Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
12/27/2017
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Sunday, 15 December, 1895
8:00 P.M.
A slender figure in a perfectly draped cloak stalks down Chalkery Road, leather boots clicking on the pavement as her eyes dart around. She spots a figure on the roof, half hidden in shadow. Too small to be an adult, so urchin. Doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me. She keeps an eye on the kid while she walks, just to make sure he isn’t going to throw rocks at her head or something like that. He opens a window and ducks into a home, disappearing into the building, and she relaxes a little. Just a normal urchin getting by.
She continues down the path to Baron S----n’s house, by far the most luxurious residence on the road. He could doubtless afford a more upscale neighborhood, but surrounded by his peers, he would seem to be a man of merely modest means, and his ego could never tolerate that.
The walk from Grimmauld to Chalkery isn’t a long one, even though she’s not taking the shortcuts of the roofs, and soon she finds herself at her destination. The footman at the door peers at her, mouth twisting into a sneer when he sees her bronze skin. “All the guests have arrived,” he says sharply, “and this is a respectable party. My lord didn’t hire any gypsy entertainers.”
She ignores the slur and produces an envelope from her pocket. “As a matter of fact, I was invited,” she says crisply. “Check your guestlist.”
The Dismissive Footman takes one look at the card and blanches. “Do come in, Lady Black,” he says as he opens the door, arrogance replaced by subservience, “my most sincere apologies, I assure you I meant no offense, we were not aware that you were coming --”
“Of course.” She allows him to assist her in taking off her cloak -- the man’s too nervous to be much of a threat -- and pass her off to an equally unsettled junior butler who opens the doors of the ballroom.
The guests turn to stare at the latecomer. “Is she wearing trousers? And a ponytail?” a Scandalized Debutante says in a faux whisper designed to be heard across the room. The Prim Matriarch, a grand old dame with white curls, shakes her head and sniffs.
“Lady Jennifer Black,” the butler says hastily, and closes the doors.
Jen stalks in, hunter in every line of her posture. Main doors behind me. A side door by the left wall. Probably for the servants. Windows on the right leading to the main road, left unlocked. Any one exit no more than three seconds’ sprint from any part of the room. She smirks mirthlessly as she sizes up the guests, and the Scandalized Debutante shivers when the cold green eyes land on her. Cecily Snow, 19. Threat level low. Seen her in the Flit before, sneaking out to rendezvous with the new footman. Fast on her feet but doesn’t know how to fight. Choke her with the pearls around her throat and she’ll be helpless. She shakes that last thought from her mind. Just because her brain automatically calculates the best way to take care of everyone in the vicinity doesn’t mean she has to entertain the notion.
A handsome, green-eyed devil is the first to react, instantly stepping forward with a smile on his face. Jen extends her hand, and he presses fiery lips to it for a moment, leaving a tingling warmth behind. “You look lovely, Lady Black,” he says, raking his eyes over her appreciatively. “I see my tailor did an excellent job on the coat.”
She lets out a girlish giggle, plucking behind his ear and conjuring up a scarlet rose, which she hands to him. “Thank you, Adrien.”
At that, the spell over the party is broken, and the mingling resumes. She chats more with Adrien, revelling in the attention. Many would love to enjoy an Abstraction, but they don’t know what they’re asking for. She’s got the spirifer’s fork, she maintains a room at the Brass Embassy, and she’s seen what happens to the people “freed from the burden” of their souls. Adrien knows her stand on the matter, and other than bringing it up occasionally, he accepted it. As far as connections on the infernal side of things went, he wasn’t a bad ally to have.
The dancing starts, and after a whirl with the charming young devil, her attention is claimed by Baron S---n, who insists on having the next waltz. “I knew your father growing up,” he tells her as he leads her to the dance floor.
“Really?” she asks, putting on an interested air. He’s about the age the old man would have been, if his heart had been able to take the shock of dropping into the Neath.
“Oh, yes. Black was a wild one growing up, always up to no good and managing all kinds of mischief. The lordship would have gone to his younger brother. That kid was polite and proper and he’d have managed the family estates well… only consumption got to him.” His hands are slowly moving down to where her tailored trousers cling to the shape of her derriere.
She twirls out of his grasp. If his groping hands move any lower, he’ll feel the blades strapped to her thighs or perhaps the knife hidden at the small of her back, and that would not end well. “I hope you’re not implying that Lord Black did a poor job of it.” Her tone is freezing.
“Of course not,” he corrects himself, pulling her back in. “Poor man could hardly be blamed for what happened. Anyone who knew him would have realized he couldn’t have murdered his cousin’s family, they were too close for that. And once he was out, he took charge like a proper Lord should. You too -- you do the family proud, I assure you.”
Jen sighs in a way designed to draw attention to her heaving chest. “Thank you. I do miss him.”
“You’re not what I would have expected from his daughter, mind you. No, I don’t mean that in a bad way!” He laughs heartily, still gazing below her face. The lust in his expression proves her charms are working. “But Sirius liked his blondes, you know? Not like his cousin -- that one had a thing for redheads. And then he brings you back, exotic and caramel-skinned, and declares you his heiress. Never thought an Indian would have been the mother of his kid. Wouldn’t he have worried she’d be related to his cousin?” When she doesn’t respond, he continues. “The Potters were from India, changed their name. I’m not surprised you don’t know -- the family’s gone now.”
“May they rest in peace,” she murmurs neutrally. The level of ignorance in his words makes her itch to stab him. It would be so easy to trigger the blade at her forearm and push it into his belt -- it was tight enough to stop the bleeding, so he’d only die when he disrobed -- and nobody would even realize she did it.
The dance thankfully ends, and Jen excuses herself before she can do something unwise. Caramel, really! Like she was something to be eaten, which was perhaps how the old lecher saw her. And exotic, as if she hadn’t been born in London. And assuming all Indians were related -- granted, he was partially right in this case, he just didn’t know it -- ridiculous.
The rest of the party passes by in typical boring fashion. Nobody even notices when she sneaks upstairs to do a little exploring. At least the nibbles tray is glorious. The only thing of note is the Jovial Contrarian getting into an argument with a Whiskered Admiral that leads to a heart attack on the latter’s part, bringing the evening to an early close. She heads home. There’s a long night ahead of her, and much to be done.
Monday, 16 December, 1895
3:00 A.M.
The second time Jen leaves her townhouse at Number 12 that night, a crisp wind is blowing. She draws her coat tighter around herself and adjusts her hood, leaping onto a ledge and closing her bedroom window before making her way upwards.
The roofs are quiet this time of night, the residents of the Flit asleep in their holes. She leaps soundlessly from building to building, trusting her black clothing to help her blend into the night. The gaslamps shine with a dim grey glow, illuminating the empty streets. A few candles shine from bedroom windows, but otherwise, the houses are dark. Is this what the Vake feels like, soaring above the streets and looking down on London?
Her first stop is Heorot, where the Ringbreakers rest. The rooftop they’ve chosen is only two streets away from her townhouse, in the West End of London. It’s a peculiar location -- the residents here are far more likely to chase them off than accept their help -- but in the few weeks they’ve been here, no trouble has occurred. In fact, they made it into the Gazette yesterday -- something about corralling a rogue panther.
A smile strays to her lips when she gets onto their rooftop without being hailed. For some reason, the little band of urchins always seems to have a sixth sense for her -- she can sneak up on a black cat, but she can’t go near without being noticed and invited to join them for a feast. Those few days she spent with them, and they now seemed to think of her as a guardian angel. Silly children. If anything, she was an angel of death.
The little band is all tucked into their makeshift beds, but the blonde hair of the Valkyrie is nowhere to be seen. She looks around, spotting a figure with a feather-ornamented colander on her head slumped against the chimney, snoring softly. Oh dear, the girl’s fallen asleep on her watch. Jen extracts a purse of rostygold from her pocket and sets it down beside the Valkyrie with enough force that the contents clink together. Perhaps that will serve as a warning to her -- any enemy could have snuck in and killed the Ringbreakers while their valiant leader snored. No, that’s not very fair, the girl’s clearly exhausted. But weariness was no excuse for a lack of vigilance.
The girl blinks blearily at the sound, but Jen is gone before she’s opened her eyes properly. She doesn’t want to explain why she’s out at this time of the night, doesn’t want to disillusion the Ringbreakers. They have a naive idealism about them, a deep-seated optimism in their certainty that they can make London better, and she doesn’t want it to be taken from them. Not the way it was taken from her.
She backtracks, passing her home again and heading in the opposite direction, back to Chalkery and the Baron’s house. It was funny how nobody ever suspected that Lady Black, successor of Sirius, and Lady Black, head of the Dregs gang and formidable assassin, were one and the same.
She shimmies down the drainpipe and inches her way towards the Baron's bedroom window, drawing a set of lockpicks from her sleeves and getting to work. It's cheaply made, clearly not ratwork, and opens in moments. With careful fingers she pulls the window open, thankful she oiled the hinges earlier at the party, and slips in silently.
The Baron is asleep, his droning snore filling the room. She draws her knives from the sheaths at her thighs and weighs them in her hands for a moment before climbing on the bed. He doesn't stir.
In a lightning-quick move she pounces on him. He thrashes, but she's pinned him down with her elbows and knees. “Ssh,” she whispers, jabbing a blade at his throat. “Call for help and I'll sever your vocal chords.”
His eyes stare at her in confused terror. Just by wearing a bandana over her nose and mouth, the fool doesn't recognise her.
“You've been very naughty,” she purrs once he gives up his attempt to escape. “Stealing from your business partners and sending the money to the Surface. It would perhaps have been understandable if you wanted your family to leave and enjoy a better life, but no, you were going to abandon them here. Leave them for your mistress. Oh, she might like your jewels and money, but I doubt she would bother visiting you in the Neath. And I'm going to make sure you never leave it again. Do you know that once you've met the Boatman, you can never go to the Surface again?”
The knockers-up are rousing the workers by the time Jen makes her way home across the rooftops. The blackmail material from the Baron's safe is put on her desk, waiting to be reviewed -- the client hadn't requested it, which made it fair game for her. Others had a little black book, but she maintained a whole room, full of files on everyone important in the Neath and anyone who looked like they had the potential to be important.
Her clothes are stiff with blood, and she sends them to be laundered by her assistant. Kay was a junior devil who had been assigned to aid her as a Conjurer, and who thankfully took the fact that she generally behaved more like a Murderer or Licentiate in his stride. Then she runs a bath, changes into a nightgown and collapses on her bed in exhaustion.
Monday, 16 December, 1895
12:20 P.M.
The streets are awake and bustling when Jen drags herself out of bed and into the dining room for breakfast. She idly picks up the Former London Times from the table, yawning into her coffee. FEDUCCI AND PRINCESS TO WED NEXT WEEK, the headline screams in bold black print. Oh lord, those two? A bandaged immortal from the Elder Continent who refuses to die no matter how many times she cuts him up and sends him on what should, by all rights, be a permanent trip to the Boatman? And that honey-drinking bitch who thinks the right way to express her admiration for someone is to feed them to her sister? They’d either attempt to kill each other, or else join forces to terrorize London in some sort of unholy alliance. Nothing good will come out of this.
She reads on. The guest list will include such notables as the Duchess, the Veteran Privy Counsellor, His Amused Lordship, Mr Inch, as well as the famed archaeologists Primrose Valentine and Dr Orthos. Representatives from the Bazaar -- perhaps even one of the Masters -- as well as Port Carnelian, the Foreign Office, the Khanate, Benthic, Hell and Summerset are expected to be in attendance. Rumour has it that while Mr Slowcake is unable to attend, his Amanuensis will do so in his stead, and Mr Wines’ butler Jervaise -- known to many of us for the work he does at those marvelous Revels -- will apparently be bringing his hitherto unknown wife! The performers from Mahogany Hall have been contracted to provide entertainment. Government offices will be closed that day to free employees to attend. Her Enduring Majesty has graciously declared it a public holiday, that all of London may share in the joy of the happy occasion. This will be a spectacle not to be missed.
Jen’s eyes slowly grow wide as she looks at the names. All those buildings, left tantalizingly empty. Her mind whirls with the possibilities. Perhaps something good can come out of this after all. But this is a big score, bigger than anything she’s ever planned before. This would go down in history, make her as famous as the Masters when all was said and done. Some would call her mad for considering it.
But she had spent her adolescence hearing her foster parents talk about breaking into the most secure place in the world. Everyone had said that the Ice Court was impenetrable, but they had done it. No, there was no such thing as an impossible heist. All she needed was to assemble an incredible crew who could pull it off. And she had just the people in mind…
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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shylarah
Posts: 171
12/27/2017
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The probably-not-snow lay thick on the Flit, with paths marked by the prints of boots and a few sections where more enterprising fellows had taken a shovel to it. It piled in drifts by chimneys, and mounded high where it was pushed out of the way. The wind whistling across the rooftops bit deep, and she pulled her coat a little tighter about her shoulders, and flexed her fingers to make sure her hands were warm enough to respond properly. Her gloves had holes by the pads of each finger, so she could stick them through for more delicate work, but they were still nicely warm. Cold hands grew stiff, and lost their cleverness. "I'm ready when you lot are," she said to those clustered around. Most were urchins or Raggedy Men, gathered for the spectacle, but the news had spread by the usual channels. A knot of rats clung to the nearby chimneys, and she saw the finer clothes that marked streetsiders mixed in among the desperately worn attire of those who were native to the Flit. Her grin stretched wider. They'd write stories about this, she was sure.
The sparse remains of a bloomer bunting flapped forlornly overhead. She'd put them up all over the Flit during the election season, nicking brassieres and various other smallclothes to string up during her duties as an agitator. It had been quite the gay effect for a while, though some people made such a fuss about it, and most undergarments were eventually reclaimed either by their proper owners or by individuals who were not overly picky in where they acquired their vestments. A few yet remained even after she'd stopped trying to keep the buntings full, the articles too embarrassing to be retrieved for one reason or another. There was at least one piece of lingerie that she thought terribly creative, though she wasn't certain how precisely one went about wearing it. Another, tight bloomers with impressively floral ruffles and a highly suggestive buttoned pannel that accomodated a rather masculine bulge in the garment, had been willingly offered by her favorite aunt. The sharp-minded woman loved jokes as much as she did herself, and had designed and embroidered them herself specifically for the purpose. There was a reason that aunt was her favorite.
"Th' rope's all strung, so's ya don't hafta touch ground bringin' it back." A rosy-cheeked boy from the Fisherkings gave her a gap-toothed smile. "An' I'mma make good money when you don't touch ground neither." She laughed at that.
"Quite right! I've no intention of climbing all the way down and back up; where's the fun in that?"
"Wotcher, Nikki. Oi, erryone back, clear the ramp!" He lifted his voice and the handful of urchins she'd picked for the purpose went about herding the onlookers out of her way. She went over the ramp herself with a good brush, clearing clumps of dirty snow left by the tramping feet and bits of debris, and making sure there was nothing to slow her down.
And then it was an easy spring up to the seat, a nod and a grin to the child holding it in place for her, and quick word to the crowd. She put her weight to the pedals, picking up speed as she went down the initial slope. The people blurred by, cheering and shouting encouragement or insults (depending on how they'd bet), but her fever-bright eyes never strayed from the path before her. By the time she came to the ramp, she was fairly flying along, and when the end of the ramp came, she flew for real. The velocipede leaped into the air like a bird taking flight, and she let out a whoop of pure glee. The spire of St. Fiacre's rose before her, growing swiftly closer and swiftly shorter. Her aim was very slightly off, it seemed. She was heading dead at it, instead of a bit to the side so as to land on the main roof. She'd never have managed to land atop the spire itself -- even that odd girl a few years back, the one who could glide over impossible jumps, hadn't managed to hit more than four fifths of the way up.
Nikki was going to be considerably further down, more like halfway or maybe two thirds. But she could still land it, if she timed it just right. Her perception of time slowed down, stretching out, and she could feel each individual beat of her heart. God d__n, but this was glorious! She gathered her feet under her, preparing to leap from the velocipede and grab one of the many outcroppings produced by the intricate carvings.
Only she wasn't going to hit a spot with carvings to grab. With a cacophonous crash, woman and velocipede smashed through the rose window and tumbled to the tiled floor amid a tinkling waterfall of shattered glass. She had time to worry over the fate of her ride as she fell -- she hoped it wouldn't need too much repair! And then she struck the floor, and had time only to get a vague impression of frightened clergy and the stunned face of the Bishop of Southwark as he turned away from his conversation with the Bishop of St. Fiacre's. Then darkness.
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She returned from her jaunt down the silent river with nary a dent in her high spirits. What fun it had been! Not the boat ride, of course -- the Boatman was not a particularly vocal fellow, and his company ceased to be interesting long before he let her leave. And he had a poor view of her creative chess tactics, to boot. No, the jump attempt was the fun part. "Worth it~" she laughed to herself, looking about her lodgings with a grin. To her surprise, there was a little note tucked into the cuff of her sleeve, and upon reading it, her grin grew even wider. A daring heist, hitting a dozen different targets? It would be a shame to miss the wedding -- but a chance like this, such things simply did not come along so often that she could pass it up. She could already feel the blood-pumping thrum of the adrenaline in her veins.
"Why yes, I do think this calls for a slight change in plans...."
The designated time could not arrive quickly enough.
edited by shylarah on 12/27/2017
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Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/3/2018
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Telemachia Lee stares up at Lady Black’s townhouse. The doors and windows are all in the same places as they were the last time she reconnoitered the place. She leans back into her niche in the shadowed alley, lights a cigar, and waits.
Five minutes later, she hears a man walking quietly up the alley behind her. She recognizes Butler’s tread and the smell of his cologne. It’s unique, made to his specifications by a reliable parfumier. When she had realized how much of his salary he had been spending on it, she had arranged to do a few favors for some of the artisan's friends. She hasn’t told Butler, although he has surely guessed why the parfumier suddenly offered him a generous discount.
When he gets closer, Butler steps more loudly. He doesn’t want to startle her. He hasn’t realized yet just how much better her hearing has become recently. “Nothing, Mum,” he reports. He doesn’t literally mean nothing. Of course there are Constables. This is an expensive neighborhood - it would be suspicious if there weren’t. Of course there are bats, and weasels, and the occasional green flash from any reflective surface, and a few people who seem to be very slow newspaper readers. But there are none of the telltale signs of a trap ready to spring. That doesn’t mean that there isn’t one, of course, but at least Ulysses Lee’s daughter won’t be caught by an obvious trap. Fido, trotting into the alley a couple of minutes later, whuffs his confirmation. The wolfhound doesn’t speak, but he’s a smart dog. Smarter than most people.
“You two wait outside. You know the backup plan. We are unlikely to need it.” Lee reaches into the pocket of her bridge coat and pulls out a black bottle. She stares at it for a moment, hesitating, remembering the look of concern in Caroline’s eyes … but this is not the moment for hesitation. She takes a swig from the bottle, tasting the medicinal tang of strange herbs and the coppery richness of blood. She feels the fire in her veins, she hears the walls around her echoing a million sounds of the city, she can smell every one of the forty-plus ingredients of Butler’s cologne. “I’m ready.”
At the door, Lee is greeted by a most welcome sight - Jen Black’s legs. She gives them the attention they deserve before turning her eyes to her hostess’s face. “Black,” she says, nodding a greeting. She shrugs off her coat and nods to the butler. He looks like a capable man, and must surely be trusted if he is in attendance tonight. A man to be treated with respect, then, but a butler on duty does not like to draw attention to himself.
Underneath the coat, Lee is wearing her newest suit: a severe black tailcoat - Lee finds the new fashion for tuxedos distastefully informal - in Thirsty Bombazine. She has only just had time to have a waistcoat made from the bolt of Puzzle-Damask that Mr. Sacks left her. Since this is a formal social event, she carries only a few weapons. A derringer. Her trusty brass knuckles. An ordinary-looking belt reinforced with steel cable, and fitted with a weighted buckle. A couple of knives - that goes without saying.
Lee swaggers into the meeting room. This will be a challenge - and a risk - and that’s what she lives for.
Some of the guests she knows. More than she had expected. She greets them with her usual respectful-but-wary nod.
“Blank.” The man in the rumpled suit seems trustworthy, and has already proved his value as a scout. She’s concerned about his nerve, but he’s worth bucking up. And she’s promised to watch his back.
“Price.” The pirate seems like Blank’s opposite - flashy, daring, and unscrupulous. He’ll be useful, and amusing to have around. Whether he can be trusted is another question.
“Wyatt. Barrows.” The Longshanks contingent. She’s seen them around, friends of friends. Everyone has heard of Wyatt’s recent exploits. She ought to be fun to work with. Cute, too. Of course, there’s a chance that she might ruin a delicate operation by taking one risk too many, but then some people probably think the same about Lee. She hadn’t known Barrows’s name until Blank had filled her in. The boy wasn’t much to look at, but snipers are an odd breed. It’s a knack - either you have it or you don’t. Lee doesn’t. She can’t sit still and shoot at the same time.
“…Caroline.” This is unanticipated. She didn’t expect to see Caroline here. She doesn’t know what to think, or how to greet her. But that’s why she had a stiff drink before she walked into the townhouse. She doesn’t need to think. She bows - a deep, formal bow - and kisses Caroline’s hand. It’s a courtly gesture, quite old-fashioned, perfectly performed, and entirely at odds with the rest of her manner. It might draw some curious glances. But then, people have been looking oddly at Lee her whole life.
The others she hasn’t met formally. She sizes them up.
The scholar: She knows a few Benthic professors. She mostly likes them, but she wouldn’t bring one with her on a heist. What is this one doing here?
The magician: Suspicious. The snakes are trouble, and so are their friends.
The girl: Young, fit, nervous but determined. She looks eager and brave and ... Lee feels a sharp pang of emotion in her chest. She wonders … from the way she’s looking … then Lady Karnstein looks back at the girl and she looks away, blushing. Lee knows that feeling: Lady Karnstein does that to a lot of women. That answers her question. Of course, if Caroline is Lee’s competition, then the odds are very much against her. But Lee has never let that stop her before.
If she did, she wouldn't be here. Something is going to go wrong, she's certain. But she's confident that she can handle it. This may be an odd team, but she won't let them down.
She will, of course, make fun of them. Some of them are pretty much begging for it.
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
1/3/2018
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Michael is unusually quiet as he follows Nikki and Hubris into the drawing room. There is no wind inside the house – only stale air and the sound of footsteps on plush carpets. An occasional murmur. It makes him feel uncomfortably aware of his surroundings, even as he makes amicable conversation with his fellow longshanks, and keeps his hands from straying too far away from his shouldered rifle. He'd waved the butler away moments before, insisting he would rather keep his navy coat on, and he's starting to regret it: It fits him like a stretched glove, emphasizing the constricting feeling of his hard-soled shoes and gloved hands.
There's something strange in the room, and he can't quite put it into words. He considers, briefly, suggesting that they should stay close to the exit, before remembering who he's talking with and, more importantly, who hosted the curious gathering.
Well, 'Curious' was one way to describe it. He recognizes almost every face in the room, and can't help but linger on some of them. Whatever the original plan was, it seemed to have attracted an...interesting gathering.
Anactoria is the first in his line of sight. Calm as a windless sea, or pretending really hard to be. He raises an eyebrow at her greeting, with a look that requires no words, but makes a point of remaining on her even after she turns away. She reminds him of simpler times, barefoot nights spent racing across the rooftops without a care in the world, and bedtime stories told in hushed whispers. He wonders if she knows what she's gotten into, but looks away in time to push that questions away from his thoughts. Anactoria could take care of herself.
Still, her presence makes him consider putting his rifle away, or at least lowering it to a more approachable position.
Seeing Canvas makes him reconsider. The sharp exhale through his teeth piques the curiosity of a well-hidden weasel inside his sleeve, but he's quick to usher it back to its hiding place. Canvas' involvement is not surprising. Not unexpected either. He would remember those words if he ever had to –Storm forbid-- make small conversation with that man. They were the only nice things he could say about the Dunbonnet.
Rather than souring his own mood for the rest of the night (An impossibly easy task), his glance follows Anactoria's to the other side of the room. He doesn't know who the impeccably dressed woman is. He does know that he would be hard-pressed to recognize her: there's something about her – Her poise, her presence, the space she occupies in the room irrespective of her real size -- that makes the eye slide away.
But he's reasonably certain that he's the only one who would ever feel that way.
Compared to her, the scholar is refreshingly familiar. Benthic's reputation precedes them, and he knows at least someone in the room will know what they're doing. Whether that would be enough, however, he could only guess.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spies...what was the name again? 'Lee'? Telemachia Lee, right. How strange, to have missed her presence until now. According to rumors, she was worth her weight in bounty money and blood – among other things. But they were only that. Rumors. He only knows one thing for certain: most people agreed that her heart was in the right place, and that's all that matters to him.
There is a man he doesn't recognize, although he feels he should. A seaman, that much he can tell, but he carries himself like something more. Or something less – he can't say for sure from this distance.
At the end of it all, there's Nicdubh herself – the Daughter Of Black – whose voice cuts through his thoughts like a dagger. He's not sure what he was expecting, having only seen her in far more practical outfits and less formal occasions, but the amount of exposed skin keeps him from thinking too much about it. It reminds him of a little fortress, physical parallels aside, that covered just enough to hide one's true self. Maybe it was her soul. Maybe, it was that bit that made her herself and not anybody else.
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/4/2018
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A black, silent carriage pulls up outside. The door opens and an equally silent woman, clad in a purple evening gown with rose designs, one at each shoulder, glides out. She gazes up at the house, her face a serene pale moon surrounded by a sea of darkness, then drifts to the front door. The silence is rudely shattered by a knock, which would jar an observer simply by being a presence of sound, and Caroline Karnstein is let inside.
Her green eyes do widen, slightly, at the sight of her hostess, and that languid, heart taking smile crosses her lips. “Good Evening.” She allows her gaze to linger, a compliment to her hostess’s choice, and glides to a seat at a leisurely pace.
She sits, and feels Anactoria’s gaze. As much as she loves the rustle of skirts moving, she does like women in more masculine clothes. She smiles, lazily, to the other girl, who turns away. Her dangerous emeralds remain a moment, and she too moves her gaze.
She then smiles to Nikki, a cheerful sprite she had before heard the name of as she enters. A wave to everyone? Caroline liked this girl already. She hoped this would lead to less posturing as the evening went on.
She glances at the men. She had met Blank before. A nod to him, polite and not unfriendly. He was very professional in their last meeting. And that…large…man, a stranger. She tried to place the face. Not someone she knew, but he had the semeanor of a proud servant. Caroline may have been born to Nobility but she was always a bit too wise to just ignore the help. And on a heist, ignoring the help is likely what he is counting on.
She is interrupted by Lee’s arrival, and immediately feels slightly safer. Her smile at the impressive woman is quite fond and quite warm, and less predatory than some before. She allows her hand to be kissed and gives her a friendly nod.
Her gaze then moves back, this time to Barrows, another more rugged looking fellow. Her smile remains in place. Then to the Zailor. Not really a surprise there, but pretty as they go.
Finally the Academic. Not what she expected to see, but then one usually does not expect to see an unabashed bohemian at a gathering like this either. She studied them several moments before her gaze moved away.
Caroline smoothed her skirts and settled into her seat. Her attitude not haughty but rather curious and languid. At the very least, she would not be bored.
edited by Lady Karnstein on 1/4/2018
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Hubris Glamore
Posts: 49
12/28/2017
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Another busy morning. It wasn’t yet noon and mercenary butler, Hubris Glamore had already called upon 4 seperate clients.
Thankfully, most of them had been little trouble and had been crossed off on his little black book without (unexpected) incident.
First was one of the bigger tasks. Ensure that a Rakish Bridegroom and his groomsmen made to the chapel both on time and in a presentable state. Being hired by a Contemptuous Great Aunt and noting that the husband to be was both a member of the Young Stags and a former Stoat, he had some idea of what to expect. To this end, he had arrived at the crack of dawn, bringing with him his shaving kit, a liberal amount of coffee, 4 spare suits and the accompaniment of a Nervous Tailor who owed him a favour.
It wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected. Only 3 of the spare suits were required and the young men were mostly responsive after the coffee and very responsive after being gently reminded that should they not be at the church on time, he may require a thesaurus in order to full comprehend the diatribe his great aunt would surely have in store.
Shaved, dressed, no longer reeking of alcohol and as sober as they were likely to get, he ushered them into the waiting coach, with only a quick word to the maids about the sort of product they might need to get the honey stains out of the ceiling.
Second was brief and easy. Pleasant even. A brief stop to cook for a Soft Hearted Widow. Once a fortnight, for a chat over breakfast. No charge for this particular service. It was a repayment of sorts for past kindness. Indeed, he was sure to slip a little something into the sturdy collection tin near the door as he left.
Third, more sombre. An altogether less social call on a different widow, this one only very recently fitting that description, in order to make sure a funeral ran smoothly. Largely without incident, although he did have to discreetly take a pair of cousins into the next room at one point in order to explain that if they did not save their bickering over who deserved to get their uncle’s collection of antique toys for another time. Preferably a time in which their bereaved aunt did not have to hear it, lest he be forced to remove them from the premises one way or another and would be certain to ensure that the rest of the family knew about it, which would not be a good look now, would it?
Which brings us to the now. Job number 4. Chaperoning a Shrinking Debutante to tea with a prospective suitor. It had all been going so well, but the carriage driver was either new, a plant or an idiot, for he’d taken a shortcut through a less than savoury area more suited to the Velocipede Squad than a society belle.
The carriage slowed to a halt and looking from the window, Mr. Glamore noted a handful of individuals skulking from the sidestreets to surround the coach and frowned, turning his attention to his ward. “Madam, I’m afraid there may be about to some unpleasantness. I’m going to politely ask these locals to let us pass. However there’s a very real chance I may have to become...ungentlemanly with them.” He smiled warmly in an attempt to reassure her. “Everything is under control. I assure you.”
Leaning out the window to get a good look at the half dozen ladies and gents of likely nefarious intent, he smiled. “Hello boys and girls. Some of you I believe I recognise. I do hope you recognise me, because this will go much, much easier if you do.”
Recognition dawned on at least two of the would-be highwaymen, who appeared to be doing some hasty recalculations, so he continued. “My name is Hubris Glamore. While on other occasions I have performed services for ...” And here he chose his words carefully, given his present company. “Men of Business, I am currently engaged in chaperoning this young lady. So I am afraid that if you intend to relieve her of her valuables, then you will in fact be forced to go through me.” A pause. “Unless of course you, being fine upstanding citizens noticed that our coach seemed to be lost and you are here to helpfully offer directions”
The two footpads for whom recognition had dawned seized the lifeline that had been offered with earnest. “Yes sir, civic minded individuals us.” Offered one. “That’s right.” The other chimed in. “We saw your fancy coach and thought to ourselves, oo-wee, better get them toffs outta here quick smart, on account of how a lotta carriages come through here tend to get robbed.”
“Thank you very much. I suspect the two of you will go far in your chosen field. Driver, get us out of here immediately. It’s 11:42 and the young lady is due to arrive at noon. It will not do to be late.”
And there it should have ended. If not for the fact that the other four thieves, led by one braggart in particular, did not understand why this coach was being let through. A glance passed between Glamore to the two more knowledgable thieves, carrying apologies, exasperation and resignation all at once. He sighed, removed his hat and jacket and set them on the seat. “Do excuse me one moment madam. This won’t take long.”
And indeed it did not. Two thieves who immediately rushed the butler were each rendered unconscious by the head of the other being guided swiftly into their own by gloved hands, the third found that swinging a knife is not a particularly viable strategy if your wrist is broken by the end of the swing and finally the loudmouthed braggart was encouraged to spend some time holding his tongue via the subtle influence of a slightly collapsed windpipe.
Immediate concerns dealt with, the butler returned to the coach, hastening the driver onwards and with private relief, just making the scheduled time of noon.
Some time later, after seeing the young lady safely back home and returning to his office for a short lunch between commissions, the sound of the doorbell would herald the arrival of a woman he’d served once or twice before.
Lady Jen Black, with the offer of a profitable bit of work. Come to the west end tonight she said, and everything would be explained.
And so he would. He’d also bring tea. It always made going over details a little more pleasant.
But before that, he had a little time. Drawing from his pocket the other little list from which he took “clients”, albeit unlike the clients of his public work, all of these were served in a very singular fashion. Making his way upstairs to the little room where he kept copious notes, he exchanged his white gloves for a pair of heavier black ones. “Just enough time for one or two housecalls I think.” He murmured, plotting a course that led him to the West end.
A good butler is always discreet.
Accordingly, while he arrived at the Black Estate in the early evening, ready to hear the Lady’s offer and drink tea, he’d made a couple of pitstops along the way. No one saw him enter and no one saw him leave. But nevertheless, several hours later, a body was discovered in each residence, killed by some unseen assailant.
A good butler is always discreet.
edited by Hubris Glamore on 12/28/2017
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Hubris Glamore is an ambitious gentleman with entirely more schemes than is healthy.
Happy to entertain all manner of interactions and has a fondness for roleplaying.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hubris%20Glamore
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
12/27/2017
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Countess Caroline Karnstein of Styria glided through her Labrys like a shark hunting in familiar waters. Noblewomen mingled with music-hall singers, some women held hands while others talked about their husbands. Some few were not even known to be women until they were older; here they could be themselves. But overall, it was a room where women who were artists, writers, poets, and singers mingled with each other and lovers of all the above. Caroline had built it after much hard work. Her emerald green eyes watched as the tea dance finished, and the ladies moved to sit. She curtsied to Lady Sapho Byron, her partner on her turns on the floor, and moved to introduce her protégée, Šárka Vlasáková. Šárka has a dark beauty, but all eyes are really on Caroline. Even those who never dance or hold hands with their sisters and speak fondly of their husbands tend to harbor secret fantasies of Caroline. When Šárka finished discussing “Four Willows Weeping” and Sapho has read a popular passage from “Phantom of Sin”, Caroline steps up to read from “Eventide Drear.” Every eye was upon her, breath held with anticipation. “Staccato steps I take only with hesitation, for fear and hope, both so much, that she will be there. Watching me.”
