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

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - The Deville You Know
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Wayland’s Bookstore

The occult. Outside of the normal works of Mages who kept to themselves in the shadows, the occult was a near and dear interest to many nobles, wealthy men, and intellectuals of London. A dangerous pastime for those who did not entirely understand what knowledge their books contained. But Sigrid, who knew better, recognized that a man would not just openly produce a book such as his without good reason.

Ars Goetia. A key of Solomon. The young woman let loose a small shudder, as she realized that such a book was a powerful item, and one tied to demons. She had nothing to clutch in her hands, except for her book, and so she hid her nerves by clenching her book with one hand and her own chest with the other. After all, she also did not want for Relia to use that strange power on her once again.

But once again she received brief attention from the rather curious Mr. Saint-Francis. He had given her a small nod, and she had to wonder. His eyes had a glow that mimicked life, but that was not life. Nevertheless, she would not stare. Such a manner of behavior was already what had earned her Relia’s cold attention. She had a feeling that continuing to stare would somehow cause her more trouble.

“Oh no, sir. If I may, I am a servant of the house of Lord von Achthoven. I recognize that I am a ways from home, yes, but I arrived separately from the illustrious Lady Gogean. I simply came here for some time to myself. I hardly intended to cause any concern or strife.” She gave another curtsy, graceful and light, even though something told Sigrid that she did not need to curtsy every time she spoke to a man. Nevertheless, given his seeming stature over her, she felt the gesture was an appropriate sign of respect.

[Luminesa]

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."

Vasily - The Deville You Don’t
September 30th, 1888, After Midnight

“Bloody boring job, I’d say,” he murmured. He continued smoking, and now he tried to step closer to see the body. The police were gathered around too close, however, and they looked concerned. Something else was unusual about this murder, and Vasily could not quite determine what.

When he stepped back closer to Alex, he nodded. “Feeding is a possibility. Could be one, could be two, could be five. They would have to be younger, though. Elders aren’t quite as messy when it comes to…their food.” As much as he hated to use such a term, humans were food or cattle to most Kindred. Sometimes they were a little more, but such occasions were rare.

For a few moments of quiet, Vasily’s eyes flickered around the area, as though he was trying to find something or someone else who might know more about the murders. And yet he was looking up toward the air, rather than toward the ground. “…I’m sure you know London’s plenty haunted,” he murmured to Alex, “a little more haunted even than a thousand-year-old city needs to be. There’s too much unrest. It’s not good for the undead…or the living.”

He then gave a snicker to break into the air, and he looked back to her. He now had a plan, but he had to wait until people were not around. That dreaded Paradox that Wayland had warned him to avoid was just waiting for him to slip and to use Magic openly around the normal folks. “But they might know something, since the cops don’t. Might be good to step away from the mortals a bit, if we want to get some real answers. What do you think?”

[Finsternia]

Wayland - The Devil is in the Details
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland's Bookstore

The politics of the Kindred isn't something that Wayland pays attention to. They are simply among the many customers of his establishment, and the Mage is keen on keeping himself far away from the predations of high society. The bloodsuckers' game of chess is as messy as that of Mages, cutthroat and a terrible maze of lies and one upmanship. He would absolutely rather not entangle himself with plots and ploys when he has better matters to attend to.

Such better matters presents itself to him during Etienne's speech. Some old tome, leather bound and embellished by gilded words, appears in the Vampire's hands. Ars Goetia. The bold words say upon its cover, and such words immediately bristles the Mage's defenses. Those words may mean differently for others, even more so with the occultic inclined humans and true blue Mages. They may think that it is simply a tome of demonology, listing the names of the 72 demons bound by Solomon, but those words mean differently for Mages. The Goetia are real, and while they might not be demons they might as well be. Leaving such a tome in unAwakened hands, if it ever actually harbors traces of Magic and is indeed a Grimoire, is a grave mistake.

Wayland takes note of the insufferable noble from whom Etienne plucked the book out of, but such personage matters less than the thing before him. Investigating the rich sod comes after once he verifies the tome's arcane identity. The two Kindred notices him stare at the book for a bit too long, before raising it with one hand towards the ceiling light. "...Mister Saint-Francis, if you do not mind, I will be taking your book to the back. It would be dangerous to assess it here, and I'd rather not put my customers in trouble." The Mage speaks of the following words as if it's already been decided, and he takes a black silk from within his desk's drawers to wrap it in. He then brings out a simple handbell, and rings it. Oddly enough it doesn't make any sound as it does not have a ringer within it.

The doors to the back open as a pale young woman, dressed lavishly in a full dress sewed magnificently with all sorts of sequins and frills, comes out with an even expression upon her face. "...Olivia, entertain our guests here while I'm at the back." Wayland tucks the book under his arm and simply marches out, leaving behind the three store patrons with this daintly little assistant of his. She simply stands behind the desk, hands clasped over each other, as she smiles without any fear nor worry before the gathered assembly of characters. "Please wait for the Master to come back, guests. He won't take too long."

Wayland himself marches swiftly through his residence, down the hall and into the safety of his workshop. He snaps his fingers and lights begin to come to life at his disposal. He begins to take out crystals, chalk, and pieces of metal to begin the process of identification. A stone plate is placed upon his work table, and with chalk he draws lines and sigils upon it. Each sigil flares to life, emitting a low thrumming sound as each connection is made. Next the crystals and metals are placed in key directions and positions, and the diagram begins to glow evenly with inner divine fire. The warding spell circle is complete.

The Necromancer then unceremoniously dumps the book in the middle of the circle, and his Nimbus begins to flare and unfurl as he speaks a language undecipherable to the uninitiated. The shadows in the room begin to deepen and solidify, and the weight of gravity seems to drag itself down. Flashes of deep, dark red fire sparks in the cloak of acrid smoke that is now swirling around the Mage as the book lifts itself up from the stone slate's surface. Its pages begin to turn rapidly, each letter and word burning brightly with white light at each utterance of divine tongue. As quickly as it began, with a snap Wayland's finger, the book closes itself with a loud boom before falling upon the stone plate. The mystical phenomenon of the Mage's aura subsides, and the room comes to a standstill. The sealing circle is still intact, still glowing faintly of white fire from within the chalk lines.

"An entire book of rubbish... but I did not expect to find gold within the muck." Wayland picks up the book without any reservations now. Most of the contents of the book is indeed rubbish in the eyes of a Mage. At best it could be used as cross reference and inspiration, especially for Mages with an interest in the art of summoning. The real deal about the book is that it does indeed hide Awakened secrets within its pages. The introductory rites to the true Ars Goetia, the practice of summoning and binding the goetic demons of the mind. Etienne's words of this book being a first or second edition is indeed true, and works of great craft usually find themselves imbued with power by the Heavens on occassion. However, this tome seems to have been stealthily inscribed with spells by a Mage who is in the know about the practice of Ars Goetia. Perhaps looking into this Lord Deville might lead to something. "...It is not unusual for other Mages to start cults... Those guillible nobility are the prime targets for such practices..." He clicks his tongue before setting it back on his desk, on the sealing circle. "I have new study material for this week. Charming."

Back in the bookstore the woman named Olivia simply stands behind the desk with a small smile upon her face, as if a guard in charge of keeping the peace in the establishment. She only perks up after a period of time to look at the back door. "...The Master is coming back, guests. Thank you for your patience." She bows as the door opens, revealing Wayland's imposing figure. He is still masked but the demonic book is no longer in his person. Olivia immediately leaves the room as Wayland finally returns. "Congratulations, Mister Saint-Francis. Your book is something of note to me. I shall be taking it into my custody." The Mage pulls a card from his suit, its surface a reflective bronze. There are no inscriptions upon it, at least at first glance.

"You may present this card to me in order to ask for an enchantment appropriately proportional to the value of the book you've given. You may also ask for a single instance of magical working, as long as it is within my means. I reserve the right to disagree if your favor is against my own values, and I would instead recommend you other methods in recompense." His voice doesn't carry any eloquence nor social grace, but rather a simple and blunt stream of information. He's simply conducting business.

[Oblivion2]

Etienne Saint-Francis - A glimpse of Janus
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland’s Shop, London

Etienne beamed at the woman in the chair as she explained who she was and where she had come from. “You are indeed a little ways from home, my dear.” He now turned fully to her and gave her an extravagant half bow, “I should think perhaps I ought to visit your master and his hall, should he keep so fine a company as yours.” His smile turns perhaps a touch teasing, and his eyes are bold as they scan the woman’s face. “Consider me delighted to meet you, for I am Etienne Saint-Francis.”

He decided then to let the poor Kine woman off the hook- she must be absolutely overwhelmed with what she was seeing happen. Regardless of whether she knew what he and Relia and Wayland were, there was only so much personality a room could contain and this one seemed like it was filled to bursting. Upon Wayland’s request to see the book in more detail, Etienne would wave that away with casual grace. “By all means, the last thing I think any of us needs is a visit from Paimon, eh?” His jocular tone would make it difficult to tell if he was being serious or not, though his eyes would dance with delighted amusement. Wayland made his retreat only to be replaced by his assistant, a woman Etienne did not know from his last visit here to the Mage’s shop. He makes a show of walking about the store, perusing the books and titles. Occasionally he drags his finger lightly down the spine of a book and makes an interested noise, but otherwise he takes nothing from the shelves. Best not to overwork the staff.

Upon Wayland’s return, Etienne would lean casually upon the counter and hear what the man had to say. He takes the offered card and inspects it with a knowing eye, all the while the temperature in the room seemed to chill several degrees. “Wayland.” The Ventrue would say in a flat tone, the music in his voice having died. He looks up then, his face ranged into a stern, patrician set; whether this was the man beneath the cracked mask, or another mask entirely wasn’t clear. “Let me make one thing entirely clear for you; I am only accepting your taking my book into your custody,” He puts emphasis on the word, “Because I know what your services are worth. However… Should you wish to continue to engage me on business in the future, you will not take such a thing again in this manner. I present you a good or service, you make me a fair offer, vis à vis we agreed on something like gentlemen and have an accord. I do not care for having my hand forced in such a manner. I consider this issue resolved at the present, but I will not see it happen again, elsewise you may find a disturbing number of tomes and artifacts and other such trinkets end up in the hands of your competitors.”

The cold around the Ventrue begins to lift as he sets the card into an inner breast pocket of his jacket. “I do thank you kindly for your business.” He’d say in his more casual tones, the music of northern france again back in his speech. “Rest assured I shall not abuse your favour or have you do anything you would find unpalatable.” The Venture turns on his heel and doffs his hat once more for Relia. “My lady.” He says with a bow. He turns to Sigrid and repeats the process, “Sweet Sigrid.” His smile flashes once more, “I bid thee all adieu and a pleasant evening.”

The Ventrue would then make for the door, his step as light and jaunty as though he hasn’t felt disrespected by the Mage behind the counter in the slightest, his motions easy and proud as a cats.

[Finsternia]

Wayland - Immovable Iron
September 30th, 1888 - Evening
Wayland's Bookstore

In the face of a souring business deal, Wayland simply stands his ground as the Ventrue's pride becomes tarnished by perceived offense. In the face of a budding monarch's angered majesty, the Mage stands tall like an iron wall that is simply enduring the battering waves. The Kindred are an emotional bunch, as far as he knows his many customers, but his eyes see that despite the unwavering pride within this man named Etienne he still conducts himself properly in the very end. He is simply the type to dislike losing and be on a seemingly disadvantaged position.

The Mage looms slowly over towards him without giving ground, and he speaks evenly. "...You may see this as a slight, Mister Saint-Francis, but I assure you that you'd rather want to rid of yourself any such items of lore. Just like you and your fellow Kindred, we do not take likely when our tomes could be misused and be in the hands of others unlike us. It is your own choice if you will visit other inspectors of occultic books, but I offer proper compensation for every trade and loss. You are not losing anything when you are trading away a dangerous book for a tool that could be useful for your endeavors. I assure you, Mister Saint-Francis, that most other Mages would rather take you to study than respect your individual self. Consider my words well, good customer."

Wayland leans back and he simply crosses his hands behind his back as he watches Etienne's expedient exit. "...Fair winds and have a good evening. Thank you for your patronage." The door closes behind the vampire and the bells above chime softly, as if bidding him goodbye as well. After a brief pause, the Mage slowly sits back down on his chair as if nothing has happened.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Wayland’s Bookstore

Tension continued to sit over the air as Wayland disappeared to perform some sort of Magic. Sigrid could feel the friction between the three figures in the room. Even when Wayland’s servant, a pretty young woman in a frilly dress, came to keep their patience, Sigrid could feel that the circumstances still hung on a thread of politeness.

Luckily, Etienne seemed to know how to keep the peace for a few moments, though at her own expense. He turned to address her, giving her his first name, a pleasant smile, and a bow. He had a way of conducting himself that was part-business and part-play which almost put her at ease for a few moments. For a second or two, she managed a bright blush and a little smile at his flattery, and she quickly turned her eyes away. Something in her heart told her not to look too deeply, as she might find the source of what frightened her.

But that peace did not last long. Wayland returned with the news that he was keeping the book, which had turned-out to be special. Perhaps not what Etienne had believed it to be, but still worth the interest of the Mage keeping the store. His answer changed the atmosphere, and Mr. Saint-Francis suddenly dropped his playful mask. Business was business, and she saw darkness encapsulate his eyes. The Kindred did not like when they felt slighted, whether the slighter be a man, Kindred, or Fae.

She found herself taking a step back, as if she did not know if a fight might break. If it did, she needed to be able to hide, or to defend herself from the carnage. But fortunately, the two men managed to keep that threadbare peace from breaking into claws and fangs. They made an agreement not to fight over the book, and Mr. Saint-Francis decided to just give his card and make his way out of the shop. He did not let his annoyance keep him from replacing the charm he had worn on his face moments before, and he bid farewell to Relia and Sigrid with a smile. The latter blushed once again at the affectionate term, and she gave part of a sigh as the dust seemed to settle once again.

Even with Relia nearby, Sigrid felt a little hope that she might soon be able to relax once she left. Her heart was pounding, and she did not know why. Unconsciously, she found herself sitting back in her chair, staring at Wayland as if he might have an explanation for what she had just seen and felt.

[Ormata]

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

Those next few moments came and went as a whirlwind. It had been a fleeting, stupid idea that Etienne would be willing to depart with the volume to anything other than the shopkeep. It had been a fleeting, stupid idea that Mr Smith would be willing to allow anyone else other than he to take possession of the volume. Etienne had said to make him an offer, Mr Smith had instead made simple demands and statements. It was a dulling thing, to be sure, a slight against the Ventrue which had angered him enough to leave in an annoyed coldness. The shopkeep, for his part, took it as an opportunity to be high and mighty in his ending statements before, rather laconically, thanking the younger for his patronage as he left. He’d bowed, true, and Relia had returned the bow with the slightest smile, but it was still a cold storming away.

Well. Better things had happened, true, but it was not the worst outcome. Relia could only imagine that such a work would present more difficulties than solutions, would garner some amount of attention should it ever be used, and she could also only imagine that, were it upon her bookshelf, it would be somewhat a waste. No, she’d have wanted to use it and, doubtless, such things were not within the scope of her knowledge as much as she wished it was so. They were corvids, through and through, jealous and greedy of whatever bits and pieces of information they found.

“I do believe you upset him, Mr Smith,” Relia sighed, watching the younger coldly storm out before checking a pocket watch. Nodding in some measure of satisfaction, she turned first to the shopkeep. Her tones were polite, excessively polite as could be. “Thank you for the restorations, in any event, as well as the show. I hope you do not intend on turning this bookstore into a theater, however. It is far too small for such actors. May the night be quiet…for you.”

Then the figure turned to Sigrid. She seemed to choose her words carefully, emphasizing a good many in her winding speech. “As for you darling child, Sigrid Kappel of the von Achthoven household, that is a name I will not soon forget. It is rare that I meet someone…interesting. Hopefully you do not fall from grace at the hint of a smile. That would be quite dull. I trust the night will be just as quiet to you. Good evening to you.”

With that, and the smallest bow, Relia turned and stalked out from the bookstore.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - Coming in Waves
September 30th, 1888, Evening
Wayland’s Bookstore

A pillar of darkness and prestige walked out of the building with Relia, and Sigrid could finally feel all of the weight lift off her chest. At last, she felt her body collapse under the weight of her nerves, and she lowered her head to take another deep breath. This time, she made a Sign of the Cross and closed her eyes. A silent prayer to pull her through the shaking sensation bubbling in her heart.

“Goodness. What strange company we keep…” She whispered to herself, and she straightened her hat and blouse. Anything to make herself feel less out-of-order.

Looking behind the countertop, she saw that Wayland seemed to act as though nothing had happened. But not only had he made an enemy, he had also discovered a common mortal trying to use dangerous Magic. Whoever this dangerous mortal might have been, she could only sigh.

“And men getting involved in evils they do not understand…It just seems so much like something that could be avoided…”

But when she tried to turn back to her book now, she found that yet again, she did not feel relief. The romantic dialogue of the book reminded her of how Etienne’s presence had reminded her of…something. She blinked, and stared at the page once, then twice. Her heart was still pounding, a little afraid of feeling emotions so cutting and indescribable.

And yet tonight was not the first time she had come to a blank in her mind when experiencing such feelings.

The one pain that she could recognize in her condition, the one pain which frustrated her the most, was the way she could not source her reasons for enjoying romance, flirting, the sweet things which highlighted the experiences of most young women at some point or another. Most women simply seemed comfortable with themselves when they were in such situations. As much as British psychologists and “experts” liked to suggest that women were plain, mindless, sexless creatures, she had heard enough of the servants’ gossip, and of Lady Tabitha’s plans for her debutante appearance, to know such was not the case.

Yet when she came to such situations herself, she found herself walking toward a darkness. An empty hole in her heart, which at some point was full and whole. A shadow of a memory, of something which had taken that feeling from her and would not give it back.

But she was almost too tired now to figure why such sensations felt so close, and yet so alien to her. She closed the book, and looked out the window. “I might need to go back home. Though…I am a little worried now about going back out.” Sigrid watched out the window for the possibility that Relia’s shadow was still in the street somewhere. She was more afraid of meeting her in the darkness than any Ripper of sorts. “Ah, the consequences of my actions…but I must brace them, for otherwise I shall find myself punished…”

Turning back to Wayland, she could see something about his appearance had changed. With his mask, he had looked firm, powerful, and unafraid. Yet now in the dark stillness, he seemed to fade just a little. No doubt the interactions with the two Kindred had been an exhausting experience for him as well. She walked over to the countertop, picking another book in passing as she presented more money. A small comfort, one more sale of a book about birds for her Tabitha.

“Thank you kindly, sir, for your care. I know this evening has been eventful for both of us. I wish you a pleasant evening…”

She lingered in front of him for just a moment as she pulled her money from her bag. Someone who did not make her feel nervous or out-of-place. Then again, he was the bookkeeper, his job was to keep the peace. And yet she enjoyed that about this man she had just met this evening. “I’m sure I’ll be back. Lady Tabitha will no doubt be glad with her new gift.”

A brave, sweet curtsy, and she met his gaze for just a moment. She then turned to brave the darkness outdoors, knowing the Von Achthoven mansion was a half-hour away and she had a long way to walk.

Out in the darkness, light met a cold, starless night, and flickered away for the evening.

[Cybernetic Socialist Republics]

Xiomara Coy
30th September 1888,Early Morning
Dutfield Yard, the scene of the young woman's nurder

When Xiomara Coy reached the scene of Jack the Ripper's latest murder victim, she'd proceeded to delve into scene of the crime by using one of the gifts bestowed upon her by the messengers. In her minds eye, she'd see the people currently surrounding retreat from it as thought time itself was unfolding backwards. This little trick had alwys been a useful little power of hers and she had used it for this purpose before, but it was quite opposite to what she usually used it for. Here, she was trying to track down who the young woman's killer was, usually, she used it to track down those that she wanted to kill, a category that could include just about anyone, or thing, that could be classified as supernatural. They were all evil incarnate, all deserving of cleansing by death. Though for practical reasons she didn't just go about killing any supernatural she came across. To do that would of course put her in a counterproductive amount of danger. She couldn't send more soldiers of the antichrist to their grave if she was in one, after all.

