The Hunt is On- to Catch a Shade

The Scorched Sailor tramps up the half-familiar stairs to the Dynamo residence. Broken out of New Newgate, and by the Shade, no less? Interesting times. He is not quite sure whether he hopes the rumours are true or false.

It’s been a long while since he first entered Drake’s house, before they two even knew each other, and he feels the same reluctance now as he did then, the unwillingness to enter the house of a stranger. They’re hardly strangers now, but even so he hesitates at the door, wondering if Drake will even be glad to see him after his abject failure to be of any assistance during the Dynamo’s incarceration.

He steels himself, and resolves to be a better acquain- friend now than he has been. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Kno-

Drake Dynamo is ebullient, and pulls the Sailor into a fraternal embrace even before the front door is fully open, let alone before the Sailor could offer his hand for a handshake. &quotGlad you could make it, glad you could make it!&quot He ushers the Sailor inside with unusual haste, and does a bad show of hiding the brass candlestick that he’s wielding in his right hand. &quotYou saw the flyer?&quot

The Sailor finds his behind escorted into a deep armchair before he quite knows what has happened. From across the room Emma is testing the bolts on a window - why are there bolts on a window? - and idly fiddling with a hefty-looking paperweight. She raises an arch eyebrow at him. &quotI wasn’t sure you’d come.&quot

The Sailor blusters. &quotFlyer? No, I - prison, you’re out? I thought I should -&quot A long pause. A long think. &quotAh.&quot He has a terrible suspicion that he knows what this is about, and, as the Dynamo siblings sketch out the details of their escape, the slow weight of dread settles in his stomach as his suspicions are proved correct. Another flyer. Another quest. This time, an obligation to a friend. He listens, settles in, and waits for the others to arrive, as he knows they will.

Edward Frye finds his way to the Dynamo’s residence, armed with a short barreled custom made pistol and a sabre from Venderbright. He knocks on the door and them enters, &quotHello! I heard this is where I go to contact you about this murderous shade thing. Forgive me if I’ve gotten the wrong address…&quot. Then, noticing the Scorched Sailor exclaims &quotOh! You’re the zailor from the salon, Hello again!&quot. Then he turns to Emma and Drake and says, &quotAnd you must be the Dynamos! I’m Edward Frye, at your service.&quot

(OOC: This is my first RP (besides the salon) so I’m sorry in advance if it goes horribly because of me)
edited by Edward Frye on 3/4/2017

Mr. Hamilton walks into the residence armed with a long rifle (polished recently by the looks of it) and a short dagger. &quotI saw that flyer in the salon.&quot he says, &quotI am considered a doctor by some and I’ve been dueling for a long time. Some also would say that I’m a scholar. I suppose some monster hunting (or whatever The Shade is) wouldn’t do me any bad. Well of course I may lose an arm… but that’s okay!&quot then noticing Edward, &quotHello Edward! Good Evening!&quot
edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/4/2017

What the hell are you doing, Azoth?

Ascending the stairway to the Spire-Emporium of the Dynamos, that one thought raced across Azoth’s mind, leaving her heart pounding faster than she’d like to admit. She was a veteran of the Great Game, a Midnighter and an academic who had journeyed across the zee, yet she still felt afraid, climbing up a stairwell to answer a flyer of all things. The Dynamos – their reputation preceded them. Whispers across London had spoken of these immortals, locked away high above the city. Without a doubt, they had the potential to be dangerous, and here she was, walking straight to their door? And for what? Hunting a &quotshade&quot – the Shadow if she understood correctly? She shook her head.

No, she thought, you know what this is about. An open invitation to the lodgings of these immortals? The opportunity to learn from these admittedly dangerous individuals? It was worth the risk. It was worth risking death for. A few steps ahead stood the door to the residence. With a last glance out, as if to remind herself that she could still walk away, she knocked.

A stranger opened the door, and behind him, she could see several more people gathered. She said a few cursory hellos and stepped inside, moving off to the side to silently watch the proceedings.

Here we go.
edited by Azothi on 3/9/2017

Dirae Erinyes’ heavy knocks echo throughout the house. As the echoes die away, Dirae Erinyes and Evensong entered into the last round of a tired argument.

&quotYou don’t have to be here.&quot Dirae Erinyes deals the first blow of this new round. Five rounds have already happened, with them the loser. But hope springs eternal in this argument.

&quotWe have been over this before.&quot A standard block, but not enough to deter her opponent.

&quotI’ll be fine. I’ve been hunting men long before I met you.&quot

&quotI am more then just prey.&quot Evensong stops playing on the defensive. While her verbal right hook might seem to be glancing blow to an inexperienced audience, it aims for an old wound.

