Fantasy Delicious Friend... | Fallen London Roleplay

[Mr_DC]

0stinato NorseChaos
"No." The Affable Spy gave an annoyed look to the Deluder for but a moment. Must he make it difficult for her? Of course, he must, that's who he is. A tease through and through. The Spy even saw such behavior with the Governor occasionally. There was little that could make the man shut up. Maybe he thought he was charming or something. Well... She had to admit there was some charm. In a reckless sort of way.

"My carriage is waiting below." Her mind raced to figure out a fix for that sentence. A carriage was something they could see - if it existed. An unnecessary lie. A lie which could bust her cover. A cover which she didn't really need. Deluder's behavior was proof enough that he wasn't in danger. His teasing meant she didn't really need a cover. What was the point of pretending?

Practice.
Practice, practice, practice. If she were ever to become as skilled as the Governor, she would have to learn to lie to herself. Sure, irrigo more than helps at that but she'd rather become a midnighter first and destroy her memories second. Not that she was aiming to become a midnighter. It seemed to be a profession which was simply hazardous to one's health. Not many midnighters stayed alive for long. Skilled agents, though, were always long-term assets. If their midnighter disappeared, they could quickly find a home under someone else.

The Selection must have started getting impatient by that point. The Spy's time was running out on this particular stop and she had to visit a jeweler and a devil before she had to return to the yacht to see what else the Governor has for her. Perhaps she could rest that evening since she wasn't going to the ball. Some soup. Some Broken Giant...

"Good luck." She gave him a short nod, turned on her heel, and walked out of the apartment.

 

[Mr_DC]

Osthavula
Fleur listened to what her patron was saying and a single thought was running through her mind. How could she even think that this woman was trying to use her? Going through such expense to get a great tailor to create custom outfits, making plans to introduce her into society, providing her with a place to rest... All without even hinting at anything to provide in return. Fleur felt humbled. Ashamed. She assumed the worst from the woman who did nothing but help her. When did she become so cynical? Wasn't she always the optimist?

"Thank you." Was all Fleur managed to say, her eyebrows arching upwards. She did her best to force away the tears coming to her eyes. She was called kind and generous on the surface. She was in a position of power where kindness was possible. She had wealth with which she could be generous. In the Neath, she was nothing. How could she be kind when she needed kindness herself? How could she be generous when she had nothing to her name.

"I-uh..." Fleur shrugged when Viola mentioned that she would probably want to see her friend in private. Of course, she wanted to see him alone. To tell him... Everything. She couldn't ask her patron to leave her, though. Out of respect for everything she offered thus far. She wouldn't ask her for privacy either. There were little secrets she really wanted to keep anyway. After she finally got to him, she could let everyone know everything. Until then... They were to be kept to herself. "I wouldn't mind if you were with me. Someone to steady my hand." Fleur smiled, bowing gratefully.

As her patron left to answer the door, Fleur hurried to bathe. Just to make herself presentable to the tailor. She still had her pride. Never was the one for jewelry or expensive clothes but she had to stay presentable. The Writer loved all things expensive and regularly purchased her gifts of gold when he was first courting her. When their relationship change, though, the gifts changed as well. From gold jewelry to wood carvings. From expensive cloth to countless pages. He could always get his hands on anything she truly wanted. Just a hint that she was curious about a book she couldn't get and it would be presented to her the next evening. Not with some motive behind it. Not even expecting to be thanked. Just a gift.

Finishing cleaning herself, Fleur put on her still dirty clothes from the day before and made her way downstairs. She hoped her patron would be there as well. Just to have someone by her side with the tailor. Fleur felt... Dependent. Might have been a trait of someone incapable on the surface but it was just one of the stages in London. She needed someone and found someone.

 

[Osthavula]

Lady Viola
Location: Ladybones Road
Mr_DC


"Ah, Fleur. " Viola stood up from the sofa with a smile, hand holding up a torn dress. Her exchange with Morris was short enough that she returned early, and she took the time waiting to discuss with Candice about her dress and whether they should spend the effort to mend it. Already she had her hair brushed up in an up-do and in a different dress. Candice, a spectacled lady with her hair in a bun, stood up in sync. She herself was wearing a dark grey dress, but with a closer look, the fabric had a unique embroidery. At first, the tailor looked intimidating and could be intimidating, but she had a warm and comforting grin on her face that would let down a children's guard. A business smile, logically, but it made her appeared much more welcoming. Even her voice was low and soothing.

"Good morning. " Candice said with a curtsy towards Fleur, "Aster Tailor at your service. Lady Viola had briefed me on the sets you might need. Do you have any preference with your dresses? "

With some discussion of how Fleur would prefer her clothing, Candice got to work swiftly. Her tape measures only pausing on her each place less than a second then it moved on to the next. The measuring took surprisingly less time, but it was the asking and choosing of fabric material that took longer. She also explained about the compartments that she could add to her new and original clothing (the one she wore), plus the formal dress skirt can be easily take off if needed. Well, there should be something worn inside the skirt, no doubt, but it was frequently used by her few close customers should they need to unburden themselves in situations.

Viola was watching from the side, only just out of the reach of Fleur's arm. She told her about the ball --- without mentioning governor or the guests --- and that it was a timely opportunity for her to start. Since a lot of Bohemians are invited, people won't be as uptight and strict about how people behave.

"I forgot to ask, how familiar you are with these occasions? Is there things you need preparing for?" Remembering that she never bothered to ask of her past --- and she understood most people might withhold that information --- she asked as casually as she could. Would it matter who she was in her past? Well, if she was a member of the Great Game, perhaps. Otherwise, it matters little of the life she could not return to. Viola only guessed being a doctor meant she was wealthy enough to receive education.

Candace lifted her head, not halting her busy hand sketching on her paper. She was done with the measurements already and permitted Fleur to freely move. " Honestly the Bohemians would much prefer you being ignorant of it. "

"Ah yes, they would. I guess I should explain the different factions across London since you need to learn how they think and behave. " The lady happily started talking now she found a direction. "The Bohemians mostly resides in Veilgarden. It's the place where most poets, artists, authors and the like started; they enjoy honey, drinks, and usually less restricted lifestyle. "

Fleur had seen some of them already, but it was better not to mention those who were blown to bits from the Mandrakes' incident.

"Next is Society, which is easy to understand. The rich, the powerful. Would be similar to the surface really, they enjoyed their lavish party, but like to praise being well behaved. They love if something different happens among them whilst sneering at it. You will see them at the empress court a lot, but they are quite wide spread in terms of places to encounter them. "

"I should also explain the ones here on Ladybones Road as well since you will stay here for a while. Have you seen the Devils yet? Their eyes burn bright, though some in different colours; most of them well groomed and dressed. Be careful around them though, they are very persuasive. They take interest on souls, and many will sweet talk you to give it up."

Finishing her second sketch, Candice took the sketch paper down on the table and looked at Viola before further sketching. "Terrible fashion taste, I must add."

"They like bold choices."

"That's one way to put it. "

Viola chuckled lightly, remembering that the selection of devil's liking in her shop was on the corner rack. When Viola pointed out which one of those bright yellow fabric Valentino might fancy himself, she caught Candice glaring at her.

"The constables station on this road too, not far from here. Not all of them were brutes, of course, so you can rest easy. Not to be mistaken with the special constables, those are hired by Masters and sometimes their favourites. "

"Do you need more explaining on them? Or should I move on?"

Seeing a good place to pause, Viola waited to see if Fleur understood everything. There are much more she could explain, though these people she mentioned would be the ones Fleur might encounter often. As a patron, Viola felt curious about how the lady in front of her would turn out.

Hope Neath wouldn't break her as it did with many.

 

[0stinato]

Spite

The invitation to sip honey with him was declined, and the woman left. The Spy left. And for a second the Deluder stared at the door, a little melancholic, but also greatly satisfied; that curl of the lip, that expression she'd given him upon her rejection... priceless. But it was a slight shame; honey would be a relish at a time like this.

But what was this time? Time to move the hell on, that's what the Deluder thought. Final confessions, he recalled. Instead of a sudden date with the Spy, he had a date with the church. There was something about confession that the Deluder enjoyed... the anonymity, the lack of any sort of judgement, the ability to tell all. However, all of those things also made it slightly boring. No one would turn their head and gasp upon his arrival if he only made clear what he'd done in confession. The Neath had to know!

The Deluder snatched the ruined bombazine from its place on the armchair, and took up his rapier, which he wrapped in the bombazine, before folding the thing under his arm. He then turned to Stryx.

"You've been so good to me. I owe you. You know that. But, to go some way towards repaying you for all you've done for me... you don't mind if I use your pencil, do you?" he said, taking it up. But he didn't give the man time to answer before he wrote down, slowly and carefully, an address.

"Here," he handed the paper to Stryx. "An address I think you'll be able to... make some use of. If you want the best result, go tonight. I promise you it's empty tonight. You'll have plenty of time to... put your skills to use..."

He moved to the door, a smile on his face. Carrellés, who'd come out from behind the table leg once the Spy had gone, joined him soundlessly. Once at the door, the Deluder stopped. He winked at Stryx.

"Until next time... you wonderful saviour of mine."

