WoD: Brass and Smoke - London's Bloody Cry [IC, OPEN]

[Morrdh]

World of Darkness: Brass and Smoke OOC Tread

East London,
30th September 1888

It was the incessant knocking that woke him with a start and a great deal of cursing as he tried feeling around for the box of matches on the bedside table. After a moment he found the cheap cardboard box, withdrew one of the matchsticks contained and after a couple of tries managed to light it on the striking strip. By the light of the lit match he was able to quickly find the candle mounted in a chamberstick and light it, giving enough illumination to see the room properly and also see that the time was a little before half one in the morning on the alarm clock ticking away.

All the while, the knocking continued.

By the light of the candle, he made his way down the narrow wooden stairs and to the door where the banging had continued ceaselessly. He turned the brass key in the lock and opened the door, letting a blast of the chilly night air and a couple of uniformed policemen on the doorstep. The late hour and the sombre look on the constables’ faces gave him a sinking feeling as one of the constables asked. “Sergeant Dunne?”

“Aye.” Dunne replied, trying to rub sleep out of his eyes.

“Summons from Inspector Reid.” Stated the constable. “Body of a woman been found in a yard off Berner Street, reckon tis the work of the Leather Apron killer.”

“Right…” Sighed Dunne, a rotten feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll be right along.”

The two police constables nodded and then hurried off, leaving Dunne alone as he closed the door and sighed heavily as he rested his head against the wall for a moment. Leather Apron. Not a proper name, merely a moniker coined by a witness statement that was circumstantial at best, both one that had become both hated and feared. If that killer’s hand was indeed at work here that now made it…four victims. Christ.

But he, Detective-Sergeant Cormac Dunne of the Metropolitan Police’s H Division in Whitechapel, had a job to do and that job involved stopping people like this supposed Leather Apron killer and the other dark elements that clung to society’s underbelly. He’d previously served Crown and Country in the army out in Africa, but what he saw out there didn’t appal him as much as what he’d witness in the dark heart of the Empire that was the East End of London.

In a flash of anger he punched the wall, adding to the dents already present, and then headed back upstairs to get properly dressed.

---

Dunne proceeded from his residence in Tenter Street, across Leman Street and then along Hooper Street under the railway arches of the Commercial Road goods depot. Despite being in the small hours of a Sunday morning, there was still the chuffing of steam engines and clashing of metal upon metal as railway wagons were shunted about. Industry never truly slept, not even on the Sabbath…neither did the criminal classes going by the distant sounds of police whistles being blown somewhere west in Aldgate and the City. Nor, as Dunne bitterly realised, was there much rest for policemen on the Lord’s Day.

Back Church Lane and Fairclough Street brought him out onto Berner Street by the Lord Nelson public house, a crowd of constables and a couple of Black Mariah wagons told him he’d reached the right place. There was also a gaggle of local residents and, as Dunne strongly suspected, at least a couple of journalists keen to get their stories printed in the newsheets before the day was out. A quick flash of his warrant card and Dunne found himself being shown through to a narrow yard where he recognised Reid amongst other police detectives along with a dirty white sheet laid over an object that Dunne didn’t need to guess what it was. The Inspector spotted him at once and called to him. “Dunne, apologies to have drag you from bed at such an hour.”

“Sah.” Dunne nodded back. “I wore a redcoat for more years than I care ta admit…don’t always have a good relationship with sleep at the best of times.”

“Noted.” Reid replied, then adopted a businessman-like tone. “The unfortunate here was found by a cartman making a delivery to the nearby working men’s club, his horse abruptly shied to one side as they entered the yard. The cartman, upon inspecting what had startled his horse, spotted a bundle and quickly discovered that it was a body of a woman before summoning help from the club.”

“We going with this being another of Leather Apron’s victims?”

“Hard to tell, but she’s been struck by a small blade of some description similar to the previous cases.”

“Newshounds are gonna have a field day at any rate.”

“Unfortunate, but we can’t exactly go and arrest the whole of Fleet Street.” Sighed Reid before gesturing to the covered body. “Take a look if you must sergeant, though I need not tell you of all people how gruesome she now lies.”

Dunne muttered a reply and then knelt down, hesitated for a moment and then lifted the cloth sheet to catch a glimpse of the poor woman’s face. A sick feeling arose in the pit of his stomach as he recognised the face, that of a person he’d briefly met and exchanged a handful of words with. What more, he knew who he was going to have to break the bad news to and dreaded doing so.

“Sergeant?” Reid asked, breaking Dunne’s thoughts. “Everything alright?”

“Ah…sorry sir, just an unpleasant memory from me army days.”

“I see.” Said Reid with a slight hint of suspicion in his tone. “I fear we may be here for some time, there are many present in the aforementioned club whom we must question.”

Dunne could only grimly nod, statements needed to be taken and possible witnesses and suspects needed to be identified before the night was out. Though he would have to wait for a time when he could excuse himself and make a personal call, he hoped that came before word got around of what had occurred.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - The First Stitches
Morning, September 29th, 1888
Von Achthoven Residence

“Pay close attention, Tabitha, and draw these shapes exactly as I show you.”

Pale, slender hands drew a pencil lightly across a page in a set of small, soft circles of various sizes. They were connected together, making a round head, an oval body, and a long, oval side-appendage of some sort. A much smaller shape was the “beak”, a triangle at a ¾ angle on the round head. Each time the hands drew a shape, their owner held the notebook to show her student. The woman’s dark-blue eyes twinkled with enthusiastic light as they awaited her pupil’s progress.

“I think I’ve got it, Miss Sigrid!”

The woman gave a warm, motherly smile. “May I see?”

“Yes ma’am.” The young girl turned around her own sketchbook, and her teacher smiled at her work. She was getting much better at her sketching, the one skill which had caused her trouble even after she had learned how to sew clothing and embroider the most beautiful little patterns. For some reason, drawing had been beyond her. But for all her wealth and ease of living, Tabitha Von Achthoven was not a young woman to admit defeat easily.

Sigrid, likewise, was very happy, and nodded in the devoted way a long-working tutor did when their student finally reached a critical goal. “Very good! And now that you have figured the basics of the shapes, we can now work on the details. Follow my lead.”

The bright little chandelier twinkled, and morning chirped through the ivory windows of the Von Achthoven mansion’s little side study. At least three studies were available in the house, but Sigrid and her beloved student loved this room the most. It was closest to the three things which made them the happiest: books, the scent of tea and scones floating from the nearby kitchen, and the birds which were currently the subject of this sketching lesson. Specifically, they were sketching a robin, as normally in the springtime the robins would be happily singing their song of the season outside the study window. While none were in the window for them to watch, the last three years of watching them and studying them had given both women a good impression of how to draw them.

“So you need to erase here, in order to connect the body and the head. But don’t erase the oval here, that will be the wing. It’s alright if you need to fix the lines around the bird’s body, but remember, do not draw them too dark. We are still beginning.”

“That’s right. They need time to take shape and to form properly. Otherwise I can’t go back and fix them later…” Tabitha sometimes sounded a little too docile, sticking with “yes ma’am” or “no ma’am.” But she was almost 19, and perfectly capable of reason and understanding a lesson. Whether or not her mother would ever understand this fact was anyone’s guess. But Sigrid most certainly understood.

“Be careful about the feathers. Long, soft strokes, but not on the chest. Their little chests have tiny feathers.”

“And such big lungs for such tiny creatures!”

Sigrid chuckled. “You’ve been continuing to read about these birds in your spare time, then?”

“Ah yes, they’re oh so fascinating! I found a picture book of birds and I’ve been using it as a mental reference for when the robins are not here.”

Her teacher frowned thoughtfully. “Is the book in this room?”

“It should be! I put it behind some books so my mother would not see it.”


“Hm…it is not good to hide such things from your mother.”

“But she will continue to say that learning too much will make a man not want to marry me!”

“Ah well, that is for the man to decide, is it not? There are certainly men around who would want a woman who studies and draws birds.”

Tabitha nodded. “I told her that! I did!”

“So would you like for me to find the book?”

Her student nodded, and her eyes sparkled as much as the sunlight through her long, wavy blonde locks. “Yes please! It’s on the shelf by the wall, four rows up.”

Sigrid stood, and she went to get the book off the shelf. Her long, silken, black hair pulled into a lovely curled updo against her neck, and her frilled, long-sleeved, lavender dress made her look like a very tall, elegant doll walking across the room. She walked with quiet poise and a keen eye as she scanned the shelves and found the book.

“A History of British Birds?”

“Yes! That’s it!”

A well-worn, well-loved copy of one of the classics of ornithology made a thump sound as Sigrid placed it on the coffee table next to them, and flipped through the book until she found a picture of a robin. “Does this help?”

Tabitha clapped. “Yes! Goodness, and now that I understand better what I’m doing, it should make drawing much easier.”

And so the sketching lesson continued. More feathers, the wings, the tail, the feet, and then the eyes. They worked together on the details for over an hour or two, until Clara, one of the servants, came with some scones.

“Ah, Miss Tabitha! Look at how much better your sketches look!” Clara was not much older than Tabitha, only 23, but she was happy as any sort of older sister could be at her wide-eyed younger sister’s progress.

“Miss Sigrid has been wonderfully patient with me, as she always is. I’m sure any other tutor would have given-up on me by now.”

“Nonsense. You’re as capable of learning the feminine arts as any other girl. Why that’s a beautiful little robin you’ve drawn!”

Sigrid gave a quiet, proud smile to her student, as she prepared tea for herself and for her student. Clara almost gave her a look of, “I can do it!”, but she refrained when she saw the light in the kindly teacher’s face. “Yes, it most certainly is.”

Sketching, embroidering, etiquette, manners, singing, and sometimes dancing. All part of a traditional lady’s education, even at the turn of the century. And as Miss Tabitha was the only daughter, the only child, her parents were desperately eager to make sure she was going to be an excellent wife. Sigrid shared the same concerns, which was why they had kept her as a tutor for so long. Three years now. The only difference was that Sigrid also had encouraged her student to read as much as she wanted about birds. She had even gifted her with a birding journal for her eighteenth birthday. Her mother had scoffed, and some of the older servants had seemed surprised, but the young girl loved her gifts. And she loved her tutor.

The day passed, and as four o’clock rolled around, the lessons ended and dinner began. At the head of the table was Lady Myra, who had ordered the servants to make tonight’s dinner. At the foot, across from her, was Lord Gerrit-the head of the house and Tabitha’s father. Sigrid sat with the young woman today, which was a little unusual. Usually, she was asked to sit with the servants, but Myra had an inquisitive streak and wanted some questions answered over dinner.

“Good evening, Tabitha. I hope your lessons have been well today?” Gerrit asked, knowing what his wife had in mind, and deciding to get a word in before she began the interrogation.

“Yes Father, they most certainly did! I can finally sketch now, after stumbling over my pencils for so long!”

“That is wonderful to hear, my dear.” Lady Myra managed to leap over her husband’s next words, and though he did not show any change in expression in his face, he was both amused and a little concerned at what might come to pass this evening. “How did you manage?”

“Miss Sigrid and I used a reference book to help. It sounds like the most basic thing, but we had decided to put aside sketching for some time, because I had gotten so utterly frustrated.” Tabitha cut into her roasted potatoes with a slow, dainty wrist, as she thought over her words. “Now I don’t feel quite so embarrassed. I’m quite overjoyed! She’s such a lovely tutor as always, Mother.”

Lady Myra turned her head, with its tight bun of wheat-colored hair, toward the girl’s tutor. Sigrid kept her head down and ate her soup, waiting for the lady of the house to question her. She would have looked-up, but she remembered what the lady had told her-she was not to gaze directly at Lord Gerrit while he was at the table, or ever.

“A reference book? Which book was it?”

“A History of British Birds, my lady.” Sigrid answered with perfect politeness.

The older woman turned up her nose. “My dear Tabitha does not need to be reading such books.”

Gerrit’s expression now visibly changed. ‘Here we go,’ his eyes seemed to indicate.

“Mother, I’m a grown woman, what is wrong with reading books about birds?”

“If you talk to any man at a gala or a party and you go on and on about birds and their beaks and where they migrate for the winter, they will get promptly bored! We have had this discussion many times. This year, you will be a debutante, and you must not bore these men if they wish to court you!”

“I will not bore them! I am as feminine as I can be. I am a perfect lady, but can a perfect lady not learn about birds?” Tabitha fired back.

“The men will regard you as-”

Gerrit held up a hand to ease his wife. “My dear, I think this is a conversation best held away from the dinner table. After all, the menu you’ve prepared for tonight was absolutely splendid. And we would not like for rotten conversation to sour the soup.”

Myra looked sour herself, but she forced a smile as she looked down the table at her husband. “You do have a point, dear. We shall find other things to discuss, then.”

The damage had been done, but as Tabitha continued to eat, she felt a hand holding her own. Looking down, she saw that Sigrid had snuck her hand to squeeze hers. A silent sign of care and support. In this little world, full of cold strangers who sounded and talked like money, full of frustrations about being a woman at the turn of the century, full of confusion as to her future, her tutor was a constant whom she loved. And Sigrid cared deeply for her in return, and she would make sure that her pretty young student was happy and learned as much as she liked.