After she spoke and the music died down, Caroline smiled to the women who surrounded her. While some left alone, others in twos and threes, some remained to compete for her attention. But Caroline did not need company that night. Hand were kissed and smiles smiled. Caroline’s smile was in many dreams that night.
* * *
Caroline Karnstein sat in her den, a room in which she had done much writing, within a dream. All the rooms in her suite in the Royal Bethlehem flowed and ebbed like a house in a dreamscape, and normally this served the pale woman well. But tonight, as she sipped her imported surface wine, something felt off. Sharp green eyes looked up, where her painting of Mary Shelley usually hung. Instead, a young, brown haired girl looked imploringly at the viewer with large, nervous blue eyes. She was sitting, nude, on a sumptuous bed. “Annabelle!” The pale woman snarled. The painting was intruding again, having appeared in the room with its mistress. “There is nothing more I can do!” She rose, and stormed from the room as the painting, unmoving and not unusual save the quality, regarded the room with apparent trepidation.
The mazelike rooms of the suite shifted and changed, a night colored dreamscape. But dreams can turn against the dreamer, and while normally they served their mistress well, leading guests to her whether they wanted to find her or not, tonight they did not seem to want Caroline to leave. Eventually, she found her balcony, and climbed over it, climbing down the side of the Royal Bethlehem on her belly. When she landed, she walked calmly to her carriage, opened the door and climbed in, and it moved out into the night.
* * *
The Singing Mandrake was full of heartbeats. A cacophony, like classical concert. Together, they created a melody, a pulse of lives within the room. Some beat faster than others, but all made a song Caroline would never want to escape. But one, from an auburn haired woman at a table watching her, beat very fast indeed.
Violet Rosemary was new to the Neath. Having followed her family down she found herself bored in the Singing Mandrake on a busy night. It was full of all sorts of people but it felt so superficial. She sighed, gazing about with ennui until she laid eyes on a woman entering the room. As the pale lady stepped in, the music and laughter seemed to fade, even as her surroundings in the room faded away. They were only two things that was real right then: She and the pale green eyed apparition in the door. In the dark void that surrounded them, this perfect beauty glided in, scanned the room and made eye contact. Violet felt chills run down her spine. Those two green gems surrounded a pool of unending darkness, and she felt herself drawn in by the inexorable tide. However hard she swam, she was pulled slowly, inevitably, to the center, where she would go down forever. The woman was close now, they were face to face. Not close enough.
“Good Evening. My name is Lady Caroline Karnstein. What’s yours?” The voice was a purr that sounded like every accent and none of them. Everything desirable and forbidden about foreigners. It was low, but the resonance was feminine. What was her name? A color. A weight sat on her chest. She could not speak. A curious, cocking of the head “Are you alright?”
“Violet” Her voice came from somewhere deep in her throat.
“Well, pleased to meet you Violet. I could use some company tonight, and it is very busy here. Would you ride with me.” What a beautiful smile. When she saw it, she knew Angels were as real as Devils.
“Yes.”
“Best tell your friends then. I will wait outside.”
From all around Violet, the voices slowly returned. She was in public. The Mandrake. It was Friday, and the woman was going outside. But she had a task. She had to tell her friends, then escape.
* * *
Caroline Karnstein walked out of the Mandrake, pausing to enjoy the night air. Many people, many heartbeats walk by. One she heard approach her from behind. She caught his scent on the wind, but did not recognize it. As he drew closer she expected him to speak.
Regardless, she felt a pain, and looked down to see a sword sticking out of her chest. She heard a triumphant laugh. It faded when she turned around.
Sharp, angry green eyes latched onto his as she pulled out the sword. She glared at the man, an unworthy former husband of a Labrys regular. He stammered an oath, and began to run. She dropped the weapon to the ground disdainfully with a clatter and a low feline growl that traveled with the wind. Then she was in front of him, as if an apparition, lifting him over her head by his face one handed and hurling him into a brick wall with a horrible snapping sound. Then in a flash she was on him, picking him up and throwing him again. He never saw her coming, just always there to throw him once more. Pain and death took him after the fourth time, the last thing he heard before the waters around the boat being the crunching of his own bones, and sound of bricks splitting from impact.
* * *
Violet walked out and found Caroline there, shadows clinging to her like nervous children. The concealed her energy in the darkness outside the Mandrake. “Ready to go, my dear?” Caroline asked with a purr noticeably hungrier than that inside and a gesture to the black carriage.
“Actually we need to talk, I have a business proposition” A voice from the shadows, Caroline turned, as did Violet.
“No need to worry Countess, I only need a moment of your time.”
“Wait in the Carriage my dear, I promise I will be right there.” Violet turned, and without a word walked over to the beautiful carriage. The door opened apparently by itself and she went in.
“Now, what did you want to discuss?” Her purr low, dangerous but not threatening. “ I am not having a very good night.”
edited by Lady Karnstein on 12/28/2017
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
12/27/2017
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A smoky taproom in Takepenny Lane. A wiry youth in a Navy greatcoat is chatting in low tones with a pretty blonde woman. The youth whispers something in the blonde's ear, and she laughs. On the other side of the youth is a broad-shouldered man, bald, wearing an elderly but well-maintained tweed suit. He clears his throat discreetly as a burly Zailor approaches, glowering.
The youth turns to face the Zailor. His - no, her face is clearly feminine. She returns his glare.
“Step aside, Miss,” growls the Zailor. “That’s my woman you’re talking to.”
Telemachia Lee regards him coolly. “Really? Maybe she belongs to herself.” She cuts her eyes over to the woman. Who says nothing. Sits expressionless.
“You’re lucky that I was raised properly,” says the Zailor. “My Mam taught me never to strike a woman. But -”
Lee interrupts him. “I get it. I have the same problem myself.” She steps up, shrugging off her peacoat. Her man Butler catches it and folds it neatly over his shoulder. She’s tall for a woman, and broad-shouldered, and she’s wearing a man’s suit to boot. However, the suit has been tailored to fit her curves. “But guess what?” she continues, curling her fingers into a fist. “I have the solution to your little problem right here.”
Then she hits him, a solid overhand right to the jaw that sends him sprawling across a nearby table. The patrons protest as their drinks fly in all directions.
The Zailor gets to his feet, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s done it,” he says.
“Good,” Lee replies. She has adopted a balanced stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands in front of her at shoulder level. The outermost hand rotates palm up, and the first two fingers make a beckoning gesture. Come and have a go, if you think you’re hard enough.
The Zailor is a hard man. Life at Zee is difficult and demanding. His fists are big and stony and feared by his shipmates. But few Zailors are skilled in the martial sciences. His punches are clumsy, obvious, unbalanced. Lee steps out of the way or knocks them aside, and counters with power and precision.
Five minutes is not a long time under most circumstances. In a fist fight, it is. The Zailor’s face is swollen and puffy, his movements slow and arthritic. Lee is breathing loudly, favoring her left leg, and developing a black eye. But she’s smiling.
The wearying Zailor throws a feeble punch, much too slow. Lee, grinning like a demon, grabs his wrist and elbow, immobilizing him in an armbar. From this position she could easily wreck those joints - but that wouldn’t go over well in a workingman’s bar. Instead, she uses the arm as a lever, and smashes his face into the wall. Again and again, the wall shaking and creaking, as his face leaves a series of bloody stamps on its rough wood. Until the Zailor mumbles something, holding up a hand in a gesture of surrender. Lee drops him to the floor, where he lies, barely moving, blood pooling under his mouth and nose.
Lee offers him a hand. “No shame,” she said briskly, “That was a hell of a beating you stood up to. Come on, stand up.” He begins to reach for her hand, when -
“Get away from him, you b----!” Lee is shoved unexpectedly from behind. She staggers, recovers, whirls around to see her assailant -
The blonde. She crouches next to the Zailor, cradling his face in her lap, and croons reassuringly to him.
Lee looks down at the pair of them. Her hand drops from her revolver. “What the bl---- d--------?” she asks indignantly. The woman doesn’t speak, doesn't stop soothing the fallen Zailor. She looks daggers at Lee. Lee shakes her head slowly. “...yeah. Okay. I see how it is.” She takes a deep breath, then swaggers back to the bar.
Back at the bar, Butler is chatting with the bartender. The bartender smiles and nods at something he says. Lee slides onto the stool next to Butler. Without a word, the bartender hands her a tall cup of gin. She takes a swig, grimaces, and nods her thanks. Butler hands her a cigar, then lights it for her. She puffs it and grins at him. She turns around to survey the room, and the two men continue their conversation. They appear to be getting along famously. Lee tries not to feel sour about it.
But the Wheel turns. Buoyed by a couple of pints of gin, Lee is in good spirits again when a second woman approaches her. A brunette, pretty in a languid sort of way, and quite flirtatious. After half an hour of low talk, she takes Lee by the hand and the two of them head for the door. Lee gives a significant nod to Butler, who returns it.
In the alley by the bar, Lee pulls the other woman close for a kiss. “Come with me,” the brunette urges her. “I can show you things you’ve never experienced before.”
“A tempting offer from a lovely lady,” Lee replies gallantly. Her fingers trace the woman’s neck, finding the ridged tissue of a broad scar.“There’s only one problem.”
With the loud clack of a hammer being pulled back, a pistol-barrel appears between them, pressed to the bottom of the brunette’s jaw. “You’re a bl---- candle-eater, aren’t you?”
The woman’s eyes go wide, and she stammers a denial. Lee’s blunt forefinger punches through the scar tissue on the woman’s neck and sinks in. No blood comes forth. Lee feels a half-inch gap and then … a second skin.
“There have been an awful lot of Jack-of-Smiles attacks in Takepenny Lane recently,” Lee remarks. “Funny how, with all the blood, nobody paid any attention to how many of the victims had been flayed. Particularly their hands and faces. Not Jack’s usual style. But it is yours, isn’t it?”
The denials fade under Lee’s cold gaze. “Very well,” she - it - confesses sullenly. “I am a Cousin. What you call a Snuffer. But I haven’t stabbed or flayed anyone. Please,” she begs, “don’t take me to the Ministry. They’ll kill me regardless of my guilt, and I won’t come back from it.”
“Hm,” Lee muses. “I could take you to the Bishop. But he doesn’t pay as well.”
“That’s scarcely better,” the Snuffer replies sullenly.
“Best offer you’ll get from me. And you’d need to make it worth my while.”
“I don’t have much. A handful of jade is all.”
“Mm. Too bad.”
“But I know things! Secrets!”
“Oh yeah? How -” Lee was distracted from the haggling by the sound of angry voices behind her. She listens … ever since she tasted the blood of the Vake, her hearing has seemed sharper. She can hear Butler arguing with two men. They want to cut through the alley that Lee is currently standing in. But keeping the alley clear is Butler’s job. By the way their voices bounce off the wall, Lee can hear that the men are standing on the left side of the alley’s entrance. If they keep talking, she thinks, she might be able to pinpoint exactly where each of them is - even target them by sound alone. An intriguing thought -
Pain explodes in the side of her head. Her revolver goes off. She falls, lashing out with the gun-barrel to keep her attacker from closing, but she can tell by the echo of footsteps that the Snuffer is running away.
Lee is back up in an instant, kneeling, yelling at Butler to hold your position, damn it!, pistol pointed at the middle of the Snuffer’s back. If some clairvoyant entity could have read her mind at that moment, it would have seemed almost completely blank. The barrel of the pistol, and the target, and nothing more.
Before Lee can squeeze the trigger, the target goes down, suddenly, in a snarling, growling, thrashing heap. By the time Lee arrives, the Snuffer has been subdued, lying prone on its back, with the jaws of a great grey wolfhound at its throat. Half of its stolen face has been blown off by Lee’s revolver, but the face beneath is uninjured. It glowers at her in insectile resentment.
“So,” remarks Lee dryly, “Department of Menace Eradication it is, then.”
“No,” the Snuffer replies sullenly. “I have secrets. I will tell you.”
The vergers at St. Fiacre’s cathedral can’t shut the doors on Lee fast enough. She jingles a small purse ruefully.
“How much did you get, Mum?” Butler asks.
“Half what the Department would have given me,” she grumbles, “and vague promises of future assistance from the Church.”
“That could be very useful, if you want that Editor’s position,” Butler ventures.
Lee takes a battered cigar from her pocket and sticks it between her teeth. “There’s no street credibility in editing the Bible.”
Butler lights it for her. “There are other kinds of credibility which would be useful, Mum.” He allows the mildest note of reproach into his voice.
Lee merely grunts in reply.
“It was most ingenious, how you lured the creature out of hiding, using yourself as bait. Quite a daring plan, but it paid off.”
Lee laughs sharply. “That wasn’t the plan, Butler. It’s just what happened.” In reply to his questioning look, she adds, “remember what Daddy used to say?" She pitches her voice low, and her accent becomes crisply and unmistakably upper-class. "‘I have found that in war, plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.’”
Butler smiles. “Ah, yes. Of course.”
Lee’s cool grey eyes soften. “You’re all I have left of him, you know.”
“Yes, Miss,” he replies. “And, if you’ll permit me the liberty?” She nods. “The same is true for me.”
They stand in silence for a moment, looking out at the city together. Lee’s reverie is broken by a cold wet nose poking into her hand. “Ah! And my other henchman demands recognition!” she exclaims. “Good boy, Fido!” She rubs the wolfhound’s head roughly and feeds it a rat.
“Well. Come on, you two,” she says. “The night is still young. If we had nights down here. Maybe the third time will be the charm, eh?”
“Ah, I meant to tell you, Mum. There was a young lady looking for you. A matter of business, she said.”
“Oh, yeah? Was she pretty?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“Meaning yes.” Butler’s words hadn’t given anything away, but his tone had.
“I took the liberty of arranging a meeting, Mum. You shall be able to see for yourself.”
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
1/4/2018
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‘Lady Black.’ My. What a sight. Well madam, Cosmo thought playfully, if you intend to shock me, I’m not quite a crusty old Tory; if you intend to beguile me, my head is not that easily turned, old widower that I am. Not that they were one to complain. No, not at all.
Cosmo removed their faded trench coat, revealing a battered old morning suit. No bat-like gowns this evening; this was practical, anonymous. They noted the butler as they handed him their coat. A credit to his profession, they were sure. Had he been present at the one Summerset dinner they had attended? Possibly. Yet, they saw no reason why Jen thought it necessary to hire one for the night. There was something else to this fellow.
There were few people they knew truly, but some faces they recognised as flashes of teeth and subtle glances from faint memories. Those eyes, green and penetrating...Veilgarden, honey, cheap Greyfields, a level look as Cosmo had discoursed on poetry...were once again fixed on them, appraising, perhaps even inquisitive. The woman to whom those eyes belonged was captivating and composed, barely giving anything away until a tall zailor-type greeted her. This one was confident, clearly, and gentlemanly in nature if the greeting was anything to go by. As their gaze rested on Cosmo, they noticed that she gave them a similar look to Caroline’s. Appraising. Perhaps even inquisitive.
Then there was the girl...what London does to those so young. She was not carefree, nor, had Cosmo been at that age, in beautiful Wiltshire. What was she, 17? 18 perhaps? She was wearing armour, but of glass and gold. Nevertheless, she was ready.
Two came through the window. Dear God, that poor butler. One grinned. Cosmo could not help but snort; her effervescence winningly juxtaposed the fragile tension in the room. A relief, anyway, at least one person wasn’t so damn melancholy about the whole business. The other appeared to have a strange... wriggling quality about him. Had there been… an attachment? That was surprising, not that Cosmo had any problem with it, of course, but… ah no, a flash of white fur, a weasel. Never mind. Unlike his predecessor, he’s strained, glancing around the room even as his companion chatters amicably to him.
The atmosphere fizzed as he turned his head and found the detective. Ah… that could cause problems, whatever that’s about. Clearly they knew each other, and not for the better. The detective’s face could, like the zailor’s companion, be found somewhere in a memory, but certainly not a name. He struck Cosmo as a likely type for this sort of thing, naturally and enviably adroit.
Finally, a dark leather coat, long brown wavy hair. This one they recognised. Tanner Price. Ah… there was little chance he’d forgotten their last meeting. Perhaps he wouldn’t resent the fact that Cosmo had thrown...well, not quite, but might as well have...an atlas at him. Still Cosmo’s opinion of him was positive; he was certainly reliable and… perseverant, yes that was the word. Even if they hadn’t got off on the right foot, Cosmo would be content to entrust him with their safety-a true asset in a man. They determined that this was an opportunity make amends.
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Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/6/2018
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Lee listens, coolly interested, as Jen makes her pitch. It all sounds good to her. Her eyes begin to gleam, and her mouth curls in a wicked half-smile at the idea of playing Mr. Sacks to some of the most loathsome abusers in the Neath. She nods along to the idea of preserving the innocent, until …
Wait, the guards? Guards count as innocents?
Lee glances around the room. Doesn’t anyone else have a problem with this? What about the sniper?
Michael is holding his hand to his mouth. He feels her gaze and looks up. His sea-green eyes meet her steel-grey. His gaze is hot and challenging. She shakes her head in resignation. It looks like it’s up to her to speak. She turns back to Jen Black.
“I like this idea,” she begins. “It’s daring, it’s profitable, and it gives me the chance to spit in the eye of the right kind of person. And I wouldn’t want to hurt a maid, or one of the Duchess’s cats.
“But. The guards, Black? Sure, they’re just doing their job. But their job is to kill us.” Without taking her eyes off Jen, she points at Michael. The echoes tell her where he is. “You brought on a sniper. His entire job is to kill people before they know he’s there. Asking him to do anything else is asking for trouble.”
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
1/8/2018
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Michael's eyes can't bring themselves to look at Caroline's face, even as his mind tries to put such a ghoulish murder and her presence in the same scenario. There is something missing – a motive, an opportunity, the right circumstances, but he can only shake his head. He'll take Jen's word for it.
Lee, however, is a different matter. "Aye, she ain't verra peaceful. But I reckon someone--” His hands motion vaguely towards Anactoria.“--Will keep 'er reigned in. She has...uh, tha' effect on people, ye ken?” There is a small hint of embarrassment in his voice, deftly hid with a short cough.
As if summoned by it, the judgmental weasel peers once again from his pocket, sniffing the air around it before fixing its beady eyes on Jen. It slithers away with almost cat-like grace, briefly disappearing inside a sleeve, only to peek outside from the other—coincidentally finding itself closer to the woman. Chuckling, he brings his hand up towards her, turning his head to look into her eyes. His silence lasts a heartbeat too long. “Ye got a stange gift alright, Nicdubh. Death's not the best one – jus' the most visible one. The -real- gift is makin' sure we survive 'til mornin'.” And he adds, with a short sigh. “ Even if down here, mornin' never comes. ”
The weasel chirps, but perhaps not in agreement. Its nose twitches, whiskers shaking lightly in Jen's direction. “I won't say ye can trust me, min. I'll prove it to ye.”
Cosmo's words overlap with his own, bringing a toothy smile to his previously neutral expression before he can finish speaking. He glances at them with an acknowledging nod, an unspoken promise to continue talking after the plan's been set in stone. Those worries he can understand, and he's more than glad to explain. After all, his weapon had a few tricks or two – all he needed was a willing...or, perhaps, not so willing target.
The butler's reveal about the antidote, and more importantly, the poison, makes the mask of joy fall from his face like a cliff collapsing into the sea. He grips the vial tightly, pulling his other hand away from the woman's side and ushering the weasel away with a short grunt. "So much fer trust." He takes a short sip, enough to rid himself of the wine's taste, before tossing the vial aside. Should death take him that night, he would know better the following one. "But I meant what I said. Ye can trust me." He pushes himself away from the wall, making a point of stepping over the discarded vial as he does. He can feel the sound of shattering glass rattle between his grinding teeth. "Shame I canna say the same about ye now."
edited by Slyblue on 1/8/2018
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/16/2018
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[Co-written with Slyblue]
Monday, 23 December, 1895
9:30 A.M.
Two days after that disastrous night, a letter arrives for Michael. Written in a bold dark hand, deep green ink on fine paper: "Mr Barrows, my sincere apologies for what transpired at our last meeting. If you would permit me, I would like us to meet so that I can make amends. As proof of my sincerity, feel free to name the time and place, that you have nothing to fear from a trap. Your obedient servant, Lady Jen Black."
Monday, 23 December, 1895
3:45 P.M.
The road to the rooftop shack is simple enough. Not as simple as the crude instructions Jen received after she sent her letter --a rather messy sketch of a church, with an arrow pointing above, and the word "ELDERWICK" written in big, clumsy handwriting -- but simple enough. As the number of houses begins to thin, so do the number of people, until the sound of the bustling roads is lost to the wind and the occasional sound of children giggling. She knows she’s being watched, but then, everyone on their way to the Flit is.
The building itself is not high enough to be placed in the Flit, but elevates itself from the ground on wooden, trembling foundations - it's a wonder a strong breeze has yet to bring the entire construction to the ground. The light inside the tent glints off glossy black eyes. Five, no, ten, twenty, even more weasels gaze in stoic silence. An unnerving number of them seemed to be looking directly at Jen, staring at her cold green eyes.
Before she can decide what to do about them, a stray breeze carries a familiar humming from somewhere inside the shack.
And the timbers groaned
But the North wind, it knows
That one day the blood it is owed
Will run 'neath their soles
Whoever is inside -- if they are truly there -- hasn't noticed her arrival.
She knocks once, tentatively, trying not to disturb the weasels. Some gut instinct makes her look upwards, suspecting that Mike might be there.
The humming stops at the same time a weasel bolts for the roof, alarming some of its companions but causing no further unrest. It takes a few moments to confirm that her gut was right - The young man himself peers from the rooftop's edge, though his glance seems to land somewhere behind her. With a sigh, he heaves himself from his resting spot and climbs down, keeping a hand close to his chest. It's only when he stands before Jen, raking his fingers through his hair, that she notices he's holding a cup filled with...Coffee? Well. What passes for a cup, and what passes for coffee.
"Yer a long way from home." He says, simply.
Jen takes the cup and sips. It's not the best, but it is palatable enough, and she's trained herself not to make faces. Especially since it would offend Mike further. "You asked me to come," she responds. After a pause, she adds, "Michael? Are you still angry? Tell me what I can do to make amends. We need to trust each other if the heist is to go well. And right now, that's not the case." Her tone is honest, sincere, but without pleading.
His eyes widen slightly, lips twitching into something akin to a smile. “...Aye, well, if tha' dinna give ye the boak an' a reason to leave, nothin' will.” He reaches out for the cup, plucking it from her grip with enough familiarity that, for a moment, it seems he's all but forgotten the reason she's apologizing in the first place.
The way he slams the door open tells a different story.
There is not much in the way of a house inside the shack. A wooden table, surrounded by four chairs (Three and a half, upon closer inspection), a brazier burning merrily in the northernmost corner, where an albino rat is watching over a pitch-black pot. There's spices in there, herbs, gentian, saffron and wormwood, hopelessly entangled to make an elusive perfume.
It takes some rummaging and a few minutes of silence before he can find a decent looking mug and pour the freshly brewed beverage in it. With some hesitation, he places it on the table before taking a seat on the opposite side, motioning towards the steaming brew.
“G'on. It'll be better than tha' chamberpot waste ye jus' tasted.”
With a sigh, he closes his eyes. “Look, I dinna care fer apologies. I dinnae even care if I kicked th' bucket that night – Death's jus' that. Short visit to an awfy cauld place.” Something in the wind seems to embolden his body language. Makes his word score the air like daggers, rather than usher them into the previous night's murmur. And when he opens his eyes, they stare straight into hers without the slighest hint of doubt. “But yer words mean nothin' to me now. Nay, less than nothin'.” He exhales slowly, glancing away for a moment. “...Still, ye got my word tha' yer back will be safe, so long as I'm 'round. What else d'ye want from me?”
"What do I want?" Jen says, bleakly, a bitter laugh escaping her throat. "I want to never have drugged the damn wine. I want to have never listened to Hubris. I want to turn back the clock!" Her tone is almost on the verge of tears. "I want you to trust and respect me again. I want us to be okay before we start the heist. I want things to go back to normal. Tell me what to do to earn your trust. Give me a chance."She stares into her coffee, trying to compose herself.
“...Fer fussake, at least look at me when yer lyin'!” His hand shoots forward with snake-like precision, fingers clamping around Jen's collar in a white-knuckled grip before pulling back, closing the distance between them. His chest heaves as he draws a breath through clenched teeth, biting back venomous words and Storm knows what else, but his grip remains firm. “...Yer a cruel one, I'll give ye that,” He starts, pressing his lips into a thin line. “But if I'm going ta play the fool, convince meself that yer worth the trouble – And mind ye, the irony of doin' it twice makes it bloody 'ard to do –, I willna do it out o' kindness of me heart.”
“The moment ye step out tha' door, ye'll owe me the same damned thing I asked of yer pet. A favour, t' be 'redeemed' sooner or later, and one ye won't be able t' deny. If yer worried I might ask somethin' that goes against yer 'codes',” His lips twist into a sardonic grin, as if the last word had tasted sour on his tongue, “Well. Ye'll jus' have t' take me word for it.”
Jen reacts on instinct. Flick wrist. The blade strapped to her forearm triggers, shooting out. Groin attack. Her knee goes up in a quick movement. Bring him down. She swings her legs around his throat, forcing him to hit the floor or risk breaking his neck. Aim for the throat. Her blade comes up.
Then some little voice within her makes her retract her blade before it hits him, standing up and dusting herself off. Her voice is like ice. “Fine. To prove my good will, I accept. But Barrows, if you think for a second that makes me weak, think of what just happened. If you try anything funny, I won't pull back my blade the next time.”
"G'on then." It takes him a few tries, and a few more coughs, to get the words out. But when he does, he spreads his arms slowly, as if mockingly preparing himself for a hug. "Do tha' thing with yer hand an' stab me. Right 'ere," His hand motions vaguely to his exposed chest, and falls limply to the floor. "Tell me how much ye regret it. Tell me--" Another cough brings his knees up to try, and fail, to lessen the pain below his belt. "--That yer a strong lass, and will bring us treasure an'...an' glory. Give me the whole bonnie speech about trust an' respect, again." His laugh comes out in short, hollow breaths, yet rumbles somewhere in his throat. More akin to a growl than true laughter. "It'll give the Boatsman somethin' to laugh about, aye?"
Jen stands there horrified, processing what just happened. The part of her that's been trained to kill slowly recedes, and her sanity comes back to her. Did she just -- attack Mike? Threaten him? Almost kill him? Just because he grabbed her by the collar and her subconscious sensed a threat? What the hell did she just do?
His mocking, bitter words bring her crashing into reality, hard. It's too late. She came here to reconcile, but because of those damned killer's instincts, she's failed utterly.
"I won't apologise," she says crisply. "You grew up on the streets, didn't you?" And she explains in that same crisp, detached tone, arms folded, trying to shake off the memories. That coffee-scented breath, that tight grip, that sardonic grin had brought her back to a time when she wasn't Jen Black, she was weak little Iris Potter, and she was about to find out what life was like on London’s streets.
Mike listens quietly, shifting around so he can stare at Jen's face, rather than the underside of her breast, and doesn't comment on it, just glances away and sighs. Somewhere in the window, there's a juvenile weasel squeaking in panic and glancing back and forth between them, so he makes a vague "Shut up" gesture to it, murmuring something about training the younger ones later.
She turns her back on him, giving him a clear shot at her. If he wants to attack her, she'll try to let him. She deserves it. Granted, she deserved it last round too, and that went badly for him. But he doesn’t do anything.
With trembling fingers, she pulls a heavy bag of rostygold, moonpearls and glim from her coat, dropping it on the floor. "In the past, they had weregild. Compensation for injury. Take it. Leave if you want. Pretend you never heard of me and my plans. Why subject yourself to putting up with a woman who tried to kill you?" She'd rather forget about him altogether than keep those hate-filled eyes in her life. And it's safer for him too. To be away from a murderer like her.
Mike chuckles. “Tha’s how they paid the older lasses too, ye ken? Throwin’ it at them like it made up fer everythin’. But I can refuse, unlike ‘em. Keep yer money.” Perhaps it’s the stricken look on Jen’s face when he shuts her down, but he softens a little. “If ye could leave the door open on yer way out, let tha’ wind come in, that’d be good. I canna feel it when I’m lyin’ down.”
She regards him soberly. “You’re a good man, Michael Barrows. Better than I gave you credit for.” A tiny, genuine smile curves her lips for a brief moment. Then she leaves, and doesn’t close the door behind her.
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/17/2018
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[Co-written with Anactoria St. James]
WARNING: Extreme Adorableness
Monday, 23 December, 1895
8:00 A.M.
At the end of the first meeting, before the conspirators break up, Telemachia Lee approaches Anactoria St. James. Lee stands perhaps just a little too close. With her height and her erect posture, she towers, a little. She smells of leather and hot iron, wormwood and lavender. She speaks close, and quietly, her contralto voice warmer than in the meeting, and her Docker accent less pronounced.
“Saint-James,” she says. It seems to be her habit to address people by their last names - with the notable exception of Lady Karnstein. Her usual self-assurance is still present, but muted a bit, as though she were afraid of frightening the younger woman off. “I’m really not a bloodthirsty monster, you know.” She hesitates. “Ah, not that there’s anything … I mean, some of my best friends …” She rubs the back of her head, where her hair is so short that it’s almost shaved.
“Well.” Lee regains her composure. “I’d like to talk to you. About this business, or. You know. Just talk.” And immediately begins losing it again. “Most evenings I’m at the Rusty Tramp, but I don’t know whether you would … well.” She takes a deep breath. “I have some rooms off Ladybones road. Above a bookstore. Not that I would want most of my, ah, associates to know that I read. But there’s a café on the corner. Quiet, clean. It’s nice. I do appreciate nice sometimes, you know. We could meet. To talk. If you’d like.”
Anactoria has the bizarre feeling that she and Ms Lee have been swapped for each other: Ms Lee fumbles and rambles while she, Anactoria, stands her ground with firm confidence, unperturbed by the closeness and height of her interlocutor. Still, she cannot keep an expression of puzzlement off her face: Why does she care if I think her a monster or not? Why this stumbling to just talk about business, and why talk to me in particular?
A few tumblers fall into place. Oh! Surely not! But … Her heart pounds with nervous-happy excitement that she hasn’t felt in so very long. “Um.”
Saysomethingsaysomethingsaysometing. Words spill out, almost falling over each other. “I’d like that, to talk at that café, it sounds nice.” And then that’s it … other than awkward silence. Anactoria clears her throat. “Yeah.”
*********************************************************
The café is not much to look at - the ground floor of a decrepit building - but the paint is fresh on that floor, and the interior is indeed clean and quiet. The place is filled with the aromas of coffee and pastry. There are few customers, and Telemachia Lee is easily picked out. She has commandeered the largest table and covered it with papers: architectural drawings; a newspaper; a personal journal in which she makes the occasional note; a pile of books. One of the book is open - a slender volume, elderly and battered. Lee wears a man’s workshirt, sleeves rolled up, but it’s tailored to her body and no one who was looking would take her for a man. She’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses, which make her face look different. She leans forward intently over her work - not quite hunched, because she always holds her spine too stiff for that. Her restless gaze skips across all the papers on her improvised desk. She gives a small satisfied smile and makes a note in her journal.
Lee is not alone. A broad-shouldered man in a tailcoat sits next to her. When Anactoria enters the café, he clears his throat. Lee springs to attention - literally; she is suddenly on her feet, standing with a military rigidity. Only then does she see her guest. She smiles warmly, looking her in the eye. “Anaktoria,” she says, her tongue caressing the name with a decidedly non-English accent.
Anactoria appears no different than when she was at Lady Black’s; same clothes, same cane. Or perhaps not quite the same; she is more confident, her hair is more prettily arranged.
Telemachia’s pronunciation of her given name brings out a smile. “Ms Lee,” the smile continues.
Lee blinks and drops her gaze. “Miss Saint-James,” she corrects herself. “I’m very happy to see you.” She motions to the man, who briskly clears space on the table. Lee moves to pull out a chair for Anactoria. She kisses the back of Anactoria’s hand - a courtly gesture, a bit old-fashioned, but she makes it look natural. When she returns to her own seat, Lee nudges the slender volume under the folded newspaper, and then lays her glasses across the top.
The kiss on her hand sends delicious waves through Anactoira, her heart beats faster; This is not forbidden here!, and then, Ms Lee is very dangerous. Combined, the thoughts set off an excited thrumming in her chest. But then, Octavia …, followed by sadness.
When they are seated, Lee’s servant brings a tray with coffee, tea, and a brave attempt at scones. He also provides a centerpiece of genuine Surface flowers. Violets. Their scent is potent, yet elusive. “Thank you, Butler,” Lee says with an approving nod.
For a few minutes it’s easy enough to busy oneself with the little details of arranging one’s breakfast. Lee’s table manners are good - and when she gets distracted from her food, they improve notably.
With a look of mild reproach, Butler picks up a rumpled black robe from the floor and hangs it from a hook. Lee makes eye contact with Anactoria, then rolls her eyes humorously. “I have to go by the University later,” she explains. “Which means I have to wear that d——d robe. I hate the thing - it makes me feel like I’m wearing a dress.” Then, remembering that she’s seen Anactoria in a dress, she drops her eyes back to her plate, remembering to cut her scone less elegantly. “Ah, not that there’s anything … I mean, you look good …”
Being seated, beginning breakfast, remarking on how beautiful the violets are; these mundaneries settle sew-sawing emotions. Anactoria laughs gently at Telemachia’s observation. “Thank you,” her own eyes lower at the compliment. “It would be frightfully dull if everyone dressed the same, wouldn’t it?” she asks with a smile, glancing back up. “Your … you’ve got your own, um, style. I think it’s just right for you. Are you a student there?” she adds, before her last statement can sit too long. “At the university?” Ms Lee doesn't seem the type, but one never knows.
