maybe she’s been here all along? Perhaps (more likely) she slipped under when your back was turned? Maybe she picked this very table because it’s so quiet, (and remarkably free of cannibalism)?

In any case, she’s abandoned her rubbery-mask, it was hot and the wool had started to itch. Her pale face is now lost deep in the pages of the dusty old book she’s recently bought from a slightly obsequious devil. Every so often she lifts her head and brutally gouges something into the table’s underside with her steak knife.

What under the earth can she be doing? Does it have a dire purpose? Or is she some vandalous delinquent? I suppose someone will just have to ask her…? Maybe… you know… only if they wanted… :-)

[OoC: Very sorry table Seven! (That is if anyone’s still here… Ah, the lonely roll of tumbleweed… :’( ] Finally made it. B-----dly busy week, will do my best. Please fire away your very finest RP’s whenever ready :-) ]

A woman of lankest, blackest hair shorn to the shoulder slinks into the room, surveying the goings-on with the shadeless peligin eyes of a Monster-Hunter. She wears a darkly irrigo suit cut for a man on a frame that would be gangling but for its comportment, one that more often brings to mind &quotspidery&quot. A lacquer mask in fearsome Third City style dangles from her fingers until she lays it gently on table seven with a toothless smile.

&quotI’ve no reservation…but I think I might survive a faux-pas.&quot

She eyes Zmflavius up and down with a rather more toothful smile.


Taking a seat, she reaches inside her coat while inclining her head towards Charlotte.

&quotSeason’s greetings, Mizz de Witte, it has been some time hasn’t it? You do look well. Although…&quot at this she makes a show of leaning over to observe what’s being gouged into the underside of the table without being so rude as to actually do so.

The gentleman looked up from his dog, who he had been feeding a rat to and generally petting for the past few minutes.
&quotAh, new arrivals. I was wondering when someone would turn up! I’d thought I had the wrong table! I’m Hazza, one-time lieutenant of the 23rd Neathy Rifles, Zee-captain and Monster-Hunter aspirant, pleasure to make your acquaintance!&quot
He chuckled heartily.
&quotAnyone want something to drink? I’ve got a bit of almost everything in my cellars, just say the word and I’ll send along a runner to fetch it&quot

“Well there’s a handsome hound. I’ve always been fond. Loyalty, you know.”

A slim cigar is produced from the interior of her jacket and lit with a sulphurous match.

“A trait in short supply, as always. Call me M. Quite charmed. You could charm me further with a dram of whisky, since you ask.”

Smoke billows, thick and blue and rich as velvet.

Hazza ducks down under the table, as if looking for something, and, entirely by accident, notices that something is being carved into the underside of the table. He says nothing, but, once he has got back up, is holding a small sheet of paper.
&quotIf you would excuse me for just a moment?&quot he asks, getting up from his seat, scribbling something on a napkin, and walking out the door. He returns a moment later, without the napkin.
&quotYour whiskey shall be here in just a moment. I’ve also got a bottle of First Sporing on the way. I am quite partial to the stuff, myself, though I would not begrudge anyone here a glass or two.&quot


&quotYou!&quot Charlotte jumps back, scrambling out of reach. She brandishes the knife, the fingers of her offhand twisting into an elaborate ward. &quotStay back! I’m warning you!&quot

Perhaps it seems a little gauche to be so hostile at a party? But she knows full well the cost of letting down her guard, she has all the scars to prove it. And yet, for all her outward appearance, this woman seems far quieter, and much more articulate than her old mentora. And beside hadn’t she heard Hobnail had left London? After that entirely accidental explosion…

Maybe this is a hallucination! Those mushroom canapés had seemed a little off… Or a snuffer? Yes, maybe, that might explain it! &quotI’m sorry, you scared me. Wearing that face. However did you come by it?&quot She fumble in her dress, holding out a slightly squashed candle. &quotHere, are you hungry?&quot


Hearing the offer she pokes out her head. The man seems very oddly dressed for a waiter, but then it is a holiday, and if he’s taking orders… &quotA half of Whitern pale-ale please.&quot


Slowly begins to realise that sitting at this eye level she is extremely thankful for the length and opacity of the table cloth.

edited by Charlotte_de_Witte on 11/4/2016

He checks the slip he was holding, pulls something out of his pocket, and turns away for a moment, toward the street-side window. A small series of flashes can be seen, then he turns back.
&quotYour ale should be here shortly. I’ve sent a runner to get it from one of my cellars. In the meantime, how has this Hallowmas found everyone? Personally, it is my first, and has been a most… enlightening experience. I must admit, when I first left the surface, seeking my brother’s killer, I did not expect to have time for such frivolous festivals. I’m glad I soon saw error in that belief, it would be a shame to miss out on such glorious events as this.&quot

((Ooo, ‘mentora’, very nice, delicious))

&quotMe! Hah ha, oh no no!&quot ‘M’ raises vellum-clad palms in a gesture of utter helplessness, &quotNo candles for me, my love, not now. Eye of the storm, you know. I’ve come a long way. Kept all my parts. In sum at least. Hah!&quot

Slowly, smiling, she lowers her hands, savouring a long draw on her pungent cigar. Smoke fumes and billows.