Evening, September 30th, 1888
Old Bookstore

In the evening, when she was not being questioned about what she was teaching her student, she would go about her own business and relax in the evening. Mostly, she would pray, read, and practice her own embroidery. A very quiet, contemplative evening. But she was out of books, and she wanted to get more. A simple enough desire, and her propensity for reading was certainly an attribute which had passed to Tabitha. But Lady Tabitha was resting, and therefore Sigrid could care for herself.

She was sure of it.

She walked down the road, quite a ways from the unfolding morbidities that had occurred a few streets away. She did not know what exactly was happening, though as she walked outside, Sigrid certainly smelled murder in the air. Going out at night was generally unwise for young, beautiful, single women in London, but the bookstore was not far away. She had been eyeing it for some time, and had been waiting for a chance to sneak and to see the selection.

It was still open when she found her way there. She did not make much of a noise, even after the bell rang to denote her presence, and instead she stared up around her at the beautiful books. Shelves and shelves of old, musty books. Her favorite.

And even more of her favorites-romance novels.

She walked quietly as she began to look for books to read, being sure to make as little of herself as possible. In the old, shadowy bookstore, not many other patrons were present. And sometimes, Sigrid needed that quiet. Actually, she always needed it.

And so in the relative safety of a bookstore, she found a book, sat in a chair by the window, and began to read.

[Luminesa]

Vasily - Sleeping On The Blacktop
September 30th, 1888 - Early Morning
East London


Far too early in the morning for any godly individuals, or for anyone who valued their health, something had felt dreadfully off outside the townhouse window. The owner of the small apartment could not tell what was the source of the feeling. He was frustrated, unable to sleep, his silhouette tossing and turning all night against the moonlight outside the window. Now he thought he had heard some sort of a scream. Maybe. Or maybe it was the remnants of a dream.

Whatever it was, Vasily Mikhailov did not like getting out of bed at 2 AM. But here he was, rolling off his mattress and immediately regretting his decision. Every bone in his young body felt like a fossil creaking and groaning under the pressure of an archaeologist’s pickaxe. He groaned himself, and as he ran a hand through his mousy, sandy hair, his other hand found a cigarette in a box near his bed, and he lit that cigarette as he began to look for a light.

“Bloody hell…The Devil doesn’t even get out of bed this early. What the hell…”

All of his motions were rambling and heavy, one after the other like dominos falling on the floor. The lamp lit the apartment, his shoes hit the floor, his feet fit them, and he buttoned what he hoped was a shirt over an undershirt. Pants fit somewhere in the equation, but he hardly looked at whatever he had grabbed to dress himself.

“St. Anthony, find my keys and shotgun…” He kicked around items on the bedroom floor, with his shoes finding shirts, pants, jackets, books upon books upon books, pencils, and something that felt like a coffee cup. He stepped and stumbled around until his eyes finally opened, and then he found the closet not too far from his bed. “...That’s not either one…gah…”

He grabbed a coat and threw it over his shoulders, shoving his arms through before he turned and looked in a corner of the closet. Tall, lean, and quite old was his father’s Martini-Henry shotgun, which stood more eminently in its dark little corner than its current owner stood in his unkempt apartment. The young man gave a grin at his weapon.

“...Good morning, old girl.”

Pulling it out the closet, he shoved it under his jacket as he went to find the keys to his apartment. He had to move out of his bedroom, much to his dismay. Through a hallway littered with cigarette butts and unlit candles, he continued to walk by the dim light of the very cigarette in his mouth. Vasily was quite aware that he should have walked with a little more light, but he was expending energy as he was. Through the hallway he found the kitchen, and he shoved around unwashed cups and plates on a countertop in order to search. “Keys, keys, keys…the keys to St. Peter’s gates are easier to find…”

Some shoving led to no progress, and he was sure he now heard people mumbling and talking outside a window down the street. Nobody was watching him, and so he turned his foggy head toward the living room.

Suddenly, as he walked into the dark room and found another lamp, he clicked it and turned his head toward the coffee table. More cups, more books, some houseplants which were definitely overgrown, and some vases and statues which were covered in vines and flowers. He had no way of telling what needed to be cleaned or untangled first in this room. He would have to complete the task altogether, and all at once. And right now, he just needed his keys.

Holding a hand out toward the coffee table, a couple of seconds passed before some books seemed to scoot themselves out of the way for him to see the bare wood. Underneath, there sat a single house key.

“Ah. There we go…”

With a tired grin, he found the keys, and then he found the door to walk outside. Muggy, damp, and cool, he was sure now that he was somehow both over and under-dressed for the nightly outing. But he was also sure now that he had heard a disturbance. Keeping his gun safely tucked under his coat, he locked his door and walked out, cigarette still lit on his lip with several more ready in his coat. Vasily never left the house without a handful, and possibly more if he knew he was going to have a rotten night. “...Air smells like blood again…hell…”

He continued walking, until he found one of the officers standing near the scene of the crime. More people were present at this awful hour, either trying to get a story or trying to get a look at a body. He hated them all equally for bringing more noise to his restless ears. “Oy! Can a bloody bachelor get some sleep on this hateful earth? What the Devil is going on?” He nevertheless joined the cacophony with his own voice, and hoped someone knew better than himself what sort of body was laying not too far away from the rabble this time.

[Finsternia]

Wayland - Orphean Return
September 30th, 1888 - Early Morning
The Thames

London is an old city, and the River Thames is older than it. It was here before settlements were made around it, and it was here before the Romans christened their little town with the name of Londinium. It has seen many things drink from its waters, from prehistoric beasts to city folk of today, and it has ferried many things beyond boats. Rivers are important things for occultists, especially the true ones. Rivers symbolize the flow of time, the waters of life and healing, and finally the waves that will sweep away souls into the greater ocean that is the afterlife. The Thames is not an exception. Supernaturals use it for many things. Simple hideaways are the most common, and for the more occultic ones for their power. Those touched by death use it as a passage, beyond the veil and into beneath the earth.

Mages, that is true magi who wield true power unlike those alleyway magicians and thiefs, who wish to study the Arcanum of Death frequent the Thames. Those new and are initiates to the Mysteries come here to wash their eyes with its waters to see the dead. Those who wish to go further come here to cross the boundaries of Twilight, to go into the frequency of spacetime where ghosts and dead things wander. But those who are confident in their power part the waters and reveal gates that lead further beyond, further deeper into the dark. The Thames washes many things, including those who are dead and those that are forgotten. Ghosts both love and loathe the place. It is a place of death, where many drown and where the dead could be remembered. But it is a dangerous place for those wishing to stay, as they could easily be swept away and down towards the Underworld.

The Underworld itself isn't that bad in retrospect except for those who are dead and couldn't leave by their own power. Those who know how to come and go would find it a treasure trove: precious jewels and items, forgotten memoirs and relics, and long lost artifacts waiting to be discovered lay dead in its many regions if you know how to traverse them. The land of the dead have many places to explore, and each domain has its own rules to follow. More often than not those who come here are living, and they want something. They want to seek forgotten things, precious things, powerful things... and forgetting that the Underworld is for the dead. Many do not return for their carelessness and those who do are either lucky or good at their job.

Just shy before dawn, the waters beneath a damp and dark corner of a bridge starts to swell. Slowly they part like curtains, revealing wet staircases that lead further down the river. A figure walks up these stairs, dressed in all black that hides most of his features. To common mortals, and to those who are not gifted with sight, he is simply dressed a bit too conservatively. His black coat hug his body a bit too tightly, his cap hides his hair, and the swathes of scarves hide his face. He is carrying a big black leather bag in one hand and nothing else. Underneath the intense glamour and veiling Magic, however, the man is heavily armed and many of his armaments are hidden within special compartments that bend proportions and space. You can't survive treks into the Underworld without being capable.

The ghosts who are wailing by the side of the Thames move as the man passes, bleak grey eyes watching the ghosts and nods to them. He is a usual here, and the ghosts know the Necromancers who frequent the Thames enough. Wayland is one such Necromancer, accomplished enough to open gates into the deep beneath and to command the dead, but his expertise lie elsewhere. The Moroi are not just Necromancers and speakers to the dead, they are also Alchemists and builders. Theirs is the art of transformation, and the Underworld hold many materials that they love to use. That's why Wayland comes down to that dreary place, to find some good materials for his craft.

The walk home is refreshing, to say the least, thanks to the cold and the fog. The dirt on the street seem to never find purchase on the Mage, and he finds himself before a bookstore. He touches the doorknob and the locks click and open on their own, and the chimes ring a certain crisp sound as Wayland comes in. Within is a dark and shaded bookstore, with tall bookshelves and very tight and claustrophobic aisles. Every single shelf is full of books, from fiction to non-fiction, from academic journals to the most vile paperbacks. The bookstore is well stocked, and it might be a bit short on space but it is well maintained and cozy enough with seats and tables by the windows.

The door locks behind Wayland as he continues on to the back end of the shop, towards the register. The door behind the desk leads to the residence proper, and it is much cozier within.

"Olivia." The Mage calls as he starts disrobing his outside clothes, taking off his hat, coat, and shoes, and young woman, dressed in a very ornate pink and white frilly dress, comes to greet him.

"Good morning, sir. I have prepared your breakfast and tea."

"Thank you very much." He hands her his clothes and she takes them into a basket. "Bring them to my workshop, if you could."

"Yes sir. I'll be right back." The revenant girl bows and goes off to do her duties.

As for the Mage, Wayland sighs as the comfort of home washes away his fatigue. He produces a black leather plague doctor's mask to cover his face in place of the previous fabrics as he goes to his workshop. The Mage's Sanctum is modest, but not without the comforts that could be bought with his efforts. Many of the rooms in the house are also enchanted by the Crafter to be bigger than they should be, as any respectable Crafter would have ample storage space of materials. His own workshop is the exact same thing, as Wayland walks into it. It is divided between Cold Craft and Hot Craft. The room is massive and divided into two distinct spaces. One space is for drafting and the handling of cold materials, while the next space is specifically for the use of the forge. With a wave of his hand Wayland ignites the forges to fill the room with some heat, and the light bulbs burst with bright light as he goes to his workspace.

Everything is neatly placed where they belong. Instruments and pens are neatly tucked away, and blueprints are stored in cabinets. The desk is clean and empty, as it was when he left it. The Mage now opens his bag and starts to sort his findings. Precious gems, multitudes of metallic ore that are both mundane and magical, odd bits and pieces, some pages and papers and some full books, and many more odd things slowly funnel out of the bag. Wayland starts organizing his trove of collected items as Olivia comes in his workshop.

"Sir, your food is here."

"Thank you very much Olivia. Please leave them at my eating area. Go and do your leisure time."

"Thank you sir."

---

Later that Day - Evening

After an entire day's work of doing his own research and his art, Wayland unwinds in his bookstore to fulfill the other half of his identity. Taking off his mask and putting on his scarves to hide his scars, Gerard now sits at the desk. Gerard, the once normal man, has his future cut off for him. Here, in his small bookstore in London, he spends his days after his mining accident. All his money is spent to be sent to his parents outside of London, to their farmhouse. A simple eulogy for the once normal man, to live the rest of his life in perfect idle rest, while the reborn magus lives on.

His eyes follow a new visitor, a woman who came at quite an hour. The bell chimes oddly. It chimes differently for normal humans and for the supernatural, and for this it doesn't chime for your run of the mill human. The woman doesn't seem to be a Mage, as all Mages (of the Diamond at least) would respectfully request for either Crossing or Hospitality when in the territories of others. He simply keeps an eye at her, seeing that she has picked a book to read and a corner to sit at.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - All The Lonely People
September 30th, 1888
Wayland’s Bookstore

Sigrid was a woman surrounded by many questions. She seemed to ignore the conventions of women’s education when teaching Tabitha, and she always kept her eyes down to the floor when the master of the house was around. The other servants whispered about her at times, wondering why this woman was both so docile and yet also so defiant.

Sigrid did not even seem to know, however, that the rumors existed. If she did, she had never responded to them, nor had she ever paid any mind to the gossip of other servants.

The strangest thing about her, however, was her proclivity for walking around at night alone. No normal, sane woman would have walked outside alone in London after sundown. Especially not after another murder downtown. But Sigrid paid no mind, perhaps to a dangerous extent. She was lucky to be sitting in a rather safe bookstore, in which she and a masked man, the store’s owner, were the only current occupants.

Just as he had sensed her entry into the shop, she had felt a strange presence pulling her away from her book. She resisted at first, as she did want to read. Romance novels were popular among the servants at home, but she preferred to read alone, during this dark time at night when she was most comfortable.

Yet one would understand why Wayland had decided to look so closely at her. In his dark, dusty shop, her lavender-and-white dress against the candlelit backdrop made her look more like an Angel, or like a marble statue sitting in some dark cathedral, to be admired by monks walking down the aisles for Compline. Something classical and Renaissance about her, something a craftsman’s mind could understand even without going into sensual thoughts. She had a mind all her own, and yet she was at peace in the most simple things.

Eventually, she did look over at the bookstore owner, and caught his eyes looking toward her. She was not frightened by what she saw to be a dark mask. Not even when she walked toward him, down the quiet aisle of the bookstore. She was gentle in her footsteps and posture. And when she made her way to the counter, her expression was polite and almost shy, as if she was indeed not used to looking a man in the eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” she spoke, her voice quiet and feathery, “this book happens to be a part of a series? Do you happen to know where the others are?”