“A student?” Lee straightens, cocks her jaw, her chest swells, looking for all the world like a barnyard rooster. After a long second she exhales and visibly relaxes. She waves a hand, dismissing some thought or emotion. “No.” Lee grins. “I make myself useful. I have skills that most professors don’t. Some of them can read fourteen languages, but they can’t read a face to save their lives. Sometimes some unruly Stoats need their heads knocked together. Sometimes the Dean of Infernal Rarefactions can’t get something to explode properly, and I’m good at that,” with a cocky grin and a nostalgic glint for explosions past. “Also,” that dismissive wave again, “I roughnecked on a few archaeological expeditions, picked up Fourth City languages and a few Correspondence symbols, sometimes they need me for that.
“I’m glad that you like my style, Miss Saint-James. Very glad. It has stuck to me stubbornly despite - well, it’s a long story. As it happens, I like yours too. Caroline,” Lee pronounces the personal name with some emotional weight, “has advised me a bit about how to, ah, well…
“Some of her advice, I don’t know about,” she eyes the violets dubiously. “But she also advised me to - ah. Not just to blindly approach every pretty woman I see, but to think seriously about … what I really want.” She looks up, swiftly, to Anactoria’s face.
Anactoria blushes and looks away. She had been watching Telemachia closely. The room seems much warmer now. “And,” she frames the words very carefully to keep any tremble out of her voice, “what do you want?” From her close study of Lee’s hands, her eyes flick up.
Lee’s hands have their own story to tell. The fingers are long and powerful. They could be a musician’s hands, if the calluses were in different places. But these calluses belong to a Zailor or a Docker. These scars belong to a pit-fighter. These short, carefully trimmed nails belong to a nobleman. This dark stain hints at a scholar; that yellow one at a habitual smoker. The wrists are broad for a woman’s. The Zee-monster tattoo on Lee’s right forearm tells the story of a hunter of savage beasts; the Labrys tattoo on her left tells the story of a woman who has been listening to Caroline Karnstein with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. The shirt is in a masculine style, but fitted closely to her body … a modest eye might cease its examinations at this point.
Lee meets the gaze. A tight grin cuts across her face. “There is a simple answer to that, you know. You are a beautiful woman, Anaktoria. And my rooms are a five-minute walk from here.” Her hand slides halfway across the table - and stops. Lee closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“There is - a more complex answer, too,” she admits, hesitant again. “It’s - I want something more. Than that. But I don’t - I haven’t - I mean, I have, you know, but I never had a -” her hand curls into a fist, in frustration with her own timidity. She can’t get the word out. “Someone to spend more time with. Than that.”
Pow!
Anactoria’s heart slams to a stop at ‘My rooms are a five-minute walk from here,’ and the entire world becomes nothing but her and Telemachia and a little bit of table between. The number of thoughts that spark-ripple through her, between one heartbeat and the next, is stunning: This could really happen! Someone who hardly knows me wants me! What would it be like with Telemachia? She’s so different from anyone I’ve imagined in that way. Is it right so soon after Octavia? What other tattoos does she have and where? How many people has she been with? She called me ‘AnaKtoria’ just like the old way! What would it be like to run my fingers through short hair … to feel those muscles under my fingers?
Thud.
Her heart is beating again and her face feels sunburnt. “I … um …” Her plate, it seems, warrants detailed attention. “I think …” A deep breath, “I’m not used to being able to talk about these kinds of things, really. Up there, you know …” A quick glance at Telemachia, then eyes back to the plate. “I mean … Ilikethissortofthingandnottheotherway … with … you know …” Only then does it occur to her that Telemachia is not terribly at ease either. So she very tentatively and lightly lays her hand—not so hardened as Lee’s, but not soft, either; her nails are cared for just as well as Lee’s—atop the offered one. “I’m shy. About this.” Another glance to grey-blue eyes.
Under Anactoria’s hand, Lee’s fist uncurls. Her fingers splay like the legs of a cat stretching. The back of her hand presses against Anactoria’s palm like a cat eager to be petted. Lee smiles, gently, a little ruefully. The conversation has become rather difficult to parse, but she’s very interested in continuing it. “I think…” she says slowly, “I’m shy … the other way?” She gazes fondly at the top of Anactoria’s head. “I - yes, it was different on the Surface. I was afraid to approach girls, and they were afraid too. So I just - approached anyway. But I had to nerve myself, and that made me too hasty. It’s hard to be patient when -” she doesn’t finish the sentence, but her hand slowly turns over, pressing her palm against Anactoria’s, fingers curling around her hand. “But - but I think I’m ready to be. Five minutes from now would be good, very good -” she shifts in her chair, stretches out a leg “-but it can be longer. I mean - you asked what I wanted, I want -” Stymied, she shifts to the familiar ground of military metaphor. “You can build a hasty fortification, with trenches and an abatis, for a battle, and it works well enough for a day or a week, but to establish a permanent presence, you need a solid structure, and that starts with -” she takes a deep breath, pleased with what she considers to be the clarity of her example - “a firm foundation. Don’t you think?”
Telemachia’s hand pressing back up against hers feels so very, very good … and when Tel turns her hand, when she holds Anactoria’s hand, the young woman has to bite her lip to keep tears away. How long has it been since anyone’s held my hand … like this? The answer comes too easily: Ten months.
Lost in the past and in not-so-old hurt, she only picks up on the metaphor midstream and has to think quickly to catch up. “Um … yes … I’ve never heard it … um … put just that way.” Gently, she squeezes her finger around Telemachia’s hand and looks up. “I like a firm foundation, Telemachia.”
Lee feels Anactoria’s hand in hers. Her skin is warm and soft, but not as soft as she had expected. It’s a hand that knows hard work. Anactoria has short blunt nails like her own. It’s practical for a woman who works with her hands, or fights, or both. But Lee has other reasons. She wonders whether they share those reasons as well. The thought makes a part of her mind regret her decision to move slowly. But the emotion is overruled. The rest of her wants something more, even if she doesn’t have a completely clear idea of what that might be.
Lee knows that she’s rambling - this is what she gets for going in without a script. But she’s watching too. She sees a shadow of pain cross Anactoria’s face, and feels a pang of tenderness that pierces her like a sword. She wants to hold the younger woman, comfort her, make it all right for her. I’ve got it bad, she thinks with a sort of amused dismay. This sort of feeling always leads to trouble.
She wants to talk with Anactoria so much, to tell her about her father and life on the Surface, her friends and adventures here, the way that she’s beginning to feel things she’s never felt before - well, maybe she doesn’t want to talk about that, not yet, but - it’s only a very little time, almost no time, it seems, before Butler gently reminds her that she shall be late for her appointment at the University if she doesn’t leave now.
Startled, Anactoria jumps and jerks her hand back. She had forgotten she was in a public room and she hadn’t heard Butler’s approach. She blushes furiously, but reaches out for Lee’s hand again. She misses it already. “I guess I … um … shouldn’t keep you,” she manages. She can't bring herself to look at Butler at all.
“I’d like to do this again,” she adds in a burst of courage. As Anactoria continues faster and faster, words start to jam up against one another, “I know some places, too, not as nice as this but still clean and good or we could meet here again or someplace else you know.” A pause and a breath, “If you want.” Please!
When she suddenly loses Anactoria’s hand, Lee casts a murderous glare at her manservant. He shrugs apologetically, and doesn’t quite smile. Lee shakes her head and rolls her eyes at him in affectionate exasperation. She can’t stay angry at him - not at the man who’s been her bodyguard, advisor, servant and friend for her whole life. It’s a look that she must have been giving him for a long time, and just for a moment it reveals that she’s not much older than Anactoria after all.
Lee senses rather than sees Anactoria’s hand return to her. She plucks it out of the air without looking, without thinking. Her old archery instructor had once told her, “You have to want to hit the target, but not try to hit it.” He had uttered it in a tone more of praise than of advice, as though satisfied with her understanding of some important principle. She never had the heart to tell him that she had no idea what he meant.
Now that she has Anactoria’s hand back, Lee doesn’t want to release it. Perhaps never. But she knows when a moment has passed. She kisses Anactoria’s hand before she gives it back. Not too long or too enthusiastically for propriety, but with evident relish.
“I should like nothing better in the world,” she says. It’s a common politesse, usually an empty phrase. But this time she means it.
Lee’s kiss sends warm happiness radiating up Anactoria’s arm, across her face, and through her chest and stomach … it wonderfully spreads to other places, as well.
“H-here tomorrow?” Words are hard to come by just now. “At the … uh … same time?”
Butler is bringing Lee her things. Including that d----d robe. Lee is already beginning to put her public face back on, hard and cocky and dangerous. But she has a moment left for softness, for sincerity, for Anactoria. “Here tomorrow,” she repeats. “At the same time.” Together. “I shall look forward to it.”
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/19/2018
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/19/2018
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[[OOC: Posting this here as well, in case some of our readers don't check the OOC thread. Who else is reading? It'd be fun to hear that we have an audience. And do tell us what you think! Are you itching for us to get to the heist proper? Is the chronology of the story clear despite the posts being out of order? These things, we can't determine ourselves -- so you readers have to let us know! Comment in the OOC thread!]]
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/21/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Morning of the Heist
Hubris Glamore's preparations do not require much. He is already dressed in a perfectly serviceable suit. As a rule he spares little expense on getting his suits tailored just so. Neatly fitted, but just loose enough to allow full freedom of movement, just in case.
Still, a few little alterations will be needed for this endeavour. Removing the jacket and rolling up his sleeves, he opens his bag, removing from it a small handful of items.
A pair of discreet but sturdy armguards. Thin steel lined with leather, serving the dual purpose of adding an extra layer of protection to the forearm and adding an extra bit of weight to any strike necessary. Forearms armored thusly, the sleeves are rolled back down. The jacket goes back on and should conceal any excess sleeve bulk from more discerning eyes. Lockpicks already secured in the lining of the necktie. A Swiss army knife in his pocket. Simple tools, but reliable.
A pair of heavier black gloves. A contrast to the pristine, snugly fitting white ones worn around the house. A pause before putting them on. He does not take the white gloves off. He does, however, take a moment to trace a shape across the back of his right hand. It's almost round. But not quite.
The moment passes. Sentiment will wait. The job is now. The black gloves go on. The jacket is buttoned. The ink monocle, no doubt provided by a certain Longshanks during the night, is wiped off. The butler leaves his quarters for the entrance hall to await further orders.
*************************************************
Nikki’s up and about early. She has to be, to make sure she has her pranks in place before most of the others awake. She’s particularly pleased with the idea of making coffee to lure people across various strategically strung tripwires -- but that is just the tiniest appetizer to today’s impending mayhem. She’s dressed in her usual attire: shoes with rough soles suitable for climbing and jumping, a dark blouse with enough room for hiding any number of toys, one sturdy knife under her waistband and a slimmer one in a wrist sheath, hair pinned out of her face and swept up in a loose knot, her best lockpicks and her third best set too -- just in case of mishaps, fingerless gloves with ridged grips on the palms, and to round it out she’s opted for loose-cut slacks, the sort of pants an equestrian might find appealing. Her coat, scarf, and outdoor gloves are in a neat pile, ready to be donned at a moment’s notice.
She’s secreted all sorts of toys and tricks about her person: various explosives, wire-reinforced rope, even a springloaded ratwork grappling hook. All that remains is to wait for Jen to say they’re off.
*************************************************
Telemachia Lee stands naked, regarding herself in a full-length mirror. Her body is hard, strong, decorated with tattoos and battle-scars, but very much a woman’s body. Her glacier eyes give no hint as to what she thinks about what she sees. After a long moment, she reaches for the side-table.
Hair pomaded, black like she likes it, out of the way. Eyebrows darkened to match. Just a deniable little hint of liner to bring out her eyes. Her own fragrance, lavender and oakmoss and half a dozen other ingredients, applied with a light touch. Lee hates smelling too much like bl---y flowers, but it’s going to be a long day, and she doesn’t want to be unpleasant to be around. Well, actually, being unpleasant is her job, but selectively so.
She takes a medal – Victoria’s Cross – and hangs it from a ribbon around her neck. It slides into place, resting just over a tattoo of itself in the center of her chest. She raises the cross to her lips, then drops it again. Next she reaches for a long roll of bandages. She tapes herself up, getting her body ready for action. The bandages cover the medal.
Anarchist’s Sable. A rough matte black. Close-fitting but not tight. A gift from Revolutionary friends. It slides up her arms, up her legs, wrapping her in darkness. The boots are rugged leather, stiff but oiled for flexibility, with steel in the toes and heels. The gloves are thin black leather, combining flexibility and protection. Her brass knuckles are strapped to her forearms, easy to reach in a pinch. A leather harness holds tools, ammunition, a heavy-bladed knife, her Colt Navy revolver – she checks the weapon a final time before she holsters it. Her final weapon is her favorite, in part because it’s so suited to her name. An eight-foot length of anchor-chain, weighted at both ends, oiled to prevent clanking, friction, and corrosion. She winds it around her waist once, twice, two and a half times as it rests on her hips. It looks like it might be her ironical idea of a fashion statement. It is that too, of course.
Navy bridge coat over it all. Conceals all kinds of things. And it’s warm. She likes the cut of it, too. Lots of pockets. Her brass knuckles go in the two outer pockets, within easy reach. A long inner pocket has been tailored to exactly the right size for a bottle of Black Wings Absinthe. A smaller inner pocket holds a flask of the good stuff, cold against her chest even through its insulated sheath.
Is she ready? The cocky grin she sees in the mirror answers the question. Of course she’s ready.
*************************************************
Cosmo wakes up shaking and breathing heavily. It took them a while to adjust to their surroundings...waking up, not in their rooms, but where?...what had happened last?... ah, no, it’s fine. The heist.
Images of their nightmares still play themselves out in their mind. They try to shrug them off as they prepare their usual ‘breakfast’. They have a flask of tea in their bag, they remove it and pour a small vial of laudanum into it. They knock it back and wait for their hands to still themselves.
They aren’t fussy with equipment, but they’ve taken the liberty of packing a small bag of medical implements, including scalpels, bandages, salts, and ointments. They reckon that a heist of this scale, with this many participants, is bound to produce some casualties (whose idea was the tigers, for goodness sake?). They hum as they button up their shirt-their nonchalance surprises themselves.
They strap a small leather pack to their waist, containing the medical kit along with a set of kifers of their own devising. They throw a jacket onto their back and slip a small, light knife into it, well concealed among the fabric, but easily accessible.
Nothing special, they think, as they slip on a pair of gloves, but it certainly serves its purpose. Nothing has gone wrong before, and they will be damned if this will be the first time.
*************************************************
Anactoria dresses in her riding habit—I wear it so often, I should call it my riding habitual—although today she dons trousers under her skirts in case unfettered but socially acceptable movement of legs becomes necessary. Methodically she collects her equipment, already laid out on her bed: two knuckledusters (one for each hand, but kept in pockets), a dagger, a penknife, two Very Wicked hairpins to keep her hair up, pencils, a small notebook, matches, a handful of assorted currencies, a coil of rope (wound around her waist, under her jacket), a half bottle of F. F. Gebrandt’s Tincture of Vigour, and a remarkable array of animal treats.
Mina alights on her shoulder; Anactoria collects her walking stick, checks to make sure the blade inside is easily pulled, touches her lips to her hand just where Lee kisses it, and steps out into the hall. She’s entirely serious and business now … which accents her cuteness adorably.
*************************************************
Michael takes a last look at his reflection before he leaves his room. He finds it hard to recognize himself in the ginger-haired fellow's clean-shaven face, in the gloved hands and firmly laced boots.
Underneath the battered, grey overcoat, white linen clings to his torso, dashed by a leather harness that contained everything that cannot wait inside his pockets. Ammunition, branded with a letter of Hell's alphabet for easier recognition – The bespectacled devil said that one could divine the nature of creation from these symbols. But then, devils say many things – vials of moonish water, lockpicks. A bag full of fungal treats that are most definitely not for himself. Not unless he needs a quick exit out of a small, dark place.
Both the derringer and the Scrimshander carving knife rest snugly in their midnight-black holster, blending almost completely against the leg of his likewise colored trousers. And while the overcoat is long enough to cover them, he can't help but imagine a gaggle of flat-faced cats, all done up in petticoats and crinolines, sitting around a stuffy parlor and talking about him. No Ratcatcher would be caught dead wearing those clothes.
But a Ratcatcher he will pretend to be, if that's what it takes to carry his rifle strapped securely to his back. Its weight is warm and familiar, and the glinting brass keeps people from asking too many questions about it.
With a short nod, as if to seal an unspoken deal with his reflection, Michael turns on his heel, leaving his reflection behind. Three short, dark silhouettes follow him outside the room, nipping at his heels and clinging to his legs like dust. At least a dozen more scurry around the now closed room, pouring from the window, clawing their way up the roof's lattice, disappearing into London's darkest corners.
*************************************************
“Petinpetdeset, šestinpetdeset, sedeminpetdeset, oseminpetdeset…” Caroline sits and brushes her thick, unruly mane of hair as she usually does in the afternoon. This time it is morning. Counting each brush in a whisper, she looks at herself in the mirror, considering just what she is getting into. It is too late to turn back; Lee is counting on her. She does not abandon her friends.
“Dveinsedemdeset, triinsedemdeset…” She is not wearing one of her lovely black and purple dresses she usually wears, but a black suit that is just shy of form fitting, made with leather, some steel straps, and some black cloth. Most of it is a single piece, carefully designed by a master thief to not get in the way. They recommended a binder with it, but Caroline is far too vain for that.
“Sto ena, sto dve, sto tri...” Her black gloves sit waiting for her on the desk. They too are custom made, and a pair of heavy leather steel toed and heeled boots are snug on her feet. A lot has happened, new friends, new lovers, maybe she is just doing this to clear her head. Her social schedule has gotten busy recently.
“Sto dvaindvajset, sto triindvajset, sto štiriindvajset…” Her belt is not so equipped as other thieves’. Some lockpicks, and a prybar, a blade for cutting glass, anything else someone else in the group will have. She knows her usual plan but has never done something this ambitious.
“Sto devetindevetdeset, dvesto!” Finally done, she rises from her mirror, puts on her long, thick black trench coat then her gloves. As she steps from the light at the mirror, the shadows are drawn to her, blurring her figure. Without a sound, she joins the others for breakfast.
*************************************************
Over the course of the night, Tanner has brought every tool, trick, and paraphernalia he needed for the heist up to the bedroom of his hostess. They’ve somehow managed to get enough sleep, but the sight of their collective bedhead is truly something to behold. Dressed in a tight-fitting jet black muscle shirt tucked into the waistband of identically colored compression pants accentuating every hard and natural curve of his body, the young pirate couldn’t deny his enjoyment at the sight of the respectable Lady Black stealing glances at him. His dark leather overcoat — the one that twinkles like wind chimes when not taking form around his size — drapes limply over the back of a chair. Excess knives, smoke bombs, stun grenades, lengths of varying blends of rope, thieves tools, gloves, small bottles of restoratives, and a frugal pouch of sleeping powder each find their places in the jacket’s many hand-sewn pockets. But as Tanner slides thicker deep-pocketed black trousers up his legs and a warm, modestly seasonal maroon and white sweater over his second skin, a pepperbox pistol and stalwart black steel cutlass maintain their importance taking first position at his hips before he slips on his coat.
Jen gets dressed at her own pace, keenly aware that these are her last quiet moments before the long day ahead. She lazily runs her eyes along Tanner's half-dressed body as she buttons up her fitted white shirt, tailored to fit her slender body. Their revels had made the winter night surprisingly hot, and his skill with the quill was certainly undeniable. Ducking her head to hide her smile, she concentrates on tucking her shirt evenly into tight dark trousers. Her deft fingers tie the emerald cravat at her throat -- specially dyed to match her eyes exactly -- with a special knot so it'll come undone if anyone tries to choke her.
She runs through a mental list of equipment. Wraith. The bracer, with its concealed length of steel, grappling hook and dart launcher, clasps around her left arm. Knives. Clove, a wavy throwing knife, in one boot, and Champion, a dark stiletto, in the other. Cinder, an elegant dagger sheathed at her right thigh, completes the set. Cane sword. She looks Shrike over, the bejeweled handle and dark wood at odds with the long blade, and puts it back down for now. Lockpicks. They go up her right sleeve, in a special holder. Garottes that double as tripwires, bombs of the flash and hallucinogenic variety, mirrors, and brass knuckles at her belt. She slips various other oddities, such as currency, candles, and honey into the pockets of her black leather longcoat, but doesn't don it yet.
The two thieves suitably dressed, arsenals primed and ready for any and all eventualities — one would hope — Tanner takes Jen’s hand and guides her to sit before her vanity. Having long and wavy hair himself, the pirate is adept at styling, brushing, braiding, and anything that would make him very popular among women. He weaves Jen’s hair into a braid curved diagonally from above one ear to below the other. The kind that looks vaguely reminiscent of what one would expect an archer to wear if she were fighting for her life alone in the woods.
Jen admires herself in the mirror, appreciating the work of his deft fingers. Then they swap places, and she pulls his thick brown locks back. She's not used to handling curls like Tanner's, but eventually succeeds in bundling them into a small bun at the back of his head, secured with a black ribbon.
Then she pulls out her vanity chest and looks at him questioningly.
After seeing the vast stores of cosmetics filling the void in her vanity, Tanner nods at Jen approvingly before selecting a few. She had known Tanner to occasionally dress his eyes with black liner and use contouring to accentuate the angles of his face. For someone so otherwise bold and flamboyant, his own style of makeup is surprisingly subtle.
When he's done, before she wears hers, she presses her lips to him briefly. Not so long to invite distractions, but fondly nonetheless. Then she gets to work. Hers is far more bold than Tanner’s. Contour to bring out her fine bone structure, a neutral eye and careful mascara application to draw attention to her large green eyes, and burgundy lips.
With that done, she picks up her coat and holds the door open for the two of them to head to breakfast.
*************************************************
But one seat at the breakfast table remains empty. A clearly distressed servant leaves Canvas’s bedroom, his face dreadfully pale. “Mr. Canvas is … Please, just. Do not enter his room, not until we, ahem, clean things out. That is to say, he won’t be joining you.”
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/25/2018
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/26/2018
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[Co-written with Anactoria St. James]
Tuesday, 24 December, 1895
7:55 A.M
The next morning, Anactoria arrives early to the coffeeshop. She is dressed very much as before, although her riding skirt and jacket are slightly different than the previous ones. She has, however, added a pretty violet-coloured cravat to her ensemble; it looks brand new.
Lee is not there yet; but her servant is. Butler is personally arranging the table. He has set it up properly this time. Plates, cups, napkins and silverware all in place; no messy pile of books and papers; a fresh centerpiece of violets. Flowers aren’t cheap, in the Neath, but Butler has either bought new ones or taken great care in refreshing and rearranging those from yesterday. He holds up a spoon, staring at his reflection, frowning his judgement as the the adequacy of its shine.
When he sees Anactoria, Butler bows courteously. “Miss Saint-James,” he greets her urbanely. “A pleasure.” He pulls out a chair for her, as courteously as Lee had, but he does not offer to take her hand. “Captain Lee shall be along forthwith. Perhaps I ought not to say so, but -” he leans forward slightly, and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, “she asked me to arrive ahead of her, to ensure that everything was in order for your arrival. She won’t permit me to take such troubles when she dines alone.”
Hiding her disappointment at Lee’s absence, Anactoria gracefully slides into the offered chair. She cheers, however, at learning that Telemachia has had this table arranged just for her … for them.
“Thank you, Mr … uh … Butler?”
“Mr. Butler will be perfectly acceptable, Miss,” he says with just a hint of a twinkle in his eye. “It’s actually a bit of an old joke between the Captain and myself. You see, when she was just a girl…”
He trails off. Dropping his voice low again, he tells Anactoria, “Don’t look now. But she’s about to arrive.”
Telemachia Lee sweeps into the café with her customary élan. She’s dressed for the Marshes today, in a long houndstooth coat and heavy boots, with a rifle slung over her back. When she sees Anactoria, she freezes. Her throat works. She squeezes her eyes shut tight for a second. When she reopens them, they’re cool and assured again, her look not as hard as it had been out on the street, nor yet as soft as it was in that first, unguarded moment.
Anactoria does the opposite of Butler’s suggestion and looks … and admires. Strength and tenderness, she thinks watching Lee be dangerous and bold and dashing.
Lee crosses the remaining space between them with a softer gait, though it still shows signs of swagger. She extends her hand to take Anactoria’s - smooth and courteous, don’t look too eager! - and kisses it.
Anactoria thrills again at lips on her fingers and makes a note that she needs to try it the other way around … When I work up the courage …
Lee hands off her rifle to Butler, takes her own seat, gives Anactoria a warm smile, and racks her brain desperately for something to say to start the conversation…
Fortunately, Anactoria spares her. “Happy hunting?” she asks with a smile.
Lee’s smile broadens. Not only has Anactoria started the conversation, it's on a subject she can speak about. She leans forward intently, eyes gleaming with delighted mystery. “Last night, two customers at the Medusa’s Head staggered out the door, barely able to walk, but intending to walk home. They never made it. Agents of the Department of Menace Eradication found some grisly remains by the side of the road, along with the tracks of some great beast...” Warming to her subject, Lee begins to spin a tale of terror upon the subject. Then she realizes that she is speaking to a kind, sensitive and very young woman who - she checks - actually looks interested and shows no sign of fainting. She looks so delicate and feminine, but she’s tougher than she looks. It’s an intriguing combination.
“Well,” Lee concludes, “the Cheery Man isn’t exactly a humanitarian - frankly, I think that he ought to treat his own daughter better - but he can’t stand by while his own customers are eaten. After the first few trackers gave up, he offered to triple the Department’s bounty. That makes it worth my while. And the hunt ought to be enjoyable too.
“But,” she leans forward, a sly glint in her pale eyes, “there’s another reason I want to be out in Bugsby’s Marshes tonight. A certain lady of our mutual acquaintance wants to meet with me to ‘make amends.’ Well, if she’s really so eager, she’ll be willing to trudge through the Marshes and meet me there, while Butler waits in the bushes with a rifle.”
Anactoria’s eyes become enormous. “You’re going to--”
She thumps against the backrest of her chair. “Wow!”
Lee holds up a hand in a forestalling gesture, the ghost of a smirk lingering on her lips. “No! Not if she behaves herself. I did give my word, after all. I only mean to illustrate the importance of mutual trust and respect.”
“Oh.”
Is Anactoria a little … disappointed?
“I was--am--still so mad about that wine thing,” There’s something in the young woman’s voice that Lee hasn’t heard before. That something is coiled, steely, and dangerous.
A spark lights in Lee’s grey-blue eyes as their steel unexpectedly strikes flint. The hint of danger in this sweet girl is ... exciting.
“I’m angry too.” If only because you are. “But I have given my word. I have to see this through. I could make my point much more forcefully. There is a school of thought which argues that an apology sounds much more sincere coming from a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.” Anactoria chuckles. Lee smiles, but belatedly - she hadn’t intended it as a joke.
“But what then? If I whip her into obeying me now, I’ll have to whip her again every time I want something from her. And I’ll always have to watch my back. Bad for the team.” This last is rendered as a verdict.
“But…” Lee softens. “Anaktoria... if you don’t want to be part of this mission, you can walk away. I will make sure of it.”
“No, no! I still want to be part of it!” So I can be close to you! “It’s just …” Anactoria waves her hand vaguely. “I don’t know, Tel--Telemachia, I think we can trust her. I mean not to betray us.” Maybe. “But can we trust her not to make bad choices?” It is not a rhetorical question, Anactoria is unmistakably looking to Lee for her expert, experienced advice. “Also--” I want to pay her one back! “Well, I mean, can we?”*
Lee nods gravely. “That’s the right question. I intend to tell her, when I meet her, precisely what I expect from her. And I’ll be watching to see whether she can lead a team responsibly or not. If not - if she fails us -” Lee reaches across the table for Anactoria’s hand, links fingers with her - “we shall have to take care of one another.”
‘Take care of one another.’ Anactoria couldn’t stop her enormous smile even if she wanted to. She gently squeezes Lee’s fingers between her own and considers Lee’s hand. It’s the same size as hers, but rougher, stronger, scarred, stained; a zee monster peeks out from under the sleeve cuff. Anactoria’s never seen a hand like this; but she is both giddy and comforted holding it.
She raises her eyes to Lee. “I like this,” she says simply, softly.
---
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/26/2018
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
2/4/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Labyrinth of Tigers: Second Coil
9:15 AM
The Labyrinth of Tigers receives hundreds of visitors every day, and more on the holidays. Many of the visitors are a bit eccentric, and on a cold day like today, many wear heavy coats. There is little unusual in the movements of today’s visitors; the crowd ebbs and flows much as it does every other day.
But some of today’s visitors are here for more than tourism.
Navigating through the coils by recent memory, Tanner leads the crew for a relaxing day out. The young pirate attempts to blend in amongst the other visitors by addressing his fellow thieves like a guide providing informative commentary to a tour group. He plays the role well, due in no small part to his genuine fondness for the animals. Hardly any of his peers appear to be paying attention with the exception of one. Nikki listens with interest, but given how her focus so easily wanders, he might well be speaking to himself half the time. Tanner prattles on anyway, seemingly for his own amusement. That is until they reach the third coil, where the human exhibits are kept.
Nikki has always loved the Labyrinth and its animals, but this visit holds a particular charm. She wonders if perhaps she can’t invite the penguins home for a while -- but she doesn’t really have anywhere for them to swim. Perhaps the giant squid would like to hang out with the Drownies and the mass of tentacles down at the Docks...and what was the best posture for riding a rhinoceros?
The animals in the first two coils have never taken well to Jen's predatory presence, and causing a panic right now would be rather obstructive to her goals. So she does her best to stick to the others, away from the animals, and blend in. It isn't something she’s used to. Ordinarily, she either goes unseen or she draws attention to herself.
Hubris Glamore moves quietly, keeping himself a short distance behind and to the left of Jen. Just another servant, following just another noble. An amiable nod here and there to passing society figures or fellow members of the serving class he happens to be acquainted with. Nothing unusual, nothing suspect. A glance here and there at the animals. The penguins are ever popular. The hyena remains charmingly nasty.
It's not much of a victory, but something about defeating one of them in a staring contest – May Storm curse the viric depth in its eyes – puts a spring in Michael's step. Past the crocodiles' pond, he squats besides Thomas' pool, making sure the team is still nearby before tipping out a bag of jade into the water. He understands the crab's fondness for shiny objects to decorate its carapace, even as it clicks and clatters over them like a society matron selecting a necklace. Yet before Thomas can deem the entire bag unworthy of attention –And more importantly, before the keepers figure out he is not supposed to be there, using jade from his own pocket –, he is gone.
Cosmo strides slightly apart from the group as they pass through the first two coils. They are a fast walker, and are unused to traveling with this many people. How many are we, they thought, nine? Thank goodness the place is quiet at this hour or they would be bound to draw attention. While musing on the risks to their stealth, Cosmo fails to notice the sound their hard-soled shoes are making on the paved ground.
Caroline drifts a bit, watching the various animals with detachment. Sunken green eyes linger here or there, but little that is suspicious. She pulls her coat tighter against herself. She does not care for this.
Anactoria doesn’t have to feign interest in all the animals to blend in as a visitor; the Labyrinth is one of her favourite places in London. Ms St James casually strolls after Lady Black, just another person who happens to be going in the same direction. She pauses to watch the penguins.
Elizabeth and Robert … e-LEE-zabeth and … hmmm … you really can’t make Robert into Anactoria, can you? Nor into St James for that matter. Oops! Time to catch up!
Telemachia Lee admires Anactoria’s profile as she passes. Penguins are bl--dy useless things as far as she’s concerned, fat stupid birds that can’t even fly. But she forgives them their existence for the sake of the look on Ana’s face. She would much rather watch an interesting creature, like - a tiger. A tigress, in fact, a ragged-eared old scrapper whom Lee has already had a run-in with. They look each other in the eye, human grey to tiger green, both of them cool and watchful and ready for anything. Lee knows that in order to avoid any further suspicion, she has to act completely natural.
Without breaking eye contact, Lee pulls out a cigar, lights it, draws a lungful, and then blows smoke directly in the tigress’s face. The tigress stalks past sullenly. Lee has succeeded in acting like her normal self.
edited by Slyblue on 2/5/2018
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/4/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - the Third Coil
10:00 AM
Tanner leaves chalk marks behind him for his allies as he makes his way to the Third Coil. Left, right, right, past the bifurcated owl-mausoleum, around the edge of Arthur's pond... the third coil beckons. The group quickly moves to a long tunnel lined with cages on both sides. Michael Barrows moves forward to stand watch at one end of the tunnel, while Telemachia Lee remains behind to guard the other end.
***
Down in the basalt-walled third coil of the Labyrinth, the only light comes from a few candles around the inmates’ cells. Michael can see them whenever he looks over his shoulder, the shadows that prowl near, moving like the wind between locked doors.
The wind. There is no wind in this place. Every footstep, every breath, every sound that pollutes the air keeps him alert as he shoulders his rifle, eyes sharp in the darkness below as they are jovial in the light above. Hunched figures regard him from every corner, making their way towards him and pausing as soon as --they know-- he sees them. He's sure he would be able to hear them purring, or murmuring under their whiskers, if the wind would only bring those sounds to his ears. And yet all he can hear is the sound of clinking lockpicks and hard-soled shoes.
Michael sighs. There is one alternative, and he knows this. When the spotted weasels jumps from his sleeve, seemingly disappearing into the gaping maw underneath he soles, he holds on to that thought for a bit longer. There is only one alternative. Besides, he assures himself, things just seem to work out for these little guys.
***
When Tanner catches sight of the cages, his smile drops and he goes quiet. While the others scatter to start picking locks, he looks at the prisoners for a moment with uncertainty, contemplating what reasons the tigers must have for keeping them behind lock and key. Not that it matters. The job takes precedence over his conflict, and he joins the crew in picking locks - clumsily, but to the best of his ability. An uneasy air of doubt hangs about him.
***
Blending in isn't something that Jen Black is used to. But opening these cages? She's back in her element now. So she slides the slender lockpicks from her sleeve and gets to work with deft fingers. The first door opens in seconds.