How much of this was religious conviction and how much of it was an angry desire for revenge due to the loss of her voice years ago in her first supernatural encounter, varied from day to day. Right now, it was a bit more of the latter, as she happened catch sight of a tall black haired woman that had apperently approached the scene well after the rest of the crowd. a glimpse of her face confirmed her suspiscion. It was Alexandra, the dreadful coward that abandoned her in an alleyway the day Xiomara took a punch for her. They'd cross paths before, both of them being hunters, but Xiomara had never gotten a chance to charge her for the strike with interest. Perhaps tonight would be that night.

Xiomara was actually aquinted with this location. Dutfield Yard, home to regularly jewish frequented International Working Men's Educational Club. It was realtively popular, plenty of keep came and left the building througout the day, which made it a good place to discern any supernaturals among them. The sort of unholy beings that were willing to spend their time here was particularly enjoyable type to Xiomara to track and kill. On account of them being socialists, of course.

But now was not the time to go over memories, or, at least her memories, she had a murder to learn more about. So Xiomara kept on develing deeper into the past, the crowd fully receded now, all that lay there was the young woman's body. As the visions of the past played backwards, the next person she would see would be a man with a horse on a two-wheel cart, clearly he had hurried off the report the body to the police. the vision continued to roll backwards and she'd see a dark figure that had fled from the scene. Curiously, it seemed that another figure was there had, somehow, caused the figure to flee by putting his hand o the glass window of a nearby building, before disappearing into thin air. The dark figure had lunged at the woman and stabbed her the neck. Curiously, they had entered the yard together, though the woman was clearly in distress.

It was at that moment that her focus broke. Xiomara would need sometime to recover before attempting to delve again, so the woman would slink back into an adjacent alleyway, she'd make sure that Alexandra remained in her line of sight, however.

---

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."

Vasily - The Deville You Don’t
September 30th, 1888, After Midnight

“Bloody boring job, I’d say,” he murmured. He continued smoking, and now he tried to step closer to see the body. The police were gathered around too close, however, and they looked concerned. Something else was unusual about this murder, and Vasily could not quite determine what.

When he stepped back closer to Alex, he nodded. “Feeding is a possibility. Could be one, could be two, could be five. They would have to be younger, though. Elders aren’t quite as messy when it comes to…their food.” As much as he hated to use such a term, humans were food or cattle to most Kindred. Sometimes they were a little more, but such occasions were rare.

For a few moments of quiet, Vasily’s eyes flickered around the area, as though he was trying to find something or someone else who might know more about the murders. And yet he was looking up toward the air, rather than toward the ground. “…I’m sure you know London’s plenty haunted,” he murmured to Alex, “a little more haunted even than a thousand-year-old city needs to be. There’s too much unrest. It’s not good for the undead…or the living.”

He then gave a snicker to break into the air, and he looked back to her. He now had a plan, but he had to wait until people were not around. That dreaded Paradox that Wayland had warned him to avoid was just waiting for him to slip and to use Magic openly around the normal folks. “But they might know something, since the cops don’t. Might be good to step away from the mortals a bit, if we want to get some real answers. What do you think?”

Alexandra was well aware that if a vampire was the blame for this, it'd be young one, but when Vasily mentioned it himself she couldn't help but smirk. Another vampire to slay.

"Oh, London's plenty haunted. I try to do my part in making it less so. But you're right, there isn't much more to gain from sticking around here, might as well step away and let the gawkers gawk and the coppers cop." Alexandra said, though she wasn't quite sure where Vasily had in mind heading.

"And Vasily, I believe that's what you go by? My names is Alexandra, you may call me Alex, if you prefer." The german woman told Vasily, waiting for him to lead her.

[Luminesa]

Vasily - Who’s Haunting You?
September 30th, 1888, After Midnight
Alley, Near the Crime Scene, East London

“Alex. Nice name, I’d say, easy to remember. Certainly more English than mine, I’d suppose,” Vasily remarked with a snicker. He turned away from the crowd and toward an alleyway, but only after he got an inkling of a chill down his back. He did not know if his paranoia was flaring, but someone was watching them. He was sure of it.

“We might want to get a little further.” He walked her more toward the alleyway, across the street and to the right of the crowd. In this way, nobody would pry and see what he was trying to do.

“Now, before you get worried, or before you judge what I’m about to do…with any luck, it’ll help us to get an idea, before we go home and back to our beds. Because otherwise, that might as well be it. But you and I both know, I think, that murder is never just ‘it’.”

He then lit a cigarette, and as he looked ahead of himself, he reached toward something invisible in the air. Alex would not be able to see whatever he had grabbed, but she would smell the faint scent of blood. “Oi, tell me what you saw, huh?”

“Muuuuuurderrrrr…” A soft, whispy voice, almost too faint to make words, responded to him.

“Nice, yeah, we know, can you be more specific?”

“Violent…rip and tear…”

“…‘Rip and tear’?…Hmmm…” He looked over at Alex and murmured. “No wonder they covered the body then. Might be good to go ask questions about that once she’s in the morgue. If you caught what her name is, anyway. If you didn’t, might be good to go catch the copper and ask him.” He then looked back to the presence in front of him.

The presence seemed to pause, before it continued in a very shaky voice. “H-Hair…hair everywhere…so violent, so cruel…so quick…”

Vasily gave a nod. “Hmmm. Hair and blood and tears. Sounds like someone gave a fight, or someone was too quick to allow a fight. Did you catch the name of the murdered girl, by any chance?” When he got no response, he sighed. “Alright, you’re good to go then. Thanks anyway.” Once Alex would feel the chill vanish, the young man next to her-a Mage-would turn and nod.

“Don’t tell anybody about that, huh? You seem like you’re good at secrets. But it does seem like we’ve gotten a little more information. How we’d be able to tell that to a copper, and explain that this is almost definitely not a human’s work, is anyone’s guess.”

[Luminesa]

Co-Write with Oblivion2 and Lumi

Sigrid and Etienne - Keys to a Memory
September 30th, 1888, Night
En route to Von Achthoven Residence

The walk was clear at the very least. Most people at this hour were at home, getting ready for bed or in bed. Sigrid was sure that Tabitha was asleep. Yet if she herself was caught, she would be in dire straits. Gerrit had not known about her going out, but Myra had once caught her. And yet going out and finding books, or clothes at times, was one of the few ways Sigrid kept herself sane outside of tutoring Tabitha.

Otherwise, the lack of memories came to mind.

Most grown women did not just awaken as grown women. They had childhoods, teenage years that they remembered. But all she could remember was a hard place, and then a soft place. A couch, three years ago. That was how her life started. But that did not seem correct. Thinking about this too much, however, put her mind into a loop. All she could do was scrutinize the ground ahead of her, making sure she did not walk into someone’s back or find herself at the mercy of a robber.

There was the faint clop of boots on cobblestones in the dark damp of the London evening, perhaps two pairs of them even. The young woman would hear them behind her, a loose follow perhaps, or perhaps a couple just walking coincidentally behind her.

Sigrid blinked and stopped, wondering if someone was walking in time with her. She stared down at her books, and then she looked up at the streetlight. The sound was not that far behind her. She then turned and looked behind her, wondering if she was just hearing things.

“…Hello?”

The bootsteps are coming closer now, faster, as the evening fog rolls through the town. Chills run down Sigrid’s spine as they sound closer still, but more muffled thanks to the fog.

Nothing. She stared at the void, wondering if she had heard things. Sigrid shuddered, wondering what was in the shadows. That murder early in the morning seemed to come to mind at last, something she had not spent much time contemplating during the day.

She did not know if she was next.

Slowly, she took a step back and braced herself to run. Someone was walking in her direction, and once she got a good glimpse of them she needed to run.

“Woah, easy there mon chere.” A familiar musical voice said as Sigrid backed into a figure. The fog seems to shift a little from mysterious and dark to almost warmly comforting at the appearance of the man from the shop. The distant boots seem to go around them now rather than towards Sigrid. Should she turn, she would find the smiling face of Etienne Saint-Francis, tipping his hat to her in greeting.

“My apologies for startling you, Mademoiselle,” He began in those easy tones. “But it struck me as I left that the streets are hardly safe for a pretty young woman these nights, and that it would be most ungentlemanly of me not to offer to escort you home.” His smile broadens and he offers her his arm, “If you would care for me to accompany you, that is.”

Whirling around with a yelp, Sigrid’s eyes widened for just a moment, and then she exhaled. “…Mr. Saint-Francis? Ah…hello again, sir.” She stared at him, wondering if he had been following her. No, he seemed to appear from ahead of her. After all, he had left the shop before her. And yet his steps seemed to indicate that maybe he was expecting her after all. First she gazed at him, and then looked down at his arm. He was right, in that wandering the streets alone was quite dangerous. And she had a long way still to walk. She wondered whether or not someone might pull a weapon on her at this point, but if he did not attack her now, she did not see a reason for him to wait.

“…That would be quite kind of you, sir. Thank you.” She carefully took his arm, feeling it to be a little cold. Sigrid once again blinked with surprise, but then looked at Etienne with curiosity shimmering in her eyes. “The mansion is still quite a ways away. I don’t usually worry so much about it…but tonight feels a little more worrisome.”

“Murder on the loose.” He says with a shrug, looping his arm through the Kine’s and beginning to walk with easy, measured steps. “Perhaps murderers, even. It’s not an ideal time to be alone. For anyone, really.” He flashes the woman a faint smile, his presence suffusing the action. He wanted her calm and at ease, both to keep her from deciding she was better off on her own and so she might want to answer his questions.

“I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you like this- I know the optics of it could look rather poor.” He pats her arm before continuing, “At the bookstore, you seemed like you knew what was going on.” He doesn’t add more, knowing that if he was wrong, this would be a rather flagrant Masquerade violation. This was something a vampire on his own needed to avoid at all costs; no patron to protect him, no sire to speak on his behalf, no friends who could pull strings. But Etienne had a mind for opportunity, and he smelled it about this woman.

Sigrid paused before thinking of an answer. He had indeed waited for her, as if he had known that she would not spend much longer in the bookstore. Even so, he did not seem to threaten her. That aura of his returned, and she seemed to settle easily back into her normal feeling of quiet serenity. Hopefully, she would return home with him safely.

“I suppose to a degree, sir,” she began, her voice soft, as she knew that nobles did not like for such matters to float in the open air. “The book’s name sounded quite familiar. I…I do not dabble in such things myself, the Bible quite forbids them. But my Lord has spoken of such matters at parties…with men who believe themselves to be very important.” She shook her head. “They love to discuss secret books and such, the occult. Demons, angels, beings they do not so understand, but they would like to. I do not speak very much of such matters, and certainly not to the Master’s friends, but I hear plenty enough in my position.”

Etienne nods at that. So she knew about the occult but not strictly about what he was, or if she did she was simply doing a good job hiding it. Either way…

“Etienne will do just fine, save unless we ever should find ourselves in the sort of company that expects the vagaries of social custom to be followed.” He drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “It shall be our little secret.” He smiled a fuller smile that would appear honest and without subterfuge. “I should hope you don’t find me rude, but would you mind terribly if I asked about what sorts of things your master speaks of with his friends in specific? It may be that he is truly dabbling in something dangerous, or that he just wants to appear to be for his friend’s sake. You know how silly we menfolk can be, no?”

Secrets, the spoonful of sugar that every servant loved, and in this regard Sigrid was less of an exception than she had once thought. She smiled back, almost automatically, as a slight blush came to her face. “Very well, Etienne.” Yet she kept her grace, as Relia had suggested, and she continued to walk with him.

“Oh goodness. The names of demons, being able to talk with and speak with them. They go to their smoking room and they talk about such things, but sometimes they challenge him and he shows them such books outside of the study. I believe once he showed them a tome of some sort, a copy of The Magus was supposedly one such book. One of the servants saw it, and ah…I did not wish to believe her, but I did see that very same book once, as I was wandering the library.”

She shook her head. “Lady Myra hates that he discusses such things. But dangerous hobbies seem to be a part of being a man, for some individuals.”

“And Lady Myra is… his wife?” Etienne hedged his bets with a faint smile still upon his lips. Her mention of the Magus caught his attention but it was unwise to make a show of such things, particularly with such a woman as this.

“Do you think… Perhaps I could be welcome to visit the estate at some point? Your master sounds like a man I ought to meet. Perhaps you could put in a good word for me?”

“Yes, Lady Myra is the Master’s wife. She is a lovely woman…when she’s not angry at the servants.” Sigrid had to give a small sigh, a little hint at her confusion and conflict with the lady. Perhaps showing a stranger such was unwise, but her argument earlier today about Lady Tabitha’s education had worn on her. It was far from the first time now, and Tabitha was an adult, even if she had not had her debutante ball. By all means, Sigrid believed she should learn what she wanted to learn.

At Etienne’s suggestion of meeting Lord Gerrit, Sigrid turned and gave a little blush. “Oh, I…I imagine I can try. I…” She gulped, wondering how he might receive her next words. “I am not allowed to look directly at Lord von Achthoven, so approaching him would be difficult for me. Perhaps I can ask…one of the other ladies to pass a message.”

Indeed, she recognized why he might want to meet Lord Gerrit, but she did not quite see why he would want to talk with a girl like her when the man had friends and connections elsewhere. She was hardly anybody important herself, and most people avoided her when they could.

“Yes…I’m sure he would welcome you. He is highly outnumbered by the ladies of the house, and is always glad to have more men around.”

Etienne made a show of patting the young woman’s arm. “There’s a dear. I would greatly appreciate such a thing. I’ve been making waves in the social gatherings of the small nobility, but alas I fear I am beginning to outstrip such poor examples of the breed.” He flashed her that characteristically easy smile before going on, “And who knows, perhaps my influence may prove to do your master some good. If he is in the company of such men who like to dabble in things that ought not be dabbled in, well it strikes me that he could use a stabilizing factor in his life don’t you think?”

He allowed the conversation to idle for a moment before going on, his walk as elegant as easy as it had been when he left the bookstore, “Tell me a little bit about yourself Sigrid; I fear I’ve been rather too interested in the doings of your master to be polite to such a lovely lady as yourself.”


At first, Sigrid felt that he, indeed, was far more interested in Lord Gerrit. After all, the man did make himself to be important and interesting, especially if other men were around. But now he turned the question to her.

Such a simple question, and yet she struggled to think of a response. She remembered so little, but she would try.

“Well, I was not born in London…it took me quite some time to get used to the landmarks and the people, but I recall my first time being here, I was quite overwhelmed by the size. I’ve been the tutor to Lord Gerrit’s daughter for the last three years. She is preparing for her debutante ball next year, I believe, and I hope that my education will prepare her for her own future with a husband. But she wishes to study the sciences, which worries her mother to no end. I…I must say I find no issues with a woman being well-educated, I like to study quite a lot of history myself. I suppose…”

She paused as she looked down, watching her steps alongside his. “I suppose I know more of the history of London than…than I do of my own history. I believe I would tell you more, but frankly, there draws a blank when I try to think too far back. It’s quite strange.”

“Indeed?” Etienne said with a raised eyebrow, elegantly lifting his face into a questioning stare. “How curious. I wonder, did this affliction strike you shortly after you began your service in the Lord’s household?” He waved that thought away dismissively, “Nevermind, I am prying for no reason other than to sate my curiosity.” He suspected that was the case, but he hardly wanted to advertise his knowledge of the supernatural or his involvement in it.

“Well, if you cannot remember much about yourself, I suppose it falls on me to entertain us for the rest of your walk home, oui?” He favoured her with another winsome smile as he said this.

Sigrid could feel her face turn a little pinker, as she recognized that something was indeed very wrong with her statement. She could not remember three years ago. How strange. And yet the man’s voice was not judgmental, but rather a little puzzled. Even so, she had to take a moment to look at him again. When she had her composure, she tried to give the question back. “You are relatively new to London, if I understand? You are from France, then, if what I recall from the shop serves me rightly.”

“I’ve been to this city several times before this.” He glances around, making a theatrical show of looking to see if anyone is around. “If you promise to keep it, I’ll share a secret with you.”

She found herself looking along with him, wondering if anyone else was indeed watching. She then turned back to him and nodded. “Of course, sir. I hardly doubt anyone would ask me what I did or saw today, anyhow.”

“I am not actually from France.” He says with a secret smile, “I am a colonial. Only a handful of years ago the place I hail from was still called Lower Canada.”

A secret identity then. Something told Sigrid that he had more to his story than he had been willing to suggest in the shop. And she still had the smallest question in her stare. After all, he had interacted with a Mage, and with what she determined was possibly a vampire, and had not batted an eye.

Nevertheless, regardless of her questions, her eyes widened, and she nodded. “Oh! How interesting. No wonder-something about your accent seemed very French, but not quite the same French as some of Lord Gerrit’s friends.” She answered in the same sort of hush-hush voice, and nodded. “And so you have traveled back and forth between here and Canada then. That sounds like quite the arduous journey.”

“Indeed. And perhaps I shall tell you some of them sometime,” he says graciously, “But alas we seem to have arrived at your destination for the evening. For now you shall have to be content with the knowledge that you and I are now bound by our secrets- you know one of mine and I know one of yours. This makes us compatriots of a sort.” He unhooks his arm from hers and gives her a low sweeping bow, again smiling his most charming smile. “Sweet Sigrid, I hope you have found my company to your liking, for you may perhaps be burdened with it again in the near future.”

Sigrid had not even realized how much they had walked. Time had fluttered on a bird’s wing, and now she was standing with Etienne in front of the mansion. She gazed upward at the huge, majestic building, quite far from the bookstore now. She then looked back to her new companion, as she watched him give a deep bow. A giggle came to her lips, and she gave a deep, respectful curtsy. “I believe I did, sir. I don’t find very many people who are willing to accompany me to places. That was very kind of you. Thank you, Etienne.”

She did not often find herself in a playful mood, but he seemed to invite such a spark from her. She wondered why such feelings bubbled from her chest now, but then the thoughts of her lack of memories would resurface. So she decided instead to allow the moment to sparkle and shine, for she knew that the mansion interior would be much darker at this time of evening. “And I would be quite happy to see you again soon.”

“Until then my dear. Be safe, and keep those lovely eyes open, Mmm?” He bowed formally once more before making his leave, confident he’d planted a useful seed tonight with naught but courtesy and soft words.

Sigrid had only a small understanding of what possible machinations Etienne had planned for Lord Gerrit, or for anyone else in London. She watched his shadow stretch-out against the streetlights, as he turned his back and began to move into the night. The darkness seemed to fit him, and she was not sure why. And yet he had been so pleasant toward her, she wondered if she was taking such a thought for granted.

But she had little time to think on such matters outside. With much less grace and more worry, she began to hurry to the mansion, and made her way into a side entrance in a soft flurry of white and lavender.

A pretty dove hurrying back to her cage.

[Theyra]

Caelan Maher
30th September 1888, Night
Caelan's Apartment

"Boy, what a day," spoke a tired Irish-accented voice as he opened the door to his apartment. It may not be the best place to call home since the neighborhood he is in is not the best. But it was cheap and given how his income is doing odd jobs and occasionally stealing. It was the best option for him, and it is not like he is used to living in bad spots. Living on the streets does that to someone. So he is not one to complain about it.

So Caelan walked into his apartment and quickly closed and locked the door. Then heading straight to his bed, almost jumping on it, and went to lie down on it. Today had been a busy day for Caelan, and he was due for some rest. Especially after that hunt with a vampire he had today, and that one was pretty nasty. At least his victims can find rest knowing that their killer is dead and gone. Another vampire that has been dealt with, and now that he thinks about it. Caelan realizes that he has not dealt with a good or decent vampire so far in his hunts. All seem to be evil in some way, and maybe that is the nature with vampires. A race that feeds on humans and unlike the other supernaturals he has met. Others can or try to live their lives without hurting or killing a human with vampires. It is another story.