[Finsternia]

Sigrid and Wayland - Unmade People
September 30th, 1888, Evening/Night
Wayland’s Bookstore, London

For some time there is only the sound of pages turning and the ticking of the clock within the bookstore, as both its owner and a new patron read their own books in silence. Wayland, in his part, simply gave Sigrid a cursory glance as he went back to reading. There are rules among other supernaturals. There are too many of them and also too few simultaneously, and everyone agrees to leave the other parties alone. If this erudite lady is simply here to read, as his bookstore is one of the very few that are still open at this hour, then Wayland has no issues.

The first to fire the bullet of aggression loses the battle of civility, after all.

His shrouded eyes peek out towards Sigrid as she speaks, asking for something. The Mage squints, his extraordinary vision picking up the title of the book that the lady is reading. A romance novel from a budding writer, written with both the virtue of eloquence for the era as well as unseemly lack of decorum that "educated" Victorians everywhere would gasp at. Wayland's bookstore holds both styles of writing in equal esteem. Knowledge is knowledge, and artistry is in the eyes of the reader.

"...It should be on the same shelf as you've taken it, Miss." A gravelly voice answers Sigrid, deep and resonating. "Over there in the romance fiction section."

Sigrid smiled at the man, but not before taking a look at his scarves and studying them for a few seconds. Something about it seemed almost foreboding, frightening, and morbid. She gave a small shiver.

And yet at the same time, the man’s gruff tone and broad shoulders hid almost a softness. She was sure of it. Some men, especially very young soldiers, sometimes stood too straight and too tall, expecting to gain a few inches of height in order to look intimidating and respectable. An older gentleman who was not concerned with the matters of the world had no reason to try so hard, and so his body remained firm, but without so many sharp edges.

“Thank you, sir.” She walked to go find the sequel, and her heart fluttered as she found it. She was always happy to continue to wander away into her books.

Something about romance novels struck her in a way that her many textbooks and sketchbooks did not. They were warm and breathing, the characters who found each other and fell in love. In this series, a dark and brooding nobleman had discovered that he was in love with a housekeeper who had discovered him. The housekeeper did not know if the man was even human. And yet in her small gestures, in her affectionate behavior, she found happiness in his presence. Even when he did not know how to protect her from his moods, or how to approach her to make her happy.

She sat there reading for what felt like hours, when only a few minutes had passed. She blushed, as if she was suddenly aware that she had lost track of time. She looked up from her book, and she turned to see if the shopkeeper was still keeping an eye on her.

Wayland continued his own reading after telling his patron of her wanted book. The book in his hand is a journal, one among many that he has found from this morning's expedition. On Earth its true body would have rotten away, forgotten, or destroyed, but all things dead end up in the Underworld. Thanks to that realm, and with his own power, such an item could be restored to its full glory.

The journal isn't anything shocking, to say the least. It's a journal of some intellectual from centuries ago, and by both modern and Mage standards its writings are defunct and old-fashioned. Its theories are debunked by both mortal science and Awakened wisdom, but failure is the mother of invention. Even shots in the dark could hold the most miniscule hope to hit something. Even a mortal alchemist who thinks mixing mercury with other metals could force a reaction towards the creation of the magnum opus could still hold novel ideas.

The Mage slowly picks up some passages in the journal that he believes could achieve some result, and he'd plan to start reenacting these experiments in both Sleeper and Awakened capacity. Wayland reaches for a small compartment in the counter to take a pen and a sheet of paper to start writing, but he suddenly feels the sensation of being watched. He looks up to find curious eyes from his new patron, and he squints ever so lightly.

"...Is there anything I could help you with?"

The way he squinted his eyes, Sigrid wondered if she had looked too closely. She almost seemed to scoot away, in the way her shoulders retracted and her eyes fell back down upon her own book. “Oh! I…I’m quite sorry…” She suddenly seemed nervous. Something about him seemed unusual. She definitely sensed Magic. And yet he was not trying to harm her. Perhaps she could not keep from thinking about why Gerrit had told her that she must never make eye-contact with him.

“…I have to wonder sometimes if romance novels do not skew the minds of young ladies. I do not remember having a romance so wild and freeing myself. But I love them anyway.”

She turned her head carefully once again to try and look at the man’s face while she was speaking to him. “What are you reading, sir?”

"It is an academic journal." Wayland starts writing his notes on a piece of paper, just beyond Sigrid's view. The ink glides through the paper, swiftly copying specific passages and inputting his own thoughts and experiences next to them. He begins to sketch diagrams and the procedures he'll be doing.

"If you want to buy the book, please bring it here." He says with a bit of fatigue in his voice.

Sigrid focused on Wayland for a few moments. He sounded tired, but not in the annoyed way that servants sounded when they had already swept a room three times. No, he sounded exhausted from life, from somehow continuing to exist. Looking down at his hands, she felt that he was carrying some sort of a burden. She could not explain it, but she had a sense that she almost wanted to reach for his hand.

But then she saw that he had gone to write something on paper. Sigrid wondered if the writing had to do with his journal, or with something…Magical that he did not want her to see.

And yet there was other Magic swirling around the shop. Unliving Magic, something spiritual. Here was a man who did not hate the spiritual, but rather had almost a devotion to it. She gave a soft smile, as if the sensation had smoothed the nerves that had rattled her heart.

“An academic journal…very good…You seem like a spiritual man, sir. Not that I am…trying to preach or proselytize. But I feel very…comfortable in your store.” She then reached into her pocket looking for her wallet. “It feels like a place where ghosts and spirits can find peace in this rather frightening city.”

As Sigrid nears the counter, the Mage turns his attention towards her. Her gestures and actions seem to denote non-hostility. In fact, Wayland could pick up an odd glint of curiosity in the way her eyes follow his every move. The way she inspects his movements and his reading materials, and her kindly voice praising the atmosphere of his quaint bookstore shows that she knows more than she lets on… or at least she is just aware that she is not in a normal place.

The young woman sees his eyes glint under the light of gas lamps. A deep black, reminiscent of coal and soot, staring her in the eye. He folds his notes as she approaches, and he addresses her slowly.

"...Do you know my business, Miss?"

“Ah, your business?...I only know that you are the owner of this lovely bookstore. And for some reason…it spoke to me.” She gave a quiet smile, one without an ulterior motive. A strange serenity seemed to float around her, shielding her from any harshness which might have floated outside the store. “But it seems to me that you may be a Mage, or a Priest of some sort as well. Otherwise, I do not know why my spirit finds such peace here. But you are at the epicenter of such peace, as far as I can tell.”

"So you know what I am." He sighs as he takes her book. He retrieves a ledger and begins to write down the title of her book and the date. "I am indeed a Mage. You may call me Wayland. My bookstore is open to anyone who wishes to browse. You may only call me Wayland when dealing with things… supernatural. Beyond that, simply call me Mister or Bookkeeper."

He turns towards Sigrid's book and opens the back page. There is a small pocket there that has a sheet of paper detailing burrowing dates as well as the name of those who burrowed. Sigrid is currently the third one. "...I don't have many rules here, except for not finding and causing trouble. If you have any official business with me, simply inform me if I'm at the counter or by ringing this bell thrice." He points towards a handbell on the counter, which is missing its ringer.

"...Please write your name here and sign here." Wayland presents her both the book and the ledger, and points towards the empty spaces she needs to fill in.

Sigrid nodded. “Oh I certainly don’t wish to cause trouble. Though I worry there might be trouble if I am not back at my residence by morning. The Lord of the House would not be happy that his daughter’s tutor decided to sneak away to buy books.” She giggled, and wrote her name on the paper. ‘Sigrid Kappel.’

Once she was done, she stared down at her name for a moment. She had not thought whether to put Von Achthoven or Kappel, but the latter seemed to feel more comfortable. She was not a member of Tabitha’s family, only her tutor. After a moment’s mulling over things in her mind, she handed Wayland the money and gave another soft smile. “If it is quite alright with you, I don’t know if I wish to go out so soon. Do you mind if I stay here for a little while longer? I don’t have much fear of the night…but this place consoles me, for some reason.”

Wayland nods as he watches her write her name. Sigrid Kappel. That is certainly an eye catching name, at the very least. "Of course. Do feel free to stay a bit longer. I have simple rules here in my establishment, and I hope you could understand." He puts away the ledger and hands her the book, alongside a small paper bag for her to put it in when she is to leave. He looks towards the seat and desk where Sigrid is at and he gestures with a rising motion and the table lamp brightens a touch more to give her a more comfortable reading environment. "I hope the books are to your liking, Miss Kappel." He speaks with a bit more energy in his voice, as his Magely persona comes forward to deal with the supernatural.

Something in the man’s voice had changed. As Sigrid had correctly identified that he was a Mage, Wayland thus spoke with more authority. Yet his authority was with the largesse of a well-to-do homeowner welcoming a guest into his esteemed domain. She certainly found it esteemed.

The faint Magic registered as warmth and light fell over the desk, making for an even more homely little corner for her. She wondered why the presence of Magical Fire made her feel so safe. It drew her to something else, something beyond herself. But quickly, Sigrid shook her head in a quick motion, and she curtsied to Wayland. “Thank you very much. And I hope perhaps to find some books for my Tabitha as well.”

She then walked back to the table, letting a smile linger on her face for a moment longer before she walked back to continue reading the books she had bought.

"My shop has all sorts of books, as you can see. Simply browse around. However I do have a policy on selling occult texts, as I only sell them to Mages." He sits back down and continues his writing, pen drawing out figures and symbols upon paper. With that, silence comes back to the bookstore. The comforting sound of turning pages, the scribbling of pen on paper, and a lone frog croaking outside in the streets.

[Ormata]

Relia Gogean & Company
September 30th, 1888
Wayland’s Bookstore

She could hear it thundering away. Humans called it a little steam engine, the stack spilling out smoke into a sky which seemed to have fewer and fewer stars by the century. She could hear the steam and fire, the power in the pistons, the shuddering of the drive shaft as it turned the propeller about and about in the water. She could feel its shakes through her feet upon the deck, her hand upon the railing. A little steam engine, straws grasped by infantile kine who had never fathomed how the laws they had decided were, what they had decided governed the universe, could be broken by will, knowledge, strength of mind. A steam engine, they called it, and her mouth was wry. Gone were the days when one could so easily dismiss the kine as just that. It was one of a hundred signals of the dawn of a new age, when they stretched out their paws to grasp at figments of power. One day, those figments could prove real. Some of them likely already were.

Her breath was hollow in the night as the figure shuddered briefly upon the tug’s deck. A new age, with new opportunities and designs and methods. A new age, full of the willing masses who yearned for more and more. They were foolish. They could, perhaps, be made even more so. Thick black smoke belched into the sky from factories further away. Some of the kine had already discovered how humanity could be twisted to their own wills. Factory towns and company policies, laws of slaves and masters, corrupt police and corrupt officials, these were the tools such had come to use. Such were truly shadows of what had once been in the Old Country, where a word was law and the known universe to the kine had no choice but to obey. Many of the Tzimisce felt it was a step in the wrong direction, a way apart from the glory days. Relia could not be so sure. There was never a time she recalled when her own demesne was so apart from mortal ken as theirs had been for generations. It was a change in the pace of things. It was a challenge to be overcome.

It did not help her nerves that she was not upon solid ground. All that was, was a worry from her sire, from his sire before him, and so on. The progeny had always disliked travel upon water and it was an issue seldom touched upon by those who only haunted the Old Country and its peasant masses of kine. To Relia, however, it was merely another stepping stone to overcome, merely another animalistic tendency to be overridden by the mind and the soul. To harness fears into power was to be and, to her, to be was the barest minimum. Elsewise, she would be no better than the kine, the Malkavian, or the Toreador.

A shifting on the deck. The pilot was tired. She’d known him since his grandfather had first been hired by a young foreign woman, since his father had a twinkle in his eye, since he had first taken a steerage in hand, though of course the kine didn’t remember it. He couldn’t remember it. He’d already introduced her to his own son, small as he was. Another successor. Another tool. Such were as useful as any tools, such as the few in the Kent Constabulary. A slow series of footsteps on the deck, careful, quiet as may be. One of her Revenants. There was little they had issue in seeing.

The tug nudged itself against one of the little quays so prolific in London. Relia barely took notice as the pilot shuffled out from his station, throwing off a line to one of the bitts before jumping over to secure it. He did not dare offer a hand to aid her, bowing his head in mindless supplication. She did not speak a word about it as shoe touched solid earth, though in the pilot’s mind she knew he groveled in words, that she responded as well in thanks, and with a smile touching the corners of his mouth he rose, embarking back upon the tig as her Revenants disembarked as well.

Soon they were striding the streets of London. It had changed quite a bit since Relia had first seen it, and last it had been far less. Things had changed for the worse in many ways, as poor vagrants watched from the alleys, some calculating, some afraid, as the soft clicks of shoes seemed to echo down the street. Last she could recall, there had been fewer buildings. They had been farther apart. It was growing, inwards and outwards. A hostile enough aura was about every mortal kine she glanced at in the shadows. They were growing to be dogs, not sheep. No, it was a change for the worse. A brisk enough pace soon had the four at their destination.