***
Cosmo, avoiding eye contact with the prisoners, trying to shut themselves off to the noise, settle down onto their knees and assess the padlocks. They reach into their belt and take out their tools and pray that the prisoner they’re about to release is a trade unionist.
***
Caroline could almost be mistaken for a Tiger in human form...but a Panther would be more precise. Flowing, fluid, along the route, long dexterous white fingers work lockpicks. It was never her strong suit as a thief; she had the control for it but always preferred just using her hands for almost any task. Still she does not slow the group down. Sharp eyes and sharp ears search for threats. Despite her best efforts, however, she falls behind.
***
The third coil. This will be risky. Hubris Glamore’s stance shifts ever so slightly from its usual proper stiffness to something just a little more alert and flexible. Now here we are. Cage upon cage. His lip curls into a scowl very briefly before his expression settles into its usual neutral gaze. Not disgust. Contempt. Fingerking thralls. Dangerous, hollowed out fools and much better to leave them where they are, but the job is the job.
Hubris has his lockpicks. Happily, so do many of the others, so the work will be quick. He almost prowls a little as he moves along the line of cages, opting to pass as many cages being worked on by the others as is expedient between each he unlocks himself. Committing the faces of as many as possible to memory. This job is to free them, but on his own time, well..
***
Nikki flits easily from lock to lock, most taking her no more than a few moments. It’s odd; most locks put up a bit more of a fight, but most of these are downright disappointing. Then again, they aren’t exactly there to keep people out...
This is all too easy. Nikki’s mind wanders. She realizes that she’s forgotten something important. She slides her lockpicks back into their harness and slips off, cat-footed, down the corridor.
***
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 2/4/2018
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/8/2018
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Teh revelation of poison was not a pleasant one, but Nikki downed the antidote with good grace. "Very tricky, Hubris. Very tricky~ I mean yeah, it's...sorta bad form or whatever, what with invitations and hosting and whatever." She waved a hand in the direction of Lady Karnstein. "But I can understand not wanting loose lips. However!" She held up a finger, and her mobile expression turned into a fierce glare. "If you are willing to let a person end up feeling like they were black-out drunk without any of the fun of being black-out drunk beforehand, then you have an obligation to make sure each and every one of us has the chance to get black-out drunk for /real/ at some point in the near future." She couldn't keep the glare on her face for long, and halfway through it morphed back into a smile. "So after we pull off this trick for the ages, I guess we're all going out to drink. On Jen and Hubris's coin!"
--
Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/11/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Thursday, 26 December, 1895
Evening
Jen looks around her study, the papers strewn everywhere on her desk. God, this is such an ambitious, crazy plan, whatever possessed her to dream it up? Her dreams have turned into nightmares these few nights, haunted by images of being torn apart in the Labyrinth, of being turned into dinner for the Royal Children, of being added to the Princess’ Cage-Garden, of having her face cut off by Snuffers, of becoming the plaything of some Fingerking and unable to tell the difference between reality and illusion. She has been working on her plans day and night, every second, non-stop, until she knows it back and forth, hoping that all her preparations will be enough and nothing dreadful will befall them.
The mood tonight is tense. Not due to mistrust -- that trouble with the wine has been sorted out, mostly -- but due to the sheer scale of what they’re trying to accomplish, the knowledge that they’re going to be making some very important groups very angry. She’s thought about all the ways it can go wrong, pictured failure that inevitably leads to death, imagined it so much it feels more like a memory. What is the good of glory and legacy if she does not live to see it? But still, there is no place for cowardice here. There is only the future, and the need for courage and forging on. And if she doesn’t believe in what they can do, how can she lead them on this heist?
So she straightens up, squares her shoulders, adjusts the fall of her dark green coat, fixes an arrogant, detached expression on her face, gathers up the necessary papers and heads to the dining room, where the others have gathered. The quiet discussions come to a halt when she enters, the door slamming shut behind her.
Planning is a long process...
REWIND
“We’ll be hitting the Labyrinth of Tigers first. Once Mr Inch leaves…”
“I can deal with the animals. They’ll mostly leave us alone anyway.”
“... Oh, and other than the Emporium, I want to head to the Third Coil, it's not right to keep people there. We should let them go!”
“Free the prisoners? Did you know that…”
“...Lost two t’ those tigers, ye canna avoid ‘em forever…”
“Are we bothered by the presence of certain nonhuman powers in those cages being unleashed on London?”
…with objections about risk…
“After the Labyrinth, to the Palace.”
“Wait, your contact is going to help us sneak into the Palace by the CELLARS?”
“We’ll be fine. Just don’t go near the fifth door.”
“What’s this about an abomination?”
…moral objections…
“Who doesn't want to rob the VPC for kicking us out of court? And we can be Mr Sacks for our newlyweds, take their wedding presents, all those esteemed guests must come with some gifts…”
“How very festive.”
“Stealing wedding presents? I don't like the notion.”
“Neither do I but for Feducci, think, I would make an exception.”
“We’ll let ‘em ken you cared, min.”
“Wait...you got yourself kicked out of court?! What did you do?!”
“If it was anything like me, what didn’t she do?”
…almost devolving into a shouting match at one point…
“I am not going to steal from the Duchess!”
“Not intended as a threat, but I think stealing from her is deeply unwise, even if one is okay with it. She is of a culture who put a remarkable amount of thought into what happens to people who take their stuff.”
“Why don't you go to Hell? Wait, that came out wrong, I meant the Embassy…”
“Won’t be a problem if we don’t get caught.”
“So we'll hit both places. And meet up at…”
“I wish you’d stop being so damn languid!”
…complaints that certain targets were too pedestrian…
“Concord Square? Booooring! Robbing that’s practically a rite of passage, for a thief! Let’s try somewhere exciting, like the Ministry proper -- I bet they have all sorts of great secrets there--”
“The Ministry does intrigue me.”
“-- And all I’m sayin’ is tha’ the University’s full of junk, and no one takes bleedin’ books fer payment these days. What else ye gon’ find there? Good intentions?”
“Who cares?! I’m tearing that damn Ministry apart myself if I have to.”
…fear of monsters…
“The Foreign Office. Really.”
“Oh c’mon, it’ll be fun!”
“Yes, assuming they don't catch us and eat us. Or melt us and turn us into candles. Or turn us into candles then eat us.”
“There are worse creatures in this city than those in the Foreign Office.”
“I am not going to say no, but the Foreign Office will be taken very seriously. We must be extra careful.”
…implausibilities…
“Slowcake doesn't exist.”
“I know that, I'm not an idiot! We're robbing the Amanuensis…”
…but thankfully they all agreed when it came to the Urchins.
“I want to share some of it with the kids at the Flit. We can't carry so much anyway.”
“Good on ye, Nicdubh.”
“They deserve it more than those rich bastards anyway.”
(Approving grunt)
“...Haven’t heard back from ‘er yet, I hope the bairns are okay...Eh? Oh, nay, jus’ thinkin’ outloud.”
“The Urchins have a role to play, and this will help them.”
“How do we get all the Urchin gangs together in once place to partition everything out?”
“Never doubt the watchfulness of Urchins. They’ll know we’re coming.”
“The Naughts AND Crosses?”
“Let the Longshanks handle it. They know them better than we do.”
(Palpable skepticism)
There were practical considerations too…
“I’m just sayin’, it’s real hard to steal a mirror that size without it breaking -- and I’m not keen on however-many years of bad luck!”
“You realise those mirrors are owned by the Masters, not the Carnival? And they're pathways to Parabola?”
“All mirrors go to Parabola, that’s not new.”
“Yes, but most mirrors don't have the ability to send you to the Boatman!”
“Ooh, can we rob him too?!”
“Absolutely not!”
“It would be novel, certainly.”
…concerns about destabilising London’s power structure…
“Sure he’s got issues, but he keeps his folk in line. And the Widow is better than a bunch of the alternatives.”
“She’s vicious.”
“Still better -- and far better than an outright crime war.”
“I respect the Man. He deserves to retire in peace. He's already lame. Maybe this way, he can reconcile with his daughter at last. Have some peace.”
"He’s more than earned a break. Let’s cut him some slack. But what about the Topsy King?”
“Oh c’mon, he’s a sweetheart! And I don’t know if he’d manage so well anywhere else.”
“We are not taking advantage of a madman. End of story.”
“I will not assist in robbing the Topsy King. The rest of them I do not care.”
…questions of etiquette...
“February’s a plotter, that one. You really want to make her upset?”
(low chuckle) “I really do.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Awful person. Immensely entertaining when vexed.”
“Somehow, I think she'd be more offended if we didn't rob her when we're going after so many others.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
…witnesses to deal with...
“Of course the University is going to be full of students. Fortunately for us those who aren’t holed up in the library will most likely be...ah... hammered…”
“I happen to be a member of the Stoats. I can improve those odds.”
“Best watch out for the professors, though -- I know a few, and not all of them are scrawny and absent-minded.”
“Twenty echoes t’ whoever eats a spider in front of ‘em.”
“I have a lot of legitimate reasons to be in a lot of places there.”
…but it’s settled eventually.
Jen looks around the table, at her crew, and suddenly feels a lot better about their chances.
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/11/2018
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/19/2018
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/11/2018
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The night continued from there. A great deal of the tension shattered audibly when Nikki proclaimed an impromptu pillow fight by way of whomping Tanner in the face with one and vaulting for cover behind a counter. It was unclear precisely when she'd managed to sneak most of the rooms' pillows into a stack in the corner, but they did not go to waste.
--
Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/6/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
7:50 P.M.
Once all the toasts have been made, Jen leans back against the wall with a smirk. “Now then. Down to business.”
She sets her glass down on the cart, and steeples her fingers together. “You’ve all heard of the upcoming Royal Wedding. I could go on and on about it and the impact it will have on the Neath’s politics, but I’d probably bore all of you. What's more important, are you aware that it's making history? This is the first Royal Wedding since London fell, with lovers who are monsters without needing to make any deals with the Bazaar. It's a cause for celebration, and London's elite will be out in full force.” She grins, baring her teeth in a chilling, predatory way. “It's also the perfect distraction for a heist.”
She starts pacing, unable to stand still and stoic. “Just think of the powers in the Neath who will be there, or who will be vulnerable during this time.”
“February is invited. I hear she has a collection of plans relating to something they call the Liberation of Night. There's a room of esoteric artifacts from the Cities that Fell. And she's one of the foremost scholars on the Correspondence and Parabola.”
“Mr and Mrs Jervaise Plenty will be there. Didn't know they were married, did you? She has never been seen away from her carnival until now. And I will confess that after something that recently happened, I would like to learn more about those mirrors of hers. Of course, anyone else who studies Parabola would be welcome to look at them too. Not literally, of course. ” She pauses reflectively. “If we need more material for our study, we can take it from Sommerset. They'll be closed that day.”
“The government offices will be closed too. Have you ever known the Foreign Office to be closed before this? What better time to investigate its mysteries than now? And Concord Square and the Ministry of Public Decency too. I, personally, would like to get some of my works back from their confiscation.” She laughs lightly.
“While we're at it, why not target the infernal side of things as well? Slowcake’s Amanuensis will be occupied at the wedding, and he has what is quite possibly the largest collection of blackmail material in the Neath. And I know the Brass Embassy like the back of my hand, since I live there. While being involved directly doesn't make sense, I wouldn't object to aiding anyone who wanted to run a hit there.” She's not going to risk her lease, but she has always wondered what's there beyond the public areas, where only devils are allowed.
“Even people not at the wedding will be vulnerable, what with the public holiday and the crowds and the employees off celebrating. People like the Cheery Man and the Gracious Widow. Frankly, it's time for him to retire before someone gives him more Cantigaster venom and permanently gets rid of him. And I've heard things about her peach brandy being related to Hesperidean Cider. It might just be a rumour, but still. Rumoured immortality is a rumour worth investigating.”
“And, of course, not forgetting the Palace, lair of secrets! We can visit the cellars without being too concerned about interruption. And the Duchess’ chambers. And play Mr Sacks to the two lovers and steal from them instead of giving them wedding presents?”
Something suddenly comes to mind. “I do have one rule that I feel the need to state, though. My mentors taught me to stay my blade from the flesh of an innocent, and that is something I hold to. Even if death is cheap here, I don't believe in killing those just doing their jobs. Like maids or guards or animals. Not unless they pose an active threat to us.” She looks around, her gaze intense and serious. That was the first thing her mentor had taught her, making her promise to do so before training her, and the last thing she had reminded her of before leaving for India with her husband. If it was that important to her, Jen feels the need to keep to it, if only out of respect.
The atmosphere in the room is tense, and she feels the need to relieve it. “I don't believe in being controlling. You all have your talents, and I trust you to use them appropriately. The spoils will all be divided up fairly. There's more than enough for all of us. In fact, I plan to give some away to the Urchin gangs.”
She stops pacing, throwing out her hands in an exuberant gesture. “Just think. We can have a legacy. The crew who pulled off the biggest heist in the history of the Neath. So. I hope you'll all say yes to this.”
Her cheeks are flushed with excitement as she looks around the room, awaiting their reply.
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
1/8/2018
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Upon hearing the announcement about the wine, Cosmo begins to utter some curses, some of them less than gentlemanly. As they spit expletives from their mouth, they accept the antidote and down it. To think they were going to discreetly finish Michael’s wine after this whole farce was over! Why did they ever decide to trust these...criminals? They stuff the empty vial into their back pocket and compose themselves.
‘So be it, Jen.’
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Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/8/2018
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Lee’s poker face is back in place. Her eyes are the color of old ice, and about as emotional. She leans on the back of Caroline’s chaise, not too close to her, but close. Her posture is relaxed, confident, and altogether unlike that of someone who’s just been told that she’s been poisoned. She contents herself with raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Privately, she considers that the poison might be a good idea. She’s been worried about Jen Black’s ability to keep the operation secret, so this is reassuring on that count. Of course, it might well have been Glamore’s idea in the first place, but that hardly matters; if Black can hire the right experts and heed their advice, that counts. Still, it’s discourteous to do it this way. They could have warned everyone beforehand, and it would have worked just as well. That makes two marks against Jen Black’s manners, nice legs or no. Still, Lee is a professional, she can deal with it…
But Canvas’s bitterness is a bad sign. He’s a more trusting person than she had taken him for, and she needs him to continue to trust if this is going to work. Michael is even more bitter, just shy of confrontational. Worrisome. Scouts and snipers have to operate with a lot of independence, and a good commander has to keep their morale high, or they might just decide not to show up when needed. If a commander has to annoy someone, it’s safest to dump it on the infantry. They don’t have a lot of options anyway, and they simply have to take it out on the enemy. Of course, in this scenario, that means me, she reflects wryly.
Nikki takes things in stride like a champ. Lee likes her. She doesn’t think that Nikki is interested in women - they’d spent an entire evening writing scurrilous sonnets together, and nary a spark. But it had still been a good time.
Cosmo swears - not exactly like a Zailor, but impressively. Lee recognizes French, and Classical Greek, and at least two more that she doesn’t know. No Latin, though, for some reason. A couple of the expressions are creative enough to make her smirk ever so faintly.
But Caroline is … coldly angry. More angry than she’s showing, Lee realizes unhappily. But she remains seated on her chaise. Well, I’ll talk to her about it later. Right now, keep your game face on. Nod politely to Glamore, no more than one cold haughty glance at Black. Any more stress, and this group could fall apart right now. Lee doesn't have to think about why that matters to her. It's the soldier's code. Never mind the command - you look out for your unit.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/8/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
8:55 P.M.
Jen reaches out a hand to Michael. Damn. One of the prettiest boys she's seen in the Neath and he's pissed with her. This wine drugging was a bad idea. The glass shatters, but she barely registers it. "Michael, I --" then she stops, because what can she say? It was necessary, a precaution she had to take. She doesn't know if he hears her, if he can be bothered with her. "I would have given you the antidote either way. But there was no way to only give the people I didn't trust the drug without making them suspicious. Michael, I'm sorry."
Canvas' bitterness is harder to stomach. She doesn't know him well. But what she saw, she liked. And that he would think her cruel enough to let Viric suffer... That hurts.
And Cosmo. She's known the scholar for so long, albeit only in passing. And she has never seen them this angry.
She doesn't blame Caroline or Lee for their veiled hostility. In their shoes, she would have reacted worse. Nikki's attempt to shrug it off is in character for her, but she suspects the woman's not best pleased either.
Hubris attempts to smooth things over, with limited success. But it's not good enough. And she knows it. So she forces herself to speak. "I am sorry for the deception. And I swear there will be no more lies between us. Give me a chance." Her posture is apologetic and her stance is one of humility. It's unfamiliar to be humble, but the only way she sees. She doesn't hide the way her hands start fidgeting as they all look at her askance.
She looks beseechingly at Tanner, the only one to not say anything. If he's going to turn on her too, she might as well abandon the heist. And fire Hubris.
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/5/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
7:45 P.M.
Jen enters the room shortly after the last arrival, closing the door behind her and deliberately giving the room an eyeful of her bare back in the process. She glides in, catlike, shoes barely brushing the floor, and leans against the wall, somewhere she can see the door, the windows, and everyone, all at once. The instinctive tendency to calculate all routes to the exits is more under control in her own home, but she still doesn’t feel safe unless she can see every possible threat in one glance.
She accepts the glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from Hubris and lifts it up. “Raise a glass to the ten of us,” she says, lifting it high before throwing it back. She surveys the gathered company.
The moment that urchin recommended Anactoria, Jen was intrigued. Meeting her has only increased the level of interest. She’s heard of the girl’s brother -- Don something? Their parents have very interesting taste in names -- before, and she would have never guessed the two are related. She’s adorable, but not quite Jen’s type.
Caroline… unsettles Jen, and that’s not something that happens often. She was watching the woman that night at the Mandrake, the way she so casually lured a girl into her carriage. The way she threw a man into the wall. Her strength is… not quite human. But an individual of such unique talents is definitely an asset to have on the team.
Lee, on the other hand, is quite different. She reminds Jen of the sort of rough-and-tumble young men in her gang, loud, boisterous, rowdy, fond of women, always ready to wrestle, but generally friendly. There’s something going on between her, Caroline and the St James girl, although she can’t quite put her finger on the exact dynamics yet.
Nikki grins at her, and she smiles back. That girl looks like trouble, but of the best sort. Bold, willing to try out risky things, and a buoyant energy that will lighten everyone’s hearts. And besides, the urchins kept talking about her stunt, even the normally stoic Valkyrie. There must be some quality to the girl that attracts the young ones so.
Michael, on the other hand, is a bit of an enigma. Quiet, pleasant, with some sort of Gaelic nickname for her that she doesn’t quite understand. What she does know for certain is that he’s a sniper, and he protected information about her. That, if nothing else, makes him someone she wants on her crew.
Then there’s Cosmo. She can almost sense the others wondering about why a scholar is here. They’re not just for assistance at the Summerset heist, although that’s part of it. But more than that, she needs a doctor she can trust, and they’ve also been trained in military strategy. The only drawback is the tension going on between him and Tanner.
Her gaze moves to Canvas. She feels somewhat guilty about flustering the man so! He and Michael seem to have some sort of feud, and she reminds herself to keep an eye on them. What is it with these men and their rivalries? She doesn’t know the detective very well, but he seems intelligent and capable, and far better for him to be on her side than investigating her.
Hubris refills her glass, and she gives him a nod. A butler who can help her both as Lady Black, Sirius’ successor, and Lady Black, rising criminal force, is one to be appreciated. Depending on how the heist goes, she may hire him more often. He’s marvellous -- which other butler would have solutions for problems she had entirely overlooked?
Her smile softens when she looks at Tanner. If anyone understands the double life she leads, it’s him, the pirate and the social butterfly. He’s a charmer and a flirt, reliable with the ladies, but also a valuable ally to have. And he is one of the very few people who are the closest thing she has to actual friends. She can’t imagine doing this heist without him.
She raises her glass again. “There should have been more of us. To Viric -- may whatever business called him away end to his satisfaction.” The illusionist had left after an messenger came to her house, citing urgent matters for him. She’s sorry to see him go. He had spied on her, somehow, and taken the initiative to approach her and join the crew. He would have made a good addition to the party.
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/7/2018
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Caroline listens silently with a lazy smile. When she speaks, her low purr sounds amused. "That sounds good. I, too, avoid killing except when I must. Or some cad impales me" She smirks at Jen. "I find your terms acceptable. I just...” She looks at her hand. "Have an arrangement with the Duchess. ‘Friends’ is too strong a word, she is a friend with nothing on two legs, but we look out for each other and help each other. I will not rob her. If this means I forfeit a share from what is found in the palace so be it. " She looks back "So long as you do not intend to harm her, her cats, or anyone...intimately connected to her, I won't, as you say in English, grass on you either. My first loyalty is the my real friends and the writers and artists under my protection." She glances at Lee at real friends, and turns back. "I am enthusiastically interested in the Embassy and Ministry. As for the brandy…” She looks at her hand again, the look of a cat pretending to ignore a string. “I am interested.”
Then she turns and puts a hand on Lee’s shoulder. “There are a lot of reasons for it dear. Including professionalism and the fact if we make these places an abattoir that will only fire them up to come after us harder. Fewer will really be offended by the robberies if their spouses and sons are not failing to come home. And if we seem to be the Reinicke, the ah Reynard, they will see it as a fine sport, which will impede investigations somewhat, also.”
edited by Lady Karnstein on 1/7/2018
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/7/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
8:10 P.M.
Jen gives the other woman a nod. "Thank you, Lady Karnstein. That is accurate. As for the Duchess, I propose a solution. I cannot be seen robbing the Embassy. So, while we target the Duchess, anyone who wills rather not steal from her can go there, instead. Is that satisfactory?"
Then she smiles at Nikki. "Surface raised. And maybe you're right that I'm not used to death being cheap."
She takes a deep breath before turning to Lee. "Did you somehow miss the fact that I said 'not unless they pose an active threat to us'?" She rolls her eyes. "I've killed a fair number of people. Even used the Cantigaster venom a couple of times. What I don't want is preemptive killing in case they see us. If they see us and come after us, by all means, kill them. Not permanently, of course." She sighs. The Creed wasn't meant for the Neath.
"Canvas, you're right. It's not up to us to decide who's innocent, to discriminate between the sinners and the saints. We're here to take, no matter who they are."
With that, she looks around, waiting for the others.
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/7/2018
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Telemachia Lee is torn. This whole idea is overly ambitious to begin with -and now they’re going to hamper themselves further by refraining from attacking the guards until they’re already alerted? Tactically speaking, it’s a very foolish approach. A guard who immediately attacks an intruder is an incompetent guard in the first place. A competent guard will raise a general alarm first. It’s never a good idea to build a plan on the assumption that one’s opposition will be incompetent.
Michael and Nikki understand - of course, they’re Longshanks, they understand the realities of life in the Neath. Canvas Blank sounds like he’s trying to play both sides - nothing very useful there. As amusing as he is, Tanner Price’s grandiose pronouncements seem ill-considered. Yet, as much as her professional brain disapproves of his reckless lust for glory, her heart agrees. Jen Black’s confidence is inspiring, but her condescension is bloody irritating. It hurts to see the look of disappointment on Anactoria’s face - but then, her combination of innocence and spirit is what Lee finds attractive in the first place.
But Caroline is different. Over the past few weeks, the older woman has become (ironically, for a professional monster-hunter) something of a moral compass for Lee. Caroline is the only person to whom Lee has confided her worries about her own ruthless streak - she has even asked Caroline to warn her if she goes too far. Furthermore, her advice has some strategic (as opposed to tactical) merit. Lee has read La Fontaine, and she understands how a clever trickster might attract a certain admiration which could ameliorate the intensity of pursuit. And Lee is only human, after all - the hand of a trusted friend, laid on her shoulder, cannot but have its effect.
Lee takes a deep breath. She’ll overlook Jen Black’s insults for now, but she won’t forget them. The bigger picture is what's important now - the decision that's called for. “I didn’t miss the part where you said you’d trust our professional judgment,” she retorts. “With that understood - I’m in.”
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
12/27/2017
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“Remember that pitcher you drew for me? The one wif the red bits?”
From her small chair by her small fire by her small fireplace Anactoria nods.
“I figure I owes you a sumpin’ for that.”
Almost, Anactoria answers, ‘That’s not really necessary.” But this is London in the Neath and she is new here and she quickly figured out that she can use all the help she can get. “Go on then."
“Well there’s this Lady is puttin’ togever a 'job', an’ I mentioned to her as you’d be a good un to help wif that.”
Anactoria regards her Urchin friend impassively, waiting.
“It’ud be good pay.
“An’, um …” the girl begins to fidget under the silent, but intense scrutiny. “An’ it would be doin’ a good turn for my frien’s—an’ your frien’s—wif the Fisher-Kings on account of some of the spoils is goin’ be distributed to us—and other Urchins, too.”
“Why would the Lady want to employee me? I’m no thief.”
“Well, you’re always readin’ us those Robbing Hood stories, an’ there’s the time you walloped the Kidsman, so you’re good in a fight, an’ Mina could fly around and spy stuff out, an’ you move about the Flit as good as any longshanks, an’ the Scuttrin’ Squad is right devoted to you after you convinced them Tigers not to eat ‘em all up—they would help, an’ your brover’s--”
“Half-brother,” Anactoria interrupts, with dangerously narrowed eyes.
“An’ your Af-brover’s got nothin’ to do with this!” the Urchin quickly winds up.
Anactoria’s stomach rubbles. ‘Convincing’ the Tigers used up nearly her entire pantry. Food is important … and getting food takes money … and getting money means getting work. “Alright, I’ll talk to the Lady.”
--
Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
12/28/2017
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The Cosmopolitan choked as the smoke cleared. By God! What a waste. They scowled as they picked up the now twisted Correspondence Plaques and tossed them aside. That had been a close one, just a few more minutes and the text would have been translated, revealing...well…only the Masters know what, probably. The damage wasn’t too great, just a few smutty tracts stolen from downstairs for kindling, mercifully burnt up.
A soft coughing sounded from the direction of the door and Cosmo turned around, their frown now twisted into a genial smile.
‘Professor, I...ah...sorry…’
‘My apologies, Sir, no harm done, I assure you.’
‘It’s just...the customers...they…’
Cosmo’s smile broadened, showing more teeth. ‘No harm done.’
‘Yes…very good...sorry...for disturbing you…’
He skulked off. Curse the miserable old git, thought the Cosmopolitan. They fully intended to move out, permanently, but the old rooms above the bookshop did make for some neat little reading rooms. The privacy here far surpassed that of the townhouse down Bloomsbury way, or what was Bloomsbury. Apart from that d__ned owner, shuffling about disturbing Cosmo’s well deserved peace.
They checked themselves in the mirror. What was left of their eyebrows had now disintegrated, they noted as they shook the soot out of their hair. Soon, they mused, they would be losing their hair in these… ah… accidents. How very wretched, they were already going grey before their time. They coughed again as the ashes floated down through the air. Why bother giving up smoking? Just because darling Zahra, rest her soul, had objected to it; well if she could see her husband now, inhaling much less pleasurable vapour, she wouldn’t have minded too terribly. They had lapsed recently, but just last week, after swearing they had had their last taste of tobacco, the Wry Functionary had gifted Cosmo a particularly fine box of cigars. D__n him.
*****
‘From those texts that have been translated, the language of Correspondence displays an almost scientific precision with the language of emotion, the likes of which I have not seen in any other language that I have studied.’ Rows of eyes gazed at Cosmo as they dictated their research. ‘And from this evidence, what can be inferred is that the Correspondence carries with it a different philosophy different to our own, in which feeling can be quantified. Whether this philosophy is as calculating as that of Adam Smith’s Homo economicus or a reflection of the natural beauty of mathematics and science is the subject of some debate in the community of Correspondence scholars. I will go into these arguments in further detail in my next lecture. Until then, you are dismissed.’ A wave of babble and the sound of shuffling descended on the room. Cosmo piled up their papers contentedly before interrupting the chatter with ‘Don’t forget your essays on the Fourth City are due in on Friday.’
‘Now I think that went rather well.’ Cosmo turned to see an old friend, yes they supposed, friend was the right word, the Philomathmetician.
‘Ah, Doctor I thought I might see you here.’
‘Why I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Although, I have to say I know an economist or two who might have something to say about that Adam Smith remark.’
‘Why? What was wrong with it?’
‘Adam Smith didn’t come up with the term ‘Homo economicus’.’
‘Is that all? Surely it doesn’t matter, considering he wrote extensively about the theory. Please come into my office.’
They had been walking through Benthic’s corridors. Cosmo now opened the door to their office; the Philomathmetician let out a low whistle. Cosmo laughed. ‘Nice, isn’t it? One of the perks of promotion. That and a better chance of having your work published, better pay, your own secretary-’
‘By which you mean mistress.’
Cosmo rolled their eyes. ‘Now, Phil, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not: it’s no secret that about half of Benthic’s professors are somehow involved with their assistants.’
‘Not me,’ Cosmo said decidedly. ‘Is this why you’re so desperate for promotion?’
Phil laughed out loud. ‘Good God, how do you expect me to answer that?’
‘Honestly, maybe? Now that would be a change. Would you care for a glass of something.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early?’
‘How now? Restrained? This is most unlike you.’
‘Oh please, the Greyfields isn’t worth it-’
‘Greyfields? Heavens no! Whisky, rather fine whisky at that.’
‘Then, of course.’
Cosmo smiled and stood up and walked over to the cabinet behind their solid oak desk. They produced a decanter and two glasses and, sweeping a mess of papers aside, set them down. They looked back at Phil, he looked concerned.
‘You’re limping.’
Cosmo chuckles. ‘Oh that’s nothing, if only you could see the stab wound in my shoulder.’
‘By God, Professor! I do hope you’re joking!’
‘Perhaps I am. Dear me, look at your face, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine, look at me. There was a fight, if you must know. No, don’t look at me like that, the man was a fiend. I mean, really, Byron’s imagery, banal, he said!’
‘You got into a fight about Byron?’
‘No, John Locke, the Byron comment was just incidental. His real sin was disparaging Locke as far as I’m concerned, but really ‘banal’. When it became clear that he couldn’t match me in a battle of wits, it came to blows.’
‘And he matched you there?’
‘Of course not,’ Cosmo smirked. Their companion shook his head.
‘You must take better care of yourself. I’ve noticed your eyebrows are missing again, and you’ve burnt a hole in your shirt.’
‘It’s nothing, but you think I need to see a doctor. Is that what you’re saying.’
He shrugged ‘“Physician, heal thyself” as far as I’m concerned. But it’s your reputation I’m concerned about. You really don’t think people don’t know about these things? Your like...like… Cassio!’
‘Cassio?’
‘Yes, from Othello. Please say you’ve read Othello.’
‘Of course I’ve read Othello, I’m just surprised, that’s all. People just don’t seem to read Shakespeare these days.’
‘The thing is you’re brilliant, I’m sure of it. Bookish, scholarly, but...stupid, in the sense that you seem to have very little interest in self-preservation. One of these days, you’ll do something that will get you killed, or... or exiled-’
‘Don’t you think I already have? I’ve come back from it; I’m fine. I honestly don’t care about the rumours that follow me.’
Phil shook his head again. ‘You can’t keep going like that.’ The pair sat in awkward silence for a while. The quiet was rather mercilessly broken by a knock on the door: the afforementioned secretary.
‘Professor, there’s a Lady Black here to see you?’
‘Lady...? Yes, er, send her in.’ Now there was a name Cosmo wasn’t expecting to hear. ‘Phil, erm, if you please… sorry…’
‘No, I’m sorry. Say, this book of Pushkin, proscribed isn’t it?’
‘Yes, what of it?’
‘Nothing, it’s just...I’m sure I saw a similar volume in the Palace library… a coincidence I’m sure…’
‘Absolutely. Curious, that.’
Phil followed the secretary out. If only he hadn’t noticed that book; it had been stolen. Cosmo groaned, they really must be more careful in the future. They removed their glasses and rubbed the bridge of their nose. Perhaps Phil had a point about remaining respectable, but Lady Black’s name was one that would surely jeopardise any effort to do so. Cassio indeed! “Reputation! Reputation! Iago, I have lost my reputation!”
--
Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
1/2/2018
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"And so I said to that circus barker, 'If I wanted to see shocking sights unlike anything London has ever seen, I'd have propositioned your sister!'"
The cluster of tuxedoed gentlemen around Tanner burst into laughter, one of them doubling over and spilling his champagne on the polished hardwood floor. Another white-bearded fellow throws his arm around Tanner's shoulder, tipsy from the revelry, and leans on him for support to regain his breath.
"Good Lord!" the man heaves. "If I'd had brass like that in my youth I might've supplied half the Orchestra!"
"It's too bad you invested in railroads rather than the delicatessen, because you have quite the rye wit!"
"Oh stop!"
With a few chuckles, Tanner helps straighten the bearded parrot on his shoulder back to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," Tanner nods with a grin and takes his leave with a glass of rich dessert wine in hand. The Ambassador's party is winding down, and most of London's ruling class are stumbling into coaches on their way out the door. As the tired young socialite hunts for the nibbles tray, a rock hard palm clasps him on the shoulder. When Tanner turns around, he is surprised the sturdy grip did not belong to a Clay Man. His face lights up in raucous, somewhat inebriated playfulness, and he proceeds to greet his associate.
"Bosun Jack! In all my summer nights I never dreamed to see you at such an event. And in a three-piece suit, no less! What giant did you have to kill to find clothes big enough to fit you?"
The hulking deckhand turns up his lips in an ugly smile and shakes the much smaller man's hand. "You're not looking half bad yourself, Captain," his deep voice rumbles. "How that wine is still in your glass and not on your shirt is no less than the work of God!"
The young captain laughs once again. "Well tell Him to keep at it! I'm not finished drinking yet!" He downs the rest of his glass in a few unrestrained gulps and earns a small hoot of praise from the bosun. Tanner sets the empty wine glass down on the table just barely light enough to not break it. "How'd you get invited to this party anyway? I wouldn't expect to see your name on the Ambassador's guest list."
"What are you selling me short for? I've got charisma oozing out my skin!"
"I take it back, Jack. On second thought, your name was probably at the top of the list."