So as Caelan started to unwind, close his eyes, and unwind, did the thought come to him. The thought as to why he was in London in the first place, his sister, Ysbail. Did he open his eyes with a sigh, he sat halfway on his bed. That changeling better be right about Ysbail, he thought tensely. For if she is wrong, he will track her down and make her pay for deceiving him. He promised that to her, and the thought of betrayal started to boil his blood. The first real lead to where his sister is in years, and it better not be a lie.

After focusing on the thought for a bit, Caelan started to calm down. It is too early to think of that, and the changeling seemed okay. Friendly at least, and that better not be a disguise of their true nature. She did help him take down that renegade mage in Wales. Still, he has yet to start the search, and soon he will start. "Ysbail, where are you, and what happened all of those years ago," Caelan said in his native Irish. He will find her and see her again, an old promise he made years ago and maybe in this city. He can fulfill that promise and be with family again.

So after sitting on his bed for a moment, he got up to put his things away and forgot the newspaper he had on him. He did not bother to read it now and simply put it on a table. He knows what is on it, the murders that honestly could be a supernatural, and that fact made him conflicted. He is here in London to find his sister and hunt as a side job, but he is a hunter, and it is his job to hunt supernaturals. So him investigating the murders is his duty, but that will get in the way of finding his sister. Could he try to do both? He questioned himself and could not decide on an answer. So he simply sighed again and started to get ready for bed. Maybe he can find an answer in the morning and start from there.

Hopefully, the messengers will not say something in his sleep like that one time. Though it did surprise him when he realized that the vampire that he was looking for was staying in a room across from him at that hotel. That one was quite hard to deal with without alerting anyone that he was killing a vampire. Still, it was time for bed and Caelan after some time. He went to bed and fell asleep. Time to worry about hunting in the morning and his next move. Even hunters need rest, and it was now his.

[Luminesa]

Vasily - What’s In A Name
September 30th, 1888, Before Morning
Alleyway Near Crime Scene

Vasily had not considered himself an investigator in the traditional sense of the word. When he had realized his abilities as a Mage, he had believed himself to be more of a man who procures Magic-Magical plants, Magical books, Magical items, and so forth. But now he was essentially a detective, in all but title. If he had learned anything in his brief six years of being a Mage, he had learned that any sort of event which could mean the Masquerade was tampered was his business.

At least, any such event in London.

And now he had met a Huntress, one who had not attempted to kill him on-sight. Then again, he had not made himself to be so much a threat as he had made himself to be rather eccentric and talkative. Maybe too talkative. He had needed to do something beside lay in bed with a throbbing head. But now that he felt they had both gotten at least some information they had needed, he now needed to go think on what he had seen, and then go bother someone who might know more about death.

Specifically, a Moros.

But Alexandra did not need to know about any friends of Vasily’s whom he had not named or suggested. And so he gave a yawn, and stared up at the night sky. “Ah well, I think that’s going to be most of the sort of info we’re going to get from ghosts. At least, any that are not right by the crime scene. I’m gonna go on back to my apartment, but if you ever find the name of this thing, I have a florist’s shop down the street from my apartments. If nobody’s around and you’ve got an idea, just ask for black roses and I’ll know it’s you.”

He then tipped an imaginary hat to her, and turned to move out of the area. All the while, he kept his eyes about himself, shifting his gaze back and forth as he knew that the night was still young, and restless souls-Kindred or otherwise-could still be hungry.

September 30th, 1888
Morning, St. Peter’s Church
Bethnal Green, East London

Church bells rang, heavy and thoughtful, as five hours later Vasily’s throbbing hangover awoke him for Sunday service. He stared up at the ceiling, his body feeling somehow worse than it had when he had awoken to the reality of murder not too far from his apartment. But life continued, and Sunday service provided exactly the normalcy and security that people needed to feel in such frightening times.

“…The sermon better be worth it this morning, Pete…”

Vasily pulled yoinked himself out of his bed, groaning mightily behind his teeth as he found that he was, once again, awake. He found an unwrinkled grey suit in his closet, along with a hat and shoes that were still relatively clean. After splashing water on his face and making himself presentable, he grabbed the outfit and pulled it together before once again heading out the door.

His mother, a Russian immigrant, had faithfully gotten him baptized him as Orthodox when he was an infant. Yet as he had grown up in London, so he considered himself a Londoner, and began attending Anglican services as an adult. His mother and father had not been too pleased when he had explained his feelings to them, but they did come to one agreement. As long as he would attend Sunday services every week, his mother would be happy.

And so the young man entered the pretty, mahogany-brick church, dizzy from the church bells which had rung the city awake, and he had plopped himself right into a pew.

A concerned parishioner had turned his head toward him, hearing the sigh which had come from his throat, and leaned over to whisper. “…Someone got themselves a little soused last night, I see?”

“Oh bug off,” Vasily murmured, making the Sign of the Cross as he bent forward in the pew, “I thought I cleaned myself well enough.”

The man next to him chuckled. “Can still see it in your eyes, lad.”

“I’m sure the Virgin Mary sees it too, and just like my own mum she’s shaking her head.”

“Once a mum, always a mum.”

“Mhm. And my mum doesn’t ask how much I’ve had as long as I go to church…”

A Mage entering a church, in any case, seemed strange enough to Vasily. After he had Awakened six years ago, he had thought whether or not God would accept essentially a wizard. But in any case, he would at least come sit in the church, and complete his Sunday obligation. Today, he simply prayed that God would not allow him to faint on the sidewalk in pain after trying to walk home.

The service began, and all rose to sing as the opening procession commenced. The organ sounding to life did not help much with Vasily’s headache, but he tried to act normal and opened his hymnal to the proper page. His singing was more of a mumble than anything, but he gave his best shot.

All the while, he wondered how he would explain everything to Wayland when he went to visit him later today.

[Morrdh]

Ripper Street OST - What Use Our Work

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

It had been a long day of going over reports and snatching sleep where and when he could, though the mood amongst the police made even more sombre when news came from their City of London counterparts of another victim in the Square Mile just across from where it bordered Whitechapel. It matched the attack on Liz and the previous victims, though the killer had more time to ply their sadistic craft. Word had also come down from Scotland Yard, the Central News Agency had apparently received a letter a few days earlier from an individual who'd identified themselves as 'Jack the Ripper'. The letter had at first been deemed a hoax, but following the recent killings many in authority had come to reconsider that thought. Dubbed the "Dear Boss" letter from it's opening line, it was to be reproduced in newspapers and handbills in hopes that somebody recognised the handwriting.

Whether anything came of it remained to be seen.

Dunne, for his part, was sceptical over the effectiveness of the plan but the higher ups seemed to think it was worth a shot. For now he was going to pursue his own little private investigation, if Oisin was right about the smell of Wyrm taint and sensed it at the other murder sites then things would become even more interesting. Though he still had to think of a way of explaining it to his superiors should it lead to the killer, then again if the Garou pack dealt with it then Dunne imagine his superiors would probably take his word that the killer would trouble the streets of London and their collective sleep no more.

The night air was chilly and damp when he emerged out of the Leman Street police station, cold enough to make him pull his jacket tighter round him as he made his way through the gloomy, gas-lamp lit streets. A folded piece of paper had appeared on his desk and he bet a month's wages that he knew who it was from the moment he spotted it, and sure enough written was a time and street corner. There was no doubting that it was from Oisin, though whether he'd found anything was another matter entirely. Dunne surprised himself when he realised that he almost prayed that Oisin had something for him.

Whether it was a touch of paranoia or not, Dunne glanced back over his shoulder as he made his way under the railway bridge and turned onto Cable Street.

---

One Last Ravnosi Waltz
October 1st, 1888, Early Hours
Whitechapel, East London

It was past midnight and the last of the public houses were shutting up and evicting their drunken patrons onto the streets with all the noise and human derbies that it entailed. More than a few of London's Kindred population considered it easy pickings, their chosen prey usually too far gone with drink to even notice a vampire snacking upon them. One of those who partook in this was a Ravnos by the name of Cynthia Moretti, one of the Vagabond clan that posed as a streetwalker to lure in witless prey. Usually there was a man nearby who acted as her 'pimp', though in reality he was actually Cynthia's ghoul playing a role to lend credence to his mistress' cover and nocturnal activities.

Though tonight pickings were unusually slim, there was a sense of a fear that had soaked into the grimy and soot soaked streets. There was a supposed killer stalking the East End, the mortals had their own speculations over the killer's identify whilst the Kindred considered it to have been lycan in origin. But whatever it was, Cynthia was more than certain she could handle it.

After all, the Kindred had long been stalking mortals for countless centuries.

Something caught her attention, by a gaslamp stood a dark figure she'd swore hadn't been there a moment ago. Still, it appeared to a man who was staring in her direction and something drew her towards him. She jaunted over and only when she got into an arm's length of the man she realised she'd made a mistake for the man was no ordinary man. Time seemed to slow as she caught a glint of metal in the man's hand moments before a sickening crunch and an explosion of pain in her chest. For the first time since her embrace she felt an almost alien emotion that she hadn't felt since her mortal days.

Fear.

She did not have long to dwell on this as the darkness engulfed her.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - Word of Mouth
October 1st, 1888, Morning
Von Achthoven Residence, Kitchens

“Miss Sigrid, dear, I know you’ve got a very urgent request, I’m sure, but as you can tell, we are busy getting ready to prepare breakfast. I don’t quite know how you expect me to speak to the Lord of the House this early on a Monday morning!”

“It is quite important, and while I know now is a bad time, I would ask if you could when you get the chance?”

Melba Everly was an older servant, in her fifties and full of the dry wit which flowed like a good white wine. She was no-nonsense, a hen among chicks, especially when she was old enough to be the mother of most of the other servant-girls. Right now, she had flour-covered hands on her hips, and her small hazel eyes gave a scrutinizing look up at Sigrid.

“I would ask you, Miss Sigrid, why you cannot approach the Lord himself?” A younger servant, Clara, ran by carrying some plates in her arms.

“Don’t you remember, Clara? The Lord of the House got upset that one time when she did!” Kathy, a third servant, hurried by with a carton of eggs.

“No, you silly bird, she can’t look at him! Remember?” Lucy, the youngest of the servants at only 17 years of age, piped in as she chopped apples. As with many young girls, she was too honest at the wrong times, but at the very least she was one of the few servants who did not outright distrust Sigrid. “She has to duck her eyes when he walks in the room, Lady Myra said so!”

“Oh hush all of you! Such talk about the Lord of the House and Miss Sigrid is improper! Lucy, watch that knife or you will cut yourself!”

“Yes ma’am!”

Melba could tell that the talk had been embarrassing to the poor blushing tutor, who had just come along to send the word of a gentleman who had shown her unusual kindness. “Alright, Miss Sigrid. I’ll see if I can catch the ear of the Mistress later, and she’ll be the one to tell Lord Gerrit. Does this person have a name and an occupation?”

Sigrid gave a deep sigh. “Mr. Saint-Francis. He is a businessman of some sort, I believe.”

“Miss Sigrid!” Lucy now had cut the apples, and put her hands on her hips as she stared up at the taller woman. Her expression was one of earnest, curious surprise. “I did not know you had met a man! When was this?”

“Sigrid met a man?!” Kathy pulled her head from her work as she put a loaf of bread in the oven.

“Why yes, it sounds like she did!” The youngest servant whirled her head back around to Sigrid, who was now blushing even harder. “And when did you meet this man, Miss Sigrid? Huh? Did you meet him at church?”

“But Sigrid sits with us, was there a Mr. Saint-Francis at church with us?” Emma, another servant, pulled away from preparing a custard, which was now sitting and thickening away from the stove.

“Not that I saw!” Kathy answered.

“Is he handsome? That’s the question! Would a handsome man talk to her?” Ada, another servant, questioned with a slight edge to her voice. “And it sounds like he wants something with the Master, that’s quite strange isn’t it?”

A jolt of something formed a lump in Sigrid’s throat at the way she had worded the question. Would a handsome man talk to her?

“Ada!” Melba immediately snapped. “Get back to that pudding, if it burns you’ll be explaining to the Mistress! And that goes for the rest of you as well!”

The young girls fell back into line, and the eldest servant once more looked back to the woman before her. She could see that something had struck her, and in her quiet, innocent expression there was a stab of self-awareness.

“As I said, I’ll talk to the Mistress about it. But please…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do not bring your news of meeting ambitious young men to these girls. You know they will grab at any fantasies that will keep them from working.” When the meek woman nodded in understanding, Melba sighed. “Go and help Tabitha to get ready for breakfast, but please do not talk to her about such a matter before I tell the Lord of the House. Tabitha is not immune to her wasteful dreaming either.”

“Thank you, Melba. I’ll see to Lady Tabitha now, then.”

Sigrid gave a polite smile in return, and then turned to walk out of the area. Behind her, she could hear Lucy’s bossy voice chime again. “I MUST find more information about this man! A handsome man who spoke to Miss Sigrid!”

“And out in the open too? Goodness, how scandalous!”

“Girls!”

As she walked to Tabitha’s room, down a long hallway, Ada’s question stayed with her. Would he? He, or the man in the bookstore? The man in the bookstore had spoken to her, but his face was hidden behind scarves for some reason. Etienne had spoken to her, but he had wanted to speak to her Master. He wanted to learn about the Von Achthoven family, the same way most wealthy men wanted to ingratiate themselves with each other. And yet he had walked her home.

Maybe it really was just unusually kind courtesy. Maybe it wasn’t.

All she knew was that when she walked into Tabitha’s room to help to get her hair brushed and her clothes set, she could put away such thoughts and put herself to work. Her charge did not make such comments toward her, making her question what was so wrong about herself. But there was indeed something wrong.

“Good morning, Miss Sigrid!” Tabitha was sitting at her vanity, looking over one of her books as she saw the woman in her mirror.

“Good morning, Lady Tabitha. It’s time to prepare for breakfast, yes?”

“Indeed! But…you look a little sad, Miss Sigrid.” The girl frowned, as she could see that something had indeed preoccupied her. “Is there something the matter?”

“No. I just had an odd dream, I think.”

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. I have those too sometimes.”

An easy lie, an easy response. Sigrid felt horrid, but she wanted to honor Melba’s request. The only worries Tabitha needed were for her studies and for her etiquette lessons. The debutante ball was not too far away.

“You’ll help me prepare when they day comes, won’t you?”

Sigrid smiled, as she brushed Tabitha’s hair and began to braid it. Simple, repetitive movements, the peace of a normal morning. “Of course I will.”

Braiding a girl’s hair, braiding her arm with someone else’s arm. What a strange perfume that would not go away, that added a fog to her eyes as she worked effortlessly to help Tabitha into her petticoat and dress.

“Are you sure that you’re alright?”

Another smile. “Yes, my dear. I’m going to be alright.”

[Finsternia]

Those Who Speak With Death
Co-Written by Finsternia and Luminesa
September 30th, 1888, Afternoon
Wayland's Bookstore

Vasily had decided to take his time going to Wayland. Aside from needing to eat breakfast and to clean his apartment in the most marginal sense of "cleaning", he had also wanted to rest and to also visit his family. He had a feeling that the investigation which had caught his attention, and the attention of the Huntress, would be a slow burn. And so he would take his time, and try to keep at least somewhat holy the Sabbath day.

His parents, Polina and Rodion, lived in the same apartment they had for at least thirty years. Many apartments in London were more comfortable, and much larger, but they had lived here for so long that they felt they would not be able to move. Vasily found this factor both charming and also aggravating. His parents, as many older parents might be, were stuck in their ways, and he was sure they would die of consumption in that apartment. Nevertheless, he went to visit, still in a white dress-shirt and his Sunday pants and shoes.

"Vasily! You've come to visit, come in, come in!" His mother greeted him at the door, and hugged him quite tight. Even with his hangover, her son was not about to stop her from embracing him during his once-a-week visit.

"Where's Dad?"

"On a business trip. He got a big commission and he needed to hurry, all the way up to Galway!"

Vasily raised his brows. "Ireland?"

"The very one. But I'll let him know you were by later." Polina ran to the very crammed kitchen, and she came out with hot pierogis and tea. The beefy, steamy scent filled the living room, and Vasily could feel himself drooling. "How is your friend?"

The Mage raised a brow, though he also gladly swiped a pierogi and shoved it in his mouth. "Whfft fnnd?"

"Wayland! The young man who owns the bookstore! You told me about him once?"

"Oh, uh, I'm gonna go visit him later. Making the rounds and all."

His mother nodded. "He sounds like a lonely young man. It's good that you're friends with him. Lonely people need friends the most."

"I'm not just friends with him because he's lonely, we uh...we get along on a lot of topics." His eyes darted away from her as he grabbed another pierogi and tore into it. "We talk about a lot of stuff and he helps with my business."

"Good, good. You know, some days I miss home, but you know, they told us, 'London is the home of innovation! You'll find many good dreams there.' And so we did!" Polina beamed at her son, proud of how well he was eating his food. He was certainly glad for the pierogis-the fat and beef helped with his hangover. "And that's how we can afford beef on Sundays now!"

Her son could not help but give a wide smile. "You've come a long way, Mum."

"And so have you."

It was one of the easier days of the week. Not much Magic, not much drama, no work. He could spend his day recovering from the anxieties of the rest of the week. Yet he wanted to get over to Wayland as soon as possible. If anyone could help with a murder case, it would be him.

"Did you hear about those terrible murders last night?"

Vasily nodded. "Mhm. Went out of my apartment to see what was the problem. Thinking my friend might be able to help with figuring what went on."

"Oh really? How so?"

"Eh. He knows a lot about murder."

Polina looked a little worried, but she let her son keep eating and drinking. "...Well. You best be careful, you know that even if London is a city of innovation and learning, it's also becoming more and more dangerous."

"Bah, I'm not too worried about me. I can take care of myself. You don't go out at night shopping for food or clothes or what have you."

His mother trusted her son, not knowing of course that his apartment was a wreck and he had drunk up to his eyeballs last night. But her son was good at hiding those issues, and wanted his parents to continue being proud of him, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Well, when you go, be sure to walk along the lighted streets, and get to bed early tonight! And tell your friend I said hello."

"I will, Mum."

When Vasily left, he knew the way to Wayland's shop. He was there-he was always there, spending time tinkering with something or reading some sorts of ancient books that were important for some reason or another. The young Russian Mage was educated on some Magical scripts, but never as much as his Moros friend. Nevertheless, he felt the need to make his presence known, and so instead of knocking, he kicked the door open.

"WAYLAND YOU OLD SOD, ARE YOU UNDERGROUND YET OR WHAT?!"

The door to the bookstore swings loudly, and it almost hits the nearby table and chair, and the door chime rings as loud as the door's impact. During the afternoon there were at least two patrons in the bookstore, and they both turn towards Vasily's entrance as if they just saw a rowdy burglar. The person behind the desk clears their throat to dispel the sudden awkward tension in the establishment.

"I'm so sorry guests... This man is a friend of my employer. He has always been a... forthright person, so forgive him." Wayland's assistant, Olivia, is right there manning the bookstore in the absence of her Mage master. There is an awkward smile on her face as she walks over to escort Vasily into the back and house proper, and the two patrons, who seem to be just normal people, shake their heads in dismay and with exaperated sighs they return to their books.

"...This way, Master Cereus..." The revenant maid meekly asks him to come into the house, and the gentle warmth of a cozy home envelops Vasily. She leads him into a familiar route, down the hall, to the left, down a staircase, and down the hall again, before arriving at the doors of the Moros's workshop. Olivia knocks on the door and opens it. "Master? Master Cereus is here..." She bows before turning away and returning to her station.