NorseChaos

Veilgarden

The Spy's message of "Final Confessions" had actually been assumed as something different. His pace while walking to the church was slow, to save his back the trouble. It still twinged badly if he moved wrong, that puncture he'd sustained. Even with the binding fabric bandage, it only seemed to make the pain more concentrated. Plus he wasn't exactly looking forward to walking into the church with the back of his white shirt stained with his own blood. The congregation might drink the blood of Christ (or whatever passed for blood), but they weren't receptive to some mortal's juices.

Nearing the building though, his tired eyes lit up a little upon realising what her vague message had truly meant.

"Sister," the Deluder assumed a punctuated walk, his chin raised slightly, as he drew close to a face he recognised and relished seeing. Lydia, standing quietly and unassuming beside the huge wooden door, gave her colleague a friendly scowl.

"You don't deserve this, you know," she said. "You're spoiled. But you're spoiled for a reason..."

She withdrew from the inside of her sleeve, a slip of paper, and handed it to him. The Deluder saw it was rather small, essentially like a glorified I.O.U. Fancier. The Governor's signature. The promise of five-hundred echoes to be paid in jade. And it was made out to the Governor's tailor.

Lydia smirked, upon his gaze returning to her, "You better hurry up and get a suit bought. After all you've done, he won't want to be kept waiting for you."

Despite the veiled threat that the Deluder heard as though it was shouted, he managed a peaceful smile. "We all sin, Lydia. (This remark earned him a slight amused nod from the nun.) Even if we don't mean to. I'll discover my sin in due time, I'll right the wrongs. A man is made by his vices."

There was a slight wordless agreement in that last softly-spoken sentence. The Deluder had planted it, and Sister Lydia picked up on it. An orange flame glowed for a second, a match struck on the rough stonework of the church, and the nun shared the flame with her associate. Before long, the tinge of cigarette smoke drifted from the pair. They didn't talk.

And the Deluder saw this moment as something special. He didn't know - nor care, for that matter - how Lydia was interpreting the moment (perhaps she was just humouring him. Perhaps it was something... else). He liked Lydia though. Something in her eyes held not only secrets but strength. Something in her lips held not only promise, but tease. Maybe she was this confidently coy with everyone. Maybe she was only this confidently coy with him. It didn't much matter, he'd be a hypocrite if he found fault with flirting with everyone.

But the moment ended all too soon; the Deluder's cigarette burned down to nothingness and he had to move on. So he did. No word of thanks - the mood didn't call for speech - but a sideways glance before he left. He had a new destination now. But no way was he going to dress like the Governor; black was not his thing. Certainly suited his canon though. Move like a cat, look like a cat.

The Maest of London says...

I have avoided the madness by blindfolding myself. A solution.​

 

[DoughGuy]

At the rat's house

Not a hand Blue really felt like playing right now. The man was a talker. A ploy or a natural quirk? Well if it was the former the man was good, his eyes were genuinely on the blood and not searching him for riches. In total shock to everyone Blue didn’t recognise him at all, Yellow’s research hadn’t covered many specific individuals, only locations and general information. He mulled over how to play this. Perhaps if he went along with it the man’s mouth would let something useful slip.

“It looks like I’ve managed to avoid the worst of it.” Blue replied, brushing a hand down his jacket. “But I could use a safe place to rest.”

“Avoid the worst of it? You are kidding? I mean - look, the blood… no one gets like that when they avoid the worst of it, you know? I suppose you don’t look pale… I remember I was on a canal boat on the river, I fell in. Nothing awful happened, you know, but the shock took me over…” the man’s hand met his hair in a concerned ruffle. “Um… safe place. My place is pretty safe. I was done a good turn by someone after I fell in the river, you know. Only… fair I return that… the Bazaar keeps scores and all. Can you walk? It’s not far. Um, but I think… well, we’ll have to get you new clothes. I’ll lend you some of mine, you look tall enough…”

He kept speaking, but eventually beckoned Blue to come with him.

“What’s your name, first point of order. I got a bit flustered, didn’t introduce myself. Carrellés,” he said. “Severin Carrellés, I’m an artist, you might have heard of me? Come on then. Come on. Walk and talk. Walk and talk, poor man.”

New clothes? Now that was just outrageous. The man seemed even more dull than he had just seconds ago after his canal story. But if such a small matter was interesting enough to him to bring up in conversation then Blue already knew this event would reach a stranger’s ears soon enough. Unfortunate, but he wasn’t one to kill a man without checking he had something worth stealing first.

The man’s words began to meld together and Blue almost missed his que to begin following. And it was good he started listening there as he caught the man’s name. Carelles, the same as the rat. Not a name he imagined was common, which meant there was some sort of link between him and the Deluder. Good or bad? Was he still trapped in the game or in a new one. The situation down here was already complex.

“My name is Mr Blue.”

“Mr. Blue? Reminiscent of the masters. How interesting,” Carrellés said. Thought he didn’t sound all that interested. “I met Mr. Wines a few times. Paid me in wine for a piece I painted. So I even caught the eye of a master,” he sounded proud as he walked, and smiled across at his companion. “You could say I’m fairly good.”

It wasn’t a long walk (as Carrellés had said, it wasn’t at all far). Up this alley, down that one, and finally up some outdoor steps to the door of a townhouse. Modest. Though Carrellés commented he was hoping to sell it and upgrade. Get himself a bigger studio. He spoke breezily, no worry to whom he was sharing information. He let them both in, and directed Blue to the lounge where he instructed the man to stand.

“I don’t want to get viscera on my furnishings, I’m sorry. Just down the hall, straight ahead. Ignore that door on your right.”

He said nothing about the door on the left, just to ignore the one on the right.

Things were just getting worse and worse for Blue the more Carelles spoke. Connected enough to meet with a master even if only once, but certainly connected with other important figures on a more regular basis. He began to suspect things were more of an act than he had suspected. The feeling wasn’t helped when they entered the home and one of the rooms was declared off limit. The man was an artist, it could merely contain his latest piece. But that wasn’t the kind of bet Blue would take.

He ignored both doors in the hallway for now as he made his way to the lounge room. This was where having a rat would come in great help. He placed his clean bags on the floor and stretched out his arms which had been getting sore. He turned to Carelles as the man followed him in. “I’d prefer to wash the clothes rather than get new ones if possible.” he said.

“Right, I see, well… you’ll need something to wear… while you’re washing the clothes,” Carrellés shrugged, and avoiced Blue’s eyes when he said, “I’d offer to do it for you but I was brought up to never invade another person’s privacy. I don’t want to take your coat and find out you have things in the pockets, you know? Not that I’d need money or anything. You can soak them in the bath if you desire to. I suppose you know how to churn the dirt out of them? Shall I run that bath for you? Probably do that before offering you tea, or coffee or wine…”

Blue examined his own clothes as Carelles spoke. There was a little blood on the shirt as well as the jacket so he’d need something to cover that. And there was a rather annoying amount on his pants. “Very well. I’ll accept the offer of new clothing. Blue if possible.” he added. Wearing the Intriguer’s brown hat had been bad enough, he’d felt so dull. If he had to wear white and black it would be a terrible day.

He unzipped the duffel bag and pulled the bottle of wine he’d received at the Mandrake, then placed it upon the table. “Since you’re the one aiding me perhaps I can provide the wine.” He wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be taken as money or as a drink so left it up to Carelles to decide. What he was sure of was erasing any debts immediately. The man might seem to be on the simple side but he wouldn’t fall into the trap of being beholden to him. Especially with his connections. “You wouldn’t happen to have any vinegar or salt would you?”

Carrellés’ mood shifted almost completely when he saw the offer of the wine. Eyebrows rose comically quickly, and if one was looking closely enough, one might just see his pupils dilate…

“Is that… well, I won’t say Broken Giant is rare for me these days, not when society treats me so well,” he said, picking up the bottle. “I’d not normally drink it. But, seeing as you’ve had a rough day, and you’re providing it, I say we can indulge ourselves tonight,” he smiled, genuinely smiled, and placed the bottle back down.

“Here, I probably have a suit you can borrow. Might be a little brighter than the colour you’re in at the moment, but I always go for the best. Can’t sell if you’re not eye-catching, that’s what I think, you know? Right in here,” he opened the door, and went straight past his bed to the wardrobe. The bed looked out of sorts with the room… too nice to be surrounded by these walls. The wardrobe too looked expensive and with the way the artist gingerly opened the doors, it was either an antique, or it was new. He picked out a suit, cornflower blue with a slight sheen, trousers to match. The shirt was a dark grey. Carefully, Carrellés lowered the suit on the bed.

“Just change here. Leave your other suit, I’ll take care of it, I’ll wash it, you can take it whenever you leave. I don’t have a lot of space to stay, but a man should never be a stranger to sleeping on a settee, you know?” moving to the door, he walked through it and turned. “Come out when you’re ready. I’ll prepare the wine. And try to find the… vinegar and salt for you. I certainly have salt. I’m not sure about vinegar… take your time though. I’ll leave you in peace.”

He shut the door. A few minutes later, tinkling of glasses could be heard through the door, and then a slight pop as the artist uncorked the bottle.

Upon seeing Carelles’ reaction Blue began to re-evaluate his offer of the wine. It appeared he was sharing something of good value inadvertently. At least he knew he was in the clear debt wise given its value. And he had something enjoyable to drink. Given the day he’d had he could reasonably allow himself a small amount of alcohol to relax. But even as these thoughts ran through his mind he was also turning the action into a play. Such freedom with an expensive gift would elevate his status in the man’s mind to one of wealth. Covering his ignorance with a lie.