Relia made no motion nor command as she entered the store, the bell sounding poorly. The three simply waited at the doorway, one watching inwards at the other two kept their gazes down either end of the way. A quick glance…it was quite empty. The owner was at his deck, his own aura black and fiery, smells of charcoal and dead things. He was truly a necromancer of the mortal kine, feeble in some ways, deadly in others. She had little doubt that he would be dangerous enough if agitated, but the truer issues would be the other mages who might come after. The owner had a bookstore, one which other magical kine frequented from time to time for the volumes. His death and they would infer she had taken possession of some of the volumes. Such were jealous guardians of their secrets. It would be a poor time indeed.

The only other occupant…her eyes glanced over the being who, to most sights, would see merely a girl. Heat seemed to radiate from her skin like the sun, fire in the air and reaching down Relia’s throat, fire in all the things like the din of Heaven’s Gates. Fire in the…no, no, no. It was not her way to become vermin to her own fears, to the fears of any descendent of Caine’s. It was not her way to squirm and flee at the merest hint of danger. No. She was a false thing, in any case…did she even know such? Was she of the owner’s make? He was a dealer in rotten flesh, true, and she had not been sculpted in such a fashion, but mortal kine had their way of surprising the order of things. The thought flashed before it was dismissed as fantasy. She’d be at work if such a thing were true. Mortal mages were as harsh to their made servants as any could be. In all these thoughts, however, the only outward expression of Relia’s was a twitch of the cheek, a narrowing of the eyes, before she reigned in her control.

A few steps and she was before the desk of the owner. A simple envelope, browned paper with age and filled with both an appropriate amount of cash as well as a number of a mummy’s finger bones, was laid upon the desk. He had been quite specific before about his choices of payment. Such was to be expected from magical kine.

“Good evening, Mr Smith. I’m here to retrieve a package ordered some time ago. The details for such are on the envelope. I trust everything is in order.”

[Finsternia]

Wayland - A Grim Transaction
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland's Bookstore

The door to the bookstore opens and the bell tolls at the entrance of another supernatural being. The bell clinks and clanks with high pitched tinks, and those skilled in sorceries and gifted in supernatural observation could make out that the specific notes repeat a pattern that wouldn't normally play when such a bell would be rung. Wayland's eyebrow raises as his eyes turn towards his new visitor, a familiar face and former client. The bookstore, for some reason, attracts more customers during the night.

"...Good evening, Miss Gogean." The Mage speaks with the same rough and gravely voice as he curtly nods towards his customer. At some point he has retrieved a black leather mask, pointed and shaped like a plague doctor's face coverings, and is on the motion of putting it in. As if they have their own will, the scarves covering his face slither off and the mask swiftly clings as its own latches and straps pull themselves together. No matter how many times Wayland has done the trick, his face has always stayed covered.

The Mage stares at the plain envelope, filled with Relia's payment. He stares at it intently for a good moment before picking it up and inspecting the inside. The cash is a given, and isn't much of a worry for the Alchemist, but the mummy bones are the real price to pay here. Such items are expensive and rare, and the idiotic Sleepers have damaged many unearthed mummified remains from Egypt for their ridiculous tonics. He holds one piece of bone for a moment, rolling it gently in his gloved hand, before resealing the envelope. It's a proper payment for the thing that Miss Gogean has asked.

Wayland reaches underneath the desk to pull out a small unadorned box, and he hands it to her. Within are two tomes, the covers blank and simply differing in color as one is in bright blue and the other in navy blue. If the vampire would check to see the contents one is full of text written in French and the other in Russian, and every page is unmarked by the passage of time and the elements. "...I have managed to retrieve these as you've requested, and I have restored the pages into their pristine conditions. Each book begins with the author's notes in both languages, and continues with the first edition versions of each."

He now reaches for the envelope and puts it within the confines of his desk elsewhere. "I hope this transaction is to your liking."

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - Comprehending Evil
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Wayland’s Bookshop

The woman who entered the store not too long after Sigrid had sat to continue reading had an aura that made the pretty young tutor and servant sit upright in her seat. Once bent in wonder at the story she was reading, now her spine stood in shaking dread. The pages of her book dropped out of her hand, but she hardly paid any mind to where she had stopped reading.

Relia was too pale, much like Sigrid herself. Yet her own porcelain skin seemed to give only the thinnest veneer of life. It was like paper, and yet also too malleable to be paper. The woman felt her own skin beginning to crawl, and she grabbed at her sleeves as if to keep that skin from running off her bones. Even worse, the woman seemed to look over at her. Those lifeless, cold, calculating eyes. She was a nightmare walking in surreal grace and darkness. An heiress of sorts, and a killer.

And Sigrid hoped that the woman would not start toward her.

The tension rose with the fever pitch of a rising flame, so much so that both women seemed to feel the tangible presence of something judging them. Relia quickly turned her head back toward Wayland, but not before Sigrid caught a look of something like fear in the other woman’s own eyes. If fear was the right word. She did not know how anyone could be afraid of a meek young tutor. Then again, she knew that something about herself was not normal. She just did not know what.

This other woman also requested a book, much like herself. An unusual book, by all indications. Wayland seemed to take his time investigating the payment, and Sigrid squinted her eyes narrow to try and look.

Bones.

Those tiny finger-bones looked so old and so fragile that she thought the bookstore owner’s own breath would cause for them to become vapors. Sigrid could not imagine how she had gotten a hold of such items. A morgue would not have such old body parts, but a museum or a cemetery would have them. The very idea of digging through a grave, taking the bones of a body, and jerking the finger-bones from their restful corpse…Sigrid would have cried-out in pain if the woman was not right there to see her reaction.

“Such a cruel atmosphere, so frightful. She is haunted, and empty, all at once. What sort of undead evil…”

Sigrid knew that Kindred existed. She had read about them in books, but she had not met many in-person. If she had, she had passed them briefly in the streets, and they had not gone near her. Then again, for Sigrid, being avoided by others on the sidewalk was not an uncommon occurrence. And yet she would have not even walked on the same sidewalk as this woman, if she could help doing so. The concept that Relia was a Kindred was not too much of a leap for her mind to make.

Luckily, she managed to turn her head downward as the transaction continued. She did not wish for this woman to see that she had stared at her for at least a couple of minutes. Yet her mind could not focus on the book, even if it was a romantic novel which consoled her soul. Nothing would console her until this woman was gone, or until she herself left the shop and ran home in the darkness.

“I just might fear going home less than I fear this awful being…”

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

30th of September, 1888, Past midnight
Alexandra Jäger - East London

Though it was well past midnight, Alexandra patrolled the streets of East London. Normally, a woman of her age walking the street at this time of night had unseemly implications, or was at the very least exceptionally dangerous, but that wasn't case for Alexandra. The towering leather jacketed woman didn't exactly exude vulnerablity, or even womanhood at a distance. A closer look would help inform one of the latter, the former made obvious the fact that she filled in the jacket she wore. Yet, that alone of course didn't explain why she was out at this time of night.

Alexandra Jäger, was a Hunter, imbued a little over 7 years ago on her 17th birthday, during a traumatic event that she still had quite a bit of guilt about. An even that had turned a pugnacious brawler of a young woman, that once fought underground for her own personal thrill and material enrichment, into focused shadow warrior against supernatural forces of evil. Like most londoners, she was shocked and angered by the series of brutal killings of young woman that had been occuring in the city recently. Unlike most, however, she had the conviction that these crimes were not the acts of the typical mortal fiend, but that of a supernatural predator.

She, as Alexandra her self could admit, wasn't a particularly adept investigator. She was more the type that one that was could sic on target, with the expectation that she could steathily keep tabs on them and if need be, capture or kill them, whether or not she had the element of surprise. She was, put simply, an attack dog, and a good one at that. Alexandra wouldn't flinch at being considered as such either, she was used to being likend to a 'dog' in far less flattering ways.

Fortuitously for her, tonight those investigative shortcomings weren't going to immediately be a problem when it came to finding trouble, or at least, the remnants of trouble. A group of people, police officers among them, were standing around something that reeked of the smell of blood. She'd walk up to the crowd and carefully nudge her way close enough to peer over few shorter individuals, giving her a glimpse of the body of yet another young woman. It was at that moment, nearby, she heard someone nearby, yell about what was going on. She'd turn to see young blond, about her height.

"Seems like another young woman's been murdered." She told him, in an as-a-matter of factly tone.

[Morrdh]

Dunne
September 30th, 1888, Morning
Whitechapel/Shadwell, East London

After a couple of hours Dunne managed to make his excuses and leave Berner Street, though rather than head west towards the police station on Leman Street he struck eastwards towards the neighbouring district of Shadwell. His destination was similar to Berner Street with it's cheap and tacky rows of terrace houses, though the signs of abject poverty were more pronounced. Each house was home to multiple families, most of whom were lucky enough to call a single room their own but both the rent and life was cheap here. Mostly labourers from the nearby docks and workers in the factories resided here, the bottom of society's rung and the area was a hotspot for crime and lawlessness. A lone policemen was risking a great deal venturing into such a rough and unfriendly district, but Dunne was no ordinary policemen and was granted a degree of protection...to a point.

Proceeding halfway alongside the street, he stopped outside one of the squalid and grime coated houses and glanced around before knocking on the door. A moment later the door creaked opened and, despite no sign of anybody being present in the small hallway beyond, Dunne walked in and the door closed shut behind him. After hearing the key turn in the lock, Dunne spoke out loud to the seemingly empty hallway. "Dia duit Oisin, I'm here to see Michael."

"Huh, doubt he'll want ta see yer mug at this hour." Replied Oisin with a sign as he dropped his shimmer of invisibility. "He's been hard at it with the bottle."

"Tis important." Dunne said stoically. "Tis 'bouts Liz."

Oisin opened and closed his mouth a few times as if to try and argue, but from the look on Dunne's face he saw that the detective sergeant was in no mood for an argument and hurried upstairs. Dunne could hear unhappy voices through the floorboards before deliberately heavy footsteps came thumping down the stairs. A rough looking man of a strong build emerged from the gloom, his own face showing that he was in the stage where drunkenness overlapped with the beginnings of a hangover. There was a wild air round the man, a hint of raging fury, the aura of a bestial predator. With a growl of annoyance, the man addressed Dunne. "Cormac."

"Michael." Dunne replied, staring the man down. "I'm here 'bouts Liz."

"Her..." Growled Michael as his face darkened. "She ain't here, haven't seen her since she upped and walked couple o' days past."

"I know." Sighed Dunne as he braced himself. "She's been found not half mile from here, she's been killed."

There was silence, punctured by a distant whistle of a passing train, before anger flashed across Michael's face. A cry of anger erupted from the man, one that became more like a howl as the man's features changed to become more savage and bestial like. Dunne instinctually took a step back as Michael seemed to grow, become more bulky with muscle and his nails thickened and sharpened as he took on a more feral like appearance. In the grip of his rage, Michael turned and started hammering blows on the wall with his claw-like hands. Oisin, meanwhile, had moved in front of Dunne to shield the policeman.

"Go..." Michael panted when his rage was spent and his state of feral-ness had faded. "Get. Out."

"Michael, I..." Dunne tried saying, but it was clear from the feral glint in the man's eye that his business was concluded here and Oisin had already moved to open the door. With no further words, Dunne turned and walked out into the chilly and damp night air.

[Luminesa]

30th of September, 1888, Past midnight
Alexandra Jäger - East London

Though it was well past midnight, Alexandra patrolled the streets of East London. Normally, a woman of her age walking the street at this time of night had unseemly implications, or was at the very least exceptionally dangerous, but that wasn't case for Alexandra. The towering leather jacketed woman didn't exactly exude vulnerablity, or even womanhood at a distance. A closer look would help inform one of the latter, the former made obvious the fact that she filled in the jacket she wore. Yet, that alone of course didn't explain why she was out at this time of night.

Alexandra Jäger, was a Hunter, imbued a little over 7 years ago on her 17th birthday, during a traumatic event that she still had quite a bit of guilt about. An even that had turned a pugnacious brawler of a young woman, that once fought underground for her own personal thrill and material enrichment, into focused shadow warrior against supernatural forces of evil. Like most londoners, she was shocked and angered by the series of brutal killings of young woman that had been occuring in the city recently. Unlike most, however, she had the conviction that these crimes were not the acts of the typical mortal fiend, but that of a supernatural predator.

She, as Alexandra her self could admit, wasn't a particularly adept investigator. She was more the type that one that was could sic on target, with the expectation that she could steathily keep tabs on them and if need be, capture or kill them, whether or not she had the element of surprise. She was, put simply, an attack dog, and a good one at that. Alexandra wouldn't flinch at being considered as such either, she was used to being likend a to a 'dog' in far less flattering ways.

Fortuitously for her, tonight those investigative shortcomings weren't going to immediately be a problem when it came to finding trouble, or at least, the remnants of trouble. A group of people, police officers among them, were standing around something that reeked of the smell of blood. She'd walk up to the crowd and carefully nudge her way close enough to peer over few shorter individuals, giving her a glimpse of the body of yet another young woman. It was at that moment, nearby, she heard someone nearby, yell about what was going on. She'd turn to see young blond, about her height.

"Seems like another young woman's been murdered." She told him, in an as-a-matter of factly tone.