They both smile with the teasing but respectful fraternity seldom found elsewhere but the docks. "Actually, the Ambassador doesn't know I'm here. I snuck in through the back."
"You?! Snea--"
"Listen. I'm not here for no reason, Captain. Word is that Jen Black is plotting something BIG, and she's asking for you, personally."
Tanner's smile falls and his posture immediately sobers up. "Jen Black, huh?" he asks, seemingly to himself. "I haven't seen her in a while. As fond of her as I am, if she's on the prowl again, that can only mean trouble. Did you hear any details?"
"Only that she's gathering a crew at her townhouse. Whatever it is, it's happening soon."
Tanner straightens up his purple Surface-Silk shirt and adopts a serious expression, the pleasantly drunk social butterfly nowhere to be found. "Thank you for the news, Jack. It's best I don't keep her waiting." With a solemn nod of goodbyes which the bosun returns, Tanner retrieves his coat from a thin, balding butler and makes his way out the front door. Any plan of hers is going to be complicated, Tanner thinks while climbing surefootedly into a coach. I've got a lot of work to do.
--
Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/3/2018
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"Thank you, Lady Black."
The Lady reminds Anactoria St James of a stiletto her half-brother once showed her: beautiful, slender, quick ... and deadly. 'And she's damn near unsheathed,' Anactoria thinks as she blushes at the amount of skin she sees. She follows Mr Glamore to the drawing room after the thankfully brief exchange.
Anactoria selects one of the hard chairs and declines the refreshments. No longer confronted by a half-naked hostess she exudes, externally, a cool composure remarkable for someone so young. Her glance is basalt-hard and her well-fitted, if a tad frayed, woman's riding suit and her lightly held cane, which is almost certainly more than its surficial appearance, lend to her an air of quiet confidence. Only her cute-as-a-button-ness detracts from her gravitas, and that but slightly.
Interior matters are completely different. Those who surround her are presumably hardened criminals, or at least hardened in the use of violence and power. What did her Urchin friend, Lucy, tell Lady Black that made her think she—Anactoria—was on par with these people? Feeling out of her depth, she takes a deep breath—in and out—settling herself. Somewhat. Her eyes slowly take in all the others. Who are the most approachable? Who are the most dangerous? Who is most likely to see through her exterior calm?
Aside from his height, Mr Glamore is unremarkable; indeed, unlike everyone else in the room ('Save for myself,' she thinks ... 'And Mr Blank,' she amends), he seems normal. She likes him.
Anactoria can't make much of the Cosmopolitan, other than that she ... or he ... (she can't even guess what sex the person is!) looks tired. Also she or he seems a bit withdrawn.
Mr Blank looks robust and friendly and alert. His air of rumpledness makes him seem approachable. She like him, too.
Lady Karnstein is ... Anactoria struggles for the right word ... enchanting! For a moment she imagines that the lady is one of those beautiful, dangerous daoine sìth come to life out of the faerie tales that filled her youth. As she scans the room, she keep returning to Lady Karnstein. When the midnight-haired woman catches her looking and smiles knowingly, Anactoria blushes and glances away. She doesn't look at Lady Karnstein again.
Michael see knows and not being completely among strangers makes her a little more comfortable. She nods a 'Hello' in his direction.
Anactoria is used to being the most athletic woman in any group, but Miss Lee undoubtedly has her trumped on that score. Anactoria is impressed and jealous. That the other woman wears men's clothing is not shocking--it's not unheard of in London and Anactoria has done it herself--but that she has had them tailor made and that she wears her hair so short does take Anactoria aback. Miss Lee looks dangerous. Like Lady Black, there's an arrogance about her that is distasteful.
Viric looks like a theatre magician ... a theatre magician with very, very strange eyes. He makes her uneasy.
The Fisher-Kings, full of so very much admiration, have recently told Anactoria all about Nikki's jump (with a Velocipede!) through the rose window of St Fiarce's. Anactoria didn't believe it at first, but when she went by the church the window was shattered. Nikki is clearly very brave, but also very foolish ... and she's also so cheerful! Anactoria wishes she could walk over and introduce herself ... but with this many serious, impressive people around she can't.
Mr Price is handsome, strong, healthy, and entirely masculine. He's the type who's smooth and charming and witty and flattering and completely insincere in conversation. He reminds Anactoria too much of Donatien. She doesn't trust him at all.
--
Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/3/2018
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"I'm just saying, Celebrated or not, I'm pretty sure he should have stayed home." Nikki chatted amicably with her fellow Longshanks as she deftly jemmied the window open. She wasn't worried at all about being seen. The very worst that might happen was a quick chase for a few blocks, or she could show her embossed invitation and net a laugh or two at the stymmied face of the unfortunate Constable. Probably the latter -- she didn't wish to be late, after all!
A gentle snick meant success, followed by the whisper of the window pushed up its track, and then she slid through the gap. She landed easily on the floor and turned to watch Mike follow suit. Nikki skipped her habit of casing every room. The lure of an impending adventure was too tempting to waste time, and besides it would be terribly impolite to rob the lass who'd invited her to be part of such a scheme. Plenty of time for that on a different day -- and plenty of targets far more appealing than this. She paused only to close and lock the window and then shuffle her boots mostly dry on the carpeting before heading out into the hallway.
There she encountered Lady Jen's butler -- or rather, possibly her current butler, possibly a member of the crew, possibly both. Nikki had gotten herself a good look at the proprietor of Silk Solutions once, simply because it was such a cleverly novel idea, and while he was unremarkable in appearance that didn't exactly mean he was unidentifiable. She greeted him by name and offered her invitation with a cheeky flourish, then allowed him to escort her and Mike to drawing room with only the slightest hint of skip in her step.
They were not the first to arrive, but they would not be the last either. She occupied herself in idle conversation with Mike as she waited, too excited to sit down properly. She'd worn her usual, opting for slacks so as to avoid the worst of the cold. She'd let Mr. Glamore take her outerwear already, and the room was warm enough from the fire to be comfy. Nikki let her gaze wander around the room as she waited. Lady Jen had chosen an outfit that was revealing even by Devilish and Bohemian standards -- Nikki quite approved, actually, and she thought perhaps she should look into having one made herself.
The young lady in the equestrian's outfit had an adorable face, though she seemed a little intimidated by the rest. Nikki gave her a bright smile and a wave, and resolved to talk to her as soon as she had the chance.
The impossibly pale woman Nikki recognized as Lady Karnstein, a notable figure in Veilgarden. Interesting to find her here, but then a gorgeous woman could be an excellent asset, and she was famously (or infamously) charming no matter who her audience.
She thought she'd seen the tall fellow with the flappy jacket about the Flit, and the blonde with the singed eyebrows had the sort of air that made her think of academics, aided by their distracted-professor attire, ink-stained fingers, and glasses. The young lady in the tailored suit she recognized as someone who frequented the same circles as Max and Angie. She had some masculine L-name that she used, and a first name that was even more giggle-worthy than "Hieronymus" -- not that Nikki had said that to him more than once or twice.
The beardless gentleman with the fashionable attire was handsome enough to warrant a long, appreciative look. The last chap, the tall one with the viric eyes, was not particularly good looking, but his eyes were fascinating, and Nikki wondered what he'd done that they'd turned such a striking color, or if perhaps he'd been born with them. She'd have to ask.
The room itself was well-appointed, though there was a conspicuous lack of statuary, vases, and other breakables. She wondered briefly if that was a quiet comment on the end of her recent escapade, but the chandelier overhead suggested otherwise. That, or it was just too hard to remove the chandelier. If it /was/ because someone had decided that Nikki was a hazard to any and all breakable objects, then they either didn't understand the nature of breaking things, or they didn't have a very high opinion of her skills. Most likely it was completely unrelated, and a few minutes later the thought had been forgotten entirely.
--
Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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shylarah
Posts: 171
2/14/2018
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[written by shy, Ana, and Lady K]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - Second Coil
10:40 AM
“Botheration!”
Anactoria pounds her fist against her thigh in frustration. This is her third time past the pond. Where did everyone get to? Why didn’t she pay more attention?
What will Telemachia think?!
Anactoria chews her lip and looks about nervously.
And sees a pale, beautiful, and familiar face!
“Lady Karnstein!” she cries with unmistakable relief. She quickly, and sheepishly, joins the other woman.
“I got lost, did they send you back for me?” she asks miserably.
Caroline’s animation might not be extraordinary in a more excitable person, but it’s a marked contrast to her usual languor. “Lee - I mean they - are surrounded! They need our assistance. They are not in immediate danger, but we need to make a move. I believe they are being taken somewhere. The Keeper, I suspect. We…” She cocks her head. “And one more.” She moves to look around a corner to identify the stray heartbeat she heard.
“Captured?! Oh dear.” Nikki saunters into view, prize fez atop her head like a crown. She isn’t as concerned as perhaps she should be, given that the captors in question are giant and presumably man-eating tigers. “Well, we’ll just have to get them out, then.”
“I want them helped. I am not sure the best way. It’s going to be rather dangerous. “ The pale woman looks behind her, then back. “There are a lot of Tigers there, and we are at risk of being added to exhibits ourselves.” She cocks her head. “But if you have an idea...
The irrepressible Nikki gives the other two women a coy smile. “This,” she proclaims, “calls for a distraction~”
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - First Coil
10:50 AM
Caroline glides silently along behind Anactoria. Eyes sharp, to be sure she remains safe. Lee can take care of herself. Hopefully.
Nikki and Caroline make quick work of the locks on the cages of the hyenas, the giant snake, the giant lizard, the leopard, and the wolf. Anactoria runs about hysterically screaming to all visitors within earshot, “The animals are loose! The animals are loose!” Mayhem erupts, as desired.
With pandemonium raging, the three women reunite. Nikki and Anactoria catch each other’s mischievous eyes. “The rhinoceros,” they say in unison.
A few quick turns (with Anactoria not in the lead) through the Labyrinth, brings them to Walter.
Nikki obligingly opens the lock keeping the cage door closed, though she mutters something about it being so rudimentary she’s not sure why they even bother locking it. With a flourish she steps aside to let Ana go first.
Anactoria throws open the door of the cage and jumps back.
Walter the Rhinoceros placidly eats from the pile of hay in front of him.
Anactoria waits.
Walter the Rhinoceros placidly eats from the pile of hay in front of him.
Anactoria peeks her head into the cage … and slowly sidles in.
Caroline peers in, staying back. She seems intimidated by Walter’s size, more than the Longshanks seems to be.
Walter the Rhinoceros flicks a lazily uninterested glance at her and goes back to placidly eating from the pile of hay in front of him.
He’s enormous! Anactoria thinks as she walks beside him. He’s like a walking castle! She imagines Joan of Arc triumphing with a cavalry of battle rhinos.
Having achieved the backside of Walter she gives a series of sharp claps.
Walter the Rhinoceros placidly eats from the pile of hay in front of him.
“Go!” Anactoria swats his rump with her open hand.
Walter the Rhinoceros placidly breaks wind.
“Fah! Ack! Go! Go! Go, go, go!” Each word is punctuated by a swift, hard kick and a desperately fanning hand, accompanied by a ripple of giggles from one of her less-than-helpful audience members.
Walter the Rhinoceros placidly eats from the pile of hay in front of him.
Anactoria draws her sword from its cane sheath and stabs rhinoceros rump.
Walter the Rhinoceros flicks his tail in mild annoyance.
Taking a deep breath (now that the air has cleared), Anactoria plunges her sword a hand’s span into Walter’s bottom.
With a bellowing roar of doom Walter unstoppably plows forward into the Labyrinth’s corridors, yanking Anactoria’s sword from her hand.
“_ _ _ _!” Anactoria dashes after Walter and her sword.
Caroline, wide eyed, follows. She does keep a bit of a distance from the beast. Just to be safe.
Nikki crows in victory, and with a flying leap she vaults atop the lumbering mountain. Walter’s already going, and there’s no way to dissuade him -- nor her, for that matter. He doesn’t object to sudden passenger, beyond a snort that might or might not have been directed at her. Balancing is easy enough, for the back of a rhinoceros is wide, but that very width means that she is better off in a position more like kneeling than astride a proper saddle. Nor is there much to hold onto, not that Nikki needs anything of the sort. The horn, while nicely shaped for service as a handhold, is too far forward to be useful, and runs the unfortunate danger of blocking the beast’s view -- or perhaps giving him a view of another sort entirely. What did rhinos think of women, anyhow?
“Hurry up!” she calls, reaching for Ana, now running in pursuit. “Here, grab my hand~” She waits only long enough to be sure of her grip before swinging the younger woman up behind her. The passage of a rhinoceros is enough to stir even the most somnolent of hyaenas into a run, and before long all the loose animals are gathered in one large, charging jumble.
Which is how the pair came to be riding past comrades and tigers alike in the center of a roiling mass of noisy animals. Nikki smiles and waves as they careen past the filled doorway. “Looks like the tigers are effectively distracted~” she says cheerily to Ana.
“Yes, yes it does.” The pale woman’s eyes widen.
edited by shylarah on 2/14/2018
edited by shylarah on 2/14/2018
--
Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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shylarah
Posts: 171
2/7/2018
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Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - the Tiger Keeper’s Office
10:25 AM
Nikki wasn’t anywhere in sight as the group was rounded up. She’d backtracked to the first coil after seeing the group with enough doors open that the other thiefy-types in the party would surely have no trouble with the rest. She’d forgotten something very important in that first coil, specifically in the office of the Tiger Keeper. He was taking his early-morning constitutional, which consisted of a nice hookah followed by a nap. The curling plumes of scented smoke bothered her eyes and made it hard to see, but more importantly, it masked her scent.
On soft soles as light as the very paws of a cat, she slipped deeper into the office. There, the furry haunch of the Keeper rose out of the gloom, rising and falling gently with his breath. His rumbly almost-purr vibrated through the floor so near, but as she stole towards his head she could see he was dozing. Not quite asleep, but close enough that it would do.
His fez was perched at a jaunty angle, kept in place by a rounded ear. The daring thief grabbed an ottoman and carefully moved it closer to the slumbering feline. From atop it, she could stretch out to gently, gently lift the hat from his head, being ever-so-careful not to jostle his thick fur. When she had a few centimeters’ clearance, a wide grin spread across her face. Success! It was a matter of moments before the footrest was put back where she’d found it, and the now-perfumed lady made her gleeful way out of the office, prize hat atop her own head.
edited by shylarah on 2/7/2018
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Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/11/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - Undisclosed Location
11:00 AM
Some large room - still within the Labyrinth, from its basalt walls and tiger-musk smell - has been converted into a sort of courtroom. A dignified tigress sits on a cushioned pedestal, smoking a cigar and frowning down at the humans before her. The six prisoners sit on a Persian rug, surrounded by a good dozen tiger guards. Each of the prisoners is attempting - with various degrees of success - to look unworried.
*****
Telemachia Lee’s is one of the better performances. Her body language has nothing of fear in it - merely sullen irritation. This is, in fact, more or less what she feels, although she does admire the Judge’s style. Lee’s neck is swathed in bandages, Cosmo's expert handiwork. She reaches inside her coat and pulls out a small bottle of a thin scarlet liquor. It steams in the open air and makes a low thrumming vibration, like a steel cable in a storm. She takes a sip from the flask, eyes shut, face strained and then relaxing. She feels the rush of fire in her veins. The pain in her throat is replaced by a fierce itching as her punctured tissues reknit themselves.
*****
Cosmo, meanwhile, is wringing their hands, obsessively applying disinfectant and spreading it over their palms, behind their nails, between their fingers. They have done far more than is hygienically necessary after treating a patient.
Eventually they stop themselves. They don’t want to appear nervous. Instead they lean back onto the chaise lounge and run over their defence in their head. I was merely here to calm the prisoners for the night. Please, by all means, ask Mr Inch, or the Tiger Keeper to testify for my good character. Will they attempt to defend the others? That might be tricky. They aren’t sure how the others have been caught-in what position- if they’ve tried to fight the tigers, or who fired the gun.
But Nikki isn’t here, nor are Anactoria and Caroline. Have they noticed that the group has been found? Can they simply bide for time and wait for rescue?
*****
Michael sits cross-legged, wrapping an arm protectively around his chest. His expression remains carefully neutral, head bowed in something that had too much deference in it to pass for respect. His coat is folded atrociously on his lap, where two weasels curl around each other in a tight circle, sharing their owner's apathy for the tigers and their apparent disfavorable situation. There is nothing to lose by staying quiet, and everything to gain if they can find the right opening. And if the right opening doesn't show itself, well, listening to the tigers talk on and on isn't such a terrible punishment.
Nuzzling his chin against his chest, he glances at the injured weasel resting on the nook of his arm. Even after being hastily wrapped in makeshift bandages (And he's sure Cosmo will not approve of it), it sleeps in between fretful kicks and the occasional whimper.
Turbulent dreams, he imagines. He can only imagine.
*****
Tanner regards the Tiger Judge like a disinterested delinquent schoolchild held after class in detention. His arms wrap around the back of his cozy armchair; they do not keep uncomfortable chairs in the Labyrinth. Not even for a group of prisoners… if that’s how the tigers thought of them now. He slouches back, prepared to sit tight, keep his mouth shut unless otherwise needed, and get whatever’s about to happen over with.
*****
The Tiger Judge regards the assembled group with an expression vaguely reminiscent of an annoyed parent. “Another group attempting to free the prisoners?” she asks one of the guards who brought them before her. They haven't been bound or even disarmed; merely under the watchful eyes of several tigers. That alone is enough to make escape a bad idea.
He nods, scowling. “That’s the third attempt this year, milady.”
She waves him off with a paw and looks at the assembly before her. “You children,” she says, “oh stop shivering, little ones, we aren’t going to hurt you. But still. You’ve been very naughty.”
*****
Tanner glances around. No one seems to be shivering.
*****
“Please, this is absurd. My intentions here were nothing of the sort. Call the Tiger Keeper, if you must, or Mr Inch. They would surely laugh off such risible accusations,” Cosmo splutters.
*****
Tanner stands corrected.
*****
“Jus' let the furball speak, min.” Michael murmurs, picking at a loose thread on his glove. “Yappin’ at them dinnae work back there. It ain't gonna work now.”
*****
Lee might well have had something to say at this point. As far as she is concerned, rudeness towards overbearing authority figures is its own reward. But she’s too busy listening to speak. She’s not listening to the Judge. Beyond the walls she hears the stir of echoes.
*****
The tigress gets off her chaise longue and starts pacing around them, tail waving slightly. Her steps are slow, measured, padding, graceful, filling the observers with a combined sense of awe and fear. When she speaks, her voice is filled with dignity and gravitas. “Do you know what you have done? Do you think you have aided London?” She pitches her voice higher, mockingly. “Saving innocents from us ‘evil tigers’, as if we have nothing better to do than to feed and house a bunch of enemies?”
*****
Jen is calm before the Judge, leaning against the wall with a mask of perfect composure on her face, her relaxed posture hiding the way she was coiled to strike. There is no need to argue. The tigers had caught her in the act of unlocking the cages, and the Judge seemed perfectly content to drone on. Interrupting her might annoy her more, and besides, her crew wouldn’t be hurt. That is all that matters to her. The prisoners had mostly been freed, and the task of escaping recapture was in their own hands. Responses to rhetorical questions are unnecessary. And besides, she has learned one thing over the years: fools who run their mouths off wind up dead.
*****
“What you have done, children, is to release a menace on London. Those people were possessed by Fingerkings -- dream-serpents, if you will. They are no longer human. Did you fail to see their eyes? The far-off look, the slitted pupils? Those ‘people’ are simply meat puppets now, to be controlled and used for as long as their masters wish.”
*****
Cosmo wants to interject, but they can hardly afford to expose themselves to an argument with the Judge, not now they’ve asserted their loyalty to the Labyrinth. They open and close their mouth ineffectually, looking like the goldfish they keep in their office at the University.
*****
So there it is, Tanner thinks. The Tigers are not collecting exotic humans for the sake of their own pleasure. They are gaolers protecting London from creatures far more dangerous than casual murderers and thieves. Tanner can hardly fault their ambition, but do they have to be so damn condescending? Having no patience for didactic lectures or heavy-handed dogma, Tanner slumps down in his chair with a sigh and keeps his comments to himself, eager for the Judge to tut and scold herself to sleep.
*****
Jen ignores the tiger. The threat of Fingerkings are real, but there are many who are only enemies to the cats. Those who were imprisoned under suspicion of being possessed. Trade unionists. Cat chasers. The safety of London is just a pretext.
*****
“We are doing a good work here. Keeping them off the streets. Feeding them, clothing them. Preventing their masters from wreaking further havoc in the city. Protecting their families and friends from being heartbroken when they ... realize ...”
*****
The Judge ceases her lecture as the floor shakes beneath them. The cries of various creatures echo down the hallway, growing steadily louder. A few of the tigers go into the hall to investigate. The judge paces in silence. The prisoners sit, waiting for their moment.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/11/2018
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[Also co-written with Lady Jen Black]
December 22, 1895
A letter arrives for Caroline. Written in a bold dark hand, deep green ink on fine paper: "Lady Karnstein, my sincere apologies for what transpired at our last meeting. If you would permit me, I would like us to meet so that I can make amends. As proof of my sincerity, feel free to name the time and place, that you have nothing to fear from a trap. Your obedient servant, Lady Jen Black."
Caroline offers to meet at her townhouse where she holds her Salons on an off night. She will meet Jen there and offer her a comfortable seat and a table with wine. Caroline's demeanor is not lazy and relaxed, but not as hostile as the evening before. Her voice is warm when she greets her. The usual mix of accents showing in one word or another
Jen takes her seat and greets Caroline politely. She eyes the wine with some trepidation, but decides to take a leap of faith and sips at the glass, savouring the flavour. "A sign of good faith," she says simply. "And I do understand your displeasure, Lady Karnstein. Is there something I can do to make amends?"
She chooses her words carefully, thoughtfully. Clearly not a native. "I wish...I need to feel I can trust you, both not to betray and to do the wise thing. As with Hubris I did not take his offer because I do not seek revenge or recompense. Nor do I with you. I do not wish to see you fail. I ultimately suffered little trouble. But...." She exhales. "You understand my concerns?"
Jen sets her wineglass down. "I do understand. And I have no intentions to betray the party, nor for any of you to get hurt. Not that if I was planning such a thing I would say so, but..." she gives an expressive shrug. "We stand and fall together. There is no use in treachery with regard to one's allies. If this fails, we are all doomed. And as for doing the wise thing, I will try. I confess that I am still young, and on occasion, prone to rashness and impulsivity. And I do hope older, wiser minds can offer me advice. Especially you." Her smile is sweet and careless. "I am certain you have seen many things in your long life. Not that I intend to mention it to the others. A lady must keep her secrets. You take my meaning?"
Caroline looks at her a few moments, weighing. "You do. You saw me kill him, then." Not a question, nor an accusation. She leans back. "I rescued his wife from him. Not for me. She does not like women.” She looks away, and back. “He makes me so angry." She looks at her glass a moment, thinking, then emerald eyes look up. "I want us all to succeed. So I would be happy to offer advice, outside any special knowledge of the Duchess, but I will not sabotage you there either, I promise."
Jen nods. "Such strength is supernatural. As is the way you lured the girl to your carriage. I do not accuse you of impropriety, I merely state. Few can dazzle the way you do. And your paleness, too. I did my research." She leans back in her chair. "Tell me. If you feed on a person, what happens to both of you? Could you eliminate threats in such a way?"
"Most people have trouble fighting the intense feelings that wash over them. As long as I take only a little they have no long lasting effects...I feed from a number of people, so everyone is safe. Violet is safe and alive today, if you wish to speak to her. " She pours a bit more from the same bottle in her glass. "A strong willed person could fight me off, at least if they could overpower me. Anyone in that room could at least resist. A typical person would be helpless, and I could hold someone until they fainted but at least most people if I took that much it would be a little dodgy if they could survive. A strong man could, someone with a weak heart would not from me taking that much. I don't usually kill and it's not exact. I know what I can take for no long term effects."
Jen nods. "Understandable. And I suppose you would not want to reveal your true nature to the rest of our crew?" She sips her wine. "I will confess to being curious. Are the gothic novels true? Can you indeed turn into a flock of bats and haunt people's dreams so they waste away? And how is this," she waves a hand at the wine, "possible?"
"I do not make a practice of revealing myself. But I would reveal myself before I would let someone in the group, or one of my people, be in danger. Lee suspects.” She sets her glass down. “I cannot really transform to speak of. A very large cat in dreams or parabola. Not a mist, or bats, or a rodent. At least not that I know how to. I know it is a secret buried in the second city. Where it came from. Anyway, they do not waste away unless I keep feeding. And since I tasted the Cider, I have been able to do more human things...eat, drink...though it speeds, a little, how soon I need more blood, like coupling does. Each time I have more I get more capable...but I do not have a source for myself."
Jen tops up her wine, feeling a chill creep down her spine. "So, if you were to feed on, say, the guards. That would be able to further your abilities, and nonlethally incapacitate them." She keeps her eyes on Caroline, lazy yet tense, and is suddenly aware of how very easy it would be for the woman to lunge for her neck.
"I could. I usually don't but I could if I needed to. I usually feed just to survive. And for pleasure with willing company." She smiles lazily, her whole posture, leaning back, is so still, languid, lovely, while her eyes are so intense. Without distraction, just sitting and talking, a weaker woman than Jen might be lost now, though it seems almost just a side effect of who she is...she does not seem to be trying tp control her or indeed do anything but speak. "If necessary, I could. But if I take very much it would be risky. And too many peaked people would possibly come back to me."
Jen nods in understanding. "Naturally. We would not want to arouse any suspicion. Or allow anything to be traced back to us." She sips at her wine. "So, Lady Karnstein. Do you believe you can trust me? Can we enter this business venture together without needing to fear that the other is about to stab us in the back?"
"Caroline, please.” She looks thoughtful. "Very well. You have my word. You know I do not break it. Such is my reputation."
She finishes up the last of her wine. "Caroline, then. I am glad we had this conversation." She extends her hand to shake.
She gently reaches out her hand "Of course. I look forward to working with you."
edited by Lady Karnstein on 1/19/2018
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
2/23/2018
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Cosmo runs. They were not unfamiliar with the Labyrinth, so they were able to make their way towards the exit of the Third Coil without issue. Apart from the tiger blocking their way.
It turns as Cosmo approaches the Second Coil and snarls. It immediately starts bounding over to attack.
“Oh… for the love of-”
Cosmo has to think quickly. They sink to their knees and scrabble around on the ground before they find what they were looking for. That would do: heavy, relatively round, and they could grasp it in the palm of their hand.
They stand up. One foot forward, elbow bent, with projectile clutched to their chest. They rapidly bring back their elbow and let their forearm flick out, straightening their arm. It swings round in an arc, as they spring towards the tiger, and at just the right moment, their hand opens.
The rock hits the tiger square on the forehead. Aim on point. Cosmo smiles: they still had it. They doubted the throw was fast enough to kill the beast, but it would certainly be concussed.
They make their way to the checkpoint. Nobody had seen that, had they? Typical.
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Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/3/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
6:15 P.M.
Jen looks up from her desk when she hears a tapping at her window and blows on the damp ink. She doesn’t like writing things down unless absolutely necessary. It’s always been safer to keep everything in her head and only relay information verbally. Handwriting is too easily recognized. But with this new typewriter -- courtesy of her Bohemian connections -- that problem has been solved.
She pushes aside the curtain and sees a sulking bat tapping against the glass. “Sorry, little one,” she says as she opens it, and the furry little fellow enters and flaps around her head in irritation, a piece of paper attached to its leg. With gentle hands she removes it and reads the message. Well. That is interesting.
An hour before the guests are due to arrive, she starts getting ready. A vanity chest is a good place to hide her poisons. Arsenic for the complexion, not that she could do much to make herself deathly pale. It's fatal in large doses, but if many small ones are taken over time, the body would develop a dependency and not taking it would result in death. Belladonna is used to dilate pupils -- not that she's ever had an issue with unattractive eyes -- and causes hallucinations, confusion, and memory issues, among other things.
Of course, she won’t use them on herself. Beeswax and soot on her lashes. Black lining her eyelids. Carmine on her cheeks and lips. A sleeveless black dress like nothing she's ever seen before, which Adrien assures her is the latest in infernal fashion. She steps back and looks at herself. It looks like something for the bedroom, cut low to expose her back and with a high slit that shows off long, toned legs. Something designed to elicit lust and unthinking desire. Something to delight and distract and addle the minds of anyone attracted to the female gender. Perfect.
She heads downstairs and looks around the drawing room. The butler has done an excellent job with the setup. And with helping her with the… other arrangements, too. She wants all the people here to feel safe. So there are bright areas and shadows, places to be seen and places to hide. Hard chairs, soft couches, plush carpets, and plenty of room for those who want to stand. And from any one place in the room, the nearest exit is no more than five seconds’ sprint away. She considered making it harder to leave, but if she's going to be working with them, they need to feel comfortable here. The vases have been removed, along with all other highly breakable items -- the chandelier is crystal, but she can’t think of a way that anyone could accidentally shatter that. Hopefully.
At the appointed time, the doorbell rings and she goes to open it. A smile comes to her face when she sees her guest. “Welcome to the Black family home. This way, please -- Mr Glamore will lead you to the drawing room to enjoy some refreshments.”
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Canvas Brimming
Posts: 30
12/28/2017
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“Come on, come on...! Where is it!?"
As the Constables close in on the archive and their shouts grow louder, sweat covers his forehead. Panicked rushing through papers can be heard between the loud opening and closing of file cabinets. An abundance of footsteps and cusswords flood the hallways outside; His heart beats like thunder.
“What is this pattern?! It's not even alphabetical! Let's see, F, G, B... Baker, Black, Bennett, Baxter... Yes! Blank!”
His expression quickly shifts as he hears someone fiddling with the lock on the other side of the door. He desperately looks around the room for an idea, but the door is suddenly kicked open and the room is filled with the light of the Constable's lantern; In a second, his arms are raised and he's surrounded by a dozen uniforms and rifles.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! What's with all this hostility? Don't I have the right to--”
“Quiet, scoundrel!" The Constable interrupts him. “I don't want to hear a word out of you 'til we reach Newgate!”
At a whisper of his partner, the Constable takes note to the vial Canvas is clenching on to in his raised hand.
“What's that now? Put that down, immediately!”
He shrugs - “If you insist.” He closes his eyes, turns his head and drops the violet-tinted vial. With the shattering of the glass, a flash of Irrigo fills the room. The Constables are dazed and disoriented; He uses this small window of opportunity to bolt outside and lock the door behind him with the keys that were still dangling from the lock. “Maybe now you will have the time to organize your paperwork!” he yells angrily as he runs for the first open window and takes off onto the rooftops, with his file still folded neatly in his pocket.
---
When he is confident that he's safe and sound from the Constables' eyes, he leans against a chimney to catch his breath. "Once again... Too close.” he mutters.
“I saw that, you know." Says a deep voice from behind.
“Oh, lovely. What fresh new Hell is this?”
A black cat appears from the shadows, it's yellow piercing eyes locked on Canvas.
“You can handle yourself pretty well, that much is apparent. Now, they say there is a rather secretive group forming in London... One that could certainly appreciate your skills. If, of course, you're looking to make use of them.” It says, licking it's paw.
"Well, I'm sure they're doing a great job maintaining a low profile, considering there's an alley cat telling me about them.” He snaps back.
“..."
“You know what I meant.”
The cat walks the ledge of the roof. “Lady Jen Black is the name you'll be looking for.” It says with a purr, before silently landing on a balcony below.
“Jen Black... why does that sound familiar? Oh, of course!”
The thought sticks with him until morning as he makes his way home from the rooftops. “I could certainly learn a thing or two from them... And some profit on the side wouldn't hurt. It wouldn't hurt at all. Am I really doing this? I always did prefer to rely on my own eyes and ears...” Not long after the return to his lodgings, a certain zee-bat is zipping through London bearing a message assigned to Jen Black.
edited by Canvas Blank on 1/2/2018
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Canvas Brimming, The Nostalgic Investigator - A private investigator, a Wilmot's End regular and a rising pawn, with an insatiable sense of sentimentality towards the Surface. Why don't you leave a card?
~(Very active, RP always encouraged and appreciated!)
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Docteur
Posts: 101
12/27/2017
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Adjusting a mirror on a rooftop, surrounded by a few awestruck urchins, Viric seemed totally focused. His concentration broke only when another orphan came out of a window and onto the roof.
"Oy guv', r'member the lady you ask'd to keep an eye on?"
The cloaked man turned and fixed his gaze on the child. Against the dark backdrop of the Neath, only the two green dots seemed to appear.
"Yes, Lady Black. What about her?"
"You wer' right wif thinkin' she was havin' a "double-life" of sort." The urchin struggled when recalling the words used by Viric. "She's no normal lady."
"And what have you found out to say that with such confidence?"
"She's prep'p'in' a job of some sort. Recru'tin' a crew. Want to steal some things."
The slender figure in the hood indicated the orphan to come closer. His eyes seem glowing with a playful light. While the boy approached, Viric sat down and started writing. Letters in moss-coloured ink flowed gracefully from a fountain pen.
"I will join your crew and share the spoils with you. I have many questions for you, and this job seems like the perfect opportunity to ask them. I am sure my skills will satisfy your needs.
My name is probably foreign to you, as we have not met yet. Just ask an urchin about Viric. Eventually, your answer will come to me."
Now, that's a gamble. Let's hope it works. He folded the letter and slipped it in a small envelope, before giving it to the urchin.
"Bring it to her."
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The Viric Voice! A beautiful instrument.
Docteur - And so it ends.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/7/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
8:15 P.M.
Jen responds to Michael in the same low whisper. "I know. Look, I didn't bring you on without knowing what you're good at. But I have to put some rules in place. You? I trust you to watch our backs. To spot threats. If you shoot, it's because you've seen something that maybe we haven't. But I saw Caroline throw a man into the wall until he died, although thankfully she doesn't seem too keen on using that talent. Lee? She seems like she's spoiling for a fight. Have you considered the damage they could do if I gave them free rein? If there's a bloodbath, everyone in the Neath will be hunting us down."