Once Vasily steps inside, he is immediately assaulted by sweltering hot temperatures as the forges are lit not just by steel melting fire but also by dazzling golden white embers of Heaven. He sees a familiar silhouette, towering before the flames, holding a hammer and a piece of steel being worked into shape. Wayland slightly turns towards him, dressed in a simple shirt and pants with a leather apron over it, before continuing his hammering. "...Did you break my door again, Cereus?"

“Oi, I didn’t break it! Just kicked it open once I was sure it was unlocked!” Vasily smirked at him, and looked around the shop. Once again, his friend was doing a little more than minding the books of his bookstore. Wiping some sweat from his brow, and rolling the sleeves of his shirt, he turned back to the older man. “Anyhow, I dunno if you listen to the outside world at all, but there was another set of murders last night. At least one more person dead, and I found some information. Mind if we go talk about this in a room that doesn’t feel like Satan heaving a large breath in my face?”

With a sigh, Wayland gestures at the forges before him. The fires burn low, dazzling oranges and divine white and gold. The crafter leaves the forged steel within the hot embers to keep it tempered. He turns to Vasily and begins to start snapping. Clicks begin to echo in the room as cold air seems to have been summoned, banishing the hot temperatures in almost an instant. Wayland checks the forges once more to see if their fires are stable, before going towards the large table in the Cold Craft side of the room.

There's all sorts of materials on the table, all sorted out in neat piles and rows. Jewels, wood, metals, even odd things like bone and what seems to be bottles of fog white liquid. Wayland pulls a chair and gestures towards the seat in front of him. "...Are you talking about the repeated murders from the past few days?" He takes off his heavy insulating gloves and throws it on the table. Vasily sees scarred hands, from burns and from worse things. "What makes them so special? Death happens everyday in London, and you know how cruel Sleepers could be."

Vasily gave a sigh as the room became cold and manageable once again. “Well, this morning I was a bit busy.”

He sat down opposite of his friend, and looked around the room. This hidden corner of the bookstore, behind the working storefront, was Wayland’s sanctum, the place in which he felt most like himself. He was able to study his craft here, and even more, he was able to study his Magic here.

“Just after midnight I heard a scream, but I was half-asleep and thought I had been dreaming. It was bad enough to wake me from a good sleep though, so I decided to head down near Whitechapel, not too far from the house. Ran into a Hunter who was investigating as well. It turns out, after asking some spirits what they had seen, that some ripping and tearing was suspect. Not the…normal human way of killing another human being, so to speak.”

"...A Hunter?"

The Moros's face sharply turns towards him. He then turns towards the door and it loudly slams close and multitudes of locks begin to snap in place. "...Who is this Hunter? Are you being followed? Do they know who you are?" He gets close to his Cabalmate, and beyond the glass of his mask are two wary eyes full of worry. He scans Vasily's body, looking for injuries or any sort of odd behavior.

He did not expect for his friend to draw so close in worry. The Masquerade only said that supernaturals needed to respect each other’s boundaries, and to avoid causing trouble when necessary. At least, he had read the reasoning of the Masquerade as such. He had not caused Alex any trouble, and she had not harmed him. In his mind, the whole exchange had been innocent enough.

“Girl goes by the name of Alex. Or, uh, Alexandra. Nice girl. We both saw the body and we had questions. I don’t think she’s following me though, I haven’t seen her since this morning. Plus she uh…didn’t seem like she believed I could be dangerous. Even though I was carrying a gun.”

He snickered, knowing good and well that Hunters were still human, and a good gun could stop most of them. But not always. “I look like I don’t ever eat enough and I was also quite hungover. And it didn’t get better this morning, either, I almost fell sideways during Sunday service! But uh…” He stared at Wayland as he checked over his body. “You don’t need to look quite that close. I’m quite alright, I think.”

A girl named Alexandra. A vague description and a name. That is enough to shield one's self from possible trouble, especially when such trouble is known to be antagonistic against every other thing. "Hunters are fools overtaken by their fanaticism. You best keep your distance from them, unless you truly believe that this Alexandra won't bring you harm. Remember, you are not alone. If trouble comes, I shall weather it with you."

With an exaperated sigh Wayland retreats back on his seat, visibly hackled at the thought of Hunters knowing his friend. "...I'll get Olivia bring some food for you." He reaches out for a bell, similar to the one in the bookstore desk, and rings it. There was no sound, as there was no ringer, but Vasily feels the activation of Magic.

"If there is indeed a Hunter investigating these deaths, then it means that there is indeed something unusual going on." He retrieves a notebook and a pen, and begins to write down notes. "You've said that the Spirits have said that there was ripping and tearing. That could be either clothing or the body breaking under intense physical force."

Wayland begins to write down his own theories, and Vasily sees a list of weapons and methods quickly filling the page. "It could be a hook, or supernaturally claws and teeth. Among the Arcana, it could be Forces rending someone apart, or Matter bending air and solids to rip apart the victim. There is also Space. If this was done physically, the killer should be physically blessed in that regard."

Wayland lowers his pen and looks at his Cabalmate. "...What else have you discovered? Did the Spirits see the face or sex of the killer? Did you see the crime scene and checked footprints, presence of foreign hair and other bodily remnants? What was the body like?"

There was a knock on the door, and Wayland gestures towards it. The locks click open and the door swings wide to show Olivia, carrying a tray of heavy lunch. There's a pile of mashed potatoes and gravy, as well as cuts of fish. Tea is also prepared, with some light pastry and a custard for dessert. "Thank you Olivia." Wayland nods to her as she smiles and sets the food on the table. "You may take a break for awhile. Go and have your afternoon tea as well."

"Thank you Master." She bows and exits, and she closes the door behind her. Wayland gestures towards the food. "Go ahead and eat while you talk."

The incredible amount of food on the table made Vasily shake his head. “…I had breakfast, and my mum made me beef pierogis, and now you’ve got a whole brunch here for me…I’m going to be fat if I keep coming around here.” He shot his friend a mischievous smile, however, as he dug into the mashed potatoes and gravy.

“Mm…So, uh…I didn’t see the face of the woman, but I didn’t see footprints. The body was covered and what have you. But we know that this killer…” He paused to chomp down on some fish. “…Hm…the killer has been going after women. Young women, prostitutes, vulnerable ladies walking around at night…he certainly didn’t respect her enough to leave her body in one piece, but we can’t know unless we can get into the morgue. Or…”

From behind a cup of tea, now his fourth of the day, he stared up at his friend. “You might be able to find something about her. You can talk to ghosts, if I bring you to the crime scene one early morning do you think you can talk to some spooks?”

"The suspect targets women, you say?" Wayland raises his eyebrow at the idea and immediately writes down more notes. The killer has a high chance of being a man with perverse tastes or sense of justice, or some other personage with a deep seated grudge or hatred for women. "I can certainly speak with the recently murdered's ghost, if we could find it. Those who die violently have the highest chance of leaving ghosts behind."

"...If the scene of the crime isn't much tampered, I could also do a thorough search... If our murderous friend is as messy as their murders, there will be traces left behind. If we could also get hold of the body, I could do an autopsy." Wayland puts down his pen and turns towards his food. The Mage takes a spoonful of mashed potatoes and fish and goes to eat, and Vasily sees the very weird sight of a spoon passing through the material of Wayland's mask like it's simply passing through nothing. The spoon comes out empty as Wayland chews.

The taste of wonderful cooking relieves some forgotten hunger that Wayland has already grown to not mind during his working hours. He sits in silence for a moment as he eats a few more spoonfuls of food before continuing. "To get to the victim, we need police clearance or help with the undertakers. I could get us the first. Could you secure the second?"

“I can certainly try. One problem is that the murderer left traces of her, but not of himself. That’s why I suspect the supernatural.” Another swallow of fish. “The other problem is going to the morgue, maybe asking for help getting into the morgue would be good. I don’t think they’ll let me in unless I can give a good reason for wanting to see the body, but I’ll come up with something.”

As he finished his plate, he moved to the custard and pastry, pouring a heaping amount of custard on the dessert. “Mm. Olivia really outdid herself this time. This is incredible…I’m really, really going to get fat.”

But as he ate, he raised an eyebrow as Wayland ate food without removing his mask. He knew that the Mage was quite skilled with Matter, but he always found such a use of Magic to be strange and unnecessary. “You know, it’s only basically the two of us and Olivia. And Frederick somewhere. You can take that thing off to eat. It’s going to smell like fish if you don’t.”

Olivia indeed outdid herself with this dish. The gravy was flavorful, and the fish was cooked tender and fresh from the market. The mashed potatoes were silky smooth, creamy and buttery. It was homey and fulfilling, and with the tea it is simply a meal of comfort.

When Vasily entertains the thought of losing his mask, Wayland's grip tightens on his teacup. He stays silent for a good moment before speaking. "...You know why I don't take off my masks... And the smell is alright. I could purify the air inside." He continues to drink, teacup passing through leather barrier and reaching chapped and burn-scarred lips. The face, the person underneath, is dying and long gone. He is content with a small bookstore, living the end of his days in serene solitude. The mask is the face of Wayland, he who lived and survived.

"I'll be able to work with the morgue if I'm able to convince them." He turns to his notepad and makes a note to check on morgues and undertakers who would be working on the victim, and have worked with other victims. He puts it back down to continue drinking his tea. "...And you do need to eat more. You look like a twig, Cereus."

“Now you sound like my mum. If I hadn’t been hurrying to and fro last week, she would have stopped me and said, ‘No Vasily, you’ve only had two bowls of stroganoff, here, have more!’ I HAD FOUR BOWLS!” He shook his head, but in his heart, he understood. Indeed, his family had come far, and his mother’s need to feed her son as much as possible came from the love that had kept their family together all these years.

And yet he still did not have a good answer regarding Wayland’s need to wear his mask. In the five years he had known him, he had never removed the mask around him. Not even with a small amount of cajoling. But Vasily was stubborn, and so he would keep trying. “You can just…lift the bottom and shovel food in, and then lower it. I dunno, like a semi-normal sort. I know we’re not very normal anyway, but…really, Wayland.”

"..." Wayland's hand twitches as his face underneath crumples a little. He has never removed his mask around people, not even his scarves when he needs to be Mr. Gerard Smith. Once or twice he did before Olivia, as he trusts the revenant to keep a secret. The dead keep the secrets of their fellows after all.

After a moment of hesitation, Wayland looks at Vasily for an extended period of time before his free hand holds the beak of the mask. "...Don't... say anything. If you see anything, you have not. Understood?" He then slowly and carefully lifts his mask a bit to take a sip of his drink. Vasily could barely see the hints of a sharp and defined jawline, and... just the tiniest peek at what seems to be scars of injuries. Burn scars by the looks of it.

Wayland puts down the teacup, now empty, and fixes his mask again. His free hand is shaking, and he hides it in his pockets as he speaks. "...There, Cereus. Does that satisfy you?" His voice falls flat as he turns away and back to his notepad. The straps of his mask tighten as if trying to make itself more secure, more capable of hiding and concealing what's underneath.

“…I see you have a chin. Congratulations, you have a human physiology. That’s a relief.” Vasily rolled his eyes, but then smiled and sipped his tea. “I’ll get you to show the rest one of these days, I think. After all, we’ve been friends for so long, there’s no reason to have so many secrets. Remember when I told you how I got my roommate to stop shagging a girl next door so I could sleep?”

Wayland continued to check on his notes, writing down names that he knows. Undertakers, morticians, and morgues that he knew personally as a Necromancer, contacts he has as an Arrow, and locations of interest. He doesn't look back at Vasily when he tries to disperse the tension in the room, and the Thyrsus's spoken desire to see his face made his chest twist and clench in a discomforting and painful way.

"...Yes, you've talked about this anecdote before..." He says as he flips a page. "I am quite surprised that you weren't brought to court for unlawful entry and attempted murder. Always as direct as ever."

“Hey! Nobody got hurt, it was just a violin I had somehow turned into a gun. I don’t even remember if it was functional!” He chuckled, but he could sense pain in the air and decided to change the subject back to business. “I told Alexandra to come by my floral shop if she finds anything. Since I’ll be open tomorrow, I might just see her again.” He shrugged. “If I don’t, you can get me some contacts to talk to about getting into the morgue, huh?”

Wayland does manage to crack a smile for quite a bit as Vasily goes to described a heavily modified violin gun. Now that sounds like quite the interesting project to check. He only turns back to the younger Mage when he changes the subject to elevate the atmosphere.

"...If you truly want to interact with that Hunter, then I hope you know what you're doing. Let's meet tomorrow morning and discuss our actions." He sits up and goes to retrieve a two things: a weathered pouch and a beautiful and colorful vase. Wayland puts them down before Vasily. "I found these items in the Underworld. The pouch holds some seeds of a plant I do not know, and the vase dates back from three to four centuries ago. If the seeds sprout something, let me know."

"Sounds like a plan." Vasily took the pouch and vase and stared at them. He then turned to look at his friend and smiled. "You're always finding the most interesting little gadgets. I'll see if this works, and I'll let you know the results of my experiment. And uh..." He frowned for a moment, before he ate the rest of a pastry and restored his confidence. "If the Huntress ends up being a problem, I'll handle her. Unless she tries to blow-up my shop, then I'll get your help."

And so the two friends once again renewed their pact, their Cabal, over their food and drink, and their understanding that once again the Masquerade was too fragile to allow for normal humans to breach it. This was their understanding as it had always been, for five years now, and they planned to keep their agreement that way.

[Luminesa]

Sigrid - A New Guest
October 1st, 1888, Morning
Von Achthoven Household

Melba was one of the few people who could talk to Lady Myra about sensitive matters without upsetting her. She believed she was a woman of strong constitution, and in some ways she was. But the other servants did not enter the room when their eldest member decided to go speak to the Mistress of the House.

“Goodness. Another friend of his?”

“Not that I know of. A Frenchman, based on the name. Some sort of a businessman, I believe?”

Lady Myra rolled her eyes. “And this man wants to meet my husband.”

“Well, the men do like to rub elbows, commiserate, make friends, that sort of thing.”

“I am quite aware.”

“Just as you still enjoy having tea with your friends while Lord Gerrit goes off to work.”

“Indeed.”

Outside of the room, the other servants carefully eavesdropped. To them it was an art. Nobody in the house was better at finding drama to discuss, and with breakfast about to begin, they were only waiting for Melba to join them downstairs.

“I knew it! A young, handsome Frenchman!” Ada exclaimed, pulling away from the door to nod in triumph.

“Keep your voice down! You know the scolding we’ll get if she catches us!” Clara hissed back.

Inside the room, Lady Myra frowned as she thought about Melba’s description of Etienne. He was an odd fellow to suddenly appear in her husband’s life, and he had not sent a letter or a message announcing that he wished to meet him. Instead, here was a servant telling her of his existence. “And…who told you of this man, Melba?”

“Miss Sigrid said that he wished for her to tell the Master that he wished to meet him.”

Another taut pause. “…Miss Sigrid?”

“Yes my lady.”

“Hm…” The mistress of the house stared toward the dining hall, which wafted the scents of many rich breakfast foods, coffee, and tea. “Very well. I’ll speak to my husband. And to Sigrid. Thank you, Melba.”

The other servants stared at each other with various gazes of surprise or worry. Ada’s mouth rounded into a shocked “o”, and Emma frowned as she stared at Lucy. The youngest servant raised her brows and folded her arms. They knew by the lady’s tone that she did not intend for a nice “chat”.

“Thank God we’re going to be eating in the servant’s quarters today…” Emma murmured.

“I bet that means Sigrid will be sitting with the family again,” Lucy added.

“Should we be worried about her?” Kathy questioned.

“Oh she’ll definitely get an earful, we might hear some of it from our quarters,” Ada suggested.

A tense silence fell over the girls, but only for a moment. When they heard Melba’s footsteps coming, they ran to the dining hall to make sure that the household had everything they needed.

“Hurry, hurry, act natural, girls!” Emma urged her compatriots.

At the breakfast table, Sigrid indeed sit today with the household. Once again, she was next to Tabitha. Lord Gerrit was at the head of the table once again, and his wife came to sit at the other end. Her posture was firm and tight, and though she did give her husband a bright smile.

“There you are. I was wondering where Melba had dragged you,” he spoke.

“Only to the drawing room to discuss a matter, my lord,” Melba explained, as she entered the room and promptly poured Gerrit his coffee.

“A matter?”

“Yes. I’ll leave you and the mistress to it.” Melba whirled around and waited for the other servants.

The servants had composed themselves before walking into the room, and they served Sigrid and Tabitha without too much of a fuss. Ada made a face, so Lucy hissed something in her ear and went to help serve Sigrid.

“Thank you, dear,” Sigrid murmured, as she kept her head down and smiled at the girl pouring her tea.

“Good luck,” the girl whispered back. Before the woman could ask what she meant, the servant-girls disappeared downstairs to eat with Melba.

Once again, silence, as the household began to eat. Fresh bread, various fruit jams and marmalades, eggs, sweet fruits, pancakes, a vanilla custard, beans, and blood sausages all sat in various pots, plates, and cups for the family to partake.

“Excellent work, as always,” Gerrit started. “The bread is absolutely wonderful.” He enjoyed filling his plate, and this morning was no different. “And the eggs are perfect. Eat them before they’re cold.”

“I agree. Very good.” Lady Myra responded with as few words as she could.

Tabitha’s eyes flickered around the table, as if she knew that something was wrong. Melba had said something to her mother, something which had concerned her greatly. She turned to her tutor, but Sigrid only kept her head down and drank her tea.

“So, dear, what was this matter that Melba mentioned to you?” Gerrit paused from eating after finishing the eggs and toast, and he grabbed some of the sausages.

The woman looked up from her plate with a stern look. “Melba told me that Miss Sigrid found a man who expressed interest in wanting to meet you.”

He raised a brow. “Someone who wants to meet me? Have they sent a letter and I’ve simply missed it?”

“No, apparently they did not. They spoke to Sigrid, and she spoke to Melba this morning.”

The master of the house paused chewing a sausage, and then swallowed it, before he turned to the quiet tutor. “Is this true, Sigrid?”

“Yessir.” She spoke without meeting his gaze.

He nodded once, and as he ate another sausage, he nodded again, as if confirming something to himself. “…This man, what’s he like?”

“Ah!” Sigrid blushed a little at such a direct question. On instinct, her head rose a little, but there was a look from Lady Myra that forced her to put her eyes back toward her food. “He was…quite kind. Very polite and charming. He enjoys polite society, and he’s quite talkative.”

“As most men are when amongst each other,” Lady Myra murmured. After she stabbed and ate a strawberry with sharp haste, she asked, “Now Sigrid, how did you meet this man?”

“…I…well…”

“Were you out last night? Again?”

Tabitha thought here to object, knowing that once again, the dining conversation was about to turn south. “Mother-”

“Tabitha, let her answer for herself.”

“I…” Sigrid sighed, and she dipped a baked apple slice in some custard. “I was out buying books…last night, after dinner. And it was quite late.”

“It’s not safe for young women to be out on the streets of London at night. I hope you are aware of that fact,” Lord Gerrit interjected.

“I…I am. But I wanted to take my time reading. And he…he had been in the bookstore, and we had talked. When I walked back outside, he waited for me and walked with me until I arrived back here. He was very gentle, and we arrived here safe and sound.” Her meek voice tried to muster as much confidence as it could, but she knew that Myra was giving her that stern, waiting glare.

“…Speaking with strange men at night. Goodness.” Myra shook her head. “How shameful. Not only is it not unsafe, but can you imagine? The scandal if one of our household was found to be walking with a man in the dark? You might as well be mistaken for a common bint!”

“Mother!”

“That’s enough, Myra.” Gerrit held up a hand, and once again he put a stop to the fussing. “That might be relevant, but not at the breakfast table. Now…Sigrid?” He turned to her once again, and he saw that her face was turning bright-pink.