&quotWhat I meant to say is that this sort of business isn’t usually the concerns of a Foreign Office. . .clerk. You’re supposed to be dealing with Carnelian Coast imports and illegally smuggled unfinished hats, not cleaning up the streets of London.&quot Now, the reigning champion is on the defensive, giving ground to Evensong.

&quotI can say with certainty that the Shade is a more dangerous illegal import then solacefruit or an aggressive Pentecostal Ape. Thus it’s the concerns of a Foreign Office Clerk.&quot

&quotStill. . .&quot

&quotWhere you go, I follow.&quot That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the knock-out blow. Dirae Erinyes’ only hope is that the siblings get to the door soon and end Evensong’s triumphant silence.

OOC: For all you new people, you can find a physical description for Dirae Erinyes and Evensong here:
Feel free to add your own character description for the other rpgers.
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 3/4/2017

Watching from the other side of the street, hidden in the deep shadows between two lesser apartment buildings, Lady Orosenn was despondent. It was just as she had feared: this hunting party would resemble a travelling circus very soon. She had no doubt that even more people were on their way here and that the Dynamos would accept most or all of them, probably believing in ridiculous concepts like &quotstrength in numbers&quot. She snorted. She had always worked alone.
It would be a new experience for her, at least, though not one she particularly looked forward to. And, of course, there was still the matter of payment. Obviously, Drake Dynamo had the means to pay for her services. If he should turn out a miser though, she’d be out the door again faster than he could spell her full name and title.

Another loud knock echoed through the Dynamos’ residence. An armed footman answered it, and soon brought an exceptionally tall* dark-skinned woman into the drawing-room where everyone was gathering. Tall as she was, she moved soundlessly in her heavy Wrecking Boots. Her profession could be perceived at a glance, both by her peligin eyes and the notched bone harpoon slung over her shoulder (did it quiver ever so slightly? surely a trick of the light?). Black hair in long, thick matted braids descended far down her back. She was wearing full body armour of indiscernible colour—it seemed to blend in with the background wherever she moved. She spoke in a deep contralto voice:

&quotLady Timmel Orosenn, Monster-Hunter. What exactly is this thing you’re looking for, and how much are you paying?&quot

Her words carried a hint of foreign accent. Not a Londoner, then.

*not quite as tall as Dirae though ;)
edited by phryne on 3/5/2017

Perched on a high rooftop, Lyndon has a clear vision of the entrance to the Dynamos’ mansion and the nearby street. He strikes a match on the rough rooftop tiles and lights a cigarette – a glowing red point in the darkness. He is too high up to be noticed from the streets anyway. He smokes in long, slow drags while he studies the applicants who enter the Dynamos’ mansion. Those flyers had been more effective than Lyndon would have thought, and fortune-seekers from all around the city are already flocking to that house like moths to the flame. It’s easy to predict that some of them are going to get burnt before the end.
The candidates are dangerously heterogeneous: fortune-seekers, spies, zailors, hunters, and other curious exemplars from London’s varied fauna. It’s going to be difficult to keep such a mixed group cohesive, but that might work to his advantage: the confusion that inevitably accompanies a large group of varied people will draw attention from him. However, a smaller, more organized group would have probably been a safer company in the long run.
Lyndon shrugs. That isn’t his expedition, and he has no saying in how the members should be chosen. Besides, losses are to be expected during that chase. From what he has heard, the Shade is a vicious foe – the kind of foe one can’t hope to put down without a fight. He crushes the cigarette butt and quickly descends from the rooftop.
It’s time to join the hunt.


Lyndon stops in front of the Dynamos’ house. He knocks on the door twice with a loud noise, and soon he’s greeted by a guard. He pays little attention to the man. “Sergeant Lyndon. I’m applying.” he says, before shoving the footman aside and entering the house.
The drawing-room is predictably crowded. Lyndon slides in unnoticed and takes a seat on an empty armchair in a corner. He lights another cigarette. There will be time for introductions, and he’s the kind of man who prefers to know about others rather than being known himself.

(OOC: I’ll follow Shadowcthuhlu’s advice and leave Bertrand’s description for my fellow RPGers: Appearance. Backstory.)
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/5/2017
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/5/2017

It was time to go, if Noah wished to be at Dynamo’s on time. It would do no good to arrive late and give a possible new employer the impression of tardiness. The money would certainly come in handy; his practice had seen little customers lately. The rumours were probably starting to spread. Oh well.

He was wearing his usual suit of black tweed: expensive enough that toffs wouldn’t mind associating with him, cheap enough that they wouldn’t pay any actual attention to him, and good for staying warm and hidden while the police were trying to find out who was responsible for the toff’s current condition. In his jacket he had a well-sharpened kitchen knife, in his vest pocket a a set of lockpicks, and in his sock a tiny rat-made revolver. The doctor looked himself up and down in the mirror and nodded. He took his doctor’s bag and left for the meeting.