Vasily - The Fox and A Hound
September 30th, 1888
The scene of a murder, East London

“Another one?” Vasily paused, thinking about the woman’s statement as she appeared next to him. His cigarette continued to pump a sliver of smoke into the air, and he removed it from his mouth for a moment to blow more smoke behind it, as if it was releasing his anger and irritation. “Bloody hell…the same bloke must have been bored again.”

He continued to hold his gun close under his jacket, especially in case anyone decided to step too close to him. In particular, his eyes flickered from the body to the woman who stood next to him. The aura she carried was that of someone with authority, but not with authority given to her by man. She was not afraid of gore or tragedies, her eyes had seen them.

“It must have been the scream I heard early this morning, then,” Vasily began to explain, keeping his voice down among the rabble, “it was distant, a bit of an echo. Given it was 2 AM, I thought I had just been dreaming. But instead it was real. Maybe if I had gotten out of bed at that moment I would have been able to go find them.” He gave a deep sigh, and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He almost seemed to munch on it with his teeth for a few moments.

“But this man, or woman, whoever has been doing the killing, is quite good at what they do. There’s been a number of murders now…and we can’t even find the bastard who keeps doing it. Not even a trace. Unless…you look like someone who might know something?”

At that last sentence, he pivoted his head slow and heavy in her direction, staring at her with curiosity and only a sprinkle of suspicion. A criminal would not come back to the scene of the crime, if he or she was smart at all. And yet this woman spoke like she had just learned something new about this serial killer. Vasily pulled the cigarette out of his mouth after a couple minutes of contemplation, and as he blew smoke again he looked back to the newcomer.

“What do you know?”

[Oblivion2]

Etienne Saint-Francis - The Prodigal Son
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Streets of London

The scent of coal smoke and decay hung about the city like mouldering perfume. It was a damp, dank, desperate smell, and Etienne Saint-Francis would have loathed it entirely if he did love what it represented. Freedom. It had been just over three glorious weeks since he’d arrived in this soot-stained, grimy, pestilential place, and it had been three glorious weeks without a collar about his throat and his Sire’s hand holding the leash. “Bastard.” Etienne thought to himself as he adjusted his black homburg. The problem with freedom was it meant that one was truly on their own. Etienne was a seventy six year old Ventrue, with nothing of note to his name. Everything had been controlled by his sire, so when the young Frenchman had finally seized his chance to break free of his domineering lord, he’d been rendered literally penniless. Fortunately, Etienne hadn’t been Embraced for being a fool; far from it. Even as a mortal he possessed remarkable business acumen and an instinct for finding opportunity.

Certainly he’d come here poor, but now he had his own modest lodgings, fine clothes, and pockets that jangled with coin. It had meant getting his hands dirty and rubbing elbows with certain unsavoury types, but what sort of man wouldn’t do all that was nessecary to get ahead? He reached into the breast pocket of his black frock coat and retrieved a pipe made of Horn. His hands shook as he packed it full of tobacco on his walk, and then they shook almost violently as he retrieved the matches from the same pocket. He paused, looking for all the world like a man about to light his pipe as he struck the match. He recoiled instinctively, his body wanting nothing more than to run howling from the flame. “No.” He growled, his thick eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration. Shaking hands bring the match to the bowl and set the dried leaf ablaze. He inhaled; once, twice, thrice and got the pipe going along merrily. Etienne laughed, the sort of laugh that only the manically afraid can manage. He’d been trying for years to get past even the aversion to this small flame, and he was finally getting somewhere. Leaving had apparently been the break he’d needed in more ways that one.

A skip in his step, Etienne moved through the streets in well polished shoes. He passed a man and a young woman, presumably on their way home. He smiled and tipped his hat to the girl, bringing all of his supernatural charisma to bear in the action. She smiled and flushed prettily and Etienne wondered for a moment if she had the sort of bloodline that would allow him a quick bite. Business first, he chided himself, pleasure later.

He looked into his gloved hand, the one free from the cursed flame, and smiled. He held a leather bound book, perhaps no thicker than a journal. It possessed a black cover and upon its face on gilded letters were the words Ars Goetia. The Howling Art. London was a curious place, as conservative and strait laced as it was, it was also shockingly libertine. For every formal banquet, there were just as many secretly society meetings or illict gambling dens or hedonistic orgies of flesh and opium. Places no dignified member of society was supposed to visit, yet found themselves called to all the same. Etienne had won the book, gambling of course. His travels with his Sire had immediately told him that such a thing was valuable; more valuable than the fop possessing it had realized. The book, if one could call such a collection of esoteric lore such a thing, was actually one piece of a large puzzle. It was the first part of a collection of five books known in certain circles as the Lesser Key of Solomon. This particular book housed the names of the seventy two demons that King Solomon was said to have bound to his will and trapped away so they could no longer plague humanity. A staunch Catholic and Kindred both, Etienne looked at things of this nature with a mixed sort of outlook. Demons existed, so said the Word, but truly what demons were worse than those with wicked fangs and hungry eyes that masqueraded as men?

His thoughts took him all the way to Wayland’s bookstore. Wayland, Etienne knew, was a Mage. They’d been briefly acquainted the last time he had come to the city, and if anyone would be interested in such a thing who wasn’t neck deep in some occult society, it would he Wayland. He stopped outside to extinguish his pipe; only the uncouth smoked in such a place and Etienne Saint-Francis was anything but. That was of course when he noticed the creatures in the shape of men loitering by entrance into the store. He grinned at them, wide and knowing. “Now, whom do you belong to, I wonder?” He holds up a hand to forestall any attempt to answer his question. “No, no, I want to find out for myself. I like surprises.”

He pushed open the door to the jangle of the bell and stepped inside before he could be stopped smiling winsomely, his Presence enshrouding him like velvet armour. “Bonne Soirée!” He called out jauntily, affecting the Norman accent he’d learned decades ago as part of his newest identity. He’d realize then that the bookshop was not empty as he had thought it might be- that two very different sorts of women were in here. One very much alive, and one very much not. What was worse, was he happened to run into a rather powerful Elder. Relia, was her name if Etienne was remembering correctly. A Tzmisce power in these parts that had somehow carved out a niche for herself. He maintains his bold as polished brass aura as he doffs his hat to reveal a head of thick, wavy, dark blonde hair. He smiled at the Elder as he pressed his hat to his chest and bowed politely. “A thousand pardons, Lady.” He would say in the musical tones of northern France. “I did not realize that was your entourage outside.”

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

30th of September, 1888, Past midnight
Alexandra Jäger - East London

Though it was well past midnight, Alexandra patrolled the streets of East London. Normally, a woman of her age walking the street at this time of night had unseemly implications, or was at the very least exceptionally dangerous, but that wasn't case for Alexandra. The towering leather jacketed woman didn't exactly exude vulnerablity, or even womanhood at a distance. A closer look would help inform one of the latter, the former made obvious the fact that she filled in the jacket she wore. Yet, that alone of course didn't explain why she was out at this time of night.

Alexandra Jäger, was a Hunter, imbued a little over 7 years ago on her 17th birthday, during a traumatic event that she still had quite a bit of guilt about. An even that had turned a pugnacious brawler of a young woman, that once fought underground for her own personal thrill and material enrichment, into focused shadow warrior against supernatural forces of evil. Like most londoners, she was shocked and angered by the series of brutal killings of young woman that had been occuring in the city recently. Unlike most, however, she had the conviction that these crimes were not the acts of the typical mortal fiend, but that of a supernatural predator.

She, as Alexandra her self could admit, wasn't a particularly adept investigator. She was more the type that one that was could sic on target, with the expectation that she could steathily keep tabs on them and if need be, capture or kill them, whether or not she had the element of surprise. She was, put simply, an attack dog, and a good one at that. Alexandra wouldn't flinch at being considered as such either, she was used to being likend a to a 'dog' in far less flattering ways.

Fortuitously for her, tonight those investigative shortcomings weren't going to immediately be a problem when it came to finding trouble, or at least, the remnants of trouble. A group of people, police officers among them, were standing around something that reeked of the smell of blood. She'd walk up to the crowd and carefully nudge her way close enough to peer over few shorter individuals, giving her a glimpse of the body of yet another young woman. It was at that moment, nearby, she heard someone nearby, yell about what was going on. She'd turn to see young blond, about her height.

"Seems like another young woman's been murdered." She told him, in an as-a-matter of factly tone.

Vasily - The Fox and A Hound
September 30th, 1888
The scene of a murder, East London

“Another one?” Vasily paused, thinking about the woman’s statement as she appeared next to him. His cigarette continued to pump a sliver of smoke into the air, and he removed it from his mouth for a moment to blow more smoke behind it, as if it was releasing his anger and irritation. “Bloody hell…the same bloke must have been bored again.”

He continued to hold his gun close under his jacket, especially in case anyone decided to step too close to him. In particular, his eyes flickered from the body to the woman who stood next to him. The aura she carried was that of someone with authority, but not with authority given to her by man. She was not afraid of gore or tragedies, her eyes had seen them.

“It must have been the scream I heard early this morning, then,” Vasily began to explain, keeping his voice down among the rabble, “it was distant, a bit of an echo. Given it was 2 AM, I thought I had just been dreaming. But instead it was real. Maybe if I had gotten out of bed at that moment I would have been able to go find them.” He gave a deep sigh, and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He almost seemed to munch on it with his teeth for a few moments.

“But this man, or woman, whoever has been doing the killing, is quite good at what they do. There’s been a number of murders now…and we can’t even find the bastard who keeps doing it. Not even a trace. Unless…you look like someone who might know something?”

At that last sentence, he pivoted his head slow and heavy in her direction, staring at her with curiosity and only a sprinkle of suspicion. A criminal would not come back to the scene of the crime, if he or she was smart at all. And yet this woman spoke like she had just learned something new about this serial killer. Vasily pulled the cigarette out of his mouth after a couple minutes of contemplation, and as he blew smoke again he looked back to the newcomer.

“What do you know?”

Alexandra knew well when someone was concerned by her presence and this man clearly was. The way he held his hand against his jacket suggested that some weapon lay underneath, perhaps a knife or gun. Alexandra did nothing similar. Her hands were already equiped her main means of self defense, her weighted gloves. In any confrontation at this range she'd be able to make quicker use of them than any weapon either of them could. Not that she expected anything to happen. The way his eyes went over her revealed that he recognized that she was even more dangerous than she looked. What was more interesting, what that he was willing to admit being nearby the scene of the crime when it happened. Obviously not incriminating in of its self for what it was worth, but it was interesting in light of the supcion he showed her by asking her what she knew.

"I only know what you know, or less. I'm not the one who heard this woman's dying screams." she responded, in a somewhat accusatory tone. Not that she thought he had anything to do with it. Taking a good look at him, the man seemed too weak to take a life in self defense, nevermind as a predator.

"I should say, though I doubt I'll convince you of anything, I don't take human lives. So you can put aside any ridiculous ideas that might be forming in your mind about me." Alexandra added, with an emphasis on human lives. she'd taken plenty of non-human lives as a hunter, at this point.

[Ormata]

Relia Gogean & Company
September 30th, 1888
Wayland’s Bookstore

She watched with passing interest as the storekeep donned a mask of a bird’s head, black in a dyed sort of way. The smell of old leather, dry and creaking in its antiquity, mixed with the common background odors of sweat and paper as the mask affixed itself to him of its own accord. Mages were a curious species of kine, differentiated by their peculiarities and oddities, and it was best to leave them to such devices. They were far happier by it, and she was far happier by their contentment. It made so many things so much simpler and they, every now and again, proved useful despite their issues at hand. He inspected the payment, seemed to be satisfied in that clinical manner which marked that particular kine well.

Then the man set out two volumes. They were plain enough, undamaged despite the particular journeys each book had been forced to face. Relia knew they had been restored by magic to their original forms, something she had mixed feelings upon yet knew that there was no real point one could mark at wherein the damage could be said to be original, that the tears and stains could be said to have, after that point, been not in accordance to the character of the works. Besides, there was other vendor for such works and this particular kine made it a point to so restore the things she requested. The author’s notes were an unexpected addition. Interesting. The works themselves bore no significance to the increasing of her power, no development as to the cementing of her station, her business, nor her knowledge. No, they were far more sentimental works, ones written comparatively recently by a man of Rus named Tolstoy who, in the works, had written of vampires. They were a good imprint of the image the kine had of the Kindred, and further still a good writing of a specific family of Kindred she knew. One volume, perhaps, would go to them. She was yet unsure.

An impulse began to thumb through one work, to see his efforts. Such was squashed as soon as it began. He had said they were restored. They had been so. That was all there was to it. A simple nod with a wry, careful smile in satisfaction was the assessment of quality, as she carefully stacked one upon the other, taking them in her two hands, she said simply, “It most certainly is. Thank you, Mr. Smith. As usual, you meet every expectation.” The two works soon disappeared under her arm.

Relia turned. The girl before, whose made soul burned as the sun, was staring down into her book. Fear gripped at her eyes, the pupils not touching the words upon the page. Fear seemed to slough from her, her skin, her hot soul. To look was burning, true, and yet Relia in some way forced herself to look. It was strange, a compulsion of sorts that touched at a part of her which had not been felt in quite some time. Then the Tzimisce lady from Gravesend laughed. It was the chime of hollow temple bells, the discordant ring of dented chimes, wind blowing through the half-hollowed corpses upon the field. Mirth touched her with the fear, the concern, the fright of a rabbit before the wolf. It was genuinely funny in so many ways. She hissed out her words between bouts of laughter before finally calming down mid-sentence.