He waited for Carelles to leave the room before he began undressing

~***~

As the last piece of Blue’s uniform dropped to the floor Grey let out a long breath. Of all the personas to get caught up in battle it was Blue. Yet he had survived without any damage thankfully. Cleverness had pulled through where brawn would have triumphed. Naked, they sat down in the chair and massaged their temples. All the planning and playing was bringing on a headache now Blue’s mental strength was gone.

Grey peeked at the suit Carelles had offered. It looked colourful enough to draw Blue back to the fore. But the worrying thing was the other, all clamouring for release. It wasn’t safe to live in one colour for so long. It risked losing control of the others. And without careful planning the entire plan could come crumbling down. But they had no choice for now. Carelles expected Blue to join them and they needed a place to rest.

They lifted the bloodied jacket and checked the secret zip around the base. If Carelles opened it up to reveal the orange on the inside there could be trouble. Worse, if the blood had stained through to the other side, Blue’s memories might be triggered in Orange. Grey couldn’t afford to let the man wash the clothing. They had to do it themselves. Grey forced that memory to the fore of their mind, ensuring Blue would remember it when they regained control.

They gave the temples a few more massages, then began dressing, prepared for the confinement within their own mind.

~***~

A fancy bed and fancy closet, new money, but inconsistent. Carelles could afford permanent fixtures but a pricier home was too risky for the man. Blue filled the tidbit away, coin to be used in a later game. He heard the pop of a cork and hoped that meant the man had quickly found the salt and vinegar. The quicker he could wear his own clothes again the better. The colour of the suit was nice but he felt a little off. Perhaps it was the material. At least he’d been able to keep the hat, which had miraculously escaped becoming dirtied in the battle.

As satisfied with his new look as he could be he opened the door to the room Carelles was in.

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

Turned out the tailor was an uptight old man with a moustache who didn't talk very much. Or, at least, that was who the Deluder thought the tailor was, before the masked man, surrounded in all directions by jackets, coats and even undergarments of the highest possible quality, presented his form of payment.

The moustached gentleman took it with narrowed eyes, read it, then looked three times between the promise in his hand to the man who had shown it to him. He then muttered an, "excuse me" and backed out of the room, half-shuffling, his eyes glued on the paper.

He didn't return for a while. Which gave the Deluder time to turn his nose up at all the black and navy suits, moving onto the more illustrious range. Yes. Suits of crimson, white, indigo, buttons of brass, patterns of paisley, check. And paisley. Very modern. The Deluder gave a small smile, examining the sleeve of a white-and-black paisley suit, holding it between delicate fingers.

Behind him, he heard a delicate clearing of the throat. He turned to it, his attention summoned. Before him stood a rather slight woman, blackish hair fading at the roots to grey, but the face still retaining an impressive amount of youth. She smiled.

"I'll show you my best range..." she said. "Not the average range..."

Turned out, the lady was the real tailor. And her services, along with her "best range", were saved for the most exclusive customers. The Governor was one of them. The Deluder asked, while he was getting his measurements taken - an almost invasive practice! - whether the Masters bought their cloaks here.

The woman's smile was harder this time, and she said she couldn't disclose whether the did, or did not. The Deluder thought she sounded like a police officer when she said that, but he stayed quiet; her tone was a little bit of a warning, he felt. Stayed mostly quiet for a time afterwards too, until he got, perhaps, too passionate about a particular 3-piece suit...

It was paisley, the Deluder never found much opportunity to discover paisley before. Modern, detailed, expensive, rare. It was far too tempting to pass up, plus he wasn't even paying for it. The most he could do for his canon, he thought, would be to spend every echo.

So he made sure to stop off and buy a new mask with the remaining amount too.

Finally, suited up, his body now thrilled with its new non-blood-stained clothes, the Deluder walked with a spring in his step (his L.B. had rejoined him after his excursion in the tailor's), despite the occasional back pain. He still had the Governor's bombazine tucked under his arm, with the rapier and his now-obsolete shirt, but he knew where he'd leave them for the moment.

He pulled out the invitation and held it lightly as he knocked on a door.

Minutes ago, metres behind the door, on his second glass of Broken Giant, Carrellés complimented his guest on the look of his suit. Along with the opened bottle on the table, there stood both a cellar of salt, and, in an almost-empty bottle, the remnants of vinegar. The talkative man again told Blue he would be happy to wash the fellow's previous clothes, if he was going to provide such a taste as this often. Apparently the artist wasn't minding how long the man would stay for, not if he was going to provide wine--

"Oh... who's that? Another person wanting my help?" Carrellés gave a laugh and put down his glass. He smiled at Blue as he left the room.

"Hello, Carrellés," the artist was greeted by a smooth voice, even before his eyes fully realised who it was talking to him. "Get your best suit on, you have a ball to go to."

"I have company..."

The Deluder blinked. "Is that going to stop you? Who is it?"

"Eh, ah, some guy I met, he was in a bit of trouble so I offered him somewhere to stay for the night, you know?"

"Leave him," the Deluder leaned in closer, and he noticed the scent of wine on the artist's lips. "Come with me."

Carrellés, ordinarily, most likely would have turned down the offer. But alcohol was entering his brain already. When he'd opened it and gave it a deep sniff, he almost felt himself becoming tipsy from even just the scent. The taste was moreish. Almost two glasses had entered his system, and his mind was...

"Yes... five minutes. Five minutes, I'll be out," he smiled. To which the Deluder nodded slowly. When Carrellés had left in a hurry, exiting into his bedroom (yes, the Deluder knew which door led to his bedroom) he reached across the threshold and left the package of clothing and rapier right there on the floor. No way he was taking that to a ball. He needed his hands free... how else would he dance?

After Carrellés appeared again, he gave the Deluder a quick "one second" gesture, and hurried into the lounge. With an excited tone, he explained he'd be back with Blue at some point... "bathroom's just through there (a point to the left wall) and if you want to sleep, should be spare bedding in my room, the settee is all yours, I'll be back in a few hours," and then he drained the rest of the Broken Giant from his glass.

"Thank you again, for this," he said, sighing after the taste. "Make sure you relax tonight, read if you like, I've got plenty of types of book... please, make yourself at home, Mr. Blue, you're my guest..."

This last sentence was hurried. Carrellés left the room, then the house, and he locked the door, joining the Deluder's side. Although he'd never say it, the Deluder thought he saw the artist blush.

DoughGuy

The Maest of London says...Problem is, I can poke a hole in my blindfold. Now it is no blindfold.​

 

[Osthavula]

Jeremiah
Location: Veilgarden


Veilgarden suffered much turmoil from that night. It wasn't the explosion that made it unrest, nor was the brawl of constables, but the people who couldn't go to their favourite spot for drinks and meetings that were building their woe. Some of them were people who would normally avoid such occasion, yet they too joined their fellow neighbours in glass or honey, quietly chit chatting about in complaints. It made it hard for Jeremiah's mind to have a moment of rest, dragging his tired legs on the cobbled walks. It should be morning, but in Neath's weather, the dark and the false stars never rest. He had a full day's job in Spites, running around for his pocket of salary. But his earning was good, and for the rest of the week, he could rest easy.

It wasn't like Jeremiah was in poverty. His last play that he wrote was still ongoing in some halls, and quite popular, evidenced in people asking for it to remain on the show list. It had been only a short while since it was introduced, and his audience knew he took long period between his plays, continued to supply him enough income to keep going.

What kept him going with the side jobs then? Perhaps he couldn't bear to just sit at home in front of paper and quill? Was it just a habit that he couldn't stop? It was part of his life though, and he was comfortable with it. Plus, that person...

A shade of red appeared in his mind. Under the shade of his hat, Jeremiah grinned slightly. The familiar red wooden door opened as he twisted the knob, and his cosy entrance with a coat rack welcomed him with opened arms.

But wait. He stopped before he stepped on the inner doormat with his dusty shoes. Envelopes.

He picked it up, habitually locking his door before examining them. He noticed the one on top was irregular, it was of good quality paper, the kind that was smooth and sturdy, and it had a fancier seal and smelled slightly floral. It seemed special, so he opened it first with the small knife in the near by cabinet. Out came a short card, with a nice painting on one side depicting some mythology, of romance and the hint of clues hidden, like that jealous husband peering from the tree behind. He half guessed who it was before he flipped the card, where there were neat writings. Not all his contacts would consider his taste in paintings and mythology.

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Dear Jeremiah,

I hope I won't cause any convenience, but I wished to ask if you could accompany Bennett to the ball? In case you haven't read the invitation yet, there will be an upcoming ball inviting members of Bohemians for their society introductions. Surely you'd be invited too, being an already respectable member of society. You are a dear friend of Bennett, and since I have another to introduce to the occasion, I took the liberty to ask if you are available.
I understand if you would feel tired from your job, or if you already had a companion. In which cases I won't trouble you further. However, if you do accept, you have time to rest before joining us at the lodging. Bennett is not yet back home, and we won't depart before everyone is ready.
As usual, my urchin is yours to summon. He will deliver your reply swiftly after you call. I bid you a pleasant day no matter what comes.