&quotPeace, peace, I beg you. Have a drink. I know I smell something lovely…&quot

She turns on Hazza, settling into her chair like a crab in a crevice.


&quotI do love a fungal vintage, wonderfully broad spectrum of pairing cuisine. And lovely on its own, natürlich. I must say I didn’t come prepared to share and share about! Had I known…ah well. Though if anyone would care for a cigar…&quot

A matte black ebony case is slid onto table seven, open to display a dozen depressions cradling dark, slim cigars.

&quotTomb Colony product, absolutely delectable. And they bring to mind a very frank question, refuse me as you will. Were you to find your brother’s killer, sir, what would you do?&quot
edited by Hobnail on 11/5/2016
edited by Hobnail on 11/5/2016

&quotWine, wine, did someone say wine?&quot

This…Zmflavius is clearly proving to be a somewhat excitable personage.

&quotIs…mayonaisse a brand of wine? It is not? I’ll take this instead!&quot

Leaping up from his seat, he swiftly grabbed a bottle from the neighboring table before sliding his chair close up to his neighbor.

&quotSecrets, secrets, this season is a season for secrets! Let us confess our darkest secrets to each other!&quot

He then took a swig from his bottle.

&quotFor myself…I confess to you all…my name.&quot

Another swig. A pause.


One got the impression that this was not his first bottle tonight.

&quotAny confessions made here are staying among our little group, correct? No-one’s going to spill our secrets? In that case, I suppose I have something to confess, and something to say while we wait for drinks. On the surface, once I found out my brother had been killed, I, naturally, vowed to avenge him and to kill his killer. So, I came down here, and sought him out. He was elusive, but I eventually tracked him down to the Iron Republic. It took many months, and many souls, but I found a ship, and bribed the guards to his prison. Once I found him, he was in a sorry state, and, for reasons I still cannot truly understand, I let him live. I blame it on the place, but, honestly, I think I was just scared to do it. I don’t know why, I’ve taken lives before. He didn’t, however, go unpunished, so I at least have some gratification. He’s banished to the surface, to spend the rest of his days in the sun&quot

He leant back in his chair and sighed, wishing his drink would be here soon.

&quotI suppose I was more interested in who hired him, and why. I’ve found out who ordered the deed, but there seems to be no hope of me taking them down. Not without uproar, anyway. And so it seems that, unless an opening appears in the near future, my brother’s death will not be avenged. After going to all that trouble,I still don’t know why he was killed. It seems mysteries shall ever pester me.&quot

He sits back, exhausted, before seeing a tap at the window

&quotAh, drinks are here, hold on one moment.&quot

He popped outside, and returned with bottles under both arms, before placing them in the middle, and pouring himself a glass.

&quotDrink, my friends!&quot


&quotSuit yourself&quot, she shrugs returning to enthusiastically stab at the table.

Just a hallucination then. A little off-putting for sure, but she’s had worse.

Although with that thought Charlotte again catches sight of Zmflavius’s bare legs.

Actually, it does go a long way to explain things.


Charlotte scribbles down notes as she listens to the waiter’s tale, before accepting her drink. &quotThank-you.&quot

She continues to write, &quotWhat did you think of the Republic? I’ve heard it’s very distracting, though I’ve never been myself.&quot

Then suddenly excited, &quotDid you get to see the Coffee-Dragons?!&quot


&quotWhat an unusual name. Is it Khangian?&quot

edited by Charlotte_de_Witte on 11/5/2016

&quotDistracting is certainly one way to put it. But it is strange. Most of my memories of that place seem warped somehow, altered by the sheer abnormality of that place. I’ve kept a journal while there, if you’d like to read that, though I advise you do so in a safe place, ideally with a lot of cocoa, laudanum or coffee to hand. Some of what is detailed within is not meant to be read. And no, sadly I do not recall seeing the coffee-dragons, though I did somehow end up as a judge there for a few days. Really though, to get the full experience you should visit for yourself. It was enlightening, in a strange way.&quot

He pauses for a quick sip from his glass

&quotIt’s strange how many anarchists frequent the place. From what I’ve overheard, they seem to like it there. Further proof that most of them are mad, as if any more was needed. Anyway, if you wish to read the journal, I can arrange for it to be delivered afterwards. For now though, let us focus on the present. I’m sure there are stories to tell, dances to dance and things to be drunk.&quot


&quotWhat an unusual name. Is it Khangian?&quot

edited by Charlotte_de_Witte on 11/5/2016[/quote]

&quotNot at all, not at all, mon ami. I…live under a rock under the zee!&quot


&quotSounds cosy,&quot she smiles. Clearly not the only one at the table having trouble with dubious canapés.


&quotThank-you, that would be wonderful.&quot She replies, though a little downhearted. For really what is an Iron Republic journal without any mention of lactating Coffee-Dragons?

Charlotte raises her glass to the toast, &quotTo Hallowmas!&quot

Then wobbling unsteady, she slumps over onto her back, to grin happily at her evening’s work. Carved deep into the wood above, a spectacularly cheerful and enthusiastically waving Blemmigan.

Putting down the knife, she takes another long sip of her Whithern Wiessbeer, before gently passing out.

Thank-you Table Seven :) Hope you all had a Happy (and confession filled) Hallowmas!)