“Dearest child, if whoever made you could see you now. And yet…I apologize for my rudeness. We have not yet met. Introductions are an order, yes? I am Relia Gogean. What is your name, dearest child?”

Words from outside the store. Someone was talking to one of her Revenants, and though she couldn’t make out the words through Wayland’s charms she could hear the lilt of the voice. A question? Then a statement. Her Revenants hadn’t even had a chance to say a word sideways. Whoever it was had little patience and a good enough will to enter. The door’s bell chimed, as oddly and poorly as it had when the Tzimisce had first entered. Another Kindred. Who else freely frequented this place so often, was the thought, as she turned to the door.

Etienne Saint-Francis. Relia knew of him only, really, by way of his Sire and even then it was only a singular meeting. Otherwise, than the face and name, the Kindred was quite the stranger. Dressed in fine enough clothing, however, he was a good example of those of his Clan. The being proudly sounded-out a greeting in the way he loved, in a kine’s tongue, before taking note and apologizing.

“You are forgiven. I do not often announce myself, after all. As for my entourage, I take no offense at their dismissal by you and…they cannot take offense. But they are not intended for you. How does the night fare you?”

A mewl in the back of her mind. The Tzimisce half turns, looking at the glance upwards by the made girl with her book. It seemed fear wept freely from her, even as Relia looked with her Disciplines, and her hands seemed to shake at the prospect of another Kindred in the store with her. No, fear would not do in the state of things, in the store, in the meeting with another Kindred no matter how young he might be, in the meeting in the midst of a kine of the magical sort, no. It would not do. Protocols were to be followed and the stink of fear was not acceptable in the midst of such.

“Calm Down”, she commanded, the force of will behind her words, the force of Kindred and the force of spirit. Fear was not in the order of things, not in such a meeting.

With that done, she turned to Etienne, smiling thinly, expectantly at his answer.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - Thorns and Crowns
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Wayland's Bookstore

The man who walked through the doorway was a curious figure. Somehow warmer than the woman whose voice clinked like sterile wine glasses, grandiose almost in nature. He was also rather handsome, dressed in noble shades of dove-grey and graphite, and he tipped his hat to the older woman as he saw her. Apparently they knew each other, or at least recognized each other's faces. Sigrid took note of every interaction, her eyes only blinking once or twice as she remembered where she was, in the midst of their conversation. Something about that woman's laugh had distorted the world around her, and the woman in white had to shake her head to pull herself together. After all, Miss Gogean had asked her a brief question. As she had remembered the question, her lungs forced words through her mouth.

"...My name is Sigrid...ah...Sigrid Kappel. I apologize myself, for my own rudeness. I should not have minded your enterprise so much, my lady."

She could feel herself still sweating a little, trying to focus enough to give an answer. Her voice had just barely been a whisper, and her body was shaking, but she still managed a curtsy. After a few moments, however, something in Relia's words had forced the shaking out of her bones. Normally, being told to calm down caused quite the opposite effect, but for some reason, she obeyed the woman's command immediately. Sigrid had to blink once and adjust her skirt, as if she was not sure if the Kindred's command had effected her clothing as well.

As much as she wanted to go back to her book, however, she found that the new presences in the room had stolen her attention entirely. She watched the man and the woman stare each other down, their polite dialogue masking some latent aggression. He had a hunger in his eyes, a scheming glow that straightened his shoulders and gave a rather French flourish to his motions. She had seen such a strange grace before, when Tabitha's father had foreign guests appear at his residence, but she was not sure if she had seen this man. Something about him was absolutely different.

"Perhaps he is also Kindred...That is why he is looking at this woman the way she is...He is a part of her world, perhaps?"

[Luminesa]

Vasily - The Fox and A Hound
September 30th, 1888
The scene of a murder, East London

“Another one?” Vasily paused, thinking about the woman’s statement as she appeared next to him. His cigarette continued to pump a sliver of smoke into the air, and he removed it from his mouth for a moment to blow more smoke behind it, as if it was releasing his anger and irritation. “Bloody hell…the same bloke must have been bored again.”

He continued to hold his gun close under his jacket, especially in case anyone decided to step too close to him. In particular, his eyes flickered from the body to the woman who stood next to him. The aura she carried was that of someone with authority, but not with authority given to her by man. She was not afraid of gore or tragedies, her eyes had seen them.

“It must have been the scream I heard early this morning, then,” Vasily began to explain, keeping his voice down among the rabble, “it was distant, a bit of an echo. Given it was 2 AM, I thought I had just been dreaming. But instead it was real. Maybe if I had gotten out of bed at that moment I would have been able to go find them.” He gave a deep sigh, and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He almost seemed to munch on it with his teeth for a few moments.

“But this man, or woman, whoever has been doing the killing, is quite good at what they do. There’s been a number of murders now…and we can’t even find the bastard who keeps doing it. Not even a trace. Unless…you look like someone who might know something?”

At that last sentence, he pivoted his head slow and heavy in her direction, staring at her with curiosity and only a sprinkle of suspicion. A criminal would not come back to the scene of the crime, if he or she was smart at all. And yet this woman spoke like she had just learned something new about this serial killer. Vasily pulled the cigarette out of his mouth after a couple minutes of contemplation, and as he blew smoke again he looked back to the newcomer.

“What do you know?”

Alexandra knew well when someone was concerned by her presence and this man clearly was. The way he held his hand against his jacket suggested that some weapon lay underneath, perhaps a knife or gun. Alexandra did nothing similar. Her hands were already equiped her main means of self defense, her weighted gloves. In any confrontation at this range she'd be able to make quicker use of them than any weapon either of them could. Not that she expected anything to happen. The way his eyes went over her revealed that he recognized that she was even more dangerous than she looked. What was more interesting, what that he was willing to admit being nearby the scene of the crime when it happened. Obviously not incriminating in of its self for what it was worth, but it was interesting in light of the supcion he showed her by asking her what she knew.

"I only know what you know, or less. I'm not the one who heard this woman's dying screams." she responded, in a somewhat accusatory tone. Not that she thought he had anything to do with it. Taking a good look at him, the man seemed too weak to take a life in self defense, nevermind as a predator.

"I should say, though I doubt I'll convince you of anything, I don't take human lives. So you can put aside any ridiculous ideas that might be forming in your mind about me." Alexandra added, with an emphasis on human lives. she'd taken plenty of non-human lives as a hunter, at this point.

Vasily - A Who Dunnit
September 30th, 1888
At the crime scene

She definitely had some sort of weapon. Vasily did not have many years to his life, but he knew by now when a man or a woman was possessing a weapon in secret. After all, he was not the only paranoid individual in all of London, and certainly not when a serial killer was still loose among the city streets. For a woman such as herself, wandering the streets at night without one would have been a death wish. And yet she was not a normal woman either. He wished he could determine why he felt that way. For now, however, he groaned behind a cigarette.

"Miss, I just asked you a question about whether or not you knew anything, I'd rather you not throw back accusations like I just spit in your tea. I don't know what's a dream or what's real anymore. Three years ago I had a fever so bad I was in and out of sleep, I saw my dead grandmother saying, 'Vasily, Vasily, put the stove on, we're going to make stew!' I never even met my grandmother! So you'll have to apologize if I sound somewhere between tired and hungover. Needless to say I'm not so much in the mood."

Only when Alexandra said "humans" with such a tone did Vasily raise his eyebrows and give her a stare for a few moments. He then looked down at his cigarette, flickering it to the ground and stomping it before he glanced back at her. "...So...you're not just aware of humans then. Huh. Alright then. I'm not accusing you of anything, I was just curious. But you've been looking at me like I've grown a second head, too. What's that all about?" He spoke in a whisper, not wanting to alarm others or to start a fight. "I know I'm not exactly a gentleman, and I smell like smoke and cheap liquor, but I certainly as hell didn't do anything. Plus they call him 'Jack the Ripper'. Stupid as balls name, but have you heard if he has any...connections?"

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

Alexandra knew well when someone was concerned by her presence and this man clearly was. The way he held his hand against his jacket suggested that some weapon lay underneath, perhaps a knife or gun. Alexandra did nothing similar. Her hands were already equiped her main means of self defense, her weighted gloves. In any confrontation at this range she'd be able to make quicker use of them than any weapon either of them could. Not that she expected anything to happen. The way his eyes went over her revealed that he recognized that she was even more dangerous than she looked. What was more interesting, what that he was willing to admit being nearby the scene of the crime when it happened. Obviously not incriminating in of its self for what it was worth, but it was interesting in light of the supcion he showed her by asking her what she knew.

"I only know what you know, or less. I'm not the one who heard this woman's dying screams." she responded, in a somewhat accusatory tone. Not that she thought he had anything to do with it. Taking a good look at him, the man seemed too weak to take a life in self defense, nevermind as a predator.

"I should say, though I doubt I'll convince you of anything, I don't take human lives. So you can put aside any ridiculous ideas that might be forming in your mind about me." Alexandra added, with an emphasis on human lives. she'd taken plenty of non-human lives as a hunter, at this point.

Vasily - A Who Dunnit
September 30th, 1888
At the crime scene

She definitely had some sort of weapon. Vasily did not have many years to his life, but he knew by now when a man or a woman was possessing a weapon in secret. After all, he was not the only paranoid individual in all of London, and certainly not when a serial killer was still loose among the city streets. For a woman such as herself, wandering the streets at night without one would have been a death wish. And yet she was not a normal woman either. He wished he could determine why he felt that way. For now, however, he groaned behind a cigarette.

"Miss, I just asked you a question about whether or not you knew anything, I'd rather you not throw back accusations like I just spit in your tea. I don't know what's a dream or what's real anymore. Three years ago I had a fever so bad I was in and out of sleep, I saw my dead grandmother saying, 'Vasily, Vasily, put the stove on, we're going to make stew!' I never even met my grandmother! So you'll have to apologize if I sound somewhere between tired and hungover. Needless to say I'm not so much in the mood."

Only when Alexandra said "humans" with such a tone did Vasily raise his eyebrows and give her a stare for a few moments. He then looked down at his cigarette, flickering it to the ground and stomping it before he glanced back at her. "...So...you're not just aware of humans then. Huh. Alright then. I'm not accusing you of anything, I was just curious. But you've been looking at me like I've grown a second head, too. What's that all about?" He spoke in a whisper, not wanting to alarm others or to start a fight. "I know I'm not exactly a gentleman, and I smell like smoke and cheap liquor, but I certainly as hell didn't do anything. Plus they call him 'Jack the Ripper'. Stupid as balls name, but have you heard if he has any...connections?"

Vasily, was his name. Or at least it was what she was going by. At least she now new something about him. He was correct about him not being a gentleman, but if uncomfortable smells alone detered her, she wouldn't have either or skills or her line of work. She made her way closer next to to better hear him without either of them needing to to be overheard.

"Oh, accuse you? Ha, no. Certainly not. If you're wonder why I've been giving you a good luck, I was just making sure to size you up. Just a habit of mine. Never know who you might need to defend yourself from. I know by now that you're no threat." Alexandra spoke quietly, then stopped to smirk.

"As for the question, well, I was was just wondering if you might know something, if you heard shouting beforehand. I suppose not. In regardes to no being in mood for this, well, you're still here, aren't you? Unless you mean you're not in the mood for being questioned, in which case, word of advice, don't send anything my way that you're not willing to take back at least twofold." Alexandra fiddled with her gloved hands while she spoke.

"Also, yes I'm certainly aware of more than of humans. London's got a problem with pests, as you might be aware. I've done my part to try and get them under control by culling a fair number. As for connections, none that I know for sure, but I have a hunch. We're certainly not dealing with a typical murderer here." She said, now herself at a whisper.

"If only we had more go off than, well, a dead body in the street."

[Luminesa]

Vasily - A Who Dunnit
September 30th, 1888
At the crime scene

She definitely had some sort of weapon. Vasily did not have many years to his life, but he knew by now when a man or a woman was possessing a weapon in secret. After all, he was not the only paranoid individual in all of London, and certainly not when a serial killer was still loose among the city streets. For a woman such as herself, wandering the streets at night without one would have been a death wish. And yet she was not a normal woman either. He wished he could determine why he felt that way. For now, however, he groaned behind a cigarette.

"Miss, I just asked you a question about whether or not you knew anything, I'd rather you not throw back accusations like I just spit in your tea. I don't know what's a dream or what's real anymore. Three years ago I had a fever so bad I was in and out of sleep, I saw my dead grandmother saying, 'Vasily, Vasily, put the stove on, we're going to make stew!' I never even met my grandmother! So you'll have to apologize if I sound somewhere between tired and hungover. Needless to say I'm not so much in the mood."