Sincerely,
Viola

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Hooking his top hat on the rack, Jeremiah looked at the card with a certain amusement. It was as if the lady knew he was out working, and knew he won't refuse the offer despite the politeness. The envelope under this was the said invitation card along with the guest list. Which after that was one of his poet friend asking for some writing advice. He placed the letters on a surface together, took off his coat and shoes before heading to his bedroom.

He'd take Viola's advice, write a quick reply and sent it before taking a small nap. It was a rare opportunity to at least be namely Bennett's partner, even though they often gather in social events. He wouldn't want to doze off.

What a pleasant image he held too when he sank into his pillow, waiting for the nightmares to dawn on him. The lady of red and unfair beauty and spirit, guiding him through things of twisted shapes and figures. If only he could let that image last through his dreams...

 

[NorseChaos]

Spite

Stryx stood in the doorway as he watched the woman leave. He eased the rickety door shut, and could only hope that nobody else would come knocking. He turned back in to the room at the sounds of the Deluder's voice, asking for use of his pencil. Stryx barely opened his mouth before the man had helped himself, and was writing something down. Stryx squinted at the man who had brought so many disturbances with him. And yet, couldn't find it in him to be mad. He frowned at himself, slightly disappointed, but looked up again when the Deluder approached him, small shred of paper in hand. He offered it to Stryx, and without really thinking, Stryx took it.

It looked to him like an address. He scanned it carefully, and although he wasn't too familiar with it, it did sounds to him like a place in Veilgarden. He tried to mentally visualize the place, almost ignoring the Deluder as he made some comment about Stryx's 'skills'. When he finally looked up from the paper scrap, the Deluder was out the door with a sly wink. Stryx reached out after him, but he was already through the door, the thin wooden plank swinging shut once more. He was left in the quiet of his own front room. He fell against the door, ignoring the squeak from behind as Fleck scrambled up his back to avoid being crushed.

"Sorry, Fleck. Long day."

He stared at the paper in his hands. What was he supposed to do with this? He wasn't even certain where this address was, aside from in Veilgarden somewhere. He has an inkling as to what the Deluder had been referring to as he left, from what he had caught of it at least. He only had a few skills, and the only ones that he could ever imagine being applicable to some building would be his knack for disappearing, for merging with the shadows and entering places people wanted kept private. Though that didn't explain why the Deluder had decided to point him in it's direction. How was this going to be an adequate repayment? Stryx wasn't even bothered by the idea of keeping score, but the Deluder was convinced of it. The least he could do was humour the man surely? Tonight, the Deluder had said. That meant Stryx had some time to kill beforehand. He rolled his eyes at the mere notion that he was taking this man's advice. This man who had only really caused him trouble since arriving. It couldn't hurt to scout the place out, he decided, finally shoving himself away from the door.

He milled around his front room for a while, setting things back the way they had been before his barrage of surprise visitors, then he sat down, intending to read, but fell asleep for a short while. When he awoke, he decided there would be no use waiting any longer, and left his home, locking it and checking twice before descending the narrow stairway. He set out away from the bustle of Spite towards Veilgarden. It felt like he had made this journey mere minutes ago, though this time he could only hope he wouldn't stumble across a mysterious wounded man.

Veilgarden

Stryx pulled the slip of paper from his coat pocket as he came closer to the district, his eyes flitting between it and the fine houses that surrounded him, until he came around the corner of a narrow street.

"Here we are, then."

He looked around the building, trying to find anywhere to look in through. Walking slowly around the building, he waved Fleck down on to his shoulder. He didn't want the small thing to give him away, if anyone happened o be around, not that he could see anyone. He peeked around the corners, until he came by a wall with first floor windows. Slowly, and sticking close to the wall, he came around to what he counted as the third window in from the left corner. Part of him didn't want to look in, he was still unsure what he would find here. He didn't know if he could even trust the Deluder's advice about the place being empty. He pressed himself up against the wall, unsure about whether this would be worth it. Carefully, he pulled himself up to the window ledge, peering over.

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

"Who's dat joker?"

Withburg nipped Parakeet's tail and managed to drag the rat away from the open as a man strode past. Keeping Parakeet as watch wasn't going well, his voice had got them in trouble with a cat earlier, and it was only Withburg who'd saved both their tails. They hid in a drain. Not the nicest place to be, but safe enough that the cat eventually drawled about how it was getting bored... before skulking off to look for secrets.

Withburg could hardly believe Parakeet almost got them seen again. But it didn't mean they couldn't watch. They'd been ordered to follow the Blue man, and he'd gone into the flat of the man who'd... slept with the Liar... on a fair few occasions but that the Liar wasn't dating... but yet the Liar had called his favourite Petboy after the man...

It was all a bit complicated for them.

All they knew, was that the Blue man had gone into the house of the artist Carrellés. They weren't sure if they should follow.

Parakeet had almost revealed himself when the pair saw the Liar walk merrily up the stairs, but Withburg had, again, stopped him. Their orders were from Trick-A-Me, not the Liar. They were watching the Blue man for the promise he'd take the Rostygold where it ought to be, were they not? Couldn't afford to be ordered around by someone else... not after the scene with A-Bounds...

"Na but, who's dat joker?" Parakeet hissed, going for Withburg's tail.

Withburg moved out the way just in time, "Oi," he growled. "Dunno. Looks like a burglar."

"Burglar Wivburglar," Parakeet joked. Withburg wasn't in the mood. He told Parakeet to go and say something.

"You go, ya coward, it's your plan."

Withburg scowled but approached slowly. He didn't want to disrupt the man, cause him to jump and topple from the window he was looking into... body expertly positioned so he could see into the first floor...

"Ahem," the rat said, earning a mocking "ahem" from Parakeet about a metre away. "Mind if we join you? We two got different goals from you, all we want is to get in."

Withburg wasn't an idiot. Well, in terms of normal intelligence, he was, but he was a lookout for a reason. Withburg knew that the room that third window led to was the same room that the second window led to. He also wasn't missing the signals that this man, whoever he was, was aiming for this window specifically...

NorseChaos

The Maest of London says...

Send me a spoon in the post!​

 

[DoughGuy]

At the house of the man who you would think was less naive/trustworthy after dating the Deluder

Blue allowed himself to take a single glass of the wine which he sipped sparingly as Carelles worked his way through multiple glasses. For the most part he kept silent and let the artist build his own narrative of Blue’s life. It was far easier than inventing his own lies. It gave him more time to enjoy the vintage which was quite delectable, even if his tastebuds had little to compare it too. No wonder Broken Giant was considered a high value currency.

A knock at the door pulled his host away and Blue took the opportunity to examine the lounge in detail. Every feature was a potential coin in a later game and he had foolishly wasted the time when he had been changing. When his host returned it was only briefly, to inform him he was leaving for the night and describe the amenities of his home. Blue bid him a farewell and that he enjoy his evening out. He’d heard the man’s voice at the door and given Carelles’ excitement, it didn’t take much to put two and two together.

And then he was alone. Without hesitation his half empty glass went down on the table no longer a relevant factor. He performed a few checks on his system to ensure his motor systems remained at their peak. He picked up his clothes and carried them to the bathroom where he began running a bath. He laid the clothes in the bathtub where they began to soak and returned to the kitchen. After examining the vinegar he dismissed it. There was far too little for the job. He took the salt and returned to the bathroom where he emptied a good amount into the water. He’d let it soak for a while then return to scrub the blood out as best he could. After turning the taps off he left.

Moving down the hallway he spotted the package and weapon that the Deluder had left behind. The exact locations were memorised instantly. Powerful cards there, ones he could not allow to be lost. As an additional safety measure he locked the door. Carelles’ words had made it clear he would not be home for a while.

At last he turned his attention to the forbidden room and pondered the question of how to approach it. He pulled out knife and slide it into the gap between the door and wall at the very vase. With the blunt end pointed up he slid it slowly up the gap, while visually checking for any wires or hairs positioning to indicate it had been opened.

Assuming he found nothing he would take a hold of the handle and slowly ease it open, just enough for him to fit through.

0stinato NorseChaos

 

[Mr_DC]

Osthavula

"Hello." Fleur greeted the tailor with a polite bow. A habit which was drilled into her head on the surface. Going from court to court, bowing to the royal ladies, shying away from the royal gentlemen. Unlike what she was taught, though, she gave a short bow to everyone who deserved politeness. At least, those who didn't lose her initially optimistic opinion. The bow was a clear sign of what she was back home. She lied it off whenever someone chuckled at it on the surface but, as the Writer pointed out, even he isn't such a good actor.

"No preference. I think you'll be able to tell what you're doing far better than I could." Fleur replied with a polite smile as the woman started working. Most young girls hated the tight corsets in private and pretended it wasn't breaking them in two in public. Fleur was nothing like that. She was a trooper. Never complained, never moaned. It was her duty to look her best and present her family. A small royal when in public eye, a brilliant surgeon in bloody clothes in private. Very rarely, though, Fleur was herself. Just an ambitious girl, interested in an ambitious guy.

"Oh, I think I can handle myself in high society." Fleur said with a wink. "I might not look like it..." She smiled, closing her eyes. "But trust me."
And then Fleur listened. She listened and took in all her patron had to say. Her explanations of how the world works, of what she should know, of what she should be wary of. "Devils, hm?" Her eyes narrowed as she thought about a certain burning-eyed man in a funny hat when she headed over to Viola. "I see."