Three precise, polite knocks interrupt the conversation at Dynamo’s. When the door is opened, a young man dressed in black carrying a brown bag enters the room. He looks around with an uneasy smile on his face. His shoulders are rather broad, but so slumped that the general impression is that of a sheepdog that’s not quite sure whether it’s allowed to be in the room.
&quotGood evening. I do hope I do not disturb. An acquaintance informed me of a possibility for employment on an… uh… hunting expedition, I believe? I am dr. Noah Rache, pleasure to make your acquaintance. I own a small practice in Spite. I’m confident that I’d be up to the task of giving care to any who should have the misfortune of sustaining injuries during the hunt. I also specialize in the treatment of maladies of the mind and the ill effects of traumatic memories, should any require&quot and here the more observant notice an involuntary twitch of an eye &quothelp with such issues.&quot As no one makes any objections or shoos him out of the room, he slowly proceeds to an empty seat. &quotThank you kindly. At your service.&quot
edited by John Moose on 3/5/2017

It is far too early in the morning for Gideon’s psychoses to be getting uppity, but there they are, at it again.

The first voice is quiet, timid, paranoid. we shouldn’t be here. feels wrong. feels like a trap.

The second voice is loud and boisterous. It sounds remarkably like a certain Bishop. Projection? Undoubtedly. WILL YOU SHUT IT WITH YOUR TRAP TALK? IT’S TIMES LIKE THIS I WISH I WASN’T A VOICE IN SOMEONE ELSE’S HEAD SO I COULD COME OVER THERE AND GIVE YOU A GOOD SEEING-TO.

Gideon kneads his temples. Voice 1 and Voice 2 are like a pair of squabbling infants at the best of times. He only hopes Voice 3 won’t make an appearance today.

He calls up a jaunty hymn to hum and drown out the voices’ bickering as he skips up to the mansion’s entrance. He is a fresh-faced young man in a crumpled black silk suit; surprisingly young for someone in his position, as people like to remark, although nobody is entirely sure what that position is.

He likes to keep them guessing. The Truth is out there, if one knows where to look.

NOT THIS TRUTH S__T AGAIN, groans Voice 2.

Gideon clears his throat and knocks on the door. When the doorman opens it, Gideon says “Good morning!” and shoves past, politely.

He barges into the drawing room, ignoring – or, more likely, oblivious to – the stares his proprietary clockwork monocle attracts. The device clicks and whirrs, zooming in on random objects in the room and causing his left eye to flick between a range of magnifications, each of which is more alarming than the last.

“Gideon Stormstrider, at your service!” he announces to anyone who cares to listen. “That’s right – the renowned experimental theologician and madcap inventor extraordinaire, before your very eyes! I’ve heard there’s a frightening apparition to catch, and by golly, we’ll give it a good drubbing with the help of my various occult practices!”

He strikes a suitably dramatic pose for a moment before sinking into a nearby armchair and rearranging the cushions into a more comfortable position for slouching.

edited by JimmyTMalice on 3/5/2017

Gregory Henchard turned up on the Dynamos’ doorstep, staggering slightly as he made his way to the door. Not drunk, he doesn’t touch the stuff, but clearly affected by something. He started thumping at the door, the flier in his clenched fist crunching with every blow.

By the second knock, the door had been opened and Henchard bustled inside by an armed servant.  He stood in the room for a moment, watching the people cluster into groups.  Inventors, scientists, fighters.  Each chatted in their little group, or lurked in one of the many, many dark corners this room seemed to have. Some calm, some nervous.  He wondered how many would be dead by the end of this.  None, hopefully.  But considering what they were hunting...a guilty smile stretched across his lips.  It was never an adventure without a measure of risk.

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts.  He turned to see the servant, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Well, he couldn’t expect the Dynamos to meet with every person, not with a group this large.  He settled into the chair to see what would develop, eyes flicking between the door and the windows.

edited by suinicide on 9/17/2017

Dirae Erinyes will sign their name with a flourish. This will earn them a look from Evensong, who will sign their contract like a normal person.

Mr. Hamilton gets up from his chair, walks over and grimly signs the document.

OOC: My backstory is here:

“Gregory Henchard,” the pen scrawled in blocky handwriting. “No fee necessary. Medical expenses still expected.”
edited by suinicide on 9/17/2017

Lady Orosenn, who had certainly not been chatting with anyone, was flabbergasted. That rich b-----d! 45 Echoes worth of Rostygold!? That wasn’t miserly, it was a slap in the face! Was she a common ratcatcher? Add the fact that the silly toff was himself the source of all this trouble with the shade, and it was just unbelievably rude. She considered running him through on the spot, immortality be d----d: it would surely hurt at least. But no, this was his residence. Her manners were better than that.