Only when Alexandra said "humans" with such a tone did Vasily raise his eyebrows and give her a stare for a few moments. He then looked down at his cigarette, flickering it to the ground and stomping it before he glanced back at her. "...So...you're not just aware of humans then. Huh. Alright then. I'm not accusing you of anything, I was just curious. But you've been looking at me like I've grown a second head, too. What's that all about?" He spoke in a whisper, not wanting to alarm others or to start a fight. "I know I'm not exactly a gentleman, and I smell like smoke and cheap liquor, but I certainly as hell didn't do anything. Plus they call him 'Jack the Ripper'. Stupid as balls name, but have you heard if he has any...connections?"

Vasily, was his name. Or at least it was what she was going by. At least she now new something about him. He was correct about him not being a gentleman, but if uncomfortable smells alone detered her, she wouldn't have either or skills or her line of work. She made her way closer next to to better hear him without either of them needing to to be overheard.

"Oh, accuse you? Ha, no. Certainly not. If you're wonder why I've been giving you a good luck, I was just making sure to size you up. Just a habit of mine. Never know who you might need to defend yourself from. I know by now that you're no threat." Alexandra spoke quietly, then stopped to smirk.

"As for the question, well, I was was just wondering if you might know something, if you heard shouting beforehand. I suppose not. In regardes to no being in mood for this, well, you're still here, aren't you? Unless you mean you're not in the mood for being questioned, in which case, word of advice, don't send anything my way that you're not willing to take back at least twofold." Alexandra fiddled with her gloved hands while she spoke.

"Also, yes I'm certainly aware of more than of humans. London's got a problem with pests, as you might be aware. I've done my part to try and get them under control by culling a fair number. As for connections, none that I know for sure, but I have a hunch. We're certainly not dealing with a typical murderer here." She said, now herself at a whisper.

"If only we had more go off than, well, a dead body in the street."

Vasily - Hunting the Hunter
September 30th, 1888
At the crime scene

Likewise, Vasily drew closer to Alexandra, in order that others might not hear their conversation. Wayland had warned him enough not to break the Masquerade, especially given that they knew so few Magical people or Kindred in London. Any overhearing ears might put a mark on the Mage or the Hunter for speaking too loudly about the unspeakable.

“Well, on a good day, I’m a little more than a sorry sod in his pajamas with a rifle under his coat,” he explained with a chuckle, “but I appreciate the once-over. Every now and then I need to be reminded that I’m roughly a college student with some semblance of dignity tattered underneath some textbooks about plants and a few trays of old cigarettes. As for what I might have known about this woman…”

Vasily shook his head. “Again, I only heard a scream or two, and I couldn’t even tell if it had been a real scream. It turns out I had been wrong, and I should have hurried over here as soon as my feet could fly out the bed. Alas, my raging headache from a recent alcohol bender won.” He sighed, and looked over at the police talking above the cold, blanketed body.

“You know…the coppers probably aren’t too keen on it, but I wonder if they’ve started to look into any…supernatural reasons behind these murders. After all, this ‘Jack’ sounds too good to just be a normal human being. And he likes the same sorts of figures over and over. Prostitutes and other vulnerable young women. Sounds like he has a grudge against prostitutes, or he’s definitely not a normal being.” He figured such coded talk might be safe. After all, they both knew that the other had something to do with the Masquerade. They might as well keep their options open.

“Someone with the ability to make a murder weapon disappear, maybe?”

[Finsternia]

Etienne Saint-Francis - The Prodigal Son
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Streets of London

The scent of coal smoke and decay hung about the city like mouldering perfume. It was a damp, dank, desperate smell, and Etienne Saint-Francis would have loathed it entirely if he did love what it represented. Freedom. It had been just over three glorious weeks since he’d arrived in this soot-stained, grimy, pestilential place, and it had been three glorious weeks without a collar about his throat and his Sire’s hand holding the leash. “Bastard.” Etienne thought to himself as he adjusted his black homburg. The problem with freedom was it meant that one was truly on their own. Etienne was a seventy six year old Ventrue, with nothing of note to his name. Everything had been controlled by his sire, so when the young Frenchman had finally seized his chance to break free of his domineering lord, he’d been rendered literally penniless. Fortunately, Etienne hadn’t been Embraced for being a fool; far from it. Even as a mortal he possessed remarkable business acumen and an instinct for finding opportunity.

Certainly he’d come here poor, but now he had his own modest lodgings, fine clothes, and pockets that jangled with coin. It had meant getting his hands dirty and rubbing elbows with certain unsavoury types, but what sort of man wouldn’t do all that was nessecary to get ahead? He reached into the breast pocket of his black frock coat and retrieved a pipe made of Horn. His hands shook as he packed it full of tobacco on his walk, and then they shook almost violently as he retrieved the matches from the same pocket. He paused, looking for all the world like a man about to light his pipe as he struck the match. He recoiled instinctively, his body wanting nothing more than to run howling from the flame. “No.” He growled, his thick eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration. Shaking hands bring the match to the bowl and set the dried leaf ablaze. He inhaled; once, twice, thrice and got the pipe going along merrily. Etienne laughed, the sort of laugh that only the manically afraid can manage. He’d been trying for years to get past even the aversion to this small flame, and he was finally getting somewhere. Leaving had apparently been the break he’d needed in more ways that one.

A skip in his step, Etienne moved through the streets in well polished shoes. He passed a man and a young woman, presumably on their way home. He smiled and tipped his hat to the girl, bringing all of his supernatural charisma to bear in the action. She smiled and flushed prettily and Etienne wondered for a moment if she had the sort of bloodline that would allow him a quick bite. Business first, he chided himself, pleasure later.

He looked into his gloved hand, the one free from the cursed flame, and smiled. He held a leather bound book, perhaps no thicker than a journal. It possessed a black cover and upon its face on gilded letters were the words Ars Goetia. The Howling Art. London was a curious place, as conservative and strait laced as it was, it was also shockingly libertine. For every formal banquet, there were just as many secretly society meetings or illict gambling dens or hedonistic orgies of flesh and opium. Places no dignified member of society was supposed to visit, yet found themselves called to all the same. Etienne had won the book, gambling of course. His travels with his Sire had immediately told him that such a thing was valuable; more valuable than the fop possessing it had realized. The book, if one could call such a collection of esoteric lore such a thing, was actually one piece of a large puzzle. It was the first part of a collection of five books known in certain circles as the Lesser Key of Solomon. This particular book housed the names of the seventy two demons that King Solomon was said to have bound to his will and trapped away so they could no longer plague humanity. A staunch Catholic and Kindred both, Etienne looked at things of this nature with a mixed sort of outlook. Demons existed, so said the Word, but truly what demons were worse than those with wicked fangs and hungry eyes that masqueraded as men?

His thoughts took him all the way to Wayland’s bookstore. Wayland, Etienne knew, was a Mage. They’d been briefly acquainted the last time he had come to the city, and if anyone would be interested in such a thing who wasn’t neck deep in some occult society, it would he Wayland. He stopped outside to extinguish his pipe; only the uncouth smoked in such a place and Etienne Saint-Francis was anything but. That was of course when he noticed the creatures in the shape of men loitering by entrance into the store. He grinned at them, wide and knowing. “Now, whom do you belong to, I wonder?” He holds up a hand to forestall any attempt to answer his question. “No, no, I want to find out for myself. I like surprises.”

He pushed open the door to the jangle of the bell and stepped inside before he could be stopped smiling winsomely, his Presence enshrouding him like velvet armour. “Bonne Soirée!” He called out jauntily, affecting the Norman accent he’d learned decades ago as part of his newest identity. He’d realize then that the bookshop was not empty as he had thought it might be- that two very different sorts of women were in here. One very much alive, and one very much not. What was worse, was he happened to run into a rather powerful Elder. Relia, was her name if Etienne was remembering correctly. A Tzmisce power in these parts that had somehow carved out a niche for herself. He maintains his bold as polished brass aura as he doffs his hat to reveal a head of thick, wavy, dark blonde hair. He smiled at the Elder as he pressed his hat to his chest and bowed politely. “A thousand pardons, Lady.” He would say in the musical tones of northern France. “I did not realize that was your entourage outside.”

Wayland - A Busy Evening
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland's Bookstore

The door chimes ring once again, with the familiar clink and clank of supernatural presence. A different type of sound echoes in Wayland's ear, one that only he could hear, as disembodied phantom touches faintly pass by. Ghostly laughter, sourceless yet a sign of supernatural phenomena, graces his ears for a moment before the newly arrived Ventrue's charismatic aura unfurls like a warm wave. Wayland's right eye twitches under the mask just for a moment. Another new customer, and it seems that it is another one of those busy nights.

"Good evening, Mister Saint-Francis. What would be your business tonight?" His gruff and ruined voice speaks from under the mask, as stable and as deep as the earth. The man before him is a recent patron, only appearing and coming here during the span of the past three weeks. He seems to be a model Ventrue, from what Wayland could discern from his actions, all prim and proper and proud. "...I see that you are acquaintances with Miss Goegean." He slighty turns towards the Elder Tzimisce, whose attention has been piqued by the nervous young woman who was his first customer of the night. The ring of magic happens once more, this time a sharp and resounding bell within his mind, as Relia works her powers upon Sigrid in order to calm her poor nerves.

"As usual, friends, you may speak and converse with others in the bookstore and pick your own corner to read at, but please do not invite trouble." Wayland speaks as a matter of fact, speaking to remind both familiar and unfamiliar parties in the establishment. It is better to curb any embers of hostility in his property. It is only a matter of time for opposing parties to meet each other in the same place, and some places are not locales for violence. His bookstore is one such location. It is also an introduction for the new patron of the store, Miss Kappel. As long as customers keep their manners to themselves, they are to be welcomed for business.

"Now, Mister Saint Francis..." The Mage turns back to the Ventrue, his body language denoting distance and business. "How may I help you?"

[Kaledoria]

Harry Bryan - Busy Saturday
September 29th, 1888
The Admiral's Arms pub

The sun set and the second shift in Harry's bar started. He came in and took over for his bar keeper Ethan, one of his Ghouls, one of the few humans who knew, the host of the bar was actually a vampire.
"Afternoon has been going good so far, boss," Ethan reported, "There's been some delays in the docks and we had a few extra sailors here earlier. And an hour ago, Connor came in with a big entourage. He's gonna marry tomorrow." The Ghoul pointed to one of the regulars and the two of them approached him and the people he was celebrating with.
"Connor!" Harry shouted as the Guest noticed him, "What you saying? Marriage? I had totally missed you and Maggie were engaged!" The guests were well supplied with ale already and the guest of honor raised his glass to the patron, greeted him enthusiastically and brought him up to date on the developments between his fiancé and himself.

"Well, Ethan," Harry addressed his Bar Keeper again, "have we already celebrated with Connor?" Another guest, best friend to the Bachelor and another regular nudged Ethan casually with the elbow and he answered something like "Oh, I can't remember, maybe we forgot!" A little wink made it clear Ethan had already celebrated with them but the large group of friends he had brought along justified another one on the house and Harry announced to the bar that everyone's next glass was on him.
The bar full full to bust and the night was long. With most folks not having to work on Sunday, Saturdays night was always the busiest of the week.


After midnight
September 30th

If one saw him, the tall, dark haired, lively bar patron, one would not have expected him to be an Undead monster. He drank with his customers and staff, they had a good time. One did not noticed, the alcohol was not affecting him, he played his role well. One did not noticed, that despite appearing totally caught in the moment, Harry's defensive awareness was always looking out for troublemakers.

A new face entered. A haunted fellow, who pushed through to the bar and sad down converse to Harry. "You Harry? I'm really thirsty, I need something special." Where other's might have seen an opioid addict on withdrawal, Harry recognized one of his kindred. His stern gaze into the eyes of the other vampire was no magic, yet he made two things clear without saying a word: 1. "Shut up, the humans around here have no idea and I like it this way." 2. "I'm no blood bank but I guess it's better you came here then jumping some hobo under the next street light."

Harry filled two glasses with ale and gave one to the newcomer before guiding him to a door in the back. The vampire certainly detested sipping on his drink but managed to keep a straight face. They moved into a back room. It was more cozy here, with fewer people. "Still not there," Harry whispered. in this room, he had a few more exquisite customers, who enjoyed finer tastes and entertainment. Sometimes there were drugs and gambling going on here but currently the only indication of illegal activity was, that the Rum and Cigars Harry offered here were so cheap, it was clear that he probably did not pay all the tariffs for them in full.

They went through another door and a curtain. It as the closest, the bar had to offer in terms of being a "Vampire's den". Three vampires were present and one, a Malkavian, had a human guest with him. He was over a century a vampire now with no violations of the Masquerade, so Harry trusted the Vampire, that his human would keep her mouth shut. When he saw the Newcomer, he said to his human acquaintance: "Oh my darling, look at this poor little whelp, I think he needs your special care." She stood up and walked to the "whelp", padded him on the head "Are you hungry, little cold one? Worry not. Please knee down." The Vampire looked around, enraged but the looks of his elders made him grudgingly accept and he went on his knees, while the young women in front of him uncuffed her left sleeve before offering her arm to him. As he drank, the Malkavian came up to them and carcassed his partner. "Darling, you look so beautiful, when you do that." And to the vampire feeding on her: "And you, I hope you realize how lucky you are. And now," - suddenly his tone flipped from friendly and soft-spoken to hard and commanding - "Stop!" The young vampire followed the command without hesitation.