“Hm. I’ll send an invitation to this man, invite him for dinner. I’ll ask the postman if he has this person’s address, and we’ll see about meeting him tomorrow. Dinner, I think. It will be good having another man at the table every once in a while!” Gerrit gave a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. But Myra’s expression was foul, and something clearly bothered her about the whole situation. Something more than what she was suggesting.

“That would be quite nice, I think. And if he’s as nice as Miss Sigrid said, perhaps he’ll be a good friend of yours to invite for parties?” Tabitha inquired, trying also to keep the peace.

“Certainly. And,” he smirked, “he might make a decent husband for you in the future. Wealthy, polite, kind, he sounds like a good match for you.”

His daughter could not help but blush brightly, and Sigrid’s own pink face became even worse. Tabitha knew that once she was introduced as a debutante, her father would marry her away in short order. But Sigrid knew that Etienne was most likely not an average man, and she wondered if her suspicions last night would be correct. And yet at the same time, she wondered if he would really be interested in the Von Achthoven heiress.

“…Very well. We’ll have him over for dinner then.” Myra finally spoke, agreeing with her husband in a rather tight tone.

“Good! Now, no more of this flustered speech. Let’s finish our breakfast and begin our day.”

And indeed, the rest of breakfast passed quietly. But once Sigrid was out of the room, she needed another moment alone while Tabitha went to her room to continue a sewing project.

“Don’t you worry, dear, I’ll join you in a minute. Get started on your embroidery, yes?”

“Yes ma’am!” Tabitha had seen the way her expression had suffered at the table, the way her eyes had started shining as she had struggled to finish her food. But she could not speak to her about the matter until they were behind closed doors.

As Sigrid walked to the bathroom alone, she could hear quick footsteps following behind her. They got quicker, as her own got faster. Before Lady Myra could catch her, however, she made her escape to the bathroom.

Finally, a breath of solitude. The woman heaved a sigh once, and then twice. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see tears trickling down her face. Myra’s words had cut deep, and yet she had not broken into a sob or a cry. She almost wished she could.

“…I do hope all of this will be worth it, Etienne,” she whispered into the mirror.

[Finsternia]

Under the Fell Star Gather the Wise Men
Co-Written by Finsternia and Luminesa
October 1, 1888 - Morning

Every morning Hyacinthus falls into rhythm. At four in the morning they are already up to prepare for the day ahead. Preparing meals, washing their own self, dressing and preparing for work, Hyacinthus has memorized every action they need to undertake. It's almost machine-like efficiency, and at exactly five in the morning the Mage has left their apartment. It is considerate and kind for the Lady Evelyn Grey to help them find housing that is close to the Master's clinic and office, easing the difficulties of travel that Hyacinthus needed to do.

Rather than the dim light of dawn through foggy streets, what greeted Hyacinthus's senses were the cold and dampness of air. There's the sound of hawkers are clear to their ears, just further down the street as they call out for today's latest news. The closest one is the sound of a young man calling out the headline, crisp voice breaking through the silent morning.

"Come and get your paper here! New murders on Whitechapel and Berner Street!"

The Mage turns towards the peddler, and beyond the darkness of their sight they sense shapes and empty space. Grooves of the street, the geometry of buildings, and featureless moving humanoid shapes form this ephemeral space. Upon the humanoid shapes are faint flashes of fog-like material, a thinking mind within these figures. Hyacinthus carefully makes their way towards the figure they could sense in this map-like space, the sound of a walking cane in their hand heralding their approach.

"...Excuse me, may I buy two?"

Dressed in gentleman's clothing, Hyacinthus is quite eyecatching due to the odd colors of their hair and eyes. Soft bright lavender, touched by the Supernal Realms. The peddler ogles at the odd colors for a moment, thinking it's some rich person's fashion fad, before speaking. "I... Uh... It's seven pence per paper... Mis... ter?"

Hyacinthus simply smiles as they hear the confusion from the man before reaching into their pockets, choosing the right amount of coins based on texture and size. They retrieve the newspapers from the peddler before bowing. "...Thank you very much..."

As they leave, a frown appears upon their face. This matter of consecutive murders would interest their Master, especially with how the victims have been women of low standing. From what they've heard from the previous murders, the method of killing was quite grisly and terrible. Hyacinthus couldn't help but shiver at the thought. "It's a dangerous time these days..."

With a rolled up set of newspapers, the Mage continues their walk towards the nearby clinic. Under Mage Sight it exudes the feeling of a great cliff, a precipice of excellence and nigh-impossible heights. Reaching out into their pockets, Hyacinthus opens up the clinic for the day.

When the clock strikes six, the front doors open and a familiar set of footsteps echo in the clinic. Hyacinthus has already finished setting things up, sorting out documents and preparing for Lady Evelyn's morning coffee, when the Master Mage enters.

"Good morning Cynthie darling." The older woman chirps, with short greying hair and dressed in the suits and ties of men's clothing, as she enters her office.

"G-Good morning, Doctor Grey..." Hyacinthus carefully sets down the hot cup of coffee on her table, and the old doctor simply smiles as she sees her apprentice's efforts. "...You know that you do not need to do all of this, Cynthie. But I still thank you for your efforts. How was your night?"

Lady Evelyn sits down on her high chair as Hyacinthus comes to sit with her, taking a chair before her desk. "It has been good, Doctor... I have completed your assigned tasks... My diagnoses are in the folder to your right."

She nods and shuffles through the papers, checking through documents encoded in Braille. The two fall into a relatively comfortable silence, as Lady Evelyn goes through her checking and Hyacinthus drinks coffee to pass the time. With the click of the pen's cap, the doctor finally speaks.

"Good job, dear. You've done quite well with the hypothetical exercises I've given you. I think I will hand you three patients this week to supervise."

"You're way too kind, Doctor... But thank you... I won't let you down."

"Of course I know, love. Keep your chin up. You're brighter than you think you are."

The younger simply nods before turning their head towards the location where they've set Lady Evelyn's newspaper. "...Master, have you heard the news? There has been more murders..."

At the snap of a finger, the old doctor's posture straightens up as her gaze turns towards the paper. Big bold letters proclaiming the headlines are at the very front, and she frowns as she reads through. "...What are your thoughts on this, Clementine?"

Biting their lip, Clementine thinks for a second about what could be the cause of the attacks. The brutality of it all is what makes it stick like a sore thumb. "It looks like a vampire or werewolf attack, by the looks of it... I doubt a normal human could do it..."

Metis clicks her tongue as she shakes her head. "...You shouldn't rule out the possibility that this could be something that a cruel Sleeper could have done. Always remember the teachings of Pandemonium, my Apprentice. We are all capable of great acts of both good and evil."

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry."

"No need to say sorry. I understand your view." She continues to read before looking back a few paragraphs, focusing on the locations. Her eyebrow rises in curiosity before putting the paper down. "...The first victim of yesterday was found at Berner Street. This location is close to the lodgings of a Thyrsus named Cereus, a Cabalmate of Wayland who is a Moros of the Adamantine Arrow. I would like you to see to this matter for me, Clementine. You are dismissed from your clinical duties for now."

"Yes Master. I'll report what I could find."

---

At seven in the morning Clementine finds themselves walking down the morning streets of London, following the simulated space they sense beyond. With the sound of death tolls in their ear, Clementine feels the Fate spell that they have casted to let them know if they've reached their correct destination trigger and happen. They turn towards a nearby building, the geometrical shape of long and uneven rectangles is bound by chains in this virtual map. Three knocks echo on the door steps, and they wait there for someone to answer.

Tapping the desk of the shopfront made a familiar sound that played early in the morning in a little shop in East London. The young, scraggly man behind the desk smoked a cigarette, a privilege he kept for himself until people came to see the much-better smelling displays around him.

“…I need to go check the plants again…Hell, I thought I had just watered them yesterday…”

A couple of cigarettes and a cup of French-pressed coffee were Vasily Mikhailov’s normal breakfast, and today was no different. He took a sip of his coffee, which somehow was still hot, and he stared out the windows as his eyes were still creaking awake. The sun had not even risen yet, and the church bells had not yet signaled for faithful Londoners to congregate to church services. He would need to get himself ready soon, but for now, he walked his waking bones to the back of the shop.

Pots and Ends was a shop of oddities, much like the man who ran the little shop. One-third a floral shop, one-third an antiques shop, and one-third a greenhouse, he found himself wearing many hats during any given week. Whatever kept food on the table. The man ran a hand through the mousy, blonde-brown hair on his head and yawned, and when he looked around, he saw the flowers which were growing in a specially-warmed area in the back of the shop. Plenty of sunlight gleamed through the windows on most days, and when they did not, he had ways.

But that was nothing unusual. Vasily Mikhailov always had ways, ways he did not explain to most people.

“Should be a good, sunny day…” He found a worn watering pot, and he looked around the room. Around the room, flower-boxes full of soil stood on tall shelves. In each box, rows of various flowers grew side-by-side. In one box, roses of various bright colors. In another, poppies. In another, the ever-popular carnations. In another, lilies. The middle of the room also had more varieties of flowers, arranged in straight rows together. The smell was divine, and this small room almost had as many colors as Eden, or as many as Vasily might have thought Eden had.

But he heard a knock on the shop door, and he groaned. First customer, perhaps, and quite early.

He opened the door, and looked upon a man, or a woman, with oddly-lavender hair and eyes and a very Fae appearance.

“And now cause I was out last night all the bloody Mages want to see what I’m hiding in my shop…”

“Hallo. You know, all you’ve got to do to enter is just walk inside, the sign says open, a bell will let me know you’re here. ANYWAY!” He blinked a little hard and scratched his head. “Welcome to Pots and Ends. Antiques this way, flowers that way, come in and take a look.”

"Good morning to you as well..."

Clementine senses the shape before them, sparking emotions of surprise and confusion surrounding the humanoid geometry in their senses. The Mastigos smiles gently, eyes staring straight ahead. There is an odd feeling for Vasily that the person before him is not staring at him but through him.

"Your shop smells wonderful..." Clementine leans against their cane as they take in the scents of the shop. Sweet and provocative, all the flowers in the shop seem to scream out loud to behold them and appreciate them. The Mage is drawn towards a specific bunch, a pot growing a bunch of purple and white chrysanthemums. Under Clementine's touch the petals feel soft, with fresh morning dew on each of them, and beyond they feel a tug in their heart. A familiarity, it seems.

"What is this flower? May I buy a vase of it?"

“That’s mums. Those are real nice.” Vasily walked over and looked over Clementine’s shoulder at the flowers. The new person held a captivated gaze over the chrysanthemums, and he had to wonder if they were a Thyrsus. Or maybe they just really liked mums. “People like to give them as a sign of friendship. Cute flowers too, and they match your hair. 5 shillings a pot.”

"...They seem wonderful... I'll take it..." Clementine fumbles through their wallet and carefully take the proper amount of coins. They hand it over to Vasily, and they gingerly hold the pot in their hands. It's a bit too heavy as Clementine grunts at the weight, so they simply hold it for a few moments as the layout of a room appear in their mind. The smooth panes of a window, the softness of curtains, and the warm sunlight filtering through.

In an instant, the potted chrysanthemum vanish as if swallowed by an invisible wave. Vasily senses the other Mage's Nimbus, the sound of a lullaby singing in his ears, as he could vaguely see distortions in overlapped space. The potted chrysanthemums now sit in a well lit window sill, enjoying the light of the morning sun.

"Phew!" Clementine pats their hands clean of dust and dirt, before turning towards Vasily as the remnants of Space Magic disappear as quickly as it happened. "Greetings! My Shadow Name is Clementine, apprentice of Master Metis. You are Cereus, right? Forgive me for the early visit..." They bow their head low before staring ahead. "...I'm here to ask about the murder... Did you know what happened?"

The Russian Mage had to raise a brow. This man or woman could barely lift a potted plant. Something seemed off about that fact. Nothing about them seemed physically unhealthy, unless somehow they had a hidden case of consumption. But then again, the person was not coughing badly, so they might have just really been that weak.

Of course, Clementine confirmed his other suspicions when they had revealed their nature as a Mage. Between using a Nimbus, and then introducing themselves with a Shadow Name, they were the genuine article.

Putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it, Vasily took a puff and grunted. “You know my Shadow Name. That’s not good. Now I doubt you’re friends with that Huntress I met. But you are coming here on my business hours to use my formal name and to question me. Therefore, if you want answers, you get one answer for every plant you buy. How’s that?”

Clementine nods and bows very low again. Burning flares of emotion erupt around Vasily's shape, causing the Mage to flinch quite a bit at the sudden coldness and distance. "I'm truly sorry if I'm interfering with your business... But I'll compensate for your wasted time. That much I could promise..."

They stand upright and they simply do not ask about the information about whatever this Huntress he speaks of. "...What have you learned about the recent murder? My Master has told me that your partner is a Moros... and you are a Thyrsus... Have you uncovered something?"

“You’re not interfering. You bought something. I’d like for you to buy more things, so that business continues. I also have antiques if you’d prefer to compensate me by buying from those.” He chomped on the cigarette for a few moments longer, and then looked out the window.

“…And I dunno how you know Wayland…I don’t like that at all. Which means you definitely need to buy from me if you want me to give you any information.”

"Oh! My Master is Metis, the Councilor of the Silver Ladder. She is the one who knows of Mister Wayland, and his connection with you. That's why she sent me here since she noticed that the scene of the crime is close to your shop..." Clementine simply speaks the truth, telling about their Master's interest in these terrible state of affairs.

At the harsh words of Vasily they send out their consciousness out, sensing the various goods in the shop and trying to feel what is appropriate and fated for them. "How about... that one?" Clementine loosely points towards a bundle of white carnations, blooming like clouds in the shop.

Carnations, always a classic choice. Vasily gave a small smile, and he nodded toward them. “Good, good. 10 shillings. You need help picking them up or you got them? And…once you get those out the way, and I have your coin, then we’ll be able to talk.” He gave a careful side-eye to Clementine as he walked over to the pot at which the purple-haired Mage had pointed.

"I'll do it... I don't want to bother you more than I do now..." Clementine carefully navigates through the aisles, cane in hand, to come before the potted carnations. This one exudes another feeling of familiarity, as vague humanoid shapes appear in their mind. They are faceless, but their presence bring comfort to the Mage.

"Oh, I forgot..." They retrieve their wallet again for more coins and they slowly hand each piece to Vasily, making sure that each coin was the right payment. Clementine smiles again before casting the same spell as before as they touch the soft petals. Space folds upon itself once again, and the potted plant is transported to their own apartment.

As soon as he took the coin, the Russian shopkeeper smirked and put the money behind the register. “Good, good. Now…the murders?”

He thought for a moment, tapping his lip. “I saw the body last night, apparently it had been ripped to shreds, but I didn’t get a good look at it. Had to ask some Spirits about what I had seen, they mentioned the violence. Sounds like a wolf or a vampire. And there’s been more murders, but I haven’t seen anything about those.”

The Mastigos nods as Vasily goes through his own thoughts on the subject. It seems that the Thyrsus has also arrived at the same conclusion that the murders are most likely done by a violent supernatural.

"Has someone checked the past of the scene of the crime? I could offer help with that... I do have some learnings with the Time Arcanum... Perhaps that could shed some insight towards what's happening?"

“You could. I haven’t. I showed-up at 2 AM in basically pajamas cause the ruckus was a few blocks away. If you want to help, go ahead. I’m needing to get into the morgue to get answers. If this thing’s what I’m worried about, we need proof before we go looking into…Kindred.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew it toward the window near the antiques. “Have to go when there’s not people around so much, so probably at night.”

"Okay... I am... a doctor, in training, in my Sleeper life... I could help you and Mister Wayland in searching for the morgues?" Clementine gives out a bit of information about their normal mortal life, to ease the other's suspicions and hostilities. Their nose wrinkles at the smell of acrid tobacco however, but they try to keep a smile up for their new acquaintance.

The Mastigos extends their spatial perception for quite a bit, beyond the confines of the room and into the road outside. Foot traffic now filters down the road, the cobblestone littered with thinking minds on their way to work. It would be safer to do Magic within the shop, rather than outside where one could be vulnerable.

Thinking for a few moments, Clementine turns to Vasily. "If you may, could you guard me for a few moments? Peering into the past leaves me defenseless... We're both alone here in your shop, but it is still uncomfortable for me to leave my body unguarded..."

“Guard you?” Vasily frowned and tapped his chin, and then he looked around the shop. He then took Clementine by the wrist. “I’d rather you not do it where people can look in the window at you. Paradox and whatnot. Follow me.”

He brought the purple-haired Mage toward the greenhouse area, toward the back of the first floor. Once he was out of the sight of most normal customers, the Russian Mage turned to him. “Do what you’ve got to do, and I’ll listen for customers. If I’ve got to go deal with someone and you’re still busy, don’t go out of this room. I’ll be back in a minute. Got it?”

"...Of course..." Clementine smiles at him, and there seems to be an appreciative light in their eyes as they stare at Vasily's geometric form. "I'll tell you what I could find."

The Mastigos goes into a corner and sits down on an empty stool, and their spatial consciousness extends beyond the shop. They feel the layout of the street, and its nooks and crannies, as 3D objects rise in the empty space. Chains begin to manifest in this perceived world, and as they pull taunt Clementine's eyes roll to the back of their head.

Time is rewound, back to yesterday's matter, just an hour after midnight. Shouts for help echo in the street as two figures, one cloaked in emotions of fear while the other in murderous bloody red, chase each other down. Clementine feels a prickle, of something sharp, down their spine as the geometric form of the pursuer brandishes a sharp implement. With a pained cry, the figure enveloped in fear collapses onto the ground.

The sounds of ripping and tearing follows, cruel and crude methods done by the perpetuator against their victim as they rip the organs out. It was quick and messy, and with another death on their hands the person leaves the scene.

Clementine's consciousness returns to the present, and they have never noticed that they have placed their hand to their open mouth to stop a scream. There is panic in their eyes as they try to locate Vasily in the room.

"Mister...? Mister Cereus..." They manage to gasp out as they try to calm their nerves from what they saw.

Vasily waited, standing close to Clementine while also continuing to smoke his cigarette. Occasionally, his eyes shifted toward the door. He wondered if Alex might step into the shop looking to talk. When she did not appear, he turned his eyes back to his new acquaintance. Without warning, the Mastigos had jolted and placed their hand over their mouth, trying to stifle a gasp or something else. Their eyes were full of fear at whatever they had seen, and the Russian Mage calmly approached to assess their condition.

"Yep, right here." He put a hand on their shoulder and gently squeezed, reminding them of their presence. "I haven't left. You're safe. You're still in the chair. Look." He put something in Clementine's lap in order to calm them. Another pot of mums. "Pink mums. Take deep breaths and look at the nice flowers. Then tell me what you saw, huh? Anything different?"

Clementine held onto Vasily's hand, taking deep breaths as the vision of the murder slowly recede from their consciousness. The scent of the chrysanthemums, sweet and refreshing, help with the relaxation of their nerves. The Mastigos gulps as they squeeze their fellow Mage's hand.

"I... It's not... a vampire... or a werewolf... at least from the silhouette... May I show you?" They face towards Vasily with an unsure gaze, and the Thyrsus hears the sound of lullabies. Mind Magic gently prods around his own mind, as if asking for permission to come in.

Like a gentle stream of water, Clementine's Magic works into his mind. He sees what the Mastigos saw. A 3D replication of the street, the geometric bodies of both killer and victim, the raging emotions of fear and hate, and the resulting butchery. There was no light nor color, simply a spatial simulation of the moment of the murder. Vasily hears the clicking of chains, and specific information is given to him. The murder happened at 1 am.

The shared telepathic vision ends, and Clementine is still sitting down. They're taking deeper breaths to calm their nerves, and their free hand is touching the mums on their lap. Their eyes are looking forward, not at Vasily but towards him. The Mastigos is blind, and that is how they perceive the world.