She shakes her head with a sigh. "I'm good at killing. You know that. It would be easy for me to just slaughter my way through any difficulties. But since I have the gift of death... I feel like I have to use it responsibly." She turns her head to look at him. "If you see something, something that's going to harm us, I trust your judgement. And I trust you'll watch our backs. Are you satisfied with that?"
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
1/7/2018
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Every word out of Jen's mouth tingles the lust inside him for such a daring heist. He rises to his feet, turning to his companions with a devious and motivated grin on his face. He addresses his new merry band of misfits. "I don't know how many of you dream of wealth. Of fortune, fame, and the thrill of a lifetime. But we all have something to gain here, whatever that may be. Everyone here in this room has gifts, and tonight many of you will put them to use for something grander than you have ever done before. I stand with Jen and her plan. Let this night define us, and the conquests we make stay with us forever."
He turns to face Lee, sitting with frustration at the footnote of Jen's scheme. "You are right to have your concerns. Their job is to kill us, or at the very least get in our way. Most would never dream of showing us a modicum of mercy. But I side with Jen and her stance against their deaths, and not only for the sake of my not enjoying murder. But if someone were to die at our hands tonight, they'd miss out on the pleasure of bearing witness to the greatest crime wave to ever strike Fallen London!" His vision turns to face the rest of the room. "I mean that only figuratively, of course. The fewer people who can identify us, the better. We'll need to be stealthy, clever, and very very prepared if we want this to work."
His eyes now focus on their hostess. "Thank you for adding a few caveats to your scheme, Jen. As much fun as tonight is sure to be, I will have to abstain from robbing the Cheery Man. He knows damn well I owe him no loyalties, and he certainly is as deserving of robbery as anyone else you've mentioned. But the man has earned my respect where no one else on your list has. I will not partake in the desecration of his business."
"But to robbing the Brass Embassy," he continues, addressing the crowd. "Nothing would amuse me greater! I admire the devils, and I adore their sense of style! But I am a member of the Committee of Vital Restitution. The dream of robbing an enormous cache of souls and contracts fills me up with not entirely selfish joy. May they not get what's coming to them. Same with the Ministry of Public Decency. Censorship and prudence are a blight on this Earth, and if we have no choice but to stuff our own personal libraries with as much delicious scandal and secrets as our shelves can carry, well." He shrugs. "That is simply the sacrifice we must be willing to make.
"Whatever this night will bring, I stand with you all ready to face it. May the fruits of Tantalus taste ever sweet as their juices stain our lips."
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Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/7/2018
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Anactoria’s eyes widen at the list of targets Lady Black proposes. Some of them she would eagerly poke in the eye: the Brassy Embassy, the Gracious Widow, the Cheery Man. Others seem benign, or at least harmless; she has little stomach for robbing Mrs Plenty or the Duchess. The Foreign Office she is indifferent to and February is unknown. ‘But all in one night?’ It’s almost breathtakingly audacious.
She is heartened by Lady Black’s injunction against needless killing, but is appalled by how casually Ms Lee, Mr Blank, and Nikki resist the suggestion. Yes, here some people come back from dying … but some don’t. She nods approvingly as Lady Karnstein points out the wisdom of not turning the venture into an abattoir.
Seeing an opening, she follows up on one of Mr Price’s themes. Her voice is steady, serious, and unhurried, “If we’re killing people, we’ve already failed; we’re leaving a trail of witnesses. If we walk in and out and nobody knows, all the better for us … and the mystery—who did it? how?—will be the stuff of legends!”
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Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
1/7/2018
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By the time the toasts are done, Michael finds himself more at ease – even as he disregards the foul taste of Surface wine clinging to his tongue. He would later make a point of leaving the glass somewhere inconspicuous, and as far away from him as possible. He does not mind any of the targets, and the idea of donating to some of the urchin gangs makes him smile despite himself, bringing a spirited glint to his eyes. It only took a starving urchin to understand how blind and deaf some people were, and he's glad Jen is neither.
It is only the mention of her sole rule that melts his calm smile into a frown – hid by a contemplative hand to his mouth. He knows he can object if he wants to, and he will if nobody else will speak up against the sheer absurdity of going against armed enemies with nothing but good intentions, but his glance meets Lee's before he can do so. Well? A cocked eyebrow, and a sharp glare. Sharper than he can usually muster. Are you in? Or not?
She expresses his concern far more eloquently than he ever could, and it's only then than he can feel some sort of relief. Nodding along to her words is easier when he knows she understands. Still, his grip on his rifle remains steady.
Nikki's light-hearted agreement, like a balm for the blazing hot trail of unspoken words, force his shoulders to slump lightly, with a quiet chuckle. “Careful, Missus Wyatt” He murmurs when she's done. “Yer startin' to make sense.”
Her presence makes ignoring Canvas' voice slightly easier, but not entirely possible. Michael can only regard him with the same piercing glare he'd directed towards Lee. If 'offing' someone is a last resort, he could only wonder how many resorts they had used on each other already. Did threats count as a second-to-last one? Hm. Thoughts for later, perhaps.
Taking the seaman's impromptu monologue as the perfect chance to slip away, he leaves Nikki's side to gravitate towards Jen's, making a point of lowering his rifle to a more amicable position as he does. He's not as bold as to address her directly when someone else is speaking, regardless of how empty the pirate's words sound to him – Everything about the man rings hollow and he does not understand why, but then again, the stale air makes it hard to piece his own thoughts together -, so he leans back against the same wall she stands against. When he speaks, his voice is but above a whisper, intended for her ears only.
“Ye ken my way of doin' things, Nicdubh. We know each other tha' much, aye?” He pauses as the words 'censorship' and 'prudence' come up in the room-wide speech, tilting his head to the side. “And I ken yer a smart lass. We canna afford t' lose ye.” Anactoria's words give him another pause, and make him sigh and shake his head with a mixture of warmth and mid-amusement. How very much like her, to oppose 'senseless' murder. “But should it come down t' ye – any of ye – and anyone who might...compromise...yer plans...Well.” He shrugs, eyes fixed forward. “Jus' remember I work with ye. Not for ye.” There is no animosity in his words or his expression. Only determination.
edited by Slyblue on 1/7/2018
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/5/2018
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Lee unabashedly enjoys the view of Jen’s back. She’s aware that the woman is using her beauty to manipulate her. That makes Lee cautious - while her eyes remain just where Jen wants them, her ears are open the the smallest sounds, and echoes of sounds. Background clinkings and shufflings are sorted automatically, none of them important enough yet to bother her conscious mind with.
Her caution, however, doesn’t mean that Jen’s tactic isn’t working. It would be easy enough to agree to anything while her mind dwelt on the scenery. She’ll just have to hope that her allies keep their wits about them. Canvas Blank - no, from the man’s expression he's just as much a lost cause as Lee herself. She hopes that she isn’t gaping quite so obviously as that. You’d think that he’d never seen the curve of a woman’s spine, the gleam of candlelight on warm soft skin, the hollows of the lower back ...
Well, at least she could count on Caroline to keep her head.
Lee joins the toasts without visible hesitation. Of course there could be Cantigaster venom in the wine, but it would be foolish to balk at this point. From the smell and taste, it’s pure claret.
The taste of the grapes of Bordeaux on her tongue brings back intense flashes of memories of the Surface. A serious girl with big grey-blue eyes, sitting at the kitchen table drinking watered wine and listening to Daddy’s war stories. A maiden in a dress, with long blonde hair, laughing and dancing with young men - yes, she had worn a dress and danced with men, once - sharing a glass of red wine with a dark-eyed Italian beauty, trying to work up the nerve to ask her to dance - whatever would her aunts have thought? - but a young man asked her first. A handsome androgynous youth, with short dark hair, wearing a good suit, seeking a military commission, her manservant pouring her a glass to steady her nerves - it might even have worked, if she could have brought herself to lie a bit more.
And back to the present, to the proud young woman who faces the world armored against all weakness, whose best friends are a taciturn assassin and a monster out of myth, who has volunteered herself for the most outrageous of plots. “To Viric!” she echoes, wondering how many of the others she will be toasting, more solemnly, when this business is done.
I’d better keep drinking, she thinks. I’m in danger of becoming serious.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/6/2018
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As Caroline listens, she looks eminently comfortable. Curled into her chair, she watches Jen carefully. She listens as her heart quickens a bit, but nervousness is almost to be expected. Frankly this just means she is sane. Her gaze does linger but her ears are sharp. The different breathing and hearbeats form a song unique to this team, and Caroline is happy to lean it. She also raises her glass and toasts. A smile as she tastes, impressed by the vintage. She sips as one trained to love wine does, smelling it, tasting it on the center of her tongue. Then slowly her arm bends on the arm of the chair as she leans on her the backs of her fingers, smiling, to hear what Jen has to say.
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
1/5/2018
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The sight of Jen Black is always a welcome one. It had been too long since they'd last met -- that thing about the red honey and the damned cat! She's a great intellect with a mind constantly whirring up daring schemes, though tonight she looked less menacing than usual. But certainly not less dangerous, Tanner thought, taking in the sight of her dress. Long, sleek, seductive -- she's clearly using her looks like she would any weapon, relying on her charm to get what she wants from her guests. Of course, he was no stranger to the concept. But she did look good. There was no denying that.
"It's great to see you again, Jen," Tanner greets her with a warm, reminiscent smile. "You look beautiful in that dress. It suits you wonderfully. After whatever you have in store for tonight, perhaps you could introduce me to your tailor. If they're just as good with menswear as they are with your ensemble, I will most certainly be offering them my commission."
Tanner strolls inside, taking in the sights of her townhouse. She seems to have dressed down the decor since last he was here. But it makes sense. Hosting a large crew of thieves under one roof, one cannot be too careful. If he was in Jen's position he'd be rightfully wary himself. But there's another purpose to this, he feels. The way Jen has selectively removed more fragile objects, regardless of their value, suggests that she's either expecting trouble or trying to prevent it entirely. Anything she imagines could be used as an improvised weapon she has taken measures to remove. Hah! She'll have to do better than that! But perhaps he is not the source of her caution.
The pirate disrobes of his dark leather longcoat, several weapons clinking around like Christmas chimes as he folds and hands it to Hubris, who is apparently Jen's butler tonight. Ahhh, so this is Hubris! The man who thought he was thunder! Tanner hadn't thought him to be of a servant's heart, but then again, they had never met before. He greets the butler politely, thanking him for his hospitality.
Inside the drawing room, a splendidly varied cast of characters awaits him. His attention drawn first to the imposingly dressed and confident docker. "Telemachia Lee! I should've known," he grins with the playful confidence he wears comfortably around his peers. "If you've deigned to grace this party with your presence, this will be anything but a boring night." He shakes her hand firmly and moves on.
The young lady in the riding suit Tanner does not recognize, but he learns from asking Hubris that she is Anactoria St. James, looking significantly out of place. Her age does not alarm him, but he is curious about her visible nervousness. Is she concerned that she will not be useful, or does the present company intimidate her? When her eyes glance over to him, he senses distrust, and her gaze does not linger long. Hmm. He'll leave her alone for a while until her nerves relax.
The cheerful teasing of Canvas Blank catches his attention, and he turns around to receive the handshake of the friendly investigator. "I seem to be living up to my new name," Tanner laughs. "I hope I didn't miss all the fun." He pats him familiarly on the back and continues perusing the crowd.
Caroline Karnstein catches his attention next. They've never spoken, but he knows of her from his fellow artists in Veilgarden. The poets envy her, and the ladies can't get enough of her. Tanner makes her acquaintance politely, but refrains from kissing her hand. Something about her makes him feel less than comfortable. He wonders whether she is here for the plan or the attractive company.
Next are the two Longshanks: Nikki and Michael. Immediately Tanner finds himself smiling again at the sight of the former, waving at him with bubbly good cheer. He returns the wave and comes over to greet the pair. "The charming stuntwoman behind the broken stained glass window. I'm a big fan of your work." Tanner includes a friendly wink. "And you must be Michael, the one with all the weasels. I take it that wriggling in your jacket is not some Rubbery attachment." He shakes his hand. "Pleasure."
The scholar's cap and short blonde hair that catch his eye are undoubtedly familiar. It's the Cosmopolitan! They met under similar circumstances as with Jen, but their interactions were far briefer. Tanner's steps toward them lack the fervor he's displayed with others, but his smile is polite. "I'm glad we get this chance to meet again, Cosmo," he speaks with a noticeably forced formality. "Thank you for your help with the previous business. I'm sure if you received an invitation, Jen must trust in your abilities. I look forward to working with you."
Feeling suitably situated among the crowd, Tanner lays himself leisurely upon the remarkably soft couch. He stays in this position until Hubris offers him a glass of wine, which he accepts out of courtesy but would prefer not to indulge in tonight. If this job is as high-profile and important as he hears, Tanner will need to restrain himself and keep a clear head. He sets the glass down gently beside him and stretches out on the couch, sinking into a deep comfort as he awaits his hostess's speech.
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Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Hubris Glamore
Posts: 49
1/4/2018
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"And so it begins." The butler mused to himself as the guests begin to arrive and largely without exception he set about taking their coats, taking them through to the drawing room and offering refreshments. Small talk could wait until the scheme had begun in earnest. For now he played the role of the faithful butler, with little said bar his polite greetings and offers of tea, coffee or water, all the while putting together in his a note or two about each of the Lady's guests.
"Miss St James." She was young. Visibly put off by Black's attire. Which was no doubt the idea of course, but even so. Still, despite the obvious inexperience, he noted with approval the practical clothing and the ponytail. Both choices of dress that lent themselves well to the sort of business that was expected this evening and indeed, the Neath in general. Promising choices in a newcomer.
"Mr Blank." This one he knew. Tangentially, at least. You never really leave the Game and if you intend to reduce your prominence in it, you are a damn fool if you don't keep a careful tab on the up and comers. His skills would suit this caper well.
"Lady Karnstein." Another of the newer crop of Game players, although this one had a very different skillset, putting more emphasis on the social aspects of the Game. Prominent in Veilgarden certainly, but the name had been popping up in a surprising amount of places in recent times. One to watch, this one.
"The Cosmopolitan. Scholar of Benthic" This one he had little knowledge of. Probably a good bet for appraisal of potential takings on the fly though? Work at the university often meant Summerset, who had the money spare to afford his services. His visits to Benthic were decidedly more of a personal nature. He had a soft spot for the more interesting work they did. Up to a point of course. That business with the rubbery man and the attempt at inscribing Correspondance onto plates of amber...all over the damn wall...Such a mess.
"Telemachia Lee." Very emphatically NOT to be addressed by a noble title if what he'd heard was true. He liked what he saw. Practical clothing. Almost certainly well armed. Clearly in good health and decidedly at home among the dirty work of the docks. This one was very interesting.
"Captain Tanner Price." One of the more colourful characters without doubt. A pirate of all things. The idea of the sort of bombast this might bring was admittedly unsettling, given Glamore's propensity for subtlety, but no doubt a pirate of all people should be capable of theft and plunder if anyone was.
And that was nearly everyone, except for...."Ah yes. Of course." He murmured, as the pair of Longshanks entered the hall from a side passage and not the front door. "Miss Wyatt. Mr. Barrows. Welcome to Lady Black's estate."
He was pleasantly surprised and more than a little impressed to be addressed by name by Nikki. "Clever girl. Done your research I see. Very good." Taking her invitation and her coat and after much persistance on the behalf of her companion, not taking his coat, the two of them were lead through to the drawing room to join the others.
He gave a short nod to Jen, briefly stepping out of the room to return with a drinks trolley atop which stood glassware and a rather fine vintage of red surface wine, rolling it to near the front of the room and filling each glass. "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of your host, Lady Jennifer Black, may I please ask that you graciously accept a glass of this wine. I understand Lady Black would like to make a toast before we begin this evening's undertakings in earnest."
Distributing the glasses among the assembled guests, he finished by passing one to Jen and keeping the last glass for himself, returning to the side of the room to stand attentively.
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Hubris Glamore is an ambitious gentleman with entirely more schemes than is healthy.
Happy to entertain all manner of interactions and has a fondness for roleplaying.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hubris%20Glamore
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Hubris Glamore
Posts: 49
1/8/2018
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The butler gave a wry smile, placing his now empty glass to the side. "Per our agreement Lady Black, I am at your disposal for the duration of this endeavour. There is no concern there."
With a slight frown, he continued, "As our guests have made clear, even when one wishes to avoid it, there is often a time when violence is the most prudent answer. Still, non lethal means are plentiful enough to give me confidence I will be relatively unlikely to...mortally inconvenience anyone. I have considerable pull belowstairs in the house's of the powerful, as my presence outside of a major event usually indicates that their masters are utilising my services to quash a scandal or take care of something they'd prefer to keep themselves and their staff at arm's length from. So in that regard I'm sure I can misdirect servants effectively." The frown vanished as he looked briefly to Lee. "Professional discretion is an excellent guideline in this regard."
He paused a moment and checked his watch before turning to the drinks trolley.
"Well then. Now that we all appear to have declared our willingness to participate in this caper, I believe we can dispense with the deception."
Lifting the cloth on the trolley, he revealed a small collection of glass vials containing clear liquid on the trolley's lower shelf. "Pain me though it does to bedevil such fine wine, I've taken the liberty to lace with it a subtle little additive that will take effect in roughly 15 minutes should you not take a dose of this counteragent to neutralise it." He smiled apologetically. "Nothing harmful you understand. Simply sleep and all the symptoms of having gotten rascally blackout drunk after waking. Particularly the blackout part."
He proceeded to pass the vials out to Jen and the guests before downing the last one himself. "Purely a precautionary measure, to avoid the scenario of anyone getting cold feet upon hearing the scheme and being in a position to inconvenience the rest of us. That would not do." A grin. "Still, now that we are all agreed, you'll have no further skulduggery from me towards the rest of you. We are after all, on the same side."
edited by Hubris Glamore on 1/8/2018
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Hubris Glamore is an ambitious gentleman with entirely more schemes than is healthy.
Happy to entertain all manner of interactions and has a fondness for roleplaying.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hubris%20Glamore
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/8/2018
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At one time, before the cider, such a poison would be meaningless to Caroline. Now? Best to take an be sure. "I am a woman of my word. I have given it. If you look into my reputation you will find I am known for being Steadfast. I do not intend to change that with some of the most dangerous people in the Neath."
Her purr does subtly change tone. "Do not do this again. I have come in answer to an invitation. A display of trust. I am disappointed. Not a threat, but I am unhappy." She regards the room with cool detachment, now, neither frowning nor smiling.
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Canvas Brimming
Posts: 30
1/6/2018
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Canvas has been awfully quiet since his arrival. During Jen's explanation, he sits comfortably in his chair, carefully listening to the plan and nodding along as she presents the singular rule to the party. However, Lee's remark causes him to speak up.
“Their lives are worth just as much as the next man's, Lee.” He says defensively. “Of course, that shouldn't stop us from our achieving our goal. Should anyone get in our way, be it a guard, a maid, a weasel or a cat, we do what is necessary. Temporarily offing them being the very last resort, naturally.”
He takes a brief glance at Tanner's cutlass, Michael's rifle and Telemachia Lee in her entirety before he lets out a sigh and redirects his stare towards the floor.
“We are not saints. We are not coldblooded murderers, either. But sometimes, unfortunately, you just have to look the other way. This is a heist. A robbery. It's not up to us to decide who's innocent. It's up to us to get the job done.”
edited by Canvas Blank on 1/7/2018
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Canvas Brimming, The Nostalgic Investigator - A private investigator, a Wilmot's End regular and a rising pawn, with an insatiable sense of sentimentality towards the Surface. Why don't you leave a card?
~(Very active, RP always encouraged and appreciated!)
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/7/2018
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Nikki lifted her glass to the toasts, cheery grin splitting her face. It had faltered only a little, when people called her by her last name. From the butler she'd expected it, giving him a wink even though she'd known him only by chance. She was already liking this motley crew of criminally-minded folk, particularly Mr. Price, who she had favored with a rather more speculative look following his comment and wink. She ventured a toast of her own. "To a story worth telling, and a good haul!"
She had no issues with any of the targets save the Duchess. She was fond of both the lady and her catty coterie, and didn't want to endanger her good standing there. Not many in Society actually liked her. But she'd see how that played out. She wasn't fond of killing, nor particularly skilled at it, so that was no hardship. But Lee was making sense.
"She's got a point. Besides, it's not like death's a serious hardship, hereabouts. You surface born, Jen?" She left off the lady's title, addressing her familiarly as she did with everyone. "I mean, I'm not keen on killing either, but that doesn't mean I won't send someone of a quick trip to avoid one of my own, y'know? And if their job is to obstruct us -- often with deadly force -- I don't see the harm in a bit of obstacle clearing, if you know what I mean." She shrugged. "Regardless, I'm in!"
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Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
1/7/2018
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Cosmo had largely been silent up until now, merely nodding along to the toasts while enjoying the taste of the wine. Barely audibly, they had tutted as Jen downed her wine, not out of objection to the coarseness of it, but the lack of appreciation of the rich Bordeaux grapes.
They had been eyeing Michael’s almost full glass of wine as the debate had rushed around them, but listening, always listening.
‘Cosmo, Hubris? Are you in?’
They lift their head slowly. The eyes of the room are looking alternately at Jen, Hubris, and themselves. They clear their throat, much like they would before a lecture, and begin to speak in a soft, low voice.
‘I am concerned,’ they began, before pausing briefly, waiting for Michael to shove a weasel back into his coat. ‘At how some of our number seem to underestimate the potential noise that a casualty could create.’ Curling their lips, they remark, ‘I hope none of you think I’m squeamish. My objections are merely pragmatic.’
They set down their glass and turn to Jen.
‘Naturally I’m in. All of it. While some may have my respect, that doesn’t register as a concern.’ They tilt their head ever so slightly towards Tanner. ‘This is, of course, incredibly ambitious. I am sure we will go into greater detail concerning the finer points of the plan later, but for now I’m satisfied.’
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Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/15/2018
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[Co-written with Hubris Glamore]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
5:30 A.M.
It would be an hour before dawn, if London had such a thing, on the day of the heist. Telemachia Lee is up early. She’s accustomed to irregular hours, takes time to sleep when she needs it, and likes to be ready well in advance for a mission. She’s ready now. She and her weapons are clean; her hair is freshly pomaded and gleams as black as she likes it. It’s time for a cup of coffee.
Lee saunters into the kitchen. She never just walks when she can saunter or swagger, prowl or stalk.
Hubris Glamore is already in the kitchen, bustling about, still playing the butler. Lee could get her own coffee and light her own cigar, but under the rules she was raised by, it would be rude to do so with the butler standing right there. So she asks. In response to his mildly interrogative, glance, she specifies. “I take it with brandy, Mr. Glamore. Brandy, and a bit of black coffee, if you please.”
Hubris knows what she means. She’s heard of the services he has performed for (or, arguably, upon) some of her brothers in the Stoats. (Is she still a brother in good standing, though? She remembers the newspaper article, that poor girl, even the stuffed giraffe. She ruthlessly quells the thought. Today is not a day for guilt.) The butler knows how to serve a drink, and a drinker. The coffee is hot but not scalding, the caffeine and alcohol yoked together to promote the state of relaxed alertness that Lee needs to do her best work. She doesn’t hesitate to take the mug from his hands, and she thanks him a bit more warmly than she would an ordinary butler.
Lee normally takes a soldier’s breakfast of black coffee and cigars. She believes that a full stomach slows a soldier down. Anyway, she raided Lady Black’s larder last night for a rather large midnight snack. No sign of it now remains in the spotless kitchen.
Hubris is doing something useful in the kitchen, but Lee knows that he’s also waiting. She never made much comment about the events of the first meeting, nor has she replied to his offer. She lets him wait. She remains silent until she has finished her second cup of coffee and he has lit her second cigar. She puffs it and leans back in her chair.
At last she speaks. "So. That thing with the wine. I'll tell you the truth: personally, I thought it was a good idea. I had been a bit concerned about how well this operation was being kept secret." She pauses, obviously not finished speaking yet. "It would still have worked if you'd told us beforehand, and not caused so many difficulties. But that's on Black, not on you. The way I see it, you're like a sergeant major domo; she's the officer in charge, and every decision is ultimately her responsibility. Personally, I have no hard feelings and I don’t want anything from you. Not for my own sake. But..."
She frown meditatively at the ember of her cigar, glowing a reddish orange. “But Lady Karnstein is, well, my lady, in a way. I feel an absurd and anachronistic, but very real, need to defend her honour. And she does have hard feelings, I’m afraid." Lee takes a long slow drag. “We are professionals. It's not going to affect the mission, you understand? We each gave our word.” She starts to tap ash into her empty cup, then remembers that Hubris has provided her with an ashtray. "Afterwards, though,” she continues, “if you haven’t managed to make it up to her by then - we might have to deal with matters, you and I."
Hubris faces her, his manner courteous as ever, but not servile. He won’t be the butler for much longer. "I'm glad you understand. I agree, it could have gone better; and frankly, you're probably right on how it could have been better approached."
Lee shrugs. She doesn’t want to belabour the point.
"I will keep in mind the matter of Lady Karnstein,” Hubris continues. “I assure you I'll do my utmost to balance out the earlier indiscretion." He frowns slightly. "Beyond that, I suppose we shall have to see whether you and have anything further to deal with when all said and done." The frown abates, replaced by a wry smile. "I do appreciate the warning though. From one professional to another."
Lee shrugs again. She has an extensive vocabulary of shrugs. This one is acknowledgment rather than dismissal. "You've got a reputation, I've heard. I might come off worst. But that's not the point, is it? We do our duty."
"We do. The job always comes first." He refills the coffee, pouring a second one for himself. "Reputation or no, I'd rather avoid that outcome. I've enough professional violence in my life without it eating into my leisure time."
Lee grins at that, and raises her mug in salute. "A sensible attitude. My own is that it's best to be honest, but there's no sense worrying too much about a future that may never come. Today will be a long day. And we will need to trust each other. Tomorrow," with yet a third kind of shrug, "can take care of itself."
"Ha! That is a sentiment I can drink to." The grin and the salute are returned, before he drinks the coffee. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Captain."
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/19/2018
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/16/2018
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[Co-written with Hubris Glamore]
Tuesday, 17 December, 1895
4:30 P.M.
Late afternoon in the West End. Before the arrival of the guests, before the incident with the wine, a certain mercenary butler knocks upon the door of the Black Estate.
Jen has been waiting, and opens it before he can knock a second time. "Mr Glamore," she says with a smile. "Right on the dot, I see."
He smiles. "Among other things Lady Black, it's what they pay me for." He removes his hat as he enters. "I understand you have something that may require my services."
She nods, and brings him to the dining room, where the table has a small selection of cakes and sandwiches. "How do you take your tea?" she asks, politely, sliding the tray over to him.
"With just a little bit of honey, thank you." He sits, stirring the honey into the tea and pausing to let it steep. "So then, what can I do for you, Lady Black?"
She leans her elbows on the table and props her chin in her hands, eyes shining with excitement. "You're aware of the Royal Wedding, of course. And the guest list. Have you considered how... tantalizingly empty... those homes will be while everyone is celebrating?"
A smile crosses his face. "My goodness me. That is a concern." A sip of his tea. "How very magnanimous you are, Lady Black. Proposing to check in on the home security of the great and good to prevent their valuables from falling into less deserving hands."
She stifles a laugh. "Naturally. And, of course, while we're at it, we ought to take a look at how the government of London manages their security. Just think of the Ministry of Public Decency! While the office is closed, who knows if some bitter artist would attempt to steal their scandalous work back from the Ministry's confiscation?"
"That would surely be a travesty. I can only imagine the uproar in the Veilgarden if that was to occur." The smile is now bordering just a little bit on mischievous. "So many people trying to get a ship to the Tomb Colonies all at once. How exceptionally inconvenient that would be."
She nods, a sly grin on her face. "And, of course, the festivities are a distraction for even the infamous of the Neath. If someone were to desire to strike at their operations, end their reign of lawlessness... this would be the perfect opportunity, would it not?"
"I am certain it would be." Another sip of the tea. "It seems you have a rather ambitious social event planned, Lady Black. I respect that." His eyes seem a little more alive with anticipation at the prospect of a challenging job. "I find that in circumstances of such ambition, one can often find use for a butler."
"Indeed. And when it comes to social events and... bodyguarding, among other matters... you are a butler nonpareil." She sips her tea with a smirk. "The hiring benefits can of course be discussed."
"You flatter me Madam." He smiles though, draining the cup. "Colour me intrigued." He paused a moment, before delivering a practiced spiel given many times before to prospective employers. "As always, in the service of a client, I will do my utmost to ensure the safety of your person, the confidentiality of your secrets and the success of your affairs. No detail of what I may do, or anything you may tell me in confidence will be spoken of to another soul, or soulless as the case may be, once my service has ended. Once engaged, my loyalty to you is absolute, save for a betrayal of whatever terms of employment we may decide upon at the point of hire. My rates vary, dependent on the nature of what you may require from me. I accept both hard currency and goods of equivalent value, however..." He broke from the pitch there, a curious smile settling across his face. "I'm very interested to hear what you may have in mind as hiring benefits. They could certainly factor into determining the cost of my service."
She leans back, smile on her face. She knows he's interested. "For hiring benefits. There are eight others who have been approached for this task, not counting us, and the material profits would be equally split between us. Furthermore, if any artifacts in particular were to be of interest to you and your collection -- say any material from the Foreign Office's archives, or some particular esoterica like Correspondence plaques -- we would be able to work something out. Does that seem agreeable?"
The butler smiled. "It certainly does. I believe we can come to terms on this arrangement." He stood up and bowed. "It is my pleasure to serve as your butler, Lady Black. I expect we shall need to prepare more tea before your guests arrive."
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
1/9/2018
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“Dinna fash, Jen.” Michael's voice is louder now, cutting through the air with a hawker's clarity. His pace is measured, even if his hands are balled into fists inside his pockets, as he walks over the place he'd left his almost untouched glass. It was coincidentally close to the one who had apologized to him, and the irony was not lost to him. A few moments ago, the space where she stood seemed the safest one in the room. “I'm sure yer jus' followin' yer mentor's advice. No one's dead, aye? So we're either—what ye call it-- innocent in yer eens,” He shakes his head, sarcasm curling his lips into an humorless grin. “Or we jus' ain't that big o' a threat to ye.”
The glass feels cold in his hand. Some of its scent still lingers, like an old lady's perfume, but even that seems lost to him now. Somewhere in the room, Tanner is still talking. Had he been talking all along? Is that what stopped him from drinking the wine? He figures there's more to it than that, but the rumors had never been clear on Jen's personal life. Given the circumstances, he can almost guess why.
It's Hubris voice that makes him look up from his wine-dyed reflection. “Ye can keep yer money fer all I care, min." The words leave his mouth before he can properly process them. He has no use for henchmen, or butlers, or whatever a man like Hubris passes for these days. But he will think of something. For now, he tilts the glass in his hand, gently at first, before turning it upside down in a single motion. No one, he thinks, will mourn the dark stain it leaves behind. "I'll take the favor, fer what it's worth."
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/10/2018
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[Co-written with Lady Jen Black]
Monday, 23 December, 1895
9:30 A.M.
A letter arrives for Telemachia Lee. Written in a bold dark hand, deep green ink on fine paper: "Miss Lee, my sincere apologies for what transpired at our last meeting. If you would permit me, I would like us to meet so that I can make amends. As proof of my sincerity, feel free to name the time and place, that you have nothing to fear from a trap. Your obedient servant, Lady Jen Black."
Lee's reply, pointedly signed Captain Lee, names a time and a rendezvous point. A deserted location in Bugsby's Marshes. Close enough to Watchmaker's Hill that it's not too hard to find one's way back, but a long way from anything much.
Tuesday, 24 December, 1895
4:00 P.M.
Jen picks her way through the marshes. The blades strapped to her forearms are a sort of comfort, ready to be triggered at a moment's notice in case of trouble. Her eyes are scanning the place, looking for the slightest trace of movement, ears pricked to pay attention to any sound that might indicate monsters. Or an ambush. She doesn't think Lee would call her here for a trap, but she doesn't know. She smells smoke, and advances closer with caution.
In the middle of a clearing burns a peat fire with a crude spit rigged over it. A haunch of meat is sizzling on it. From the shape, and the scales left on the foot, it seems to be the leg of some enormous lizard. Jen feels like she's being watched ... but Lee sits alone at the fire. Her rough clothes are liberally bespattered with blood, and she's working a mixture of salt and herbs into a second chunk of lizard. A raven caws nearby. Lee looks up.
Lee rises to her feet automatically as a lady enters her campsite. She nods to Jen, and leaves the meat on a tarp. She reaches for a jug of water and - yes, soap, and rags, and even a tiny brush. She cleans her hands with a care that belies the ensanguined condition of her clothing. She strides to the fire and picks up a pot that has been sitting at the edge. "Coffee? Or would you rather have wine?"
Jen sits down, regarding the other woman cautiously. "Whatever you're having is fine."
Lee pours coffee into two battered tin mugs. No milk or sugar is in evidence. Wordlessly, she places both mugs before Jen, allowing her to choose one. She turns away, drawing an oversized knife, and busies herself with slicing cooked bits off the edge of the meat, kebab style.
"This fellow," Lee remarks as she carves, "ate two drunks who were on their way home from the Medusa's Head. Cheery Man put a bounty on its head. I figure I'm free to do what I want with the rest of it."
Jen nods, sipping at the coffee. It's bitter but not awful. "Have you spoken to Lady Karnstein lately?"
Lee nods and grunts. She turns around, bearing a platter of sliced roasted lizard strips. She places it between them, She offers Jen a napkin - well, a rag, but a clean one - and wipes her own hands carefully before taking a morsel of meat and washing it down with black coffee.
Jen wipes her own hands before taking a bite. It's tough but gamey, with a rich flavour enhanced by the salt and herbs. Surprisingly, Lee can cook. "Are you angry with me?" She asks, sipping her coffee.
Lee studies her coolly for a long moment. Then, "No," she admits. "But I'm concerned. You're smart, beautiful, well-connected, you have a bold imagination. It's all very well. But do you know how to lead men?" She uses the word "men" unselfconsciously to refer to herself and the others regardless of gender.