"I think I understand." She said and raised a delicate finger. "Can I just ask, though, what is our first task? I never thought he'd be difficult to find." She shrugged. "I got the feeling he was a well-known figure from his letters. What could have happened that he simply disappeared like that?"

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

Some men walk with purpose. Some men don't.

Carrellés liked to think he did. But the Deluder, strolling along andante along the cobbles and drains of Veilgarden, saw beside him a man who stank of desperation. It was obvious in the way he walked; the way he looked; the way he... existed. It was all desperate. He had no purpose other than to harvest compliments from others. Desperate.

But the man walking away had been walking with purpose. Hobnail boots splashing sparks off cobbles. He had purpose.

"Look," the Deluder stopped Carrellés and pointed to the man. "Walk like him. I can't walk into a ballroom with you like that."

"What's wrong?"

"Your walk has no personality. Chin up a little bit. Higher."

"How?"

The Deluder blinked. Then he stared at the back of the man vanishing into the darkness, sparks following. The heavy build, the determination: he was either a dock-worker, a Revolutionary looking for trouble, or a hunter of some ilk. But Carrellés was a little soppy weed in comparison.

That desperation both detestable and attractive to the Deluder. On one hand, it was awful to see a man so obsessed with chasing a kind tongue. Conversely though, it meant he'd get on his knees if the Deluder praised him enough.

But the Deluder was finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the man. He made the decision to approach him, shoulders back, a steeled scowl on his face.

Carrellés didn't follow, just cast a confused, "Hieronymus, where are you going?" after him.

But the Deluder didn't really care. Or... no, he cared that Carrellés had called him that in front of a stranger - names were power, did the fool know nothing! - but other than that the artist could wait.

"Ahem," the Deluder said. "Fellow brawler, you'd not know of a simple arms dealer around this area, would you? I'm afraid I've broken my favourite skyglass knife. I can do with two others, of course, but it's not my favourite. Veilgarden is hardly the place for such an affair, yet my schedule is tight." he smiled.

Theflamre

The Maest of London says...

Poisoned ink?​

 

[ThaDruid]

Strike of dawn, in Wolfstack Docks...

"...Amen."

The holy words that left his mouth served to abate the pressure of his mind. Relieved tension, a relaxed body. He breathed out, keeping the eyes closed for just another moment...
And it was over.
The living room had been, once more, bathed in the familiar green glow of foxfire candles. Bennett's make, obviously. The lady herself sat down besides him, with that sly smirk still plastered on her face. Only now, did he realize, how much he had missed it. But now that it was re-klindled, their friendship would have the chance to last and prosper. A rarity, in the dark corners of the Neath.

Her question needed no answer. It was obvious. No tragedy could put an end to this.

"Of course, of course. Your lady must be worried. But please come back..."
His eyes widened slightly, as a thought occurred to him.
"I could accompany you, if you so wish... The roads can be dangerous, eh?"
Cromwell let out a short laugh, knowing perfectly that Bennett, with all of her blades, would have no problem dealing with any of the thugs that lurked London's alleyways. And she probably knew that better than him.
Nonetheless, he hoped that she would accept. For old times' sake, at least.

With a half-smile, the man searched Bennett's eyes for an answer before she actually spoke.
He felt eager, to say the least.

Osthavula

 

[Theflamre]

Veilgarden

Some men walk with purpose. Some men don't.

Carrellés liked to think he did. But the Deluder, strolling along andante along the cobbles and drains of Veilgarden, saw beside him a man who stank of desperation. It was obvious in the way he walked; the way he looked; the way he... existed. It was all desperate. He had no purpose other than to harvest compliments from others. Desperate.

But the man walking away had been walking with purpose. Hobnail boots splashing sparks off cobbles. He had purpose.

"Look," the Deluder stopped Carrellés and pointed to the man. "Walk like him. I can't walk into a ballroom with you like that."

"What's wrong?"

"Your walk has no personality. Chin up a little bit. Higher."

"How?"

The Deluder blinked. Then he stared at the back of the man vanishing into the darkness, sparks following. The heavy build, the determination: he was either a dock-worker, a Revolutionary looking for trouble, or a hunter of some ilk. But Carrellés was a little soppy weed in comparison.

That desperation both detestable and attractive to the Deluder. On one hand, it was awful to see a man so obsessed with chasing a kind tongue. Conversely though, it meant he'd get on his knees if the Deluder praised him enough.

But the Deluder was finding it hard to tear his gaze away from the man. He made the decision to approach him, shoulders back, a steeled scowl on his face.

Carrellés didn't follow, just cast a confused, "Hieronymus, where are you going?" after him.

But the Deluder didn't really care. Or... no, he cared that Carrellés had called him that in front of a stranger - names were power, did the fool know nothing! - but other than that the artist could wait.

"Ahem," the Deluder said. "Fellow brawler, you'd not know of a simple arms dealer around this area, would you? I'm afraid I've broken my favourite skyglass knife. I can do with two others, of course, but it's not my favourite. Veilgarden is hardly the place for such an affair, yet my schedule is tight." he smiled.

Theflamre

The Maest of London says...

Poisoned ink?​

He stopped on his hunt to look over at the man who had approached him, he didn't like what he saw

The mask was a definite sign something was odd about this man, well different odd was a foreigner in the neith. Either way, he didn't like it and lacked the ability to hide it, his face scrunched up immediately showing to all that cared something about the man bothered him. Next came to his request, a Skyglass knife not a piece of cutlery but, a weapon few down here would openly request such information. It gave away a lot about the man like the fact he might be disarmed if he wasn't on the hunt he might have robbed him for being so foolish.

"There is one behind the honey den" he hoped the man had the good sense not to ask how he knew that his weapon slightly tilted off his back from under the blanket he kept the infernal sniper rifle hidden. It glinted in the light slightly before quickly moving to hide it, if anyone spotted the item he might have a fight to keep it. He wasen't in any mood to be killing that many people, not right now anyways.

 

[Osthavula]

Lady Viola
Location: Ladybones Road
Mr_DC


"There are many ways to make oneself disappear from people's attention. " Viola answered, knowing where the topic might lead to and wondered how she should go about it. It is not odd for Fleur to ask such a question. The answer, or rather the part of the answer that speculate the worst of situations was not one that she might wish to hear. Viola usually would tune the subtlety to how the listener favours, but she knew too little of Fleur to know how straight forward she'd like the answer to be.

But avoiding to mention it was not the way. Not the way of she wanted to answer the lady.

She nodded to Candice who waved and hurried back to her shop. The dresses must be done in priority.

"You can, for example, take on a disguise and assume a false identity. In this place where people don't necessarily know your actual name, it is fairly easy to do. Traveling out of London can also make you lose contact with everyone in the city. People always assumed that a journey through Zee can take longer than planned, and if you disappear long enough they will soon be distracted. Not a lot cared to look for long disappeared travellers, assuming they got lost or died in some accident. "

That's what made disappearing in London so plausible. Not a lot cared, most didn't care. Even within London people wouldn't ask if your neighbour didn't show up for months. Hence Fleur looking for the writer was an unusual act, and this added to support her guess that the writer was more than a mere friend of hers. Or have London sandpapered Viola's trust in the protection of friendship? Perhaps. She knew Bennett would be worried about her if she was away for too long, but would her loyal maiden set sail for her? The lady couldn't be sure.

"You can simply be in the state that you can't communicate. Dying the way we did, for one, can keep you out of touch. You can stay on the boat for a long period of time through chances or through choice, I myself have stayed for a couple of days. If you go insane, too ridden by nightmares and reality that you've seen, then you will be sent somewhere else --- rather fascinating, all this, I can explain later --- but you can't communicate with the people here then. "

"And well, if you get caught and convicted of crimes, of your own or of others that got pinned on you... or you made some important people angry like the Masters or the Brass Embassy --- that's where the devils stay --- you will be captured to New Newgate prison, which also includes a special prison for the exceptionally notorious. Confined, isolated, and you can't send too many mails, obviously. There are... Other places to end up, if not more unfortunate. "

"You can purposely erase your trails through methods of bribing and blackmailing. Which would be optimistic for us because that would be the easiest to trail. That would also raise the question why he wishes to stay hidden..."

But it would be fortunate for the writer if he was hidden by his own choice.

"And... There is, of course, the possibility of permanent death..."

She looked at Fleur, observing her reaction.

"... Beyond our reach, and beyond return. We shan't think of that possibility now."

She steered the topic in the new direction with a less sullen tone.

"My concern now is in fact, the opposite direction. I mentioned the few of the factions, but most factions are protective of both their members and information. There are more, Docks, Urchins, Criminals, Church, Tomb-Colonist, Rubbery men... You need to remember that the factions have tensions between them when you try to get close to a faction. Since the writer was known to be a Society member, the more they accept you and the more they remember you, the better chance you find out his trail. That means our approach is to try to make them recognize you. Additionally, it is useful to your life here. Any connections will be useful in time."

There are more than just the search for the writer for her now. Fleur must think of her life in Neath too, now that she mustn't bathe in sunlight again.

"I want to explain it in more details, but for now we should just focus on a few. Society is tricky, they don't have a specific rival but they like to gossip and sour your reputation. Being remotely close to rubbery men --- you will recognize them by their squid-like head and rubbery tentacles --- or acting intimately with Devils will make fine material for them to bash. Individually they may have different preferences, but collectively they like very few people. "

"Also the constables are somewhat rivalries to the devils, while the church doesn't openly conflict but have underground tension with them. So being careful when certain groups are both presented is crucial, sometimes you can only please one..."