For the first time, the young Mage realized that this visitor was mostly blind. They did not look directly at Vasily, not once. Even now, when the Russian Mage was close, they did not meet his gaze. He sighed, and continued to squeeze Clementine’s hand. “Hm…not sure what it could be from that vision, but it definitely left a lot of blood. It might still very well be a werewolf. Or something werewolf-like. It works fast, whatever it is.” He gave a grimace as he thought to the vision he had just seen, and he sighed. “You want something to drink to help with the nerves? Tea? Coffee? Alcohol is probably not recommended for roughly 8 in the morning, but I do have it.”

"T-Tea, if you're offering..." Clementine squeezes back, before letting go to hold the pot in their lap. The sounds, the smells, the cruel silhouette, it was a bit too much for a Mage like them who are not inclined to violence.

"What do you know of werewolves, Mister Cereus? You seem to be quite sure about that angle... I know that they are shapeshifters, that they are prone to anger... but won't they use their more monstrous physicality rather than... weapons?" The Mastigos focuses their attention towards Vasily, watching his 3D projection move about to fetch tea. "And why... rip the organs away?"

“Tea, good, easy to make. Wait one minute.” Vasily went upstairs, and then maybe two or three minutes later, he returned with a cup of lavender tea. The scent was immediately soothing and sweet. “Lavender and vanilla, with a hint of honey. I would have asked if you like sugar in your tea, but you were too shaken to ask.”

Once he had carefully handed Clementine the steaming cup, Vasily then frowned and scratched his head. “Making a show, having a meal and being terrible at manners, thinking nobody would suspect them…there’s any number of reasons. But it could be Kindred too. After all, this all happened at night. And I doubt any Changelings, Mages, or even older Kindred would have been so sloppy.”

The tea was warm, piping hot even, in Clementine's hands. The soothing scent helps release tension and the Mage stays that way, craddling the cup in their hands and breathing in the hot steam to help calm down. The taste is mild but rich on its own, a comforting taste that is meant to be enjoyed during a cloudy afternoon.

"Thank you for the tea, Mister Cereus..." Clementine smiles before their lips slowly turn into a worried crescent. The killer indeed seem go be making a show, the morning tabloids says that their second victim was more meticulously... displayed than the woman here, but there is something odd at the every end of that vision of the past.

The murder was quick and messy, as if the killer was in a hurry. Amidst the red fog of killing intent there was a jittery spark in their psyche. There was a nervous tick in their actions as they started digging whatever organs they wanted, and seems to have dropped everything else when they have done what seems to be the bare minimum. The oddest thing is that the killer did not run, they went someplace close. They touched a window just ten feet away from the victim's body, and the Postcognition spell ended at that moment.

"There is... something odd... The spell I used... you may view the past in specific slices of time and... slices of time are... narrative... They end when the scene ends..." Clementine sips their drink, thinking back to the very end of that vision. "The scene of murder ended... not with the killer running... but when... they approached a window... Did they go inside one of the houses?" The Mage shivers as a chill runs down their spine. Did the killer infiltrate the nearby houses to hide from authorities? The window of time between the killing and the discovery was very short, as the police are already at the scene by 2 am. That is at least an hour difference.

“Hmmm. They very well could have. I don’t think the cops had looked into the nearby houses, but it would be good to check when the people aren’t so busy around them.” He had said something similar to Wayland. Mages really could only limit most of their activities to nighttime, or to when normal Sleepers were not watching them. He found such limits rather tiresome, but at the same time, he did not want to invoke Paradox.

And so Clementine had guessed that the murder had happened quickly. He nodded. “That makes sense that he got it done fast. Left too much to clean and didn’t come back to the scene of the crime. That we know of, anyway. I’ve just started investigating yesterday morning, as have most coppers in London. So…you’ve got a head start, I think, just knowing what time the murders happened and where they might have been hiding.”

Clementine nods, sipping their tea as the two Mages formulate their theories. The suspect could have barged into the houses to hide and slip away when he thought he's being followed or hunted, but there were no reports of break ins from the nearby residents.

"There's also something odd... The spell showed that the suspect... is in a hurry... You saw his mental state... He was jittery and jumpy, and was messy... The newspapers say that the murder in Whitechapel was more... 'meticulous'. That means that he's either followed or is worried that he'll be discovered here. Is he worried about the people or if he's a supernatural... messing with others here?"

“Well whatever he did was a Masquerade breach, which means he’s properly done for if he’s ever caught.” Vasily grabbed his own cup of tea as he made the suggestion. “And he very well could have been under an influence. A spirit, a demon, something he should not have been touching. And they realized their mistake and tried, in vain, to do better the second time. But serial killers are creatures of habit, like anyone else.”

"So that means... there will be another murder?" They shiver at the thought as the scene replays in their mind. Clementine simply sips more tea in order to force down the disgust and repulsiveness of the murder back down their throat.

"If we want to catch this person... we need to find a connection between the victims... The common link so far is that all of them are women... and most of them have been... ladies of the night..." The Mastigos stares towards Vasily, trying to sense his emotional state. "...But London is too big to put surveillance on everyone in danger..."

“Most likely, but they’ll wait for a little while if they’re smart at all.” The Russian Mage shrugged. “That’s up to him, anyway. I highly doubt it’s a woman, hence ‘he’. But I can’t say whether or not he’s actually smart or not. If he’s driven by some sort of religious extremism, or by some sort of self-imposed duty to punish prostitutes, he’s probably not.”

Thinking for a moment as he sipped his tea, he looked down at the cup. “…We can locate some of the brothels in town and pretend to be bouncers. Find them and act as their protectors from afar. He can’t hit every single one, but we can definitely take a shot. Better than nothing.” He blinked down at his cup, which was already empty. His cigarettes always made him thirstier. “Interesting that he hasn’t gone for any male prostitutes either, which tells me it has to be some sort of twisted, chauvinistic ideal that women need to be punished.”

"Wait... Wait!" Clementine stands up in a sudden spark of thought. Why did the killer target women, and why is it that all the crime scenes are way too bloody and macabre? Why were the victims gutted and for what reason?

"Did... Did the newspapers ever tell... what organs did the killer take from the bodies?" The Mastigos thinks back. The murderer dug around the victim's stomach and ripped things out of there. If the victims were all women, and if they're all harvested for organs, there's only a very few organs that one would want from that location.

“…That’s a good point. I don’t know, actually.” He looked outside, toward the boy holding newspapers. “They probably won’t detail that in the papers though. Which is why getting into the morgue is crucial. I’ve got a contact from Wayland, need to figure how to get to her. But uh, if you know anyone too, like your boss, that would help.”

"I could help with morgues... but with night houses... I'm afraid I don't have any connections... I am good at talking and... I am quite skilled in the Mind Arcanum. I could help with interviewing and asking people." Clementine nods and gently taps the cup in the hands. "Oh! I finished the tea. Thank you very much Mister Cereus."

“Oh don’t worry about the brothels then. I have connections there. Friend of mine named Vinny works in one of them. He’s a looker if you’re into that.” He then took the cup slowly with a smirk on his face. “I’m sure he’ll know something as well, he might know which brothels the crook is going to attack next. But yes, if you can help with the morgues, well then you’ll definitely be more than useful. And ah…by the way, you can…” He paused for a moment, looking at the flowers he had given Clementine to help calm them. “You can keep those flowers if you want. Free of charge. You paid when you bought earlier, you can keep those. Consider it a sign of my hospitality. You’ll know you don’t have it anymore if the flowers wilt.”

Clementine's face immediately turns pink at the proposition, their cheeks burning brightly at the thought. Vasily could see their blush crawl down their neck and turn their ears bright red. "That's quite the offer... I appreciate it..."

The Mastigos does smile genuinely when Vasily has given them the pot of mums in their hands as a gift of friendship. Their hands touch the soft petals, the scent gentle to the nose. The brash Thyrsus could be kind after all. "I'll treasure your flowers, Mister Cereus... and... I'll come find you perhaps this evening?"

“If I’m not busy. Though if you want to find me after work, go by the bookstore on the corner near Fleet Street, you’ll see me inside talking to a man who’s always wearing a mask.” He chuckled. “He won’t cause you any trouble. We’ll meet there to discuss what we’ve maybe learned or what we can learn while putting our heads together. Sounds good to you?”

"Fleet Street?" Clementine thinks and a 3D map of London appears in their mind. Chains begin to trace down the streets, finding a route through the city's labyrinthine construction towards the aforementioned street.

"I'll be there. Thank you very much for your hospitality." The Mastigos smiles and bows their head. "And... um... next time, I'll try to light up the runes of Hospitality when I visit... I'm very sorry for my sudden visit... I forgot the proper etiquette..."

“Bah. I never remember the rules. Don’t worry too much about it.” He turned to look over his plants and to see what needed some fine-tuning. All the while, he thought about arriving early at Wayland’s to inform them of their new friend. That is, if Clementine had not visited him already. “Have a good one, next time you come in I expect you to buy at least one thing.”

"Of course... Please pick something that smells good for me." Clementine stands up, before almost staggering because of the pot in their hands. Space warps between their fingertips as the pot of flowers seem to just shrink and vanish between their palms. "Phew... Thank goodness I didn't drop it..."

The blind Mage goes ahead to take their cane and slowly navigate the shop back to the doors. "...Take good care, Mister Cereus... It's rough days ahead for all of us..." They smile one last time before leaving the premises.

[Luminesa]

Co-Written by Fin and Lumi

New Friends in Low Places
October 1st, 1888, Afternoon
Wayland’s Bookstore

Before Vasily came calling from his shop to the bookstore during lunch, he had prepared himself a quick sandwich and a pork pie to munch. He was sure that his friend would have food to eat, as Olivia seemed to make delicious food appear out of thin air. But he still liked to make his own food when he had the chance-even if his own cooking was usually very simple. It was still a cathartic activity, to make something for himself before rushing to work for others.

Wayland’s bookstore was rarely truly busy, and today was no different. He looked through the entrance window, and he did not see many people indoors shopping. So once again, he would welcome himself into the business.

As he opened the door, he looked around and munched on his pork pie. Indeed, very few people stood indoors. Their conversation would not have many interruptions.

“Oi! Wayland! Hey, I’ve come a-calling! Have you made any friends since I last saw you?”

As with last time Olivia is manning the counter, reading a heavy and volumous French cookbook to pass the time. The young woman perks up at Vasily's entrance, all smiles as she sets down her book to welcome him. "Mister Vasily, you know you're always welcome inside... Come, come." She leads him once again inside the Sanctum proper, where bright lights are on and the fireplace is crackling in the living room.

She has him sit in one of the stuffy couches, made by the very hands of his partner in crime, as the Revenant comes to serve him afternoon tea with custard filled croissants. "...Master is still asleep... He has had quite some guests yesterday, and he has been recuperating from work. I'll go fetch him."

The girl goes ahead to leave, and up the stairs to a second floor where the rooms are situated. She finds the Moros's door and knocks, her voice soft and steady ringing out like a bell.

"Master? Master Cereus is here..."

Within the room, where everything is spick and span and seems to be arranged meticulously by a neat mind, is Wayland who is sprawled all over his desk. Letters and documents are around him, some half written and some being full reports and theses. The wake up call does not spook nor jolt the Mage to wakefulness, but rather he wakes up in a manner unlike that of a statue being brought to life. Slow, with the sound of joints cracking, as the Moros shakes the heavy blanket of sleep.

He rubs his eyes, yawning for a moment, before calling out to his assistant. "I will be down in a moment. Tend to Cereus in the meantime."

"Yes, sir."

The Mage then goes through the motions: washing his face, changing his clothes, and brushing his long white-shocked hair and braiding it down his back. He dresses as he usually does, in all blacks as if to hide every patch of skin and every hidden implement of war upon him. Only when he dons the beaked mask upon his face does he stare before a mirror, a tall and stark figure staring back at him.

With a grunt and a sigh the Moros comes down the stairs, looking over where Vasily has been sitting. "...Good afternoon, friend. Have you gotten any leads to this mystery you wish to solve?"

Vasily was curious. Olivia had mentioned the possibility of some strange visitors to the bookstore, but his friend had never mentioned them. He wondered if there was some sort of a pattern to these visits. Then again, the pattern would depend on what kinds of visitors that Wayland had entertained. “Before we get into that, Liv said you’ve indeed made a few friends. I made a friend this morning too. Wanna know if maybe we’ve made similar friends, don’t know if we’re being watched by strangers or whatnot.”

"...Just some visitors you wants books and wish to trade." Wayland speaks with a bit of heaviness in his voice, disdain hidden behind his words. "Two vampires, and a woman who I couldn't understand. She seems dead yet alive, but not in the way Olivia is."

The Moros goes to seat on a chair across Vasily, before he retrieves something from within his coat. A massive book, that clearly wouldn't fit in there without any sign of being shoved in some pocket, appears in his hands before he throws it to Vasily. The words Ars Goetia are embellished upon its cover.

"One of the vampires brought this. Most of it is worthless Sleeper fancy, but there are passages in it that is true Awakened Magic. It is a fragmented introduction to Goetic Magic and Summonings." He leans back as he waves his hand at Vasily. "As you study the Mind Arcanum, I'll have you take a look at it."

“Dead yet alive. Yes, that does sound indeed like a vampire. Or uh…me when I’m hungover.” He sipped some of the tea and snickered. “So you’ve run into Kindred then. A lot of questioning people out in the streets recently. And uh…”

He was going to make a cheeky comment, but then his friend went to pull the large tome. His eyes grew wide, and he stared down at the cover. “Ars Goetia? The Lesser Key of Solomon? And a random shmuck happened to have it in their house?” His voice rose a little, and he tore into a pastry as he looked with apprehension glittering in his eyes at Wayland. “Who brought you this? One of your new Kindred friends? Or the shmuck who had it laying around their house?”

"Most of these books are just Sleepers trying to think they play with real Magic. The real teachings of King Solomon would not be in the hands of greedy nobility." Olivia comes to Wayland's side, pouring him tea and serving him the same croissants as Vasily. He nods before continuing his talk. "...It came from a Ventrue, who said he won it from some man named Lord Deville in a bet."

The Mage scoffs at the thought. "If the Bene Ashmedai and the Clavicularius hear of this, that man is surely dead. The vampire was quite upset when I took it from him, even if I compensated him with something more precious than a book that would lead the angry Legacies of King Solomon upon his very doorsteps."

"...How about you? You have told me that you have met a new... 'friend'? Is it more Hunters?" Wayland probes his friend for a bit as he picks up a croissant to eat. With some hesitation he does lift his mask for a bit to bite down, warm and fluffy bread with creamy filling flooding his mouth. "If it is more Hunters, I will relocate you away from that place."

“Lord Deville?! What kind of storybook character is that? Does he wear red and carry a pitchfork to parties? I bet he likes to tell people he plays golf with Old Scratch himself.” He snickered down at the pastry he was still eating, before he grabbed another one and shoved it into his mouth. When he swallowed it, he nodded. “Mm. But I can see why a Kindred would be mad about losing his little book. They’re like greedy little dragons, can’t touch their stuff.”

When asked about the friend he himself had made, he smiled. “This boy…I think…named Clementine came into my shop, peculiar name, but it’s his Mage Name. Says he works for a Metis. That might have been one of your contacts on the morgue list, eh? They can see time, apparently they found that the murderer’s been hiding in houses while waiting for their victims or something.”

Wayland straightens his back for a moment as he hears the names of the new friends that Vasily has found. He slowly puts down his croissant and surveys the room. No runes activated, no pings of Magic happening.

"How did you come across this person? That person is the apprentice of a Mage Master, and she is the Councilor of the Silver Ladder." As Wayland's mask is slightly lifted, Vasily sees a hint of a concerned frown underneath. "Indeed, Clementine could look back in Time. I have heard that they have been learning those Mysteries. They're of the same age as you. I am quite pleased that you found a new Mage to be acquaintances with."

"...Metis having a vested interest in these murders is just a matter of time. She must have sent Clementine in order to temper them through these events." He relaxes slowly as he tries to rationalize the appearance of another Mage in their investigations. "...Have there been any reports of break ins, and what else have you found?"

“They came in my shop. Little nosy creature, apparently their boss knows me, but I don’t know them. Or she’s just too nosy, like my mother. My poor sweet mother whom I love, but who always asks me when I’m getting married.” He shook his head as he ate a third pastry.

“But I don’t even know that much. I’m trying to get to the contact you gave me, I have to go to her address tonight, and they’re like, ‘Ah, yes, clearly, I must put my nose into your shop, because you are a suspect.” He clenched his fists together as he chewed the rest of that third pastry and swallowed it. “I had to get him to buy something first before I told him anything, and if she comes in the shop she’ll buy the most expensive thing first or else!”

His shoulders then sagged as he put his fists back on the table. “All I’ve found is that, according to the papers, she’s been cut-up and unrecognizable. They’ll have to patch her all together at the morgue. Her skin especially. That’s why they had a blanket over her. And if the crook was touching windows and touching buildings and then vanishing, he’s quite the jittery little bastard. I’m thinking we need to go by the brothels, and see if there’s a pattern as to what kinds of prostitutes he’s been getting. Independent ones, or the ones who are kept by a madam…”

"...It seems that we need to see both the bodies then. We need to correlate if both bodies were ripped of skin, and if there are more organs taken away." Wayland continues to eat his forgotten croissants, and goes for a second helping.

"Speaking of which, did Clementine see any indication of the identity of the killer?" Wayland holds his hand towards one of the bookshelves, and one of the books fly towards his hand. He finds a page, and it rips itself out to fly into Vasily's hands. "...If it is a suspected vampire, this dismemberment gimmick is the hallmark actions of a Nagaraja. They are a bloodline of vampires who have mutated to need eating flesh alongside drinking blood."

The page details the vampire's feeding patterns and Wayland's own conjectures on their lineage. There is an expertly drawn image of a vampire crouching over a body and eating chunks of flesh. "...As for werewolves, you are the better scholar in that regard. Also, we need to check on the windows. If there are any fingerprints left, then we could track this person down."

“Fingerprints would be good. We’ve decided that we’ll meet-up, and we’ll investigate. But first, your contact. Unless they pop into my shop again.” Vasily shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen this evening…I have no idea what this murderer could be, but I really suspect a werewolf. After all, how many Nagarajas are there in Britain?”

"...I always assume that wherever there are humans, there is always a vampiric population. I always assume that if it is possible then it is possible." Wayland takes a sip of his tea to pause. Jasmine with a hint of vanilla.

"We do need to know where the bodies are kept. I do have contacts in the police, but the only influence I could bring is ask the Arrow contacts to give us information or certain documents. If we want to come in the stations, we need to sneak in."

“Right. Hmmm…and we’ll need to know which morgue they’re in.” He made the internal decision, and he nodded. “So then this evening, we sneak into the station and find-out where their bodies are. Then I ask about getting into that morgue. Or those morgues. And in the meantime, at some point, if Clementine returns then we can meet them and find more info about the killer’s next target.”

Vasily made the plans in his head as he sat with Wayland, smiling over at him for just a moment. He had lifted his mask a little in order to partake in eating. Maybe he was listening to his Russian friend’s suggestion to wear the mask less. Or maybe it was a fluke.

He hoped one day, when they were not so busy, that maybe he really could see under his friend’s mask. But for now, business remained, and they had a police station, and several new friends, to find in the evening.

[Finsternia]

A Body of Work
October 1st, 1888, Night
Leman Street Station, East London

The night was crisp, cool, and still. How strange for the young Mage to realize that just the other night, yet another murder had shaken London to its core. Now was another night, full of its own evils and opportunities. And now was an opportunity for one group to get information on the murder of Elizabeth Stride.

“I think your people led us to the right location.” Vasily smirked at Wayland, as he stared at the Leman Street station from afar. They were standing in the darkness together, only illuminated by a lone streetlight. There were easier ways to go about getting information, Vasily was sure. But they did not want the delays of dealing with the actual policemen. They needed the files which contained the information on the mortuary which housed Ms. Stride.