As they could finally have a conversation, Harry learned, that the young Vampire was named Lawrence and come from Portsmouth. It was only about a month old since his embrace. His Sire, apparently also a Vampire of rather young age seemed to have problems of her own and had to hastily flee England, leaving everything, even her Childe behind. As a last act she had told him about Harry who apparently had some reputation of being fair and reasonable.

It knocked. Not at the door through which they had entered, nor the high ceiling window, that doubled as a private entry, but from a trap door in the corner. The vampire next to it checked and then came to Harry. "A Nosferatu."

Harry opened the trap door and met the Nosferatu in a small cellar with access to the sewers. They did not usually come visiting out of courtesy. "I bring news and they are too important to barter for them, so I will just give them to you for free, yo?" the Nosferatu said. "It happened again, just an hour ago, not far away from here in Berner Street. The Leather Apron killer. And more importantly, the victim was on the no-touch list."
The no-touch list was a collection of just over a hundred humans, London residence, that Harry and a few other semi-influential Vampires had collected, that it was recommended not to feed on, embrace nor kill. While the vampire community at large did not feel bound to it, most people on there were on there for reasons older, experienced vampires obeyed anyway and so it was a useful guide for younger ones new to London. The Nosferatu even had a written out version of the list with him and pointed Liz name to Harry. She was number 93, fairly towards the bottom. "Can you find out, who of the others has put her on there?" Harry asked, "I don't recognize the name as any notorious witch or hunter, nor is she the Ghoul or familiar of any kindred I recon." Harry thought about it and speculated, that she was probably kin to some Feyfolk - Changelings - or possibly one of the Garou. Harry knew about these people but did not know any names. As long as they left him in peace he had no urge to mess with them, either.

"I have a young neonate up there. Barely past fledgling, abandoned by his Sire," Harry said. The Nosferatu reassured him: "I know, friend of mine saw him coming through Wandsworth shortly after dusk. Don't worry, he has nothing to do with..." - "I know," Harry interrupted, "but it makes the tense situation even worth. He can barely control his hunger and is not properly trained in the finer aspects of feeding. And with the Murder on the loose, the Humans are nervous. Barely anyone walk alone at night anymore. People stay in the light and watch each other. Maybe it would be better to just kill - or at least entomb Lawrence up there until the situation is less tense. But that's not my style." The Nosferatu shrugged: "See it as a test run for your own Childe, after all you want to be called an Elder in a few years then would be a good time if you embraced someone, too." Harry nodded. The other one did not know about Hueyu and Harry preferred it that way.
The Nosferatu continued: "And there is even more reason we should be concerned. Now rumor has it, that the murderer could be supernatural himself. I find this absurd. The victim was not ripped to shreds, nor drained of blood and certainly not turned into a cloud of blood. It was just ambushed and killed in a quick and efficient way and apparently for no reason at all. The only monster I know that acts like that is humans. Anyway, the detective on the case is called Cormac Dunne. You might as well start by trying to find out what he knows."

Harry thanked the Information Broker. Afterwards he had another short talk with Lawrence and then went to the police station to find this Cormac Dunne but the Detective Sergeant was not in. "Obviously, at that time," Harry thought (dawn was drawing near) and decided to try again the next evening.

[Morrdh]

Dunne
September 30th, 1888, Morning
Whitechapel, East London

Dawn had broken and the sun was creeping up into a sky stained by the rising columns of coal smoke, emanating from a hundred score or more chimneys. Here and there church bells were ringing out to call the faithful to morning sermons on the Lord's Day, there were many in their Sunday Best thronging through the streets as the sought the Lord's blessings against the evils that were afoot in the world. Slouching against a wall and smoking a cigarette, Dunne watched them as they passed by him. Hailing from a family of Irish Catholics he should've been attending mass, though that was something he'd lost interest in doing ever since his time spent in the Army out in Africa where he'd come to question matters of faith. He might've been respected by the churchgoers as an officer of the law and upholder of the Queen's peace, though they'd call him heathen if they caught the merest whiff of the truth.

He wasn't left for long with his thoughts before he heard Oisin's voice in his ear. "Had a sniff round that yard where....where they found Liz."

"And?" Asked Dunne quietly as he took a puff from his cigarette, nodding a greeting at a passing middle aged woman who'd shot him a look of disgust.

"Wyrm taint." Oisin replied with noticeable distaste in his voice. "Faint, but by Gaia I'd recognise that foul stench anywhere."

"I see." Dunne frowned. "That raises more questions than it answers, what ye reckon it might've been?"

"Could've been a fomori, but I doubt it." Answered Oisin. "One o' 'em cursed leeches is more likely."

"I'm inclined ta agree." Sighed Dunne. "Worse than lice they were, the cancer rotting the heart of old London town. Michael's going to go on the war path if he gets wind of it."

"I'll do me best ta make sure he doesn't, but we're still no closer ta find out who or wot is behind it."

"I know, tis why I've gots another job for ya." Dunne stated.

"Oh?"

"Aye, want ya to check out the other murder sites and see whether ye pick up the same taint." Said Dunne as he passed over a piece of folded paper.

"Didn't the first one happen months ago?" Oisin asked. "I'd be lucky if I got more than soot and smoke."

"Just do ya best mate." Dunne responded, stubbing out his cigarette and making to leave. "Get word ta me if ye find anything."

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

Vasily, was his name. Or at least it was what she was going by. At least she now new something about him. He was correct about him not being a gentleman, but if uncomfortable smells alone detered her, she wouldn't have either or skills or her line of work. She made her way closer next to to better hear him without either of them needing to to be overheard.

"Oh, accuse you? Ha, no. Certainly not. If you're wonder why I've been giving you a good luck, I was just making sure to size you up. Just a habit of mine. Never know who you might need to defend yourself from. I know by now that you're no threat." Alexandra spoke quietly, then stopped to smirk.

"As for the question, well, I was was just wondering if you might know something, if you heard shouting beforehand. I suppose not. In regardes to no being in mood for this, well, you're still here, aren't you? Unless you mean you're not in the mood for being questioned, in which case, word of advice, don't send anything my way that you're not willing to take back at least twofold." Alexandra fiddled with her gloved hands while she spoke.

"Also, yes I'm certainly aware of more than of humans. London's got a problem with pests, as you might be aware. I've done my part to try and get them under control by culling a fair number. As for connections, none that I know for sure, but I have a hunch. We're certainly not dealing with a typical murderer here." She said, now herself at a whisper.

"If only we had more go off than, well, a dead body in the street."

Vasily - Hunting the Hunter
September 30th, 1888
At the crime scene

Likewise, Vasily drew closer to Alexandra, in order that others might not hear their conversation. Wayland had warned him enough not to break the Masquerade, especially given that they knew so few Magical people or Kindred in London. Any overhearing ears might put a mark on the Mage or the Hunter for speaking too loudly about the unspeakable.

“Well, on a good day, I’m a little more than a sorry sod in his pajamas with a rifle under his coat,” he explained with a chuckle, “but I appreciate the once-over. Every now and then I need to be reminded that I’m roughly a college student with some semblance of dignity tattered underneath some textbooks about plants and a few trays of old cigarettes. As for what I might have known about this woman…”

Vasily shook his head. “Again, I only heard a scream or two, and I couldn’t even tell if it had been a real scream. It turns out I had been wrong, and I should have hurried over here as soon as my feet could fly out the bed. Alas, my raging headache from a recent alcohol bender won.” He sighed, and looked over at the police talking above the cold, blanketed body.

“You know…the coppers probably aren’t too keen on it, but I wonder if they’ve started to look into any…supernatural reasons behind these murders. After all, this ‘Jack’ sounds too good to just be a normal human being. And he likes the same sorts of figures over and over. Prostitutes and other vulnerable young women. Sounds like he has a grudge against prostitutes, or he’s definitely not a normal being.” He figured such coded talk might be safe. After all, they both knew that the other had something to do with the Masquerade. They might as well keep their options open.

“Someone with the ability to make a murder weapon disappear, maybe?”

One thing going for Alexandra in all of this was that being a prolific killer herself, it was a lot easier for her to get in to the mindset of a murderer than it would be for a normal person

"Or, someone that just disappeared with the murder weapon." Alexandra responded to Vasily's last question. It wasn't as though she made a habit of leaving behind her weapons when she killed a vampire.

"As for the targets all being young women, alone by themselves at night, we tend to be easy targets. Weaker, less well connected. Not me, though, obviously." Alexandra continued.

"They might pick them as targets for other reasons, but it could just as easily be focusing on the vulnerable to make it easier for themselves. Which would suggest a more general motivation, like, say, feeding." Alexandra said, very quietly.

"I doubt the cops are thinking supernatural. They're probably focused on more mundane explanations and I don't blame them. That isn't their job."

[Oblivion2]

Etienne Saint-Francis - Perception is Everything
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland’s Bookstore, London

Etienne was about to answer the Elder’s question when he saw her turn on a heel and enact a measure of her will upon the poor Kine sitting down in the corner. Such a thing was perhaps a little in poor taste, here of all places, but one didn’t say as much to an Elder nearly three centuries your senior. No, rather than display this upon his wide, friendly features, Etienne doubled down and continued playing the part of the charming fop. Perception was everything in this world- and many Kindred seemed to mistake what seemed to be for what was; odd given that they lived behind a layer of seeming rather than being themselves.

“My night fares passing well, My Lady.” Etienne said, bobbing his head graciously. For one’s betters to ask after your health or happenings was considered a compliment in most social circles. “Truthfully it has more or less only just started, however I shall consider it a continuation of a rather interesting run of events from last night.” He held up the Ars Goetia for the Elder, and Wayland to see.

“I found myself in a rather… disreputable den of inequity last eve. Naturally I could not leave without partaking in a few rounds of cards.” He grins at his admission. “I had the good fortune of busting several of the young gentlemen there. One such man decided to put this particular piece of rather esoteric lore up to get his money back. I thought to myself ‘Now why would such a lovely young man as Lord Deville have himself a book regarding the summoning of demons?’ Rather than judge his character or associations thusly, I decided to trounce him and teach him a lesson on the mortal sin of greed. Hopefully he shall find his life enriched without such a tome as this in his possession.” He sighed a little wistfully, “A shame not all our nights can be so amusing, no? Ah, c’est la vie. This vile tome brings me here anyhow.”

He turns to cover so Wayland can inspect the title before setting it down upon the counter. “Please, my handsome bemasked friend, have a look at my goods and make me an offer. Bear in mind, it appears to either be a first or second edition to mine eyes.” He rolls said eyes, “Why the little Lordling was carrying a piece of sixteenth century lore in his pocket, I do not wish to know.”

He turns and looks apologetic at the Lady Relia, “Forgive me, I never asked if you were finished your business with Wayland here. I would hate to have cut in front of you and your…” There is a bright but questioning look thrown over his shoulder at Sigrid, “Servant?” He’s uncertain as to their relation, but ultimately seems to be showing a measure of respect to both women.

[Ormata]

Relia Gogean & Company
September 30th, 1888
Wayland’s Bookstore

She listened carefully to the shopkeep’s warning. Please do not invite trouble indeed; was it Relia’s choice, there would be no trouble at all. She somehow doubted the little thing with a burning soul could make such trouble if it intended to, especially now that she had laid upon it something of a becalming to such angry thoughts. Once the kine had made such warnings, she nodded simply, easily, and in some minor way slowly. The bookstore was his establishment, true, and she was his customer yet…it was never a good thing to allow the kine too much rope.

Then the Ventrue spoke. He seemed gracious. He seemed pleased at her query. How many masks did the younger wear was the smaller question of many as he began to embark upon a story. Relia’s eyes watched Etienne as he held up a tome. Compulsion wracked at her to stare at it; Ars Goetia, gilded upon black, was one of a series which comprised the Lesser Key of Solomon. She had read about it, references to the thing, and what she had seen was interesting in some ways, troubling in others. Such knowledge, in the hands of mortal kine, could be benegin as such attempted to guard it…or could be thrice deadly in the wrong hands. At least, that was the suspicion she made. How much of the work was truly useful was never a good thing to determine from third party sources.

She forced her eyes to keep upon his face. Nothing at a distance could truly tell if the book was true, yet a younger such as Etienne attempting deception would likely prove deadly. Besides that, she had a smaller suspicion that, should he make a false sale, he did not intend on fighting those outside the door. A name, though. Lord Deville. Relia filed that in the back of her mind on things which required a looking into. Perhaps the man could be made useful, fool though he was in gambling with such a book. He doubtless had other treasures which might be lifted, for he did not know what their true worth was.

Lo, weep for mortal kine whose blood was worth more than the work they made!

Have a look at my goods and make me an offer. Relia watched it be set down onto the counter, unconsciously shifting her ears open for any lies from the shopkeep as he made his evaluation. How he approached the work would, in part, determine its worth; after all, any bid he made would be the one she would be forced to move against. The kine might be fooled, yet in some ways Relia trusted his judgment. At least, she did trust his judgment in this matter. Then Etienne made a question. Servant? There was a puzzlement on what he meant, hidden away, before Relia realized his meaning.

“Oh, she’s not mine. Nor, I suspect, is she Mr Smith’s. I imagine he has better things for his servants to do than spend the night reading. But by all means, Etienne. Go on ahead.”

A step back from the counter, to the side. She wanted to see what the shopkeep thought of the work before him.