Jen tilts her head, a carefully neutral expression on her face. "What an odd question. Define 'leading.' And why do you ask?"
Lee's eyes grow a bit colder. She sips coffee. "There are books on the subject. Many of them. I could loan you one."
The silence stretches out. At last Lee relents slightly. "This is your operation. We have to follow your lead. I'm satisfied so far that you know how to plan. There is also a question of nerve, and keeping it under pressure, but one never knows about that until the moment arrives. What I really mean is that if this is going to work, we need respect and trust. Mutual respect and trust. You're off to a bad start," she says frankly but without rancor, "but you spoke to Caroline, and now you're speaking to me. That's the correct order. And you took a risk to come out here. I had three tests for you, and you've passed the first two."
Jen nods. "So. 'Leading men.' Do you mean that in the sense of leadership? Or leading men on? Because I assure you, I am no stranger when it comes to making use of my looks."
"Oh, believe me, I've noticed," Lee replies dryly. "No. I mean leadership. My father was a retired colonel of infantry, you know. He taught me that respect and trust are vital to the survival of the unit. And that they go both ways. Make me respect you. Make me trust you." Lee’s voice is restrained, but the last two lines throb with subdued emotion - some combination of a command and a plea.
Jen raises an eyebrow, then something indescribable about her shifts. It's not quite her posture, her expression, her air, but some combination of all three. Her spine straightens, her fidgeting hands still, and her face smooths over. She radiates confidence, self-assurance, the sort of aristocratic bearing that expects her commands to be followed. But there's something deeper and more steely under the cool grace, something dangerous, like a predator readying to strike. "I understand your concerns. Trust -- I realize it has been broken by my actions, and for that I apologize. I give my word that it will not happen again. And you do have my trust, to some extent. If you did not, I wouldn't have allowed you to dictate the time and place, and give you the chance to ambush me. As for respect, that is earned, not given freely. I admire the way you handled the Snuffer the other night, and the way you have made a name for yourself at the Docks. And while I could tell you about the assassinations I have performed, there is no way to truly assure you that I am worthy of your respect. Only that if you give me your respect and trust, I will do my best to reciprocate."
Lee's poker face cracks into a toothy, eager grin. She likes what she sees. But she keeps her voice steady and level. "That will be enough to go on with."
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 1/19/2018
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
2/5/2018
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((OOC: For the Feast of the Exceptional Rose: any reader who leaves a comment will get a gift from me! If you have enough Masquing, you can also request for menace assistance or coffee!
Do come and talk to us, yall. We really want to hear from you!))
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
2/5/2018
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[Co-written by everyone]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - the Third Coil
10:30 AM
Telemachia Lee has never particularly fancied herself an expert lockpick. Her role is to watch. And listen. Tigers walk almost silently, but not quite. They displace air, they breathe like the great beasts they are, they carry the musky scent of predators.
The tunnels stretch out, twisting, and the members of the team proceed down them, unlocking cages as they go, passing mirrors to those who can use them, giving directions to the others. Lee ignores the blundering flight of the newly freed. What happens to the prisoners isn't her problem; what happens to her team is. She closes her eyes and listens.
Behind her, the team continues to move away down the corridors. Tanner's coat clinks. He has brought too much gear and hasn’t soundproofed it properly. Cosmo's shoes ring too loud on the stone floor. The others are skilled in stealthy movement; Lee might not have heard them if she hadn’t known they were there. Hubris and Jen move with the disciplined control of professional training, Mike with the lightness of a man whose life has depended on going unnoticed since he was a small boy. Caroline moves as softly as the shadow of an echo. Nikki - where is Nikki? Where is Anactoria? In the space of a week, Lee has already learned the sound of Anactoria’s graceful footfalls by heart. But she doesn’t hear them now. Lee feels a rush of panic, hears her heart beating faster, and grimly shoves it back into the back of her mind. She has a duty right now, and everyone is depending on her. She stares at the corridor intersection in front of her. From here, she has most possible approaches to this location covered. With an effort - usually this comes easily - she clears her mind. All thought vanishes. Her whole body is a drum, vibrating to the beat of every movement of air in the Labyrinth.
In front, where the corridors branch, Lee hears nothing … nothing … something. Something broad and soft and gradual, like distant rain, at the very edge of hearing. In her deep mindless concentration, she hears it instantly, but it takes precious seconds to understand that she’s heard it, to spur her conscious mind to action, to formulate the thought that the tigers are coming.
Her revolver is in her hand, though she doesn’t remember drawing it. She begins walking backwards, softly. She hears a tiny change in the faint waves of sound from in front of her, a reaction. They know that she knows.
No point in trying to be stealthy now. She has to give a warning. Lee turns back towards her team -
- And something crashes into her from behind. It’s like being struck by a furry, eerily silent hansom cab. Lee manages to twist enough to face her assailant before she’s pinned, gun-hand immobilized. She’s staring up into the face of - a tiger, yes, but instead of orange, black and white, this tiger is striped in shades of grey. Lee never heard a thing. Its stealth must be perfect.
The grey tiger growls in a voice so low that it’s barely audible a foot away, yet its words are perfectly clear. “Make so much as a sound, and I’ll rip your pretty throat out. Understand?”
Lee nods. Those terms seem fair. She sucks in a breath for the loudest scream of her life.
She doesn’t make it. The tiger’s jaws clamp around her throat, paralyzing her larynx. She can’t scream, can’t speak, can’t breathe. No fair, she thinks fuzzily, it said it would rip my throat out after I made a sound...
Lee is losing consciousness rapidly. And the team doesn’t know that they’ve been found out, that the tigers are coming. She has only one chance left to alert them.
She focuses all her consciousness into her right hand. All she needs to do is move her index finger one inch …
***
It doesn't occur to Michael that some of his own luck might have vanished alongside the weasel. Not until a low growl startles him and sends his entire body barreling half-way inside an empty cell, knocking his rifle away from his grasp. The tiger chuckles like an indiscreet pickpocket, taking a step out of the shadows to appreciate his –No, her job. She moves with the assurance of an empress, clearly savouring the way a simple hiss makes the longshanks flinch.
He stands, slowly, putting his hands up in tentative surrender. Takes a step towards her, but stops when she positions herself between the discarded weapon and him. Is she...tutting at him?
“Well then,” He swallows thickly before speaking. “No need t' get all riled up, missus. I'll be jus'--” His right leg twitches as another weasel escapes him, jumping out his boot with a short sound of long-awaited freedom. All of sudden, the carving knife below his coat seems to weight more than it should. “--on my way now.”
He does not reach for the knife. There is no time. In a split second, the tigress lunges forward, cutting the distance between them in a quick, precisely timed pounce. Perhaps it's just his luck that has her attention focus on the weasel instead, as he twists away from the cell's door and watches the small creature run off into the darkness. Or maybe it's the tigress’ own rotten luck as she takes a moment too long to realize where she is, and that moment is enough for him to lock the door behind her.
When the weasels squirms past the cell's bars, far below the feline's searing glare, he can't help but chuckle himself. There is absolutely no way he will be able to pull that stunt off a second time, but once again, he'll take his victories where he can.
The five pair of thin-slitted eyes staring at him as he turns around come as no surprise. His rifle is close now, and he's confident that a well-placed bullet will give the team enough time to free the prisoners. It would certainly count as self-defense, no? They are there, he's outnumbered and they are staring. Just...Staring, yes, but it won't be long before they do something else. It's just a matter of taking a few steps, maybe shout a revolutionary slogan –Wait, did tigers care about politics?--, and let the ammunition do the talking.
***
The silence of the tunnels is shattered by gunfire. The thieves, instinctively looking towards the source of the noise, see the tunnel behind them entirely filled with tigers, advancing in a slow silent flood. Of Lee there is no sign. But from the forking tunnels in the other direction, more tigers come, led by a scarred veteran wearing an implausibly elegant pair of spectacles…
***
The deafening noise in the distance brings Michael’s thoughts to a screeching halt. He knows he should be calling Lee's name, calling her many other names for straying so far away from each other, but he knows better. His glance is fixed forward, as the closest pair of eyes conjures a mouth filled with unnervingly white teeth. Something cries pitifully between those teeth, its long and thin body flailing in vain, and he knows the battle is over before it can truly begin.
Somewhere behind him, the tigress purrs.
***
Many many heartbeats. From everywhere and nowhere, just ahead. For a moment Caroline Karnstein freezes, trying to figure out what is happening. As she realizes, her instinct is to flee; but no. She gave her word. And Lee was here. Green eyes flick down a hall. She hears a voice. She hopes it is Anactoria’s. Then a sudden glance back.
A tiger doubles back from where the slightest hint of a scent was on the wind. But Caroline is gone, as if she were never there.
***
Hubris ceases his lock-picking and moves to position himself between the tigers and the rest of the lockpicking posse the moment Lee raises the alarm. He's willing and able to "throw down," as the kids say. But he doesn’t intend actually to attack unless the tigers do so first. They don’t. It’s a standoff.
***
Tanner wheels around at the crack of the gun. His right hand thrusts into the clinking coat and quickly draws the pepperbox, aiming it instinctively in front of him. His eyes wander his surroundings, searching and scanning for answers of where that shot came from, and more importantly, if it was aimed at him. From the lack of clarity, he assumes it must have come from a different passageway. His shoulders loosen. A sigh of relief is afforded. But his gun does not return to its holster.
Cautiously, but not quietly, Tanner pursues the echo of gunfire, mind all the while combing through an internal map of the Labyrinth and piecing together the quickest way to the shooter’s probable location. When he rounds a sharp corner, the glowing eyes and threatening rumble of a tiger are directed at him. Purely on reflex, he quickly aims his pistol between its eyes.
“Your friends were at least careful about not getting caught, but did you even try to be subtle while unlocking those cages? You pick locks like a Rubbery Man.”
Tanner hooks his finger around the ring trigger while keeping his silent glare fixed on the aggressor. His hand is perceptibly unsteady.
“Just put it away,” The tiger dismissively snorts. “You’re not here for blood, and we can all tell. You lack that killer instinct.” It stares Tanner down as it arrogantly strolls behind him. “Come with me and get this over with. We’re not here to kill you either.”
The tiger is right. Tanner had planned to go the whole night without killing anyone, especially an animal. For now, he concedes and walks alongside the tiger after putting his weapon away. No point in running or causing a scene. Still, now might be a good time to rethink his strategies. His usual reckless and unstealthy raiding style from years of piracy might not work in some of these heists. For starters, he can figure out how to work those bloody lockpicks.
***
Upon hearing the gunshot, Cosmo shoots up and turns to the sound of the noise, teeth gritted. What idiot shot their gun? It is time to make themselves scarce. They push the cage door closed and half walk, half jog back to the second coil, without thinking to wait for their accomplices. They don’t get far before a tiger prowls in front of them.
“Sorry, there was a gunshot, I… do you know what’s going on?” Cosmo pants.
The tiger tilts its head and appears to smile. “Cut the act. You’re coming with me,” it purrs.
Cosmo forces a laugh. It seems to echo around the labyrinth. “You’re being ridiculous. I work here. I’m a doctor, I care for the prisoners.”
The tiger bares its teeth threateningly. Cosmo looks it up and down. No. They do not fancy their chances. “Fine. But you’re making a mistake.”
***
Jen stiffens at the sight of the tigers, sliding her lockpicks back up her sleeves and readying her blades. This is an inconvenience. Getting caught had always been a possibility, but one she’d hoped to avoid. Especially in their first heist.
She analyses the room, eyes darting around, trying to find a way out. Tigers fill all the exits, and even she isn’t agile enough to run up the wall and ceiling and get out without being caught by them. If she could only slide her knives out, attack the nearest one, throw a knife into its throat -- but no, there are too many, and if she kills one, the others will all respond in kind. It’s too dangerous. So she raises her hands, steps away from the cage, and allows a tiger to shepherd her off with the rest of her crew. Now is not the time.
She’s very much aware of how her behaviour looks. Cowardly, unfit of a leader. But she isn’t submitting easily, isn’t standing still and allowing things to happen. She is lying in wait to see which way the wind will blow. The opportunity for escape will come soon enough. She just has to wait for it.
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Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/10/2018
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“I’ll take the ten percent.” Anactoria addresses Mr Glamore evenly.
She certainly doesn’t trust the man to keep his word on something as nebulous as a favour. Even is he did, she can put the extra income to immediate use, both for herself and her friends.
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Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Hubris Glamore
Posts: 49
1/8/2018
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The butler gave Nikki a warm smile "You have a deal." before turning his attention to Canvas and Caroline, his expression apologetic, but his tone matter of fact. "I understand and appreciate your aggravation and I assure you, I take no pleasure in it. My loyalty is to my employer and those involved in carrying out this caper along with them. Once you declared that you were in, that included you. Until that point, you were witnesses. If you, or anyone else had decided otherwise, then the precautionary measure would have aptly protected all of us involved. "
An eyebrow raised at Canvas. "You're a detective, Mr. Blank. Considering this scheme gives us a litany of powerful opponents and our actions against some of them are quite literally treason in the legal sense, I'm sure you can appreciate that the danger in allowing potentially multiple witnesses to leave this room knowing our entire hit list."
"And I'm familiar with your reputation, Lady Karnstein, it is indeed impeccable in that regard. There is not a quality that I regard higher and indeed, my own reputation will tell you just as much vice versa if you'd like to play that game. Still, the circumstances demanded the precaution." He sighed. "Nevertheless, I look forward to working with you and everyone else in this room. As I said, we are now on the same side."
"Given what we've just been discussing in regards to what is and is appropriate methods, what is and is not an appropriate target and when is and is not appropriate use of violence," He gave a wry smile. "Consider this perhaps an example of professional discretion. I can think of many less pleasant methods to ensure our group's safety than to provide an unexpectedly early night, a hangover and a few hours of missing recollection to a witness who could raise an alarm before we've even gotten started."
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Hubris Glamore is an ambitious gentleman with entirely more schemes than is healthy.
Happy to entertain all manner of interactions and has a fondness for roleplaying.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hubris%20Glamore
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Canvas Brimming
Posts: 30
1/8/2018
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Lady Jen Black wrote:
"Are you still in?"
“Yes, I'm still in. I understand, precautions are precautions and all, but this?” He scoffs. “No point in arguing over it now, I guess. Caroline said everything that needs to be said already. Bottoms up.”
edited by Canvas Blank on 1/8/2018
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Canvas Brimming, The Nostalgic Investigator - A private investigator, a Wilmot's End regular and a rising pawn, with an insatiable sense of sentimentality towards the Surface. Why don't you leave a card?
~(Very active, RP always encouraged and appreciated!)
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
1/12/2018
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[Co-written with Lady Jen Black]
The pillowfighting is going on far too long for Jen's liking. Skies, she brought together a group of experts to conduct the biggest job the Neath has ever seen, not to make the biggest mess of her house she has ever seen! Does the Wyatt girl think she has an endless supply of cushions, or has she not bothered to think about it at all? Both seem possible.
She waits for a break in the hostilities before darting in, tugging on Tanner’s wrist. “C’mon,” she says into his ear, “let’s get away from this chaos for a little while and get… reacquainted. It’s been too long since we talked.”
Tanner is led away to a quiet part of Jen’s house. The pillow fight reduced to only a muffled calamity in the distance. When they close the doors behind them to block out the noise, Tanner straightens up his clothes and brushes the messed up hair back behind his ears. He smiles while he looks at Jen, despite her looking serious.
“As much fun as that was, thank you for pulling me away. I’ve missed you a lot since we conspired to get the red honey back. You seem to be doing really well for yourself, Jen.”
She's brought him up to one of the higher floors, not to her bedroom -- not yet -- but her library. The air is rich with the scent of ink and paper, and a bottle of wine and two glasses are on the table in one of her many reading nooks. She's prepared for this, then. With studied casualness she takes a seat in a wingback chair, clearly an antique, and gestures for him to do the same. "Thank you," she says, pouring them both glasses of wine. "I thought we needed some time to catch up. We haven't seen each other in weeks. And thank you for standing with me, the other day." She eyes him up and down, trying to be subtle about it. She missed him. But it doesn't seem wise to make her interest obvious. Excessive sentiment frequently leads to trouble.
He makes himself comfortable in the seat across from Jen, but not in the same casual way he had with her sofa. He appears more attentive and respectful. Jen must have something important she wants to tell him, and he doesn’t want to miss anything. That said, he didn’t notice Jen eyeing him just now.
“It was no trouble, Jen,” he amiably reassures her before sipping his wine. He knows she would never try to hurt him, so he accepts the wine graciously. It is *very* good wine. He almost regrets not indulging the other night. “I wasn’t about to watch the crowd turn on you before your heist even began. You’ve put so much thought into this. I’m here to help whenever you need me.” His pupils dilate the more he takes in Jen’s face. It’s relaxing to be so informal with her again.
She smiles, sipping at her wine. "How have you been? Any notable zee-voyages recently?"
“Only a couple lately. Mostly to clear my head when I need to decompress.” His eyes suddenly widen, and his expression turns playful. “I never told you I was a pirate when we met, and I haven’t raided anyone for several months. How did you learn about who I was?”
"Now, now. A lady must have her secrets." The smirk on her face is belied by the teasing wink she gives him.
Tanner tips his wine glass to her in a wordless toast. He’s beginning to feel like he knows what she’s up to, and her smirk is reflected on him. “You’ve brought together quite the ensemble, my friend. Not just anyone could dream up such a glorious scheme. I’ve always liked that about you.”
She inclines her head in acknowledgement. "I've always been ambitious in my dreams. Do you know what else I've dreamed of lately?"
He leans closer towards her, resting an elbow on the table. “Tell me these dreams, Jen.”
She smiles slowly, stretching out in a way to show off her figure. "I picture you in my arms. The touch of your skin, smile on your face. The way that you taste." Her voice is low and melodious and filled with desire.
He drinks in every word on her lips and every curve of her body as he watches his hostess seduce him. It is most definitely working. “Now those are some magnificent dreams.” His voice echoes the lust in hers. “Perhaps we could share them together tonight. I want to hear every little detail.”
Jen smiles slowly, rising to her feet. "Well then. Shall we... discuss them further?" She offers him her hand.
Tanner accepts her hand and rises gracefully, enjoying the playfully affectionate gesture. “And just where are you taking me, my charming hostess?”
She throws him another wink over her shoulder. "I'm about to change your life, Captain Price."
“By all means, lead the way.”
So she does exactly that, tugging him down the long corridors and refusing to let go of his hand. They reach a heavy, ornately carved wooden door, and she fumbles momentarily as she gets the key out of her pocket, turning it in the lock and opening it.
edited by Tanner Price on 1/12/2018
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Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/7/2018
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Lady Jen Black wrote:
"Anactoria isn't just here for you to admire her, no matter how adorable she is. I need an animal handler, and someone who looks innocent and pretty enough to play distraction."
'Animal handler' might by glorifying it a bit much, Anactoria thinks. But at least I now I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I can also do innocent and pretty. Wait ... who here is admiring me?!
Ana studies the handle of her cane for a bit, excited, nervous, and flushed.
edited by Anactoria St James on 1/7/2018
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Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/8/2018
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The spark of fondness she initially felt for Mr Glamore snuffs out. Stiletto, she thinks of the other, and smiles wryly to herself. But you're not the only blade in the room. Anactoria takes the antidote with a wordless shrug.
--
Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
1/9/2018
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Tanner had returned to sitting back down during the discussion about the poisoning, but everyone knows he is the only one who did not indulge in the wine. Why not? Did he know about the poisoning beforehand and restrain for his own safety? For all anyone knows he was in on it. The group is becoming fractured enough, and everyone now distrusts Jen and Hubris before the heist even begins. If he said the wrong thing and convinced the group that he couldn't be trusted either, everything could completely fall apart. This isn't good. But Jen needs help up there. She's nervous in a way he's never seen her before. He has to defend his friend.
"Jen and Hubris were trying to be careful to protect the integrity of the plan, and I do understand why they chose to deceive you. It was a safety precaution. No personal attack on anybody was meant by it. However, I do not agree with them deciding to poison their team members. This whole situation could've been handled in a different and more honest way, and there will now be tension we need to work through in order to succeed. If we're all going to be working together, there needs to be trust. So far we're doing a very poor job of cultivating that. However, Jen's clearly remorseful for how this night began. And in my experience, there is no one more likely to put in excellent work than someone who has something to prove. Jen wants to earn your trust back. I have no doubt that she'll do everything in her power to make up for this incident. We should be willing to give her that chance. I still think we should go through with the heist." Tanner looks back over to his friend and nods, solemnly. He wishes he could do more, but he knows just as well as she does that this will not be easy.
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Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Hubris Glamore
Posts: 49
1/9/2018
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The butler was very pleased to hear a more moderate response. "I appreciate your measured approach, Captain."
He frowned. "My duty in this role is to prioritise the safety and success of my client and her co-conspirators as much as possible. The breach of etiquette was seen as we prepared as unfortunate but necessary." Drawing a little black book and pencil from his jacket pocket to make notes, he continued. "I regret most highly that in prioritising safety we have impacted on trust and thus success in the short term. But make no mistake, my loyalty to the job is absolute. Therefore in the interests of providing an apology and a show of good faith, I offer each of you a choice of two olive branches. 10% of my share, or a favour to be redeemed at a time of your choosing. I hope that this goes some way to clearing the air."
--
Hubris Glamore is an ambitious gentleman with entirely more schemes than is healthy.
Happy to entertain all manner of interactions and has a fondness for roleplaying.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hubris%20Glamore
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Lady Karnstein
Posts: 278
1/9/2018
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Caroline sits up a bit slowly. Slow as she moves, one might think her drugged despite the antidote, but those who know her well know her for the tightly coiled spring she is. Still there is elegance to her languor, and she turns to the butler.
"I appreciate the offer, but I have no desire to take anything from you for this. I will put this unpleasantness between us behind us. You owe me nothing, Sir. Thank you." Her low breathy purr is a bit less cold, more what people are accustomed to. Her lazy smile has not returned, however. Long pale fingers toy with the glass as she looks around the room, thoughtfully.
edited by Lady Karnstein on 1/9/2018
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Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description)
Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean.
Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Cosmo Beck
Posts: 33
1/9/2018
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‘I for one would certainly not object to some form of compensation,’ Cosmo interjects, ‘from both of you.’ They deliver Jen a hard look. ‘I’m sure these matters can be discussed later, but for now I’m on side. I appreciate your apology.’
They nod to Michael, acknowledging him, and lean back against the wall. They perhaps were not so angry about the poisoning as the embarrassment of it all. Rationally, the reasons behind it were understandable, Cosmo knew that, but, as such, they should have seen a trick like that coming and not made such a damn fuss about it afterwards.
--
Available for mutually beneficial SAs and RP.
Professor Evelyn 'Cosmo' Beck-Scholar of diverse interests. And dubious means.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
1/9/2018
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Lee is who she is, and she can’t change it. The sight of a beautiful woman begging her for forgiveness strikes a gallant chord in her heart. She wants to take Jen’s shaking hands, to speak softly and soothingly to her, to hold her close and tell her that all will be well…
She does none of these things. By the soldier’s code, friendship comes before affairs of the heart. And Caroline is her friend. As Caroline slowly rises, Lee straightens, and her hands drop to her belt. The small, discreet pistol, the knife weighted for throwing, the belt a concealed weapon in itself. If Caroline wants to leave the room after she takes the antidote, Lee will just have to ensure that she makes it out. She reckons that if she can quickly take out Price, Hubris, and - yes damn it, and Black - the rest won’t interfere. A part of Lee’s brain spits out objections - unknown loyalties - her odds alone against three trained combatants - her ignorance of Caroline’s fighting ability - but that part of the brain is weak, muffled, drowned in absinthe. She’s ready.
But Caroline does not leave the couch. Lee says nothing, does nothing. She only nods, once, to Jen - an acknowledgment of the apology, if something short of full acceptance. She listens respectfully to Price and Hubris, already forgetting that she had been reasoning how to kill them seconds earlier. That doesn’t matter anymore. They are professionals. They will do the heist.
It still sounds like fun.
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/4/2018
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((shy should not post when she's not paying attention. There's nothing to see here, and all shall surely be well.))
edited by shylarah on 1/4/2018
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Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Anactoria St James
Posts: 29
1/5/2018
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By the time Lady Black enters the room, Anactoria has composed herself enough so as to not blush (or not much, at any rate) at seeing so much her hostess' back; she's even able to spend a few moments appreciating the sight.
At the first toast she lifts her glass, softly murmurs the toast, and sips. Surface wine! It's not surprising that Lady Black has it, but it is surprising to taste it; the wine's a refreshing change from all that mushroom stuff. Lady Black's throwing it back strikes her as rather coarse. 'Then again,' she thinks 'I've hardly been living the genteel life down here. Maybe London changes everyone that way.'
Anactoria's performance at the second toast echos that of the first.
--
Roleplaying social actions are welcomed.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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shylarah
Posts: 171
1/7/2018
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The cat burglar let the discussion wash over her, only paying it a bare minimum of her attention. Meanwhile, she was considering the various targets. It was only when the debate over lethal violence dragged on that she returned her focus to the room. Once Jen explained her distinctions, they made more sense. Of course, killing random folks that might see was out -- as was hurting them in any but the most passing manner. And given that anyone they knew would oppose them was automatically an active threat in her mind, she no longer saw an issue. "It'd be fun to have nobody know, Ana," she said, as the younger girl suggested a phantom sort of thief. Tanner's speech had barely registered. The dead were still witnesses, just momentarily absent ones. And she knew all about preparation, even if she liked to think on the fly. "But it doesn't happen often. Never with so large a group -- at least, not for long. However! There are far more ways than simple killing to handle people. Tricks, traps, misdirection." She turned to look at the others, eyes gleaming. "Really, it's less a matter of needed them dead, and more a matter of needing them unable to sound the alarm. Passing unseen is naturally our ideal, but best to be prepared if we don't. Or to weigh the dice in our favor...." With a sly expressin, she pulled a handful of objects from the recesses of her clothing and held them up for the others' consideration. "Smokebombs, sparklers, flashbangs, clockwork bugs -- they make great distractions. Wind 'em up and send them off! -- wire ties, this thing from a bad batch of Gerbrant's stuff -- quite takes your breath away, as well as your voice. No sounding the alarm then, yeah? I even have a fogbelcher in my jacket, though it won't last more than a quarter hour. Had to nab that one special, and I've been saving it for something good. I think this is just the occasion, don't you~?" She twirled slowly to look at everyone, beaming as she shoved her handful of tricks back away. "Mike knows the weasels; I know rats and cats. I've a friend who could probably convince a few Rubberies to play decoy. I'm sure everyone has some sort of resources -- memories of the layouts of places, contacts, ideas of how to distract those present...." Her grin turned into a sultry smile. "One thing's for sure, people /will/ tell the story of tonight."
--
Lady of Cold Steel, Lady of the Flit, Lady Alyssana Grey. A formidable woman, hard to read and slow to trust. Darkness lurks inside her.
Alts: (please direct all inquiries to Alys & say who they're for)
-Nikki, the Playful Daredevil, leading the constables on merry chases across London at every available opportunity. It's not a good robbery if you didn't get chased~
-Shylarah, waifish, wide-eyed, painfully foreign, entirely untamed. Her search for a way home now leads her to Parabola. There's something about her...
-Dr. Maxwell Thomas, a kindhearted physician who can't stand to see suffering. Moral to a fault, even to his own detriment. Unlucky in love.
I would rather be taken for a fool than deny aid where it is needed.
-Angie, the Cheeky Sharpshooter. Got her start with the Regiment and proudly operated their cannon for years. Rowdy, rough, and among the best shots in London.
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Lady Jen Black
Posts: 96
1/7/2018
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Sunday, 21 December, 1895
8:20 P.M.
Jen regards Lee with irritation. "Good." Her mouth softens momentarily before her lips press together again, tighter than before.
When she speaks, her voice is crisp, and she addresses everyone. "I won't kick you off the team if you kill someone. They'll be trying to stop us. Using lethal force if need be. I'd have to be naive to set that aside. Just because I don't want people to die unnecessarily doesn't mean that I won't remove them if they pose a threat. Maybe it's because I grew up on the Surface. Someone's gone, and that's it. But here, people die, because that's what people do. If you don't cause any permanent damage... I won't object. But no servants and animals, under any circumstances. There are other ways to take care of those. Anactoria isn't just here for you to admire her, no matter how adorable she is. I need an animal handler, and someone who looks innocent and pretty enough to play distraction."
She nods approvingly at Nikki's collection of nonlethal gadgetry. "Now, those are nice. If it helps, look at it this way. Can we be creative enough to succeed without treating murder as our first resort? Like Caroline said, people adore stories of noble thieves, robbing the rich to give to the poor, executing daring heists without getting caught or racking up a large body count. We could join the ranks of such legends as Lupin. People may even be rooting for us, and given who we're offending -- Society, the Revolutionaries, the Masters, Hell, the Criminals and the Docks -- a little more credit in the court of public opinion will be very, very useful."
She pauses, looks towards the only silent ones in the room. "Cosmo, Hubris? Are you in?"
edited by Lady Jen Black on 1/19/2018
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Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory
Accepting calling cards!
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
12/29/2017
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"This is the Envy model. Look at the mechanism. Like nothing you've seen, ain't it?”
If anybody notices that men have been disappearing from Medusa's taproom, in pairs of two or three, if anyone heard the shrieking over the rooftops, that night when all the weasels disappeared from the shack— it wasn't Michael. He left those things behind the night before, swearing under his breath, only to find himself perched on a rookery's lattice with two skeptical urchins. They stare back at him with squinting eyes, and a look that needs no words.
Get on wi' it, longshanks.
Footsteps. An extra step. Hitched breaths as someone runs away from Wolfstack's lights. The screeching sound of a velocipede off its hinges, much like its owner. Silence.
Silence.
“Know why?”
The footsteps become a blurred cacophony of desperation as the Constables' whistles fade into the distance. Closer now. He can almost hear the jiggling purse, but needs to keep his mind focused on the spot right before his eyes. And closer still. Someone is carrying a message-- that much he knows. A message that doesn't want to be found, once protected by two lumbering men and a speeding hansom. Gone now.
But the message remains, and its sole bearer has found herself running into the familiar alleys, hoping to escape the law. And escape she would. He would make sure of it.
“It was made in a year that'll never come.”
A drawn breath. A short, opportunistic breeze. And just like that she fell into a crumbled pile of grasping hands and kicking legs, eyes facing the starless sky. Her last sight that of two skeptical urchins closing in on her as something – a third person? A fifth hand? She would never know – rummages through her pockets, taking but a few seconds to find the folded letter hid underneath her collarbone.
She is gone before Michael can climb down to help. Storm willing, she would wake up and find herself back at home. If the urchins could be bothered to carry her that far.
“I swear. A year that'll never come.”
The message itself is nothing special, even though a few weasels seem keen on nibbling its burnt edges. Rumors of vague plans in estimated locations. A poor likeness, drawn in coal, of a woman whose actual name is unknown, but – as an entire paragraph speculates-- she is one to keep an eye for, if things are to remain as they are. Michael can't help but chuckle, turning over the worn sheet of paper to make sure that, yes, the message is as vague and misleading as he expected it to be.
When he glances over his shoulder, the excitement in his tourmaline eyes is matched only by the lamp's light reflecting on his rifle's barrel.
“Looks like yer gettin' famous, Nicdubh.”
edited by Slyblue on 12/29/2017
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The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Canvas Brimming
Posts: 30
1/4/2018
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He walks the luxurious and thus rather unfamiliar neighborhood with an address in his hand. Noticing the large Black residence causes him to let out a long whistle; He knew Lady Black isn't short on the Echo, but this was more than he expected. This contributed to his sense of nervousness as he walked up to the door, a bit underdressed for the occasion, wearing nothing more than the usual leather overcoat. A doorbell rings.
“Hello, Je-- Yeesh! You look... Stunning! As always!-- I mean!”
Caught off guard by Lady Black's risqué appearance, his face turns red and he barely manages to blabber out a greeting. He soon finds his way into the meeting room with the others, where he instantly recognizes some of the more friendly faces.
Noting Lee's presence is a relief; He's glad to have someone he can truly trust, but also that someone shares his opinion on tuxedos. He greets her with a polite, firm handshake, during which he eagerly scans the rest of the room:
“Caroline...” They have met once before, under somewhat similar circumstances of much smaller proportions. She can handle herself well enough when it comes to keeping to the shadows and her alertness will surely come in handy, especially if someone uninvited decides to make an appearance.
“Anactoria St James... Isn't she a bit young for all this?” He thinks to himself. Despite her being the youngest in the room, he can see in her eyes that she didn't come here for a quick buck - She means business. While such beaming determination is admirable, it's little to build trust off of.
“And next to her, that must be Mr. Glamore.” A name he has only heard of because of his involvement in the Great Game. The amount of strangers is worrying, considering that he's putting his own safety in their hands, but it only takes one glance to the fireplace for him to change his opinion; He would much rather put his life in the hands of strangers than in the hands of...
“Michael d____n Barrows. Lovely.” It's a name he knew all too much about. Remembering the conversation at Caligula's makes his blood quietly boil. When he unintentionally catches his eye, he greets him with a cold, dead stare and nothing more. This is probably the first and last time he will be glad to see that Barrows brought his rifle.
“Is that the Wyatt girl?” He finds her oddly charming - A breath of fresh air, a respite from the usual long and serious faces of London. Perhaps she isn't taking this seriously enough. Perhaps everyone else is taking this too seriously. “Her attitude will either bring us all together or get us all killed.”
“There's the academic fellow... Dr. Beck, was it?” An unexpected participant. He knows of them from back when he was involved with the Benthic College. The party could certainly use his brains, having him on deck is a good idea. He is relieved knowing that they won't have to rely on Barrows and his weasels for smarts.
“There he is, Mr. Fashionably Late!” He laughs as he greets Tanner. He considers him to be reliable; Someone who's skills will greatly benefit the party and someone who doesn't take himself too seriously. While they might not have a long history together, Canvas took a liking to him from the day he heard about his to generosity towards the London's outcasts. Let's just hope that there won't be any need to unsheathe that Cutlass any time soon.