She paused in both her thoughts and words, examining Fleur once more.

"Ah, but you will learn quickly I'm sure. You have a good eye, Fleur. "

Telling all these to her might help her a little, but Viola felt that even on her own Fleur would figure it out soon as she once did. She didn't offer to be her patron simply because she was likeable. She saw potentials.

"Keep your eyes open, and you'll find a great many things. Try to enjoy it as you do. Things may be complicated and queer sometimes, but they are never boring."

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

Behind the honey-den.

"Such confidence in replying," the Deluder said, folding his arms. "I should have known. The little no-rules district. My gratitude extends to you."

He didn't want to speak much. Words were of little consequence at the moment. Other forces were speaking now; pose, body language, tone of voice, emotions in the eyes. Look at the way the man stands, the Deluder said to himself. Look at the way he looks at me.

Incredible, it was. He even smelled different. Carrellés had clinging to him a musk of wine and cheap perfume, not odours one would expect from an artist. But one could never deny that Carrellés always smelled of Veilgarden. People native always had that mix of alcohol on them. The Deluder used to, he knew. When he'd apply a splash of cologne to his skin, and go out to the Singing Mandrake for an evening of tab-building.

This man stank of something else. There was old oil, sweat, grass. To go in reverse... grass told the Deluder the man walked not in the city. Sweat was most common a smell down at the docks, down in Watchmaker's Hill, under the collars of those who fought and those who fled. The oil... animal fur? Potentially. Could be human hair, for all the Deluder knew.

But the glint of the rifle went unnoticed by the Deluder.

However, it caught the Watchful eye of Carrellés as the artist looked on. He turned, but stayed where the Deluder had left him. His left hand began wriggling nervously, thumb rubbing against index finger. Carrellés hadn't seen a lot of weaponry, but infamy made its rounds, especially in high Society. People saying this and that and laughing in worried but confident tones about the nature of such dreadful things! Oh, how Carrellés had laughed along with them.

No laughing now. He didn't make a move though; the man didn't seem to be reaching for arms. But he was ready to bolt, if he did. Normally, Carrellés would have a respectable amount of fear for rifles, but jamming wasn't uncommon. As far as he knew, pristine builds like that never jammed. They were lethal. Lethal in this case meaning permanent...

The Deluder turned, beckoned the artist over. So Carrellés went over.

"Pay the poor man for his kind service to me," he ordered. Carrellés couldn't argue, and reluctantly parted with a small string of moon-pearls. Oh yes, paying for information was important too. And it seemed like the Deluder really didn't know of the dealer's existence.

"Thank you. We'll make a stop on the way," the Deluder said, correcting a sleeve. "I'd go to the Bazaar, but there's simply no time. Pressing concerns. Now, it was lovely to meet you. May one day we hunt together, it's been a while since I've been hunting..."

A rat had fled the scene as soon as it had seen the man. The rat had run onwards, keeping to the shadows as much as he could, eager to flee the scene. He'd hopped into a drainpipe after three or so minutes of scurrying, and huddled there, soundlessly. There was a reason Carrellés was a city-rat now. A city-rat like the hired crew out of Watchmaker's Hill, he was finding it much safer. Another reason to stay in servitude to the Deluder too; never again would he come muzzle to muzzle with that man's shots again.

Theflamre

The Maest of London says...

No one should eat bloody paper anyway. Poisoned ink. Hah! Might kill the mice.​

 

[Osthavula]

Fabulous Accomplice
Location: Wolfstack Docks to Ladybones... Oh wait
ThaDruid Sir Knight


It was first a surprised, displayed quite frankly with her widened eyes. But after the proposition made by Father Cromwell, she couldn't help but let out her laughter yet again.

They were both wishing the very same thing from the start.

She felt both of them were worrying with their confession, worrying whether they will accept each other, but both of them were eager to offer acceptance. Needless worries from retrospective, as rational as their thoughts were. From retrospective too she saw how ridiculously were their dance and circling with words, that it felt all too much like a sketch in the music halls with two fools.

Needless to say, she was relieved, thankful, and happy. In a teasing tone, she replied to him that the road back home would be indeed treacherous, and would need exactly someone like him to escort her. She took some time to arm herself again, but by the time she was done with it, she looked as innocent as she was unarmed. How could one even suspect such lady to be of danger? So beautiful in her frilly dress and calm in her steps, and so gentle in her smile when she faced the old zailor at the door.

Though the fact was that her gentleness only appeared with him being there.

A fact that would become obvious, shortly after.

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First time ever, she was eager to share tales that she had experience throughout her years. Well, now out in the open, she couldn't share any ones with secrets or too much violence, but she has many materials worthy of a zailor's table. A man who desperately tried to get to prison for his own enjoyment; a deviless in attempt to please one with tentacles with romance; a mistake she made that ended in a hilarious misunderstood mess that her lady had to deal with. She was talking about her embarrassment as the truth revealed, when from behind them came an urchin --- skinny, small, a round nose on his dusty face --- who didn't tease when Bennett seemed a little shy from his interruption.

They seem to be close. In fact, Father Cromwell might have seen him before. He was very, very young then.

"Yer lady's summonin' you. Ball's happenin' soon, she said. " He touched his cap towards the old zailor, "New woman's introduced, an' yer goin' with the writer chump."

He looked at the confused maiden. "Ya know, ginger bloke."

Writer chump? Bennett thought for a bit until she realized he was talking about Jeremiah, the playwright that... made his advance? He was a difficult one for her to understand, but not a person she disliked. Only, she felt like it was Jeremiah's behaviour that made their acquaintance a puzzling one.

And a new lady introduced? Something happened without her, and it seemed an important one. This made her feel she had been away for too long. Viola seemed to have made some decisions in her absence.

"Oh." The urchin boy continued on casually. "They's anotha' bloke, one that we saw 'hangin out an' about with that writer chump. 'E got 'imself in that alley right there. Saw someone runnin' away. Stole 'is junk, me figures. Should we jus' be lookin' away?" He pointed to a direction where it was blocked by the wall, by Bennett understood where he was talking about. Further more, Jeremiah and Bennett usually hang out together in the Society balls, so his acquaintances were mostly introduced to her. It would very likely be someone she knew.

She sighed, stiffen her expression.

"Lead the way."


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A decision she mildly regretted.


The red-haired maiden looked down on the unconscious man sleeping on the discarded bag and muddy road, stank of honey and his bag opened with one two dropped yellow amber. The presence of them in the alley also scared away the rats who took his shoes, probably looking to sell them. Her gentle smile faded and in its place, the usual stern expression that she had when facing other people, if not with a hint of displeased. But she didn't do anything at first, only staring at the man, contemplating what she should do silently.

She knew this man alright. Reinol von Lorica. Jeremiah introduced her to him, and for some reason, Bennett sensed that he didn't like her, or he had been rather cold. Jeremiah told him that she was the inspiration of the red lady in his play, maybe. And maybe that might contribute to it.

But they haven't been friendly. The maiden looked at Father Cromwell, wanting to ask something, but stopped herself. Instead, she took a step forward, kneeled down, and with her arm she hoisted the writer's slim body on her shoulder, carrying him like a sack of flour.

He wouldn't be heavier than the crates she carried on Docks.

But even though you can't see his face from the position, it could be a little humiliating to be seen carried this way. There was something in Bennett's eyes, a glint of the naughty mischieve, but she didn't show it openly.

"A boots." She said as she placed the funds in the urchin's hand. The urchin immediately darted away, disappearing in the corner.

She then turned towards Father Cromwell, with the writer's body on her shoulder securing by her arm, smiling only lightly but still friendly in her tone. "Shall we carry on, father?"

 

[Mr_DC]

Osthavula
Death. Yes. That was a possibility heavy on Fleur's mind whenever she thought about what could have happened to the Writer. He was a sly, manipulative little devil but he was never a formidable opponent. Clever but not tough. The only bodyguard he trusted died on the surface not long before he headed to London. He paid for the funeral, of course, as was appropriate but Fleur could see past the sadness on the surface. She could see past it to observe something truly unsettling.

Annoyance. Annoyance that his best tool broke. Broke in service even, judging by the stories she heard afterwards.
The Writer never really liked taking things violent. Not with him as one of the direct participants, at least. Many fights have been fought in his name but his knuckles never truly got bloody. Even when the Writer defended Fleur's honor... It was always someone else doing the actual defending.

"Yeah, I understand what you mean." Fleur nodded, her expression hard as a rock. No sadness nor fear. She was done with those. No more tears to be spilled on the Writer until she found out more. "We have to expect the worst." She looked away with a frown. "It has to be something serious for him to stop sending me messages."

Fleur looked back at her mentor with a look of pure determination. "I will find out what happened to him, though." She flashed a quick smile. "What's our first stop?"

 

[Theflamre]

Veilgarden

Behind the honey-den.

"Such confidence in replying," the Deluder said, folding his arms. "I should have known. The little no-rules district. My gratitude extends to you."

He didn't want to speak much. Words were of little consequence at the moment. Other forces were speaking now; pose, body language, tone of voice, emotions in the eyes. Look at the way the man stands, the Deluder said to himself. Look at the way he looks at me.