Ignoring the idiots running forward to sign the contract, she stood up from where she had sat in a corner and approached her would-be employer, slowly shaking her head. &quotNot good enough, Mr Dynamo. Not good enough by half. I suggest you improve your offer—significantly—or you can go find yourself another monster-hunter.&quot
edited by phryne on 3/6/2017

After some people have gone over, Noah looks around and makes his way to the document. After reading through the contract over David’s shoulder, he scribbles on it an utterly illegible signature neatly below the previous one. It’s a rather handsome sum on offer, one that will not only cover his expenses for a while but also let him move to new premises to access utterly unwary clientele. There seems to be little risk involved; he’ll probably get to stick to stitching others’ wounds and stay out of harm’s way. Just the way he likes it.

edit://(OOC) Seems like phryne posted while I was writing. Noah’s signing takes place before the episode.
edited by John Moose on 3/6/2017

The smallest smile broke out across Azoth’s face over Emma’s forwardness. She always loved a good threat, and the smile helped conceal a twitch of fear inside her. Permanent death? She’d risked fighting in the Black Ribbon, but she’d had time to prepare and study her opponents for that. This was a threat she barely knew anything about, and if she were to face it … well, she’d hunted in the past, capturing beasts across London, but this? This was dangerous.

You still have the chance to back out, she reminded herself. The thought seemed awfully appealing, but …

This was serious. How many people had this Shade killed? She didn’t know, and … well, it couldn’t be allowed to continue. Even if it meant risking her own life. She made her way over to the paper, skimming over its contents. Taking a quill from one of her many pockets, she tried to sign her name on the paper. Unfortunately, Bastet decided to wake up and crawl on her arm right at that moment. There was a weird splotch of ink at the end of her signature now, but she thought it was legible enough. Walking away, she tapped the rifle under her cloak, the one that had lasted her through all her previous hunting. Somehow it seemed inadequate.

Lady Orosenn completely ignored the obviously retarded woman’s antics. Those English toffs and their in-breeding! It was a shame. But apparently, Mr Dynamo at least could be made to see sense.

&quotI accept. This is only in case of success, of course. If I am no help, no need to pay me at all. Those are my usual terms.&quot They shake hands.

&quotNow, it would probably be of great benefit to everyone assembled if you could elaborate a little on the peculiar characteristics of this ‘Shade’?&quot

(OOC: Let everyone else sign first though. There have been a lot of posts within a few hours now.)
edited by phryne on 3/6/2017

The Sailor catches Drake by the arm after his altercation with Lady Orosenn. &quotI don’t need the echoes. I left you to rot while you were in Newgate: consider this repayment.&quot He hopes his look communicates the rest of his intention, as he does not want to start a war about fair pay. Do what you deem fit with my share.

He scrawls his name at the foot of the contract, scanning the names of the others. Not a single name he recognises. Are so few of the Argo expedition left?

Edward considers permanent death. He’s not exactly afraid of it, but he would rather return to the living world. After a moment of thought, he walks up to the contract signs very quickly and fancily “I hope to see you all at the end of this mission”, and with that, he returns to a chair.

Lyndon gets up as soon as he hears the monster-hunter complaining about her fee. She is right, of course. The sum offered is indeed paltry, especially if you have to risk your neck to earn it, but he knows better than haggle with someone who’s so clearly being a cheapskate. If the Dynamos’ are trying to save up on their hiring fee, they might be saving up on other things as well. Security measures come to mind. Lyndon grins at his thought. There are many ways to earn a living in London, after all.
The Dynamo girl counter-offer is even more insulting – it sounds too much like an ultimatum. It’s never a good idea to threaten someone who might have to watch your back soon enough. Especially if that someone is currently wielding a huge bone harpoon and knows how to use it. Their alleged immortality must have gotten to the Dynamos’ heads. It was a good thing the monster-hunter kept her cool in the end.
Everything was progressing in a most interesting way. There might be room for acquiring something more than the nominal fee by the end of the day. Besides, some people would pay handsomely for a sample of the thing they were about to hunt.
Finally, Lyndon is in front of the paper. Most of the applicants have signed already. He doesn’t know any of them, but as he had feared, some of them had renounced the fee. A bunch of twats seeking a thrill.
Lyndon takes the pen, but what he does can be described as something more like ‘writing his name’ rather than ‘signing’. Sgt. Lyndon is all he writes down. No need to speak on a first-name basis with those people. Not with all of them, at least.
edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 3/6/2017