Somewhat reassured by identifying everyone in the room, he takes a seat in one of the chairs. He is glad that he isn't diving into this with a bunch of complete strangers - Hopefully, by the end, they will be something more than just that.
--
Canvas Brimming, The Nostalgic Investigator - A private investigator, a Wilmot's End regular and a rising pawn, with an insatiable sense of sentimentality towards the Surface. Why don't you leave a card?
~(Very active, RP always encouraged and appreciated!)
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/27/2018
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Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Bazaar's Emporium of Educational Curiosities
11:45 AM
The Bazaar’s Emporium of Educational Curiosities is a rambling warren of shops and stalls, most of them owned by the Masters themselves. The more open, better-frequented areas are full of tourists: milling about, purchasing overpriced gimcracks and tawdries, eating (or attempting to eat) Rubbery Lumps, avoiding (or attempting to avoid) the efforts of ingenious Urchins to part them from their money. Dim staircases, dusty courtyards, and suspicious-smelling alleys lead to stranger shops, less often visited.
When the ground begins to shake, and the air to fill with roars and cries and bellows, the visitors panic. “What’s going on?” “Earthquake?” “Is it the Stone Pigs?” “Stampede?”
This last guess, as improbable as it seems, proves to be correct. The steel-barred gates to the Labyrinth of Tigers burst asunder, thrown apart by an enraged (or at least highly exasperated) rhinoceros, a slender woman in a riding habit clinging precariously to its back. Surging forth with it come an astonishing variety of animals: panicked zebras, gazelles and hyraxes; snickering hyænas; confused crocodiles; a lizard large enough to eat a man, or at least a fat child; a smug leopard; a crab the size of a hansom, its carapace bedecked with glim-shards; a silver-eyed wolf that seems not to lope so much as to drift like smoke; a cave-snake of terrifying proportions. They are followed by a disorderly pack of tigers, all of them shouting orders that none of the rest obey. Behind come the stragglers: a pair of fat, fishy-smelling, but undeniably adorable penguins; an immense octopus that sidles along the walls, observing the proceedings with a curious eye; a humming cloud of fuschia beetles; a handful of wary, ragged-looking humans.
The shoppers of the Emporium run for their lives, fleeing in every possible direction, some of them trampling one another before the animals even get the chance. Their screams provide a counterpoint to the cacophony of animal noises that echo throughout the Emporium, creating a veritable symphony of chaos.
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/1/2018
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[Co-written by Tanner Price, Shylarah and Anactoria St. James]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Bazaar's Emporium of Educational Curiosities
11:45 AM
A piercing shriek cuts through the air in a startlingly familiar voice. Tanner is running through a crowd near the storefronts with a terrified look in his eyes, shouting at people. “Everything’s lost!” he cries. “All these wild animals running loose, the Labyrinth is gonna collapse! Everyone take what you can and run for your lives!” He picks up a rock and hurls it as hard as he can through a store’s display window. The glass shatters in a violent crash and Tanner starts stuffing his pockets with whatever loot he can get his hands on.
The crowd breaks out into a frenzy, shoving the instigator out of the way and climbing through the window in droves to desperately raid the interior. The shopkeeper’s furious yelling and approach with a blunderbuss is quickly snuffed out by trampling thieves bum-rushing him to get to the cash-box. The sounds of broken glass, stamping feet, and aggressive shouting fill the air as Tanner rushes around, kicking a full garbage bin over and shooting the pane of a gas lamp with his pepperbox. With a riot like this breaking out during the stampede and robberies by his own teammates, whatever law enforcement may come should be spread way too thin to stop it. This is perfect. Tanner leaves the mob to its wanton destruction and sets out to catch up with Nikki and Anactoria.
*****
Lying prone and facing backwards on the still-charging rhinoceros’ back, Anactoria reaches for her rump-impaling sword … but the handle is too far away and the blade, bouncing with each thudding, running step, is too dangerous to grasp. Fortune, and physics, however, are on her side: the weapon begins to work free on its own!
Walter rounds another corner and the swords slips free, clattering to the ground. The rhinoceros trots to a standstill, placid once more. Nikki gives him a pat on the nose as she rejoins Ana, Guillaume in tow. “I think Walter will be fine here for now. I’m gonna go talk to some of the urchins -- I think I saw a couple I know. See you in a bit.”
Anactoria resheathes her sword and calls out a “Good luck!” to Nikki as the longshanks hurries off. She turns to the Tomb-Colonist beside her, “Um … hi there ...”
A long and grimly awkward silence follows.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/2/2018
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[Co-written with Jen Black and Slyblue]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Bazaar's Emporium of Educational Curiosities: Mr Stones’ Exquisite Gifts and Luxuries
12:00 Noon
With a crash, Telemachia Lee kicks open the door to Mr Stones’ Exquisite Gifts and Luxuries. The door smashes against the wall, shattering its ornamental glim surface. An unnecessary move, since the door was unlocked, but a dramatic one.
“Everyone remain calm! This is a robbery! Don’t cause us any trouble, and no one will be hurt!” Lee immediately undermines her words by pistol-whipping a burly gentleman who had been looking insufficiently cowed. Still unsatisfied with his pacification, she follows up by stomping on his head with her reinforced boots. He falls limp. Lee swings her pistol in an arc that covers the rest of the store, looking for any other sign of resistance.
She sees none. The two customers look properly terrified. A second burly gentleman, dressed identically to the first, raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. The girl behind the counter seems barely to have noticed the robbery in progress. Her gaze remains fixed on the neat rows of sapphires, arranged precisely on midnight-blue velvet trays. She seems mesmerized by the way they gleam in the candle-light.
*****
Something about the sound of the door being kicked makes Michael chuckle, even as he keeps his back to the team and his rifle trained on whoever steps too close to the entrance. The years of walking by a stall, whistling innocently and praying no one notices the apples you stole, it seems, are long gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a trembling man murmuring nonsense under his breath, only to stop as soon as their eyes meet.
Michael grins, bringing a bloodstained finger to his own lips. Ye heard the lady, guv.
Well, he assumes the man heard. Somewhere between the sounds of the stampede, the panic of the caretakers and the deafening sound of teeth being grinded together, an order can be certainly lost. The latter makes his eyebrow twitch in recognition, and while he's reluctant to turn his back on the door, he can't help but turn on his heel with a threat he never manages to voice.
The girl behind the counter. In the candlelight, her eyes glitter just like the emeralds do. Her hands, folded neatly on her lap, twitch with...anticipation. Barely contained restraint, he thinks. Or rather, he knows. It's not the first time he's seen it.
But no, it can't be. Not in this place.
“Oi. Hands where we can see 'em, quine.” He holds the rifle with practiced ease, its muzzle an inch away from the girl's temple as she gazes away from the would-be robbers. Nothing. A small voice in the back of his head tempts him to poke her with it, or just follow his teammate's solution for insufficiently cowed hostages.
And yet...If his hypothesis is right...
“...Knock those over for me, will ye?” Michael asks Lee. It's hard to motion towards the exact place where the vendor's glance lingers when your hands are occupied. There is a weasel on his sleeve, digging its tiny claws on his forearm, but it does not seem to understand where over there is. “An' keep an eye out fer--”
*****
Jen adjusts the hood on her coat before sweeping into the shop. She draws a knife and twirls it around her fingers, the slender metal flashing through the air with skill and grace, before sheathing it back at her thigh. Everyone seems properly unresistant. Good.
Her eyes dart around the room. Exits. Air vent high up, too high and small for an escape. A back door that probably leads to some kind of storeroom. The main door just behind her, where she came in. And a glass display she could probably smash if she needed to make a quick getaway. Threats. Two customers. One has a cravat on, perfect for choking him. The other looks like she might wet herself from sheer terror. One guard, hands in the air, cowed by the way his comrade was taken down. Lee did a fine job.
She looks towards the counter and the jewels, where Mike has a gun pointed at the salesgirl. That one seems peculiarly unaffected by anything going on. Is she daft? Something about the situation is making her hair stand on end. Something is not quite right here.
*****
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/3/2018
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[Co-written with Lady Jen Black and Slyblue]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Bazaar's Emporium of Educational Curiosities: Mr Stones’ Exquisite Gifts and Luxuries
12:00 Noon
“So pretty...” The moonstruck girl breathes in a thin, pin-pricked voice, eyes fixed on the sapphires. “I get to arrange them every morning, you know? Every morning. Like little soldiers in a row, falling in and out of love...” Her lips stretch thin as she smiles, eyes growing wider by the second. “Like smiling children, waiting for the right buyer. But who could ever afford such beauties? I'm sure--” A sharp intake of breath. “--I'm so sure you will like the diamonds better. I can offer you a discount if you buy them in bulk.” A trembling exhale. “Would you like to see them?”
*****
“...Knock those over for me, will ye?” Michael asks.
“Ahh… sure, I’ll be right there.” Lee glares at the second guard. His hand twitches towards his belt. She knees him in the groin, snatches his revolver out of his belt, and clubs him over the head with its butt. A pistol in each hand, she saunters over to the counter, ready to knock over whatever it is that needs knocking.
Michael seems to be staring at the neat ranks of sapphires on the velvet display case in front of the counter-girl. Lee stows one pistol and, with her free hand, sweeps the gems off onto the floor.
With an ear-splitting shriek, the counter-girl instantly transforms from a passive lump to a vengeful harpie. She leaps across the counter, nails aimed right for Lee’s eyes. The speed of her attack leaves Lee no time to think. Reacting by reflex, she steps just far enough to her right to protect her eyes from gouging. Grabbing the shop-girl by the back of her head, she slams her face into the countertop with an audible crunch and a visible spurt of blood. Lee steps back, raising her eyebrows in mild surprise. The counter-girl lifts her face, its lower half masked with the blood streaming out of her nose, and the fury of all Hell in her eyes. Lee levels her revolver. She cocks the hammer, an intimidating sound which notably fails to intimidate. It looks as though there will be no reasoning with this one.
*****
Jen drops the sack of jewels she was filling and draws her knife. Well. This is unexpected. She looks the girl in the eye, raising her blade and aiming no higher. If the wretched thing thinks she can interfere, she’s wrong.
“Handle her, ferret boy. By any means necessary,” she says to Mike, unwilling to say his name in front of so many. She turns aside, certain that he’ll stop the madwoman from any further acts of bravado, and thrusts a sack at Lee. “Captain. We have a job to do.”
“Does she look like a ferret t' ye?” Michael murmurs, reaching out to grab a sapphire from the floor. His eyes never quite leave the trembling woman.
A twitch of movement from one of the customers. Without looking, Jen throws the knife, hearing its solid thud into the wood-panelled wall above their heads. A faint gasp. “Any funny business from you, and a knife will land much lower, sir, and how do you plan to impress your lady fair if you have performance issues?”
With that done, she sweeps a tray of sapphires into her sack. The glittering cascade elicits another howl from the salesgirl.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Slyblue
Posts: 224
3/5/2018
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[Co-written with Aberrant Eremite]
Michael approaches the counter girl calmly, quietly, non-threateningly, much as an experienced animal-handler approaches a skittish beast. He’s using his Weaseler skills on her, Lee thinks sardonically. Well, he’s certainly doing a better job of calming the girl than she had. Lee leaves him to it. She fills her sack with diamonds, emeralds, venom-rubies - a good job she’s wearing gloves - and a few other precious stones, avoiding the sapphires. As she goes about her task - pausing regularly to check on the hostages - she’s vaguely aware that the counter-girl’s screams have subsided to sobs, then to whimpers, then to silence.
“Look what I got ye, quinie.” The blue glimmer in his right hand catches the girl's attention as she sways on her feet, trying—and failing-- to regain her footing. Bright, red blood trickles down her nose and past her trembling lips, hands reaching out for him but grasping empty air. The blow's done quite a number on her, clearly, but he might be able to keep her focused on him for a moment.
“Darn shame 'bout them fallin' off the rack, aye, but hey-- we get to fix 'em up now.” Holding the sapphire so close to his own eyes is a risky gamble, he reminds himself, as a jagged nail brushes past his eyelashes. “Don't ye wish ye could spend more time with 'em and less time, ye ken, dealin' with people like us?”
She groans weakly, violence draining from her features and replaced by sorrowful longing. “G-give it back...”
“This 'un? Why?” He closes his fist around it, and her eyes grow wide. “It dinna look tha' special t' me.”
The memories tug at the seams of his brain. The doctors of the Orphanage spent their days just like this, studying the effects of all-consuming love. Sometimes, it involved separating the test subjects from their passions until they were insane or dead (or 'avulsed', whatever that meant).
It makes for grim parallel, he thinks, given the circumstances.
He shakes his head. “How long 'ave ye been here?” No reply. “Months? Years?” Nothing. “D'ye even ken who ye are?”
The girl's hands drop to her lap, shoulders sagging, and he can't help but notice how young she might really be. She is not giving up -- no, he can tell there is still determination in those eyes, but maybe, just maybe, his words are getting through.
“I s'ppose it dinna matter. Ye see, there's a place far away from 'ere. Full o' shinies like this one – well, not like this one, ye understand, but ye could bring i' there. Pick some others and take 'em all away to this, eh, place, and never sell another 'un in yer life.” And he adds, carefully opening his hand to time the briefest hint of blue with his words. “I could take ye there.”
“I can't.” Her reply is almost too quick. “I—I need to stay here, I need to sell--They will take them away from me and—”
“An' the funny thin' is, we are takin' them away from ye. Right now. Give us some credit fer it, will ye?”
Judging from the small, pitiful sob he gets for a reply, he figures the implicit threat is not lost to her. Still, he smiles, the only way he knows how (“Four different -------.” She'd said, sweet and smiling and happy to see him. “They’re all me. But none of them is all of me.”) and reaches inside his coat, storing the sapphire safely away, and pulling out two innocuous pieces of fungal crackers. There is a small pause before he offers them to the weeping vendor, and an even longer one before she even considers looking at them.
“...I-I'm not hungry.”
“Well this ain't much of a meal now, ain't it? Jus'...think o' it as somethin' ta make the journey easier. Does that work fer ye?” It's hard to hear himself speak over the noise now, and there isn't much time left. The screams outside are getting closer, alongside the whistles, the barking orders and the inevitable feelings of deja vu from the old war at Wolfstack's. He thrusts his open hand towards her, insistent. “Let's get out o' here. Together. Ye've got t' trust me on this one.”
As she takes them gingerly into her own grasp, he exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Exactly two pieces were the recommended amount for a quick, painless trip to the Boatman's domain, and hopefully away from the Orphanage's effects for at least an hour. The fact she offers no resistance when he picks her up (Even as she nuzzles her face against the pocket containing her precious rock) and quietly nibbles on her snack gives him some peace of mind. It was the right thing to do. It still is.
That peace, however, is short-lived, as something damp hits and clings to the exposed part of his undershirt.
...Blood?
--
The Smiling Devil • The Curt Licentiate • The Keen-Eyed Captain
"For hearts of truest mettle, absence doth join and Time doth settle."
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/14/2018
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[Co-Written by The Cosmopolitan and Hubris Glamore]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Emporium: Mrs. Plenty's Novelties and Assorted Sundries
12:00 Noon
As the assorted members of the crew begin to emerge into the relatively less complex expanse of the First Coil and begin to disperse towards their varied targets, Mr. Glamore falls in step beside the Cosmopolitan, smiling pleasantly.
“Lady Black has instructed me to provide you with any needed assistance with regards to your target, Dr. Beck. I am at your disposal for whatever you may require. Lead on.”
Cosmo smiles at the butler and bows their head slightly. “I’m sure I couldn’t ask for better service, but I’m afraid I can think of little use for it.” They continue on their way towards Mrs Plenty’s stand, their deliberate stride gathering pace as they went.
After a while Cosmo speaks again. “I suppose that when you see what exactly it is that I’m looking for, you’ll have questions. I assure you that we’re not wasting our time: the item in question is of great material and historical value.”
“Questions can wait until afterwards I’m sure.” Hubris replied, keeping pace with Cosmo as they pressed on. “You are the expert here, I defer to your judgement. As for assistance, if you are largely self sufficient on procurement , I shall do my best to occupy the attentions of the staff.”
A brief smirk crossed the butler’s lips. “I’m sure it can’t possibly be more disruptive than what just transpired in any case.”
Cosmo chuckles. “You know, I thought the point was to go unnoticed-ah. Kitschy isn’t it?” The stall, draped in canvas, looms over the pair. A panicked lizard scuttles past. “I know what I’m looking for, but as to the staff...yes, that is better left to your judgment.”
They push aside the flap. “Funny old day, isn’t it?” Hubris enquires cordially. The occupants turn, taken aback.
Cosmo smiles merrily. They nod to Hubris before making a show of browsing.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/15/2018
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[Co-Written by The Cosmopolitan and Hubris Glamore]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Emporium: Mrs. Plenty's Novelties and Assorted Sundries
12:00 Noon
Hubris gets straight to work as far as distraction goes, making his way directly to the counter as Cosmo peels off towards the shelves. No Mrs. Plenty today, but one of her lads from the carnival. “Good. That will make this a bit easier.” he thought, following through on Cosmo’s remark. “A funny old day, indeed.” The butler intoned, leaning on the counter in an almost conspiratorial fashion. “Have you heard what’s going on out there?” He asked, just loud enough to attract the attentions of the gangly stallholder and the milling urchins. “A stampede, of all things! What a surprise.”
“Listen mister,” replied the stallholder, “I’m not here to chinwag. If you’re buying something, brilliant. If you’re not, push off so’s I can work on being able to tell the boss we made money today.”
The butler smiled slyly. There’s his in. “My dear friend, that’s exactly why I’m here. I’m familiar with your employer. She’s never been one to pass up an opportunity to make some capital. So here’s what I propose, if you’d like to impress the boss.”
A long pause. “Alright guv. I’m listening.”
“Marvellous. Here’s what I propose. You have some paper back there surely, for wrapping gifts, yes? Fetch some of that and a pencil. It’ll make it easier.”
He grumbled, but the stallholder complied. “Good, good.” Hubris spread the paper across the counter and took up the pencil. “People love a show, yes? The folks out there, they’re staying out of the way of the hubbub certainly and I’ll grant you, some have left the Labyrinth.” He grinned at the lad. “But a lot of them are still out there, keeping out of the way and watching the show.”
“A week or two and this might all be forgotten, knowing our fair city,” he continued, the pencil beginning to move as he started scratching a very rudimentary scene onto the paper. A parade of animals, running left to right. Tigers among them, but in the minority. A shrouded figure atop a rhino. “But something like this, well, I daresay you’d get some solid traffic for about a fortnight out of it. Everyone who was there would want one and everyone who wasn’t would want one so they could approximate enough of the details to lie about being there. Isn’t keeping ahead in the social scene wonderful for business?”
The wheels were starting to turn in the stallholder’s head now. “Alright mister. Fair point, but what’s your game? What’s in it for you?”
The butler smiled. “Half a dozen of the finished product and 10% of the sales. I’ve given you the idea and to ensure this gets started today I’ll front 10 echoes in printing costs. If I don’t make that back on my cut, that’s my problem, yes?” He held out his hand. “My name is Hubris Glamore. Cheat me at your peril. Do we have a bargain?”
A few moments pass. “You’re on Mister Glamore. Let’s hope you’re right, eh?”
Hubris smirked. “Let’s hope indeed.” He counted out 10 echoes, pausing a moment to take an additional one from his pocket. “I’m sure we can do better than those chicken scratchings I’ve done.” Half turning to the urchins that frequent the shop. “Hello my young friends. Can you draw?” He makes a show of passing the stallholder the echo. “My friend here needs a design sketched out to be sent off for print this afternoon. I can’t dawdle here all day, so I’ll let him be the judge. Whoever can draw it best, gets the echo, yes?”
The resulting hubbub of the urchins clamouring for pencils and claiming to be the best artist was as noisy as expected. “Well don’t just stand there, man, get the lads and lasses some pencils.” He smiled and disentangled himself from the crowd around the counter, fervently hoping the urchins and stallholder fussing over poster design would be all the distraction Cosmo needed.
They had been ducked behind the counter rummaging through the draws, opening and closing cupboards, making as little noise as was humanly possible. Their efforts were coming to nothing.
Brushing themselves off, they stand up and offer their hand to the stallholder. “Good. I’m glad to hear you’ve come to an agreement. I’m Hubris’ partner in business matters you understand.”
The Stallholder takes their hand and shakes it. “Ah, yes…”
“I reckon we should have a little something to celebrate, don’t you? I’ve got a little flask of tea somewhere, nothing stronger I’m afraid.”
“Hm, well go on. Seems like a lot of fuss, but I suppose, if it’s nothing untoward.”
“Quite right, my good man. Now, do you happen to keep some cups about the place?”
“Erm, yeah, the boss keeps some in the cupboard over there. There’s a key in the draw where we keep the files.”
Cosmo follows the boy’s instructions. It was tucked away behind a porcelain tea-set etched with blue pigmentation. These the Professor set on a counter, before grasping their prize. They hold it up briefly to the candlelight, and observe it shine through the barely translucent ware. Glass, not ceramic, as Cosmo had hoped. They smile and tuck it into their jacket, taking care to wrap it into some cloth they had prepared.
“Well. Here we are,” they say. They pat their jacket theatrically. “Now what have I…? Ah, no my mistake. It seems I left my flask back at the office. Never mind, eh? Now, unless you have any more questions, I suppose we better be off. Be sure to find Mister Glamore, won’t you.”
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
3/23/2018
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[Co-Written with Slyblue and Lady Jen Black]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
The Bazaar's Emporium of Educational Curiosities
12:15 PM
Bloody Hell. All Longshanks are a little eccentric - it happens, when you’re an orphan growing up in an unstable gantry erected high above the city, in a gang/cult run by children. But Lee had Michael pegged as a relatively reliable one. Now here he is, sprinting down a city street in broad daylight with a long rifle in one hand and an unconscious woman in the other. This is not inconspicuous.
Most of the Constables who ordinarily provide security for the Emporium have been detailed to extra security at the Palace - that has been part of the team’s calculations all along. Today’s security force is a skeleton crew of Special Constables, relying on a large detachment of Neddy men for muscle. But even a skeleton crew is going to notice this.
Sure enough. A group of three men in black uniforms is sitting around a cast-iron table, enjoying a snack of sugared pastries and coffee al fresco. They snap to attention as Mike gallops by. They drop their pastries and coffee and reach for their sidearms.
Special Constables. The scum of the Constabulary - no interest in justice or protecting the ordinary citizens, just the iron fist of the Masters. None of Lee’s friends on the Velocipede Squad will be too bothered if she has to take some of them out. Easy enough to do. They haven’t even spotted her yet. Lee slips her Colt Navy revolver out of it soft, worn holster -
And then, reluctantly, reholsters the revolver. No killing, that was the rule. Not ordinary people who were just doing their jobs - and Special Constables, however much Lee despised them, fit that description.
No rule about how badly we can hurt them, though. Just as the Special Constables are drawing a bead on the fleeing Mike, Lee smashes into them at her top speed. The edge of her shoulder hits one of them in the floating ribs, and she feels them break. Her target hits the table, the table bowls over the other two Special Constables, and then all of them go down in a thrashing, shouting mass of flailing limbs and ironmongery.
A couple of minutes later, Telemachia Lee stands up. The Special Constables do not. Lee’s handsome face sports a couple of fresh bruises and abrasions. She spits out a mouthful of blood, and grins a red-toothed grin.
Farther down the street - too much farther - Michael continues to lug his burden. How can he possibly be running so fast while carrying an adult woman? He has her awkwardly cradled in one arm, while she screams and moans and vomits - is that blood? - all over his coat. The other arm holds his rifle, a magnificent weapon for long-range marksmanship, and completely unsuited to being used one-handed at close range.
Mike fires, and a lantern explodes. Is that even what he was aiming at? Hard to tell. But it’s a distraction, all right. Flaming oil sprays in all directions, making people scream and dive for cover. A second shot blows a hole in a wine-keg, causing a distraction of another sort as several of London’s thirstier citizens are presented with a fountain of free wine. A third, aimed into the pressing crowd in front of him, doesn’t seem to hit anyone directly, but the bullet makes an uncanny whining sound in flight, causing people to reel backwards, gasping and clutching their ears, opening a path in the crowd for him to dash through.
Lee will have to sprint to catch up. She brushes between lovers, vaults over barrels, growls Urchins out of her path. The crowd is dense around a Rubbery Lumps stall, so Lee simply jumps up onto the counter, runs along it, and hops back down onto the flagstones. She may have stepped on a few customers’ Rubbery Lumps, but the odds are decent that the dirt and tiger-fur from her boots may have actually improved the quality of their meal.
Lee is gaining on Michael now, catching up. She has lost track of Jen Black and just has to hope that the other woman is keeping up. Another good burst of speed and the daft Longshanks will be in arm's reach. What then, Lee hasn't figured out yet.
But there's another barrier to overcome - a knot of a dozen or so Neddy Men, milling about in a confused manner and trying to decide whether to pursue Michael. The sensible thing for Lee to do would be to somehow circumvent them. But the crowd of swaggering bravos is taking up most of the street. Besides, Lee still has a few hard feelings left over from the Battle of Wolfstack Docks.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/15/2018
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[Co-written with Shylarah and Lady Jen Black]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - Undisclosed Location
11:15 AM
The tigers who left to investigate the noises do not return. Then the little company is treated to the sight of a spotted feline sprinting past, followed by -- is that George’s sinuous bulk? And that laugh can only be Nikki. Oh dear.
Jen gapes for a moment when the stampede goes past. Nikki. On a rhino. With Anactoria behind her. And Caroline in pursuit. “... what in the Neath?” she mutters under her breath.
Thankfully, all the tigers seem equally flummoxed by the parade of creatures. The Judge is the first to recover her dignity. “What are you doing? Go after the stampede!”
Some of the tigers make to follow, but the one in the lead puts out a paw. “Stop! Walter's on the loose, it's dangerous!”
The Judge glares at the tiger. “What are you doing? Get back on your paws!”
“But there are so many of them! We've never had to contend with such a stampede before!”
The tigress snarls. “I'm sorry, is this not your speed? Then I'll take the lead!” She runs out, and the others follow with varying degrees of enthusiasm, or lack thereof.
Three of the largest and surliest tigers are left to guard the prisoners. The basalt-walled room suddenly seems much larger and quieter as the sounds of the stampede move past and on into the distance.
---
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 2/15/2018
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Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/15/2018
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[Co-written with Hubris Glamore and Lady Jen Black]
Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - Undisclosed Location
11:20 AM
Only three tigers left in the room. Jen frowns. Knives are not made for nonlethal incapacitation, and she's not sure if knocking it over the skull with her cane will be enough to take it down. Her gas bombs may not work either. This will be a challenge.
*****
Ah, good. I love a challenge. Telemachia Lee swaggers straight up to a tiger, grinning, wrapping one end of her anchor-chain around her left fist, leaving the other end to swing free from her right hand.
*****
A perfectly timed distraction. Hubris begins to move along with Lee and Tanner as they make to assail the remaining tigers. Selecting a tiger they've not yet turned towards, he starts towards it, removing his jacket and gripping it by the collar.
Quickening his pace before the tiger's attention is returned to the group, he twirls the jacket into a tight, makeshift cloth rope. Gripping the other end of it with his free hand to prevent it from unfurling, he breaks into a dead sprint before taking a running leap onto the tiger's back, swinging the jacket rope down over the surprised feline's head and pulling it taut against the throat. "So sorry about this." he says, gripping hard with his legs and pulling backwards as hard as possible, quietly thankful of his decision to spend the extra money on silk clothing and the tensile strength that goes with it.
Assuming he can manage to maintain his balance, this shouldn't be too much of a hassle. After all, riding a tiger is fine until you get off, unless of course you're able to stay mounted until it passes out from lack of oxygen. Until then, Mr. Glamore will remain atop the unwilling mount desperately trying to shake him free.
---
edited by Aberrant Eremite on 2/15/2018
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Tanner Price
Posts: 30
2/15/2018
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Look at that butler go!, Tanner thinks while keeping a spare eye glued to the snarling tiger stalking towards him; the very same arrogant brute that promised no thirst for his death now baring hideous fangs. It looks like that pact is expired. Tanner maintains his distance and circles the tiger, light on his feet, and works to unfasten the belt tie of his leather coat to reach his weapons. He should’ve planned this out better. This is no time to be a magazine model!
While his hands are occupied with the knot, the tiger pounces with unhinged ferocity. It barely misses the captain springing to the side. Its claws scrape the basalt floor as it skids to a stop, furiously spinning around to glare at its opponent. Tanner gets the knot out and throws open his coat while dashing in quick bursts. A hand plunges into a pocket and thrusts out a bundle of cylindrical stun grenades. The tiger sprints at him and leaps claws-forward into the air. Tanner pulls a pin and drops the bundle.
He dives headfirst in a desperate leap away, and the tiger crashes down with a foreclaw stuck inside one of the other unpulled pins. Before it can wheel itself around, three quick rounds of concussive bombs burst into the tiger’s face. It roars in enraged distress and claws at the air in front of its eyes, unable to see or hear anything besides a constant white ringing. Tanner quickly rises off the ground and barrels for the tiger.
In a savage pounce of his own, Tanner hurls himself onto the tiger’s back and grips gloved hands tightly to the thick patches of fur. He climbs on all fours closer to the thrashing beast’s neck and locks the toes of his boots around its belly. With a hand diving into another pocket, Tanner’s legs cling for dear life as he fishes out a small pouch of sleeping powder and pours it out into his other palm. He clenches his fist around it and lurches himself forward to hold the head steady and smear the yellow powder into the tiger’s nose.
It continues to thrash and howl and snort until one of its knees gives out, followed by another. Tanner slides off the tiger’s back and walks unhurriedly to stand in front of his immobilized foe’s face. His expression remains neutral, but his eyes stare into those of the heavily panting feline.
“You… lack a killer’s... instinct….” it sputters.
“I don’t need one.”
The tiger struggles for one last effort of defiance and twists its face into a labored snarl. Then its expression drops, and its head slumps to the ground.
Tanner watches the arrogant beast’s body settle quietly into unconsciousness, and he turns to walk away from his conquered foe. He smiles.
--
Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/18/2018
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[Co-written with Lady Jen Black and Slyblue]
Jen watches with satisfaction. There’s no real need for her to stay. She’s chosen a strong team who can take care of themselves, and she doesn't want to get in the way of their tiger fighting. All the tigers are occupied, and her talents can be better occupied elsewhere. “Hubris, when you're done, go find Cosmo. I need someone I can trust to watch them. Tanner, go after Nikki. Try to get her off that rhino, she's far too memorable on it. Mike, with me, let's grab Lee and get to work.”
Wait … where is Mike? Jen hears the crack of a rifle echoing from down the hall. She slips off in that direction to investigate. Within a few steps she sees Michael rounding the corner. His clothes are a bit blood-spattered. He holds his rifle in one hand. He gently cradles a weasel in the crook of the other arm.
“Mike, what happened?” she demands.
“Ach, dinnae fash,” Michael replies cheerily. “Lil’ Buddy here,” he indicates the injured weasel with a nod, “will be right as rain in no time.”
“That wasn’t what I - wait, where is Lee going?!”
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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Aberrant Eremite
Posts: 362
2/19/2018
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Friday, 27 December, 1895
Labyrinth of Tigers - Undisclosed Location
11:20 AM
Telemachia Lee is a very strong woman. She is often able to make easy money on bets in Wolfstack taverns, by performing unlikely feats of strength or hustling arm-wrestlers. But a very strong woman is still less strong than a very strong man, and a very strong man is still less strong than a healthy tiger. This is what the chain is for. It’s a weapon that favors skill over strength.
The tiger leaps. Lee dodges to the side and whips the chain around a hindleg, and pulls hard. Instead of landing gracefully on four paws, the tiger falls flat on its chin. While it’s stunned, Lee puts the boot in. Steel toes smash into its ribs and gut, over and over, until it whirls with a snarl and a slash of claw. Its claws slice through the tough leather and grate on the steel reinforcement beneath.
Lee faces the tiger, whirling her chain, and lashes out, multiple strikes from every direction. The chain lengthens or shortens to counter the great cat’s attempts to dodge it, and flexes around the paw it raises to defend its head. The tiger snarls and hisses as long red welts appear on its face.
Maddened by pain and rage, the creature no longer acts like a thinking being, but reverts to pure predator. When Lee steps back, onto the Judge’s stage, the tiger’s leap is swift, brutal … and predictable. Lee’s chain curls around its neck and she pulls, bracing her feet against the edge of the platform. The tiger’s head smacks into the wall with a shockingly loud thud. Tiger skulls may be harder than human skulls, but they’re not harder than solid basalt.
Again, Lee closes and puts her boots to work. The stunned beast gasps and hisses as she kicks the wind out of it. It rises again, slashes at her again, but it’s slow and weak and easily dodged.
The tiger roars - loud, furious, primal threat. Lee winces as the force of it hits her sensitive ears, and she barely dodges the next lunge. The rejuvenated tiger tears open her trousers, leaving fresh marks on thighs already heavily scored with claw-scars.
Lee is braced and ready for the second roar. As the tiger rears, raising its claws over her head, she steps inside its swing, whipping the chain around her right hand, and boxes its ears with short, hard, vicious jabs of her chain-wrapped fists. The tiger yowls with pain, rage, and fear - and turns tail and runs.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Lee’s chain snags a rear paw, momentarily arresting the tiger’s flight, but it shakes free and bounds for the door.
“Get back here!” Lee snarls, her normally-pale eyes dark with fury. “I’m not finished with you by a d----d sight!” She hurtles out of the room, hot on the tiger’s heels.
--
Hieronymus Drake: Gentleman scholar, big-game hunter, scar-faced aristocrat. Remarkably sane, all things considered.
Tanith Wyrmwood: Longshanks cat-burglar; Bohemian author; now, perhaps, something more. Bubbly, expressive, and affectionate. It’s not only still waters that run deep.
Telemachia Lee: Gentle lady by birth, brawling Docker by choice. Good company in the drunk tank.
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