Incredible, it was. He even smelled different. Carrellés had clinging to him a musk of wine and cheap perfume, not odours one would expect from an artist. But one could never deny that Carrellés always smelled of Veilgarden. People native always had that mix of alcohol on them. The Deluder used to, he knew. When he'd apply a splash of cologne to his skin, and go out to the Singing Mandrake for an evening of tab-building.

This man stank of something else. There was old oil, sweat, grass. To go in reverse... grass told the Deluder the man walked not in the city. Sweat was most common a smell down at the docks, down in Watchmaker's Hill, under the collars of those who fought and those who fled. The oil... animal fur? Potentially. Could be human hair, for all the Deluder knew.

But the glint of the rifle went unnoticed by the Deluder.

However, it caught the Watchful eye of Carrellés as the artist looked on. He turned, but stayed where the Deluder had left him. His left hand began wriggling nervously, thumb rubbing against index finger. Carrellés hadn't seen a lot of weaponry, but infamy made its rounds, especially in high Society. People saying this and that and laughing in worried but confident tones about the nature of such dreadful things! Oh, how Carrellés had laughed along with them.

No laughing now. He didn't make a move though; the man didn't seem to be reaching for arms. But he was ready to bolt, if he did. Normally, Carrellés would have a respectable amount of fear for rifles, but jamming wasn't uncommon. As far as he knew, pristine builds like that never jammed. They were lethal. Lethal in this case meaning permanent...

The Deluder turned, beckoned the artist over. So Carrellés went over.

"Pay the poor man for his kind service to me," he ordered. Carrellés couldn't argue, and reluctantly parted with a small string of moon-pearls. Oh yes, paying for information was important too. And it seemed like the Deluder really didn't know of the dealer's existence.

"Thank you. We'll make a stop on the way," the Deluder said, correcting a sleeve. "I'd go to the Bazaar, but there's simply no time. Pressing concerns. Now, it was lovely to meet you. May one day we hunt together, it's been a while since I've been hunting..."

A rat had fled the scene as soon as it had seen the man. The rat had run onwards, keeping to the shadows as much as he could, eager to flee the scene. He'd hopped into a drainpipe after three or so minutes of scurrying, and huddled there, soundlessly. There was a reason Carrellés was a city-rat now. A city-rat like the hired crew out of Watchmaker's Hill, he was finding it much safer. Another reason to stay in servitude to the Deluder too; never again would he come muzzle to muzzle with that man's shots again.

Theflamre

The Maest of London says...

No one should eat bloody paper anyway. Poisoned ink. Hah! Might kill the mice.​

He watched the rat, he couldn't help it, it was second nature to The Spider watched it scurry away. He loved the sight of its every twisting movement. He liked that rats still appealed to the idea of sudden changes in directions, they thought it made them harder to hit but honestly, it was those moments when they started their movement left of right that he ended them.

He, after watching the rat scurry to its own version of safety pulled the moon pearls close to his face, his cloves crinkling like the large spiders they were made of, examining them for a second before dropping them into the same bag he kept his rosy gold in.

He looked at the strange masked man his stance becoming no less hostile but his face relaxing a bit, his once more extremely readable features giving away the fact he had a question before he asked.

"Tell me have you been to the medusas head recently?" he didn't have much in the way of close associates of high positions that could give him the information, And the few he did, he didn't like bringing into personal things.

He would walk with the man if he attempted to leave and he wouldn't try and make it stealthy either, He wasn't the shadowy type. Honestly, he felt the man might know something and that gave him enough excuse to bother him no matter what he might be doing. The spider knew this wasn't a good way to make friends, but this was a hunt and he wasn't out here with him meaning he was just another way of tracking his prey who ever that might be.

He was almost startled by the man's offer of going out on a hunt with him, it wasn't a fun social event and was hardly anything that was normally enjoyed by the people of veil garden. He shrugged it off if this went well he might consider it.

 

[Sir Knight]

Reinol woke up the arms of a Rubbery Man. It greeted him with a smile. Wait they don't smile.

'Of course they don't, barked a gentleman dog. 'Poets.'

The dog hopped on a velocipede and rode on. A merry gentleman was dancing with a Clay Man while the building they were on top of was lit with a cheery flame.

What a happy dream.

 

[NorseChaos]

Veilgarden

Stryx had been so focused on the building in front of him, scanning the windows for any sign of movement, that he barely noticed anything in the shadows behind him. He swore he saw the slightest twitch of movement at the door, but when he heard whispering voices, he stopped looking in, and turned. He waited, staring in to the darkness, until the source of one of the voices, at least, decided to reveal themselves. He was surprised to see a rat scamper from the darkness on to the street a few feet from him, clearing its throat. Stryx watched it carefully, unsure of what to make of it and it's sudden introduction. He had been hoping for a quite evening of reconnaissance, but it seemed like today was not his day. He felt Fleck clamber up on to his shoulder to look down at the other animal from behind his coat collar.

Stryx scowled slightly at the rat's proposition. "Help you get in?" He was sure he knew better than to trust shady characters approaching from nowhere and asking for help, but, potential aid was always welcome to him. He sighed. A part of his mind was telling him this wasn't going to end well no matter what he decided to do. He resigned himself, and decided to accept whatever help the rat might be able to offer, though his hopes weren't high. "Bring your loud friend, then." He was sure he had heard another voice muttering earlier. He turned back towards the window, hoping the rat would follow after.

"I suppose I shouldn't wonder what your different goals are." He muttered, talking more to himself than anyone else. Fleck chirruped - in what Stryx liked to think was agreement - and scurried up his arm, hopping on to the wall. He clung to it, slowly exploring around the edge of the window.

0stinato DoughGuy

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

"Aw crud, spotted me," Parakeet said, and joined Withburg in closing the gap between themselves and the human fellow. Smelled like Spite, the dust had a different consistency there. More full of dead moss and rain, pushed from roofs by shoes and hands. Peeled from high-up walls by grasping hands. Parakeet could smell the streets on the man.

"Go in," he said urgently. "What we gonna do. We gonna do something else than you are, open tha windo', willya."

"Hush up, idiot."

"You hush up, don't talk ta me like tha'. Aak, wassthat, a bat?"

Parakeet edged closer, before testing the wall with his paw. Finding it rough enough to risk a short climb, he hurried up the brickwork. Below, Withburg was worried he might fall... but neglected to tell Parakeet he might fall. Withburg would be more than happy to see that argumentitive furball fall.

Parakeet took a pause on a pipe, rusted and open at one end, before continuing to the thin windowsill. Instead of looking through the window, he stared at the bat, nose twitching at the noise it was making.

"Ugly fella'," he said shortly. Then he turned. "Woa. Wait. Wait. I know this place don't I?"

"Do you?"

Parakeet paused. He didn't remember. "Can't do. Dun't matter, open tha windo'. C'mon. C'mon."

Parakeet waited for Withburg to join him before slipping through into the room. Immediately upon falling to the time-stained floor, Parakeet dashed behind a canvas to the left. Withburg followed. The window would be big enough for the human man to fit through, he looked slim and spritley enough to ease his shoulders through.

"Where's the blue man? He ain't in 'ere, tha's for sure. Somewhere else then. Let's wait for 'im to come in 'ere."

"Why would he come into a painting room though."

"Dunno."

Withburg glanced at the window, then at the only door. Why would the blue man come in here? Simple answer - he wouldn't. And Trick-A-Me had said to keep an eye on him. She wanted to ensure he'd deliver the rostygold. Withburg thought it was a waste of time. But it's what Trick-A-Me wanted. And with the memories of what had happened to the L.B. who had disobeyed her...

The door began opening. Instinctively, Withburg ducked behind the canvas, unseen. Parakeet joined him, and the two made no noise. Withburg had seen that the room was full of hiding places, full of little nooks and crannies, behind table legs, beneath canvases; Parakeet had seen the canvases of varying completion: some were done, covered in translucent paper to protect the art, some were half-done, sketches visible on one half of the canvas. But for now, the two huddled in the gloom together. Withburg didn't want to be this close to the idiot Parakeet, but needs must.

He had almost completely forgotten about the human man behind the window, and his furry companion...

DoughGuy NorseChaos

The Maest of London says...

Killed a cockroach. Not a mouse. Teach the thing to eat my paper. I eat the cockroach as revenge.​

 

[0stinato]

Veilgarden

Although the Deluder implied he was going to leave, the question about the Medusa's Head compelled him to stop his motions and simply move his gaze back to the hunter. The Medusa's Head - of course, that'd be a place haunted by this dark-clothed man. The views at the Medusa's Head were pretty dire; people spoiling to prove themselves to each other, by power of muscle or liver.

"My preference is not for the Medusa's Head," he said. "No, I prefer the Blind Helmsman... so recently I've been frequenting there, if I've not been in the Singing Mandrake. The Blind Helmsman is much better for my kind of atmosphere; people bring knives, not fists."

Carrellés' voice popped into the conversation briefly, "Looks like the future will be the Blind Helmsman for you, too, seeing as the Singing Mandrake is..."

"Fucked, yes," the Deluder finished Carrellés' sentence, and looked at the hunter again. What was his motive for asking that? Had the hunter recognised him - that wouldn't be a surprise, even if he had... not with the Deluder's choice of clothes - or was the hunter looking to recognise him in the future? Even if it wasn't the Deluder's natural watering hole, he could make an exception. Besides, given where he lived, if he ended up drinking himself into a stupor - a likely event - he'd only have to stumble down a few streets to get home.