“And you.” Vasily had turned around to speak to a third member of the group. “Glad you came right inside and bought a potted plant this time. Remembered your hospitality and supported a local business. Good job.” He gave a thumbs up. “And for that, you get to be one-third of our merry band of miscreants. I hope you know how to get into a police station without someone spotting us.”

The darkness of the night is cold, almost suffocating. It is even more suffocating in this certain alleyway, as shadows lengthen and cover three individuals. Without the aid of any supernatural power, no one would see the three through this cloak of shadows.

Wayland stands tall with his grim mask on his face, eyes staring right ahead towards the police station. New bricks and new buildings, this station has been renovated and spiffed up just a couple years ago. Wayland's contacts are a scant few, and with his position in the Arrows he could only afford to know this location where records would be stored in.

Behind the two is Clementine, nervously holding onto their cane as their Sight extends beyond. It is now further into the night, but as murders have ramped up there are still quite too many people in the premises. Even from out here, the Mastigos could detect at least ten thinking minds moving about in paired surveillance.

"...H-How are we going to get in, Misters?"

"Both you and Cereus are quite accomplished in the Arcanum of Space, yes Clementine?"

"Yes... I do have some confidence in it... I could scry... I could layer locations over each other to quickly travel..."

Wayland nods as he looks about. "As both of you know, due to my profession I must have some accomplishments in Forces. I could cloak both of you two in a spell of invisibility, and send you two to scout and see the layout of the entire premises through Space Knowing spells."

"Are we splitting up? Isn't that dangerous?"

"Could you link us all three mentally, Clementine? I know that you Mastigoi could do that with the Mind Arcanum."

"Oh! I could!"

The blind Mage smiles and places their hands together, and the two other Mages feel the telltale sign of Magic. They both hear soft lullaby singing, and the sound of rattling chains as they feel tethered with one another.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

Wayland nods. "Loud and clear. This way we could communicate in distances. Now, I just want both of you to scout. Cereus, use Space to map the area and use Life to tally the amount of living things within. As for you Clementine, use Space in the same manner and Mind to tally those with thinking minds. We'll meet after thirty minutes."

The Moros snaps his finger and the smell of coal enters the two younger Mages' noses. Their clothes become heavier for a bit as they begin to vanish from sight, and the sounds they emit become as silent as the night.

"Once we have the layout, I'll do the infiltration. Godspeed, friends."

The red brick fortress stood looming over the two young Mages, who now marched across the street with the guarantee that invisibility would protect them from physical detection. They would have to hope that the station did not trace Magic, lest they have bigger issues.

“Thirty minutes. Plenty of time. You know if I’m invisible, I wonder what happens if I take my clothes off and just walk around. Do the clothes lose their invisibility?” Vasily spoke telepathically to his new partner-in-crime, and then looked up at the complex. Life Magic would help him to count the police officers guarding the place, as Wayland had suggested.

“He said to use Space, but I’ve only just started learning that, so this will work better.”

Life for tracking the number of officers, Matter for making walls less opaque so that he could see into the station. Of course, he could first look into the window, and there he saw some of the officers.

“A handful, maybe five or six, are walking around the first floor. Most of them are probably out and about, or sleeping, or off-duty. Not terrible.” He turned to Clementine. “Do you see into the office space? First floor? Do you see file cabinets and whatnot?”

Vasily could hear Wayland's exaperated voice at his suggestion. "...You'll be leaving your clothes in the open, yes. Don't dilly dally around, Cereus." The Moros stays on guard at the entrance, securing their escape plan just in case.

Clementine walks with Vasily, their footing as sure as can be. The layout of the nearby geography is shown within their mind, and the two other Mages feel the stream of mental images come into their minds. 3D models of the space around them is being shared in the telepathic link. "There's doors to the sides... and at the back... And... oh! There's sewers underneath as well..."

The Mastigos nods at Vasily's request and moves closer to the building, just keeping their figure away from the larger open spaces in case somebody would walk into them. Their perception extends towards the first floor, and the layout is revealed.

Cubic figures appear in Clementine's mind, signifying furnitures and whatnots, as well as humanoid figures flashing with fatigue and thoughts of going home. Some are on their desks, thumbing through book shaped geometries and Clementine sends out another scan to confirm that there are indeed furnitures that store multiple book-like shapes.

Vasily and Wayland feel the chains of connection rattle again as they are fed with the spatial images that Clementine has sensed. The two younger Mages feel Wayland think for a moment before he speaks out.

"Cereus, could you cast a Matter spell to locate autopsy reports within that location?"

“I can give it a go.”

With a soft flash of his Nimbus-Clementine would smell fresh jasmines in the air-Vasily would use Matter to detect a single substance. In a police station, papers were everywhere. He could not just think of “paper”. He had to think of “the report of Elizabeth Stride’s murder”. He watched through the wall for a few moments, his hands shaking with nervousness. If a Hunter was to show and to sense the Magic, such a presence would also land them in enormous trouble. At least, right now it would.

“Okay. It’s in a drawer in the very, very back of the room. File cabinet, everything is in alphabetical order. Given I’m currently juggling some two spells at least, tell me when you want me to stop using my Magic so I can preserve some for the infiltration.”

"The drawer in the very back."

Wayland thinks back to the images that Clementine has sent. There are at least half a dozen police officers in there, all tired and wanting a nap, and there are several points of entry being the stairs to the second floor and the doors leading outside.

"...Thank you very much, friends. Circle once again to confirm our layout, and I'll go ahead and retrieve our item. You may drop the Matter spell now, Cereus."

Clementine sighs as they release the tension within their heart. So far so good, and they've already found their target. Vasily's own Nimbus has helped with their calming, and they do not forget to send the Thyrsus their thanks through a sensation of gratitude through the link.

"I'll take east side, and you take west side, then we meet up back here?"

The Mastigos does their part, circling the premises to complete the map. Trees, hedges, and bushes are marked in the mental map, and Clementine passes by certain geometric figures. Small looking houses, with thinking things within them. Guard dogs.

They pause, hoping the invisibility and silence holds, until they sense one of the dogs raise its head towards their direction. Gritting their teeth, the Mage reaches out to that same dog and the rest with a single command: sleep. A faint lavender color tinges the dogs' eyes as they start to yawn and tuck themselves in their kennels. The Mastigos takes a moment to feel their surroundings, before they slowly leave the vicinity.

When they arrive back to the aforementioned gathering place, Clementine contacts Vasily and Wayland through their telepathic link. "They have guard dogs in the premises... but I have put them to sleep... I'll try to maintain the spell as long as I could, but be careful going near that side of the courtyard Mister Wayland."

"Acknowledged. Once both of you are ready, come back here and keep our escape route open. I'll come to take the documents once you return."

Vasily released his spell, almost giving a heave until he covered his mouth to avoid giving Clementine and himself away. He then looked back toward the building. The west side was much like the east side, nothing unusual for him to find. He had been in a police station before, and this one was not so different. When he heard about the guard dogs, he went to check his side of the yard, and sure enough there were guard dogs near the prisoners’ quarters across the block.

“It’s not like we’ll be going over there, but one can never be too careful.”

He used his own Life spell to make the dogs sleepy, and then walked back around the west side of the building. Looking through that side of the building with Matter, he saw that the officers lingered more toward the front of the building. The interior was quiet, almost too quiet.

“When you go inside, Wayland, look for the folder labeled ‘Stride’ in the ‘S’ section. It might be good for you to just transcribe a copy and to leave the original, in case any Hunters come this way.”

As soon as he walked back, he looked over at Clementine. “If you can teleport maybe, or if I can modify myself to be able to run like a cheetah, we might be able to run away in case we get caught.”

"A folder labeled with Stride. Thank you Cereus."

When the two other Mages come close, Wayland drops the spells on them and ushers them into the shaded alley. "...If push comes to shove, step into the Twilight or teleport away. Do we have that clear?"

Clementine nods and replies telepathically. "I could bring us back to your Sanctum or Mister Cereus's Sanctum, Mister Wayland. Best of luck to you... Oh!"

The Mastigos touches Wayland for a moment, and the Moros is suffused by an odd sense of providence. "...I have casted a spell of Fate upon you to wish you luck, Mister Wayland... We'll be waiting here..."

With an appreciative nod, Wayland casts the combined spell of invisibility and silence upon himself to prepare for the heist. He goes ahead, striding onwards without worry, to approach the front doors of the police station.

The Moros remembers the layout of the room within. While the police are dead tired, a door opening on its own will still be suspicious if one notices. With a gloved hand outstretched, the Mage slowly passes through the solid door like it's thick and heavy water. Walls and solid barriers are easily traversable by a Disciple of the Matter Arcanum.

Within the office is lit by gas light and the overall environment is tense. The smell of cigar smoke, coffee, and alcohol lingers and sticks everywhere. These past few murders have been difficult for these Sleepers, as some of the officers are either passed out over reports or are pushing through with their prefered stimulants. Wayland gives them a cursory glance before going down the hall towards his target.

He does keep his senses sharp, in case one of the awake officers would bump on him. He pauses and steps to the side when a haggard one passes by, clearly in his 8th coffee of the night. Wayland continues this slow but sure method, and his cloaking spells allow him to eliminate any other method of detection.

The Moros finally reaches the cabinet at the back, and his eyes scan down the files. Neat in some places, heavily disordered and sticking out like plates and spines in others, Wayland goes through the sorted folders and finds the S ones. Down the line is a new one, labeled Stride on its cover.

Wayland reaches out, but he does not take it off the cabinet. He simply touches the folder, and he retrieves something from within his coat. A notebook, one that he has been writing his notes on since this morning. With a simple casting of a Matter spell, the contents within are printed in the empty pages of his notebook. Mission accomplished.

"I've copied the contents, friends. I'll be coming back. Prepare to leave."

With one final look, Wayland uses the Prime Arcanum to destroy traces of Magic and his Nimbus as he slowly traces his steps. Another casting of his walkthrough spell and the Moros is out, and he takes his time to erase possible remnants of his break in.

After a short walk, Wayland drops his Veiling spells before his two companions in the dark alley. Clementine almost jolts at his arrival, with a spell ready in case it was someone else, before sighing in relief.

"Did you manage to get the files, Mister Wayland?"

"...It is in here." He takes out the notebook from inside his coat, and flips through the pages. There within is a copy of the police report on one Miss Elizabeth Stride. He hands it to Vasily as he goes ahead to erase remnants of Magic around them.

"Could you... read it for me?" Clementine turns to Vasily, excitement visible upon their face.

Like Clementine, Vasily waited with anticipation, in case he needed to drag his new partner and himself into the Gauntlet. Doing so would take a toll on him, and he was not looking forward to the possibility. Minutes passed, as Wayland strode through the station and looked for the folder he needed.

“Bloody hell. He needs to hurry up.”

Watching as he made the door transparent once more with Matter, he stared at Wayland as he marched through the building and found the file. Then came the time to copy said file.

“C’mon, hurry up!”

As a police officer was about to catch a clue, however, that something seemed wrong with the dogs at the station, their eldest companion made his way through the wall, into a nearby alley. Their cue to go after him.

“Keep your voice down, Clem, let’s go catch-up!” Vasily hissed as he dropped his spell and hurried to meet with their partner.

He had succeeded. They had succeeded. He was exhausted already from all the Magic they had used, but they had the files they needed. He heaved a huge sigh. “I’ll tell you what, boys…er…boy or girl…” He gestured to Clementine. “Not every heist we do is going to be that easy. Ought to be thankful this one was quick.”

Of course, now came the time to see what Wayland had copied. When the purple-haired Mage asked Vasily to head the contents, he shook his head. “Not right here. Let’s get somewhere further than this, because if the cops realize what’s happened they’re going to be on high alert. Come on.”

And so he led them away from the station, down closer to an alley further away, and then he looked to Wayland. “…You two want me to read this now?”

"Go tell Clementine what's the location of the morgue, and we'll leave." Wayland says as he finishes up tidying the alleyway. All is as clean as can be. No footprints nor any sign of passage remains.

He quickly flipped through the file, knowing how to speed-read from his academic days. Elizabeth Stride’s mortuary picture, the descriptions of her wounds, the timing of the discovery of the body, all of it Wayland had copied in painstaking detail. And in record time. He smirked down at the document, and he nodded.

“Good good. Uh, Clem?” He turned to look at Clementine, who was standing not too far away. “We’ll be going to St. George-In-The-East mortuary. Not too far away. But we need to go now, and see if we can avoid any drama.”

"St. George-In-The-East?" The Mastigos's mind simulates a map of London, a massive maze of buildings and streets, and chains begin to trace a path from their current one towards the next. "I do know where it is... Mister Cereus, please hold Mister Wayland as we walk through the overlapping space I'm about to make."

Clementine takes a deep breath before pointing forwards at empty air. Their Nimbus flares slightly, the lullaby is now accompanied by murmurs of prayers for forgiveness and mercy. As Vasily has accomplishments in the Space Arcanum, he senses the air before Clementine to be overlapped into another. Like two tectonic plates, the space of this alley is now overlapped with and is sliding against an alley close to the mortuary.

"Let's go..." The Mastigos holds onto Vasily's hand and pulls the other two Mages with them. It's a bit dizzying for just a moment, like stepping into a room and forgetting there was a hidden step before you, but they arrive safely at the morgue that is detailed in the report. Clementine smiles at the two as they let go of Vasily. "We're here now..."

Wayland nods silently as he gazes up at the building, wondering if other things like them have already come inside to see the poor dead woman. "...Let's stop here for now and rest. Both of you seem to be mentally fatigued." He takes out two bottles from within his coat, bearing cold drinks inside. "Take a moment and then we'll head in."

[Pragia]

Allen - Music of the Spheres
October 1st, 1888, Morning
Adrastus' Sanctum at "The Club" in Waterloo

Mister Allen Cameron would wake with the sunrise, new dawn's light streaming into his room. His suite on the third floor of the establishment would seem to absorb and retain the light, his view outside over the river Thames from his bedroom unimpeded. He could see Westminster through the window, but anyone would think that there was no window there at all.

The Mage of the Silver Ladder maintained his room in an immaculate state, every inch of its construction having been turned into perfected material as one of his first orders of business when moving in a few months ago. What were once concrete floors now appeared as white marble adorned with woven rugs gleamed with a near mirror polish and flatness. The oaken walls varnished to a sheen as well. Orichalcum leaf designs were inlaid into the walls, snaking along towards the ceiling where an electric light fixture hung, encased in scintillating iridescent glass.

Allen's home that he called a sanctum was so beautifully furnished for more than just a striking aesthetic, it helped him focus on his work. To be surrounded by the sublime granted the Obrimos mage an environment much closer to the one he saw in his dreams and in his sight beyond. He could feel the sunlight enter the room, not even refracting through the adamant glass, filling the room with a brightness and warmth.

The man would scratch at his beard as he slipped into his slippers, his stocky frame lumbering over to a small desk in the corner atop which sat a beautiful machine, a wooden box mounting a wax cylinder and a horn. He would grab the small arm of the machine and place it gingerly onto the wax, which had notches in it. Pressing a button on the box, the cylinder would begin to rotate, and music would begin to flow from the horn.

It was a gift given to him earlier this month following a demonstration by Mr. Edison at the Royal Society. Allen had been able to produce wonders of sound himself, but to see a piece of technology in front of him being able to play with ease? It warmed his heart as he basked in the morning sun. He could see the notes, feel the rotation, hear the arm's stylus dip and rise from each divet in the perfected wax. He had to improve upon the design himself, after all. It had required a great deal of legwork and a generous donation, but it was a prize he would treasure.

Perhaps in time he would produce his own, once he had something to add to the design. But for now it saronaded him as he washed up and got ready for the morning, the heavyset mage drawing up his suspenders. His suit was sharp, but lacked the fine tuned sheens and stark colorings of his room. Enough to stand out, but not enough to draw unwanted attention on the London streets. His black top hat had a white banding on it, and his gloves were similarly pristine. While his considerable size made the suit feel imposing, the winning smile on his face helped dampen the effect.

He took up his oaken cane, topped with a silver lion motif and carved in patterns all the way down, and opened the door. Leaving his sanctum, sealing the door shut and leaving his wards. Immediately the perfected paneling and opulence of his abode turned into the less perfect but still stylish mahogany walls of The Club. The upstairs was similarly warded from the upstanding drinking establishment beneath, posessing its own second drinking hall for the upstairs tenants.

It was not his own personal sanctum, indeed he was neither the senior nor the most powerful to grace the halls of the establishment. Candles lit the hall as he strode into the common room for uncommon individuals. The smell of rich syrup and confectionery greeted his nose: indeed for all his mastery of alchemy, the culinary arts were one he could appreciate on a Monday morning. He would pass the warm pastries, grabbing a plate and a couple of them as he reached the kitchen window, his low baritone voice keeping a chipper tone "Thank you, Lady Essex, these look lovely as ever. I might need tae restrain myself before I overindulge." He would smile to the woman who was in the kitchen. A woman younger than him, with raven hair and blue eyes was smiling back "I am glad you like how they look as much as how they taste, Mister Cameron. Better that you could stand to leave your cave and grace us with your presence." She would say with mocking grandiosity.

Allen would give a small click of his teeth as he placed the plate on the window, reaching into his coat pocket to draw an ivory pipe of simple construction and a black-brown wood stem. "I do not try tae leave people in suspense, but the most recent work's been time-consuming. Trying to wrap my head around some of the new toys shown off at the society. Some prints from the Yanks with what they're callin' an induction motor. I think they might have some mages over there working on some impressive things."

The woman in the kitchen would meet him at the window, Rena Essex was the most recent in a long line of owners of The Club, and while she had a great deal she still needed to learn, she was an honest woman of high society. "Terribly complicated, I'm afraid us luddites will have to manage." She would say in a more joking tone. "I believe Mister Grenden was looking for you about four hours ago? Something about joining him to sit in on parliament next week?"

Allen would nod "Right, right." He would hold his finger up to the gas lamp, his nimbus briefly making it appear dimmer than himself as he lit his pipe with it. Rena would blink some, her mage sight seeing the brilliance coming from him "If you see him, I'll be happy to join him later in the week, need to start making regular appearances." He would chuckle, taking in a smoke before taking a bite of the berry-flavored confectionery.

"Thinking about running on that by-election?" She would say, clearly much more interested in that than his talk of motors. Allen knew she was a gossipmonger, but he was more than happy to provide. "I think so, I have time to prepare and decide, but soon enough I'll take the shot."

She would continue to smile, making herself busy in the same time as the baking sheets began to stack themselves. Her own nimbus was a green glow with a scent of fir trees that marked her an enchantress. "I cannot say I understand your desire, Allen. Sleeper politics always feels like bait for opportunists of all colors, most of them dark."

"Why else do you think I'm throwing myself into the running? I care a great deal for sleeper affairs, in case you forgot, we were all sleeping for a spell." He'd say, his heart on his suit sleeve. She would nod "Sure its not to find excuses to put blades into more of those creepy crawlies you worry yourself about?"

The Claviger would speak with the clarity of teaching "The Sage staves off Lions from Stags." Even if Rena were not of his order, the meaning was self evident. Most mages here were intimately aware of order teaching regardless of their membership. Rena would join him in saying "The soeepers must reach enlightenment." Before he continues "And if a few monsters stand in my way, that will just make the journey all the more valuable." He would grab a paper from the basket, flicking it open becore taking another puff. "See."

He'd point at the headline KILLER TAKES FOURTH LIFE "See, this girl was only a little younger than you." He'd say aloud, still reading as he missed his host's momentary soft frown "Torn to pieces by some animal." He'd continue to read, his own frown growing "Just unseemly. I think I'll be headed there today. See what lies under the surface." He says evenly, putting his pipe down and rubbing his chin.