"I suppose the Medusa's Head is where I'd recognise you from, if I visited there more often?"

He decided to play with the man. It was a friendly enough conversation... and it's not like the Deluder wanted to arrive to the ball on time...

"I imagine you'd have a table you called your own. Against the wall, if not in the corner, and you'd keep your fingertips on the glass before you... no one would ask to join you, and you'd ask to join no one. The Medusa's Head is a cock-fight of strength, but you'd not participate in the arm-wrestles, in the shooting, in the fistfights, because you'd feel you had nothing to prove to anyone. After all... why should you prove shit to anyone, you're quite capable without showing off."

Carrellés was looking concerned, glancing between the Deluder and the man. And the Deluder thought he saw, just for a second, a spark of jealousy behind Carrellés' eyes...

"You almost make me want to visit the Medusa's Head again..." the Deluder said, with a slow blink and a smile. "But not tonight. Tonight I attend something boring."

"Boring?"

"Boring, Carrellés. Utterly dull."

"No."

"Yes," he wasn't going to argue with a man who didn't respect his skin enough to wear expensive perfume. So he looked at the hunter again, "We should make a date of it, the hunting, perhaps. I'll show you what I managed to kill, Carrellés."

"Oh please don't."

The Deluder gave a laugh, smacked Carrellés (reasonably hard) on the shoulder, and began walking slowly the way he was aiming in the first place. "A good hunt, my pansy artist friend, is a good hunt. You don't have to come with us!"

Theflamre

The Maest of London says...

Cockroaches are pretty awful. I prefer seafood. I must hunt seafood. Where are my special gloves?​

 

[Osthavula]

Lady Viola
Location: Ladybones Road
Mr_DC


Looking at Fleur's reaction, Viola was even more fond of the girl. When facing unwanted thoughts, unwanted possibility in life that causes misery, most people look away or let themselves be weakened by fear, only some look at the possibility straight and decide to face it. Would she do the same in other situations? How long did it take for her to reach the place she was with the resolve? In time, perhaps, it would reveal it all. Right now Viola felt she had only made the correct choice of offering patronage.

Fleur could become all that Viola was, if not more.

"First stop, of course, is the ball I mentioned. It's happening today, and because of the time the tailoring might take, we will arrive late. People will notice you better with a late entrance, and no doubt they will raise interest. "

It mattered too, of course, that Viola's own reputation would make Fleur as a ball companion interesting, even more so that she is a fresh face.

"It might be overwhelming, of course, with the attracted attention. As soon as I leave your side people will come and question you, trying to figure you out. I'm afraid this must happen. You need to set your own reputation among them. I can introduce you to the more reputable members, but if the foundation is not met, you will end up being someone tagging along in names. I wouldn't mind that, but it's not beneficial for you. Like I said, it would serve well for you to have some independence to set up your life here. "

She looked towards the door. Candice didn't seem to have locked it, but no one is knocking or coming through the door right now. It seemed awfully quiet, except her own voice and the fire crackling next to them.

"My companion, Bennett, should be around when you are talking to the others. Whenever I'm absent, you can trust her on any matter. Though she is taking some time to come back last night, which is a little unusual..."

Her gaze wandered around the room, her collections that weren't dusted today, and Ezio peeking from his little door, and finally back to Fleur. Viola knew it would be hard for her to trust Bennett immediately, now that the two haven't met or spoken at all. Normally Viola would try to be around Fleur as much as possible too, but she really can't afford to let the chance of meeting governor pass by... The lady put her smile back on. " I know it is hard to prove in such a short time, but I assure you Bennett is very trustworthy, and I trust that she will take care of you even better than I can in some situations. I have a few business to attend to during the ball, but if you wish so I can return swiftly as soon as it is done. It's my responsibility after all. "

Noticing that they will have some time together before everything is prepared, she let Fleur relax on the sofa while she went and prepared some breakfast. Soon they have their plates full and their teacups filled, when Viola continued to think of a few pointers to tell Fleur.

"...Don't answer all of their questions, of course, leave their curiosity to play so they will remember you. You may ask questions to the few likely to boast too but never trust their answer too much, some of them love nothing more than a misguided newcomer. And, ah... The joke of us burning sinners for heat was of course not true. It's a common thing to say to new arrivals to Neath. "

She chuckled, remembering someone had said to her too when she just arrived. She was looking into the pleasant redness in her cup, reminiscing the past.

"Talk and observe. You never know when your observation will come to use. By the time we leave you will have more than you need if you listen and look closely. I can tell you a few stories, but they might be a bore..."

She paused herself. She felt she was not only unusually talkative but also worried that she be lecturing too much. Fleur knew about all these she said. There was no need for her to keep elaborating it at all.

"I'm so sorry that I kept talking. Do you have anything you wish to know more? I'll try to answer as much as I can. "

 

[Osthavula]

Lady Viola
Location: Ladybones Road
Mr_DC ThaDruid Sir Knight



And then, there came, some footsteps over the door, and an unintentional knocking of the door, the familiar voice sounded, and the sound of the doorknob being touched. Then the door swung opened, showing who was first obscured by the heavy door. Bennett, Viola's favourite maiden, carrying a man on her shoulder without looking physically difficult; and another man of his age, with wind-blown grey hair and a captain's cloak wrapped around him. Viola stood up to help Bennett letting the man down on the sofa, holding his head and placed it on a soft cushion, and it took her only one short glance to notice that it was a man whom Jeremiah used to chat to in a number of events. It took less than a minute for the space near the fire felt quite crowded in comparison. But now, once again, the two ladies stood face-to-face, blue eyes staring at brown eyes, and both knew that the fight they had before no longer matter. Both eager to tell their little adventure during the night.

"Welcome back, Bennett. " The blonde lady talked first, standing in her upright posture. "I don't believe you have met Fleur? She will be staying with us for some time."

"So I have heard." Bennett curtsied towards Fleur formally, examining the doctor for a bit before she gave her a gentle smile too. She wouldn't question why Viola had made a decision, and she believed in Viola's judgment. Also, she felt she understood why Viola had decided to offer patronage, the new lady matched her imagination --- of how Viola was before they met --- quite similarly. "Pleasure to meet you, I am Bennett. You may find me should you need any help. "

"And this man is Father Cromwell. I'm sure you remember him, m'lady. I have mentioned him before. "

"Of course I do, you've mentioned him many times. " Viola walked in front of him and held both his hand, enveloping with hers gently. While her smile was as warm and welcoming as it can be, the blue eyes examined him closely and thoroughly. The man had a hint of the salt of zee about him; his hands aged but firm, harden with calluses and no doubt old wounds that have closed; his garment peeking under his cloak was worn and tattered, with attempts to cared for, and she recognized it to be a priest's garment, fitting who he was as Bennett had described; lastly, she looked into his eyes, sketching his wrinkles, and she noticed too the bright-coloured cross above his chest, when she lifted his arms and the thick cloth of his cloak was pushed aside.

So, the church member Bennett looked for so long had become a zee captain. Viola was mesmerized by his eyes that was a darker shade of blue, so akin to the depths of the zee that she could almost felt its chill. But it wasn't chill of a personality that she sensed, no, it was the horror it had seen, the sadness... Ah, she knew that sadness. She saw it many times in Bernard, and many times in the ladies she had seen wandering after their long court with Valentino. Void, regret, hollow.

But there is more.... There is more.

Viola stopped her mind from wandering there. This is not the time she should be thinking of that.

"Bennett had talked to me about you. It certainly had been some years that she had been searching for you.... I hope, father, that you will remain long in London? It would certainly break her heart if you were to part again."

She acted in a very friendly manner, though even Bennett didn't understand the very subtle hint in her words. The lady observed whether Father Cromwell had gathered her meaning, and she gently let go of his hand, her sight briefly dropped and wandered to the cross.

"You can visit anytime, Father Cromwell. Or do you go by another name now? You are always welcomed in our humble lodging. Treat us as a family, even. We won't forget the kindness you have once given. "

She waited for him to react, before turning to the sofa and the man lying there. "What has happened to him?"

"Ollie had found him lying on the street, so I can't just leave him there." Bennett's voice wasn't as friendly as when she was talking about the old zailor, but her brows frowned slightly.

"Ah. "

"I have things to tell, but..."

Viola caught her concern. "You may trust Fleur. I assume Father Cromwell was to be trusted too."

"Yes, I would hope he could offer some narrative as well since he was with me. "

Both of their gazes fell on Reinol, the only one person they felt that they shouldn't leave their guard off. The suffered a bit of silence until Viola caught Bennett looking back at her again, and began to speak.

"I have met the one with the mask." The red-haired maiden said. She seemed to have decided to speak indirectly, the way you have to guess the context.

"Ah." Viola's smile widened, for the turn of events and also how her maiden never failed her, even though she was unhappy about her quest. "How is he now?"

"A wound here and there... But healthy. He also said that what he did was his own decision, not by orders. "

"I see." Viola's tone danced, obviously pleased. "Still, on the safe side, I must confirm..."

"I understand. " Bennett said, her tone of the complete opposite temperature. Viola smiled even deeper when Bennett had this understanding in her gaze. She didn't need to explain her plan further, and her maiden will aid her. She was grateful for her loyalty, if not a bit guilty, but no doubt very happy about it.