[Morrdh]

Dunne
October 1st, 1888, Early Hours
Whitechapel, East London

He'd begun to notice how intimately acquainted he had gotten with London's nocturnal side, with autumn the promises of winter that it brought Dunne was beginning to wonder whether he was destined to ever see sunlight ever again. The nighttime streets of the metropolis, dimly lit by gaslight, processed an almost otherworldly and haunted feel to them. Knowing that the buildings he passed typically housed sleeping figures made Dunne feel almost as though he was stepping foot through a mausoleum or crypt, the recent killings had made people timid and London seemed more like a necropolis with nary a soul present on the street.

Oisin's findings troubled, even more so that he confirmed the sense of Wyrm taint at the previous murder sights. The pack's Theurge, a grizzled old barrel chested Scotsman by the name of MacLeod, had an inkling that some of the slain women may have been kinfolk but he was investigating whether his theory held any weight. Whilst it was possible that it was the work of the Wyrm's minions, it seemed too...targetted especially if MacLeod was able to prove his theory. The Kindred were another possibility even that to the Garou they carried the taint of the Wyrm and had much to gain from Gaia's warriors in London being weakened, but deliberately targetting the Garou where it would hurt the most could spark a war that would make things messy. Scaring the city's mortal population into hiding behind locked doors at night seemed rather counter-productive for the Kindred.

Then who?

Dunne didn't get much of a chance to dwell on his thoughts as he reached the spot he'd been directed to head to, the sunken railway line just north of Whitechapel station where a body had been dumped. When he arrived Dunne spotted the cluster of constables who stood a little uneasily a short distance from a Black Mariah, a horse drawn police van, and were evidently greatly relieved to see him. Dunne called out. "Wots worth all the trouble bringing me out all this way eh lads?"

"Sergeant." One of the constables nodded. "We thought we found another slain tart, but well..."

"Well...?"

"Best if you have a look for yourself sergeant."

Dunne gave the constable a funny look before climbing into the back of wagon where a cloth covered body laid. Lifting the sheet he saw that the victim was a woman going by the shape and clothing, though the body looked more like a months old cadaver rather than a freshly slain person. There was a knife wound he could just about make out thanks to the dried blood, in the chest...right where the heart was. Curious.

"Right, listen good lads." Dunne said, addressing the constables after climbing back out of the wagon. "A guinea fer each o' ya if ye can keep yer traps shut 'bouts this, not a dickie bird ta anyone ya hear?"

The constables nodded in agreement, a guinea or 21 shillings was near enough a week's wages and a very welcomed little 'bonus'. It would take a bit out of Dunne's own wallet, but he needed the constables to keep their lips sealed about this and not give in to gossip. This was something best kept from the newsheets least it cause even more of an uproar. Satisfied by the constables' response, Dunne added. "I'll take the reigns on this one and see that it gets dealt with."

No complaints were forthcoming, the constables happy with the matter being handed over to somebody else to deal with. Before climbing into the driver's seat, Dunne doled out the promised coin whilst trying not to wince. Then his thoughts turned to planning out a route to the Hackney marshes along with where to get some lamp oil and matches at this hour.

[Luminesa]

Co-Write with Lumi, Fin, Ormata, and Zei

A Congregation of Bodies
October 1st, 1888, Night
St. George-In-The-East Mortuary, Cable Street, London

St. George-In-The-East was a lovely, pristine church building. A towering, immaculate castle, much like St. Paul’s Cathedral except significantly smaller and without its huge, halo-esque, ivory dome. Vasily did not like a lot of things, and when he realized that they would be breaking into a morgue in a churchyard, he felt his chest heave a little.

Deep breaths. The morgue was nearby, and the first part of the mission had been far too much of a success for Vasily’s comfort. Breathe in, breathe out. Now that they had the file they needed, they could get to the next part of their mission and find some clues. Even if doing so meant sneaking into the grounds of a church.

“…Bloody hell…I don’t like this…it’s too quiet…” The Russian did not care what was in the cup that Wayland had offered, only that the cold liquid went down his own throat as face as possible. When he had glugged the liquid, he then turned to his compatriots and sighed. “We need to get to her body, take some notes over what happened, and get going. Nobody needs to know what we’re doing, right, right.”

But before he could turn to the morgue, out the corner of his eye he saw a shadow emerging. A tall, swaying shadow. He groaned, and his eyes stared toward his partner. “…Wayland…”

Wayland goes to his side to steady him, strong arms supporting the slighter man. With a gesture from the Moros, the cobblestone earth rises to become a makeshift bench for Vasily. He gently lowers him down. "...Sit down for awhile and drink. Replenish your mental faculties for a bit." He touches Vasily's upper back, just below his neck, and the Thyrsus feels energy and pure power course through him. Wayland is transfering his own Mana to replenish Vasily's spent ones.

Clementine also comes to Vasily's side, gently touching the Thyrsus's temples. A cool and soothing sensation spreads into his psyche as the Mastigos helps to replenish his tired mind. With two more circulations of their psychic power, Clementine lets go with their own tired smile. "...He just needs a rest, just like what Mister Wayland has said... Should I go check the place first? I do have some qualifications to look into the bodies..."

"...Very well..." Wayland is still supporting Vasily's body, preventing him from just falling over. "Keep the telepathic link between us in case you come into trouble. We'll be by your side immediately."

A morgue. Of all the places she might have wanted to have gone to, a morgue full of rotting, dead kine was among the lowest of that list. There was little to be done on the issue, though. She had questions. The building likely had answers. The kine papers spoke of deaths in London of a most curious sort, bloody and visceral, methodically executed with the sort of finesse which left her wondering if another kine was so capable. If it was not a kine, well, then that simply would not be acceptable. London belonged to the Kindred, no matter what the Garou said, no matter what the magi said. It belonged to the Kindred and, disassociated from politics as she was, she hated the idea of a creature stalking about, disturbing her carefully laid plans. The Masquerade, her masquerade, relied upon the stupidity of the kine. Anything else was unacceptable. Anything else was deadly.

She’d stepped out from an alleyway onto the street. It had been one of the quicker ways to come from the waterfront where her pilot had moored, as well as among the least watched. Three shapes stood before and behind her, almost melting into the shadows in their own pale mimicries of a Kindred’s power. Pale eyes on their part watched every corner, pale hands clutching heavy pot bellied pistols, shoes making not a sound upon the poor cobblestone.

Two men and a woman stood across the way. She knew one’s face, Mr Smith the bookkeep. Odd for him to be out so late. Very odd. A narrowing of the eyes and a subtle click in her mind as she looked ever so closer. All three were kine of the creative sort. Colleagues. Strange, that. Mages weren’t commonly known to go out together at such late hours, in the city of Mithras, when there wasn’t something to be gained.

What, then? The morgue? It was a possibility, one she didn’t doubt. One swayed, the cobblestone rising up to meet them in a seat. Weak. Feeble. Another moved off quickly, cane in her hand. Blind? Perhaps. She would still be a potential hazard. Would such mages serve a purpose or hinder it?

Her own shoes made hardly a sound as she strode across the street to the two. Not a word was given to the retainers, though the most subtle of gestures gave one a command. No look was needed, though Relia knew that a rifle raised up in the shadows.

“Mr Smith. How fares the night?”

“Oi. Oh. Uh…” Vasily stared at the woman, and then at Wayland. Something had seemed off about her, but he was not sure what. He grimaced to his friend, though he was thankful that he was keeping him upright. “Huh. Wayland, is this one of the…friends you met yesterday?”

"...Good evening, Miss Relia."

Wayland stands up to give the Elder Tzimisce some respect and etiquette, though the Kindred could see that his actions are stiff and more robotic than one who has gracefully practiced the motions.

"It's quite well... You may call me Mister Wayland during this time. As you can see, I am with my fellows." He gestures towards the two other Mages with him, though his body is still interposed between Relia and his troop.

Clementine nervously hides behind Wayland, and Vasily could see a troubled look on their face. Beyond the darkness are humanoid shapes, lying wait for their dark mistress. "...She's not alone... Be careful Mister Wayland..."

The Moros internally nods as he turns towards the morgue. "...I'll assume that yesterday's killings have brought your curiosities here, Madame? As acquaintances, why don't we look into this mystery together? After all, knowing what is behind this benefits all of us..."

Thin lips considered the proposal briefly. It would do little to be forced into some form of a confrontation, and besides that the mages could provide a good bit of knowledge and utility. How well such an alliance held after the encounter, however…they may rely more strongly upon the truth itself, or at least however much of the truth they would be capable of uncovering. Should the truth prove hazardous for three such kine to know…their elimination would be the surest means to an end. There was little doubt of that.

However…guarantees would be an order for all parties. That would be true enough. The girl seemed most perceptive for one who was presumably blind. Most definitely a hazard.

“You are right to assume. Irregularity harms all of our…business endeavors, does it not? The issue needs to be resolved.” A pause. “Yet there is…the smallest matter of trust. You do not trust me. I do not blame you. I do not trust you. I am sure you…do not blame me. Do you swear to cause no harm, should no harm be given to you?”

"Of course. We both want the same thing, and we also do not wish to come to blows. After all, you are quite the avid reader in my shop. At the very least we both agree on these principles." Wayland nods, coming to terms that at least the other party is honest in her transactions.

"These fellows are Cereus and Clementine." He gestures toward his companions, towards the blonde man on the cobblestone seat and towards the faerie looking personage behind him. With a thought, he speaks to the others through their telepathic bond.

"...She is Kindred, a vampire. Show some respect to her and we won't find any problems."

"Good evening..." Clementine smiles at her and bows, their voice as soft as a loving mother's lullaby to her child. They're dressed in men's clothing, and yet their countenance hangs in the androgynous department.

"Let's come inside and see if they allow visitors? It's quite cold outside for... a prodigious lady as yourself..." Clementine smiles at the Tzimisce and Wayland nods. He then turns to Vasily as he puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Cereus, do you feel better?"

“Ah, I feel fine. I think.” He took a deep breath. The woman in front of him was a vampire, and he had not met very many Kindred in his short life. Yet she was friends with Wayland, and had not caused him any harm. In fact, they seemed to at least tolerate each other. “I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t hurt me or you. And we’re in a churchyard, the good Lord would not approve of us having a scrap in a churchyard unless it’s got to do with demons. But I guess if we’re the only people here, we ought to run along.”

He then went to open the door, only to realize that it was locked. He frowned. “…Well, here’s the hard part of the endeavor. Anyone got a key? Or can anyone make a key?”

Wayland follows Vasily's lead, with Clementine bringing the back end. The blind Mage seems confident in their steps, as if they had some sixth sense to 'see' the world around them. Indeed the Mastigos is mapping the area around them within their mind, and Vasily and Wayland are vaguely aware of the lay of the land around them.

At the face of a locked door, Wayland steps beside Vasily. "...Allow me." With his body blocking the sight on his methods and with only Vasily to see, Wayland moves the shadows casted upon his hand to fashion a tendril that slowly worms into the door knob. He then grabs it, the shadow solidifying into solid matter, and turns it. The lock pries open.

He raises his hand first before asking Vasily and Clementine. "...Are there any living beings inside?"

Vasily stared down at the shadowy tendril for a few moments, his eyes blinking as if he was not sure what he had seen. All the while, he waited to hear a click, and sure enough he heard it.

"...Oh...oh you got it? Oh, got it. Okay." He turned his focus to the inside, using Life to detect any human beings-or humanoid beings-moving inside the building. He could feel a lot of...stillness. Coldness. Darkness. The inside of a morgue was not a pleasant place to be, neither for the morticians or for the people who went to see the bodies of their loved ones. For this group, none of whom being friends or loved ones of Ms. Stride, the circumstance was still quite unsettling. Except perhaps for Wayland, who was used to death, and Relia, who did not seem scared of much of anything.

Suddenly, after a few seconds, Vasily paused his Magic. He then looked back to the group, and he sighed. "Uhhh...I'm not sure if I felt someone in there. I don't feel anything breathing. Might try looking for Spirits once we're inside. Probably nothing big or major, but these places do get haunted quite often."

A simple roll of the shoulders was Relia's response to the affirmation by Wayland and his acceptance of the accords. As he introduced his compatriots, one who seemed far too distant and one far too polite, as shadowed alley Relia had emerged from shifted with movement. That Clementine named her prestigious before treating with her as one does a wilted, fragile flower was almost funny to the figure as three shapes came from the shadows.

They were just as quiet as she had been on the approach, men in black suits and boots. One, as he walked, concealed a long rifle along the length of his willowed frame while the other two watched down the path. Relia did not need to confirm that they were doing as they had been ordered. It simply was. She listened to the magi's comments.

"Whoever is inside will sleep soon enough. The night is quiet...but it is not eternal. It is best to not tarry. If there are no objections..."

A glance behind and, one of the revenants began to move to the door. A trick of the light and a billy club seemed to materialize in his hand, pale eyes watching the magi as he paused, almost waiting for their consent to it.

Vasily stared at them, and then at Relia. Some sorts of bodyguards, maybe, but then he felt a chill from them. Wayland would know what they were, but all the Russian could tell was that they were undead. He was not going to waste Spirit Magic on them unless he absolutely needed to do so. "Friends of yours? The group of em look like zombies, you dug them up from around here?"

"Employees. Household servants." Relia's response was flat, lacking in much intonation as she stared as the kine. The comments were not a question, not in the truest sense, and needling. No self respecting Elder lurked among the dead kine for their servants, no self respecting Tziminsce lacked a family of Revenants by which to draw from. To insinuate either was in poor taste. Truly the kine lacked manners.

"Now. Shall we?"

Wayland closes his eyes for a moment before expanding his own senses, and the shadows around him seem to grow darker. Sobbings, wailings, and ephemeral whispers call out from the ether. Faint shapes and shadows move at the corners of his vision, and the group sees him turn towards one direction, towards the chapel's cemetery. "...We shall be passing by. Do not mind us, and please aid us when we need it."

The Moros bows, and a faint cold wind blows towards the group. "...There are no hostile dead. Let us move forward." Wayland goes ahead to push the doors, and move inwards. Clementine silently prods at their fellow's minds, speaking to them about the layout. "...There's a hallway there... and some doors... As for where the body is, I do not know..."

"Thank you Clementine."

The shadows around Wayland seem to lengthen once again as he reaches out with the Arcanum of Death, seeking out information about corpses and the dead specifically the body of one Elizabeth Stride. Searching for dead bodies, even female corpses, would ping too many viable answers.

A flash appears in Wayland's sight, followed by a sob and a scream. He looks down the hallway, down the dark length of the morgue. "...Her body should be down there. Let's go."

It was fortuitous that Jade, or rather the character which she played, Emerald, had managed to convince the morticians to enjoy their night at home after asking her questions.

The world beyond the Gauntlet was far more comfortable, to be in, to think in, better in general, really. After a day of massive leaps forward one after the other, almost without pause, this was a quiet she dearly needed.

Just next to her, in a way, it was beyond the Gauntlet, stood a small table and chair. Upon it would lay a black notebook, a special design on it with an emerald colored lily flower. Aside from being obviously expensive and of high quality, it was filled with various notes on matters serious and not, including this one.

It was joined by a mirror standing up with its own leg, about the size of a typical picture frame, which faced not towards the chair away from it, in the direction of where Jade would be. An empty of what was once coffee was also there, and a satchel bag on the floor by the chair.

Such a sight in such a place would be most peculiar for someone to see, peculiar and dangerous of course, as they would have hands on invaluable information they ought not.

That wasn't a problem though. Or, it was not supposed to be. A gentle stirring began among the spirits. So gentle it would likely have been imperceptible, even to those who can step sideways. Jade was not them though, while living a solitary life as a Garou had its share of problems, it gave nothing but free time to be among the spirits as one could wish.

It wouldn't be the police, they've no reason to stop by as Jade would be delivering an update in the morning. The morticians went home, left nothing behind. Hooligans would simply assault a grave, it has less security. The door couldn't have been opened forcefully, or the disturbances would've been far greater, whoever came in did so as if they had their own key.

Those people had already been ruled out. A hermit she may be, naive at times even, Jade was well aware other supernaturals existed in the city. The murders undeniably looked like potential work of one, it's a near guarantee others have taken interest. Of course, it could be the murderer themselves, here to remove evidence, it would be quiet easy to do if the killer was a supernatural being.

At least, it would've been if this were any other day.

She stood up from the floor, turning to face the door providing entrance to the room. With a slow deep breath, the transformation commenced. Signs pointed to an inhuman intruder, whatever they were, they probably wouldn't be expecting this.

Vasily always had found the way that Wayland communicated with ghosts to be so formal. So venerable. The way he spoke to them himself was unpracticed, informal, and sometimes a little too forceful. He was learning to be soft and gentle with them, but he never could speak to them as well as his friend. He almost got a chill watching him.

But now was not the time to watch. Now was the time for action.

The group walked into the morgue, which was ice-cold and smelled quite strange. Rot, more rot, a wetness, and sterile chemicals. He sniffed, and then tucked his nose into his coat. “Bah. We need to get in and get out.”

Reminding himself that he needed Spirit Magic to be active, he frowned and held the spell ready. His third of the day, he could only concentrate on this last spell. He hoped he would not need more, or else he would have to turn to other means to defending himself. Namely, the shotgun under his coat.

“CHRIST HAVE MERCY!!!” He screamed, as he heard the moan and shriek down the hall. “You made me swear in a church courtyard! I hope you’re happy!” he yelled at Wayland. He then collected his composure, and he slowly started to feel the ping of more Magic.

“Hello?…Helloooooooo? Why the hell do I suddenly hear breathing?” Vasily looked back at the group, and then walked forward toward the door which Ms. Stride’s ghost had indicated.

“I hear you breathing, whoever you are!” He then kicked open the door, and immediately jumped back. “GOOD SWEET MERCIFUL MARY, WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL?!”

He almost went to cock his shotgun, but for a moment he decided to hold it under his coat. An enormous werewolf, growling and looming over the group, now faced the party and growled in their direction. “…Wayland…Wayland…I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS!”

Wayland immediately goes up to the front, and a necklace of seven sword-shaped trinkets slip out of his shirt into the open. He grips one of them as he readies for a violent opposition. "You said that there were no living beings here?!"

"I... I can't sense anything!" Clementine speaks with a panic as their senses reach out down the hall, mapping out the empty geography. "There's nothing physical there! I can't sense any thoughts!"

The Moros grunts as his eyes stare at the hallway. There are no ghostly presences beyond the one he could feel in the room where Ms. Stride's body should be kept in. And from what he could see it isn't violent, rather it is in deep grief and mourning. "What are you sensing, Cereus? Is it a Spirit?"

He grips one of the trinkets, one that shines with a bluish tint, as he readies to brandish it out. "...Could you talk to it?"

“IT’S A NINE-FOOT FREAKING BLOODY WEREWOLF, THE COLOR OF AMBER, LOOKING DOWN AT US. SOMEHOW IT CAME THROUGH THE GAUNTLET AND IT IS CURRENTLY BREATHING IN MY FACE.”

He took a deep breath, and tried to compose himself. He murmured something, much like a prayer, and he made a little Sign of the Cross. He then held out a hand to the Garou. “Hello! My name is V-Cereus! Cereus is my name, smoking and planting things and talking to Spirits is my game! We are here to investigate a murder! Do you speak English?” His voice was stilted as he tried to ask the questions, as though he was trying to be loud, but also understandable, to a being which might not speak English as a first language.

As she waited, watching the motion of the spirits around her to time a springing ambush, taking calm breaths before the storm of battle, a different storm would arrive. This one assails the ears.

Based on the... Demeanor of the voice, and their later introduction after they had calmed down ever so modestly from screaming, the intruder was a human, specifically a Mage, one who deals with spirits. Yet he was not alone, this she was certain of, and with current facts it seemed rather unlikely for Jack the Ripper to be a gaggle of supernaturals. Not impossible, of course.

"Cereus... So you say." The deep, growling voice responded through the Gauntlet, "Which murder precisely? What are it's details, it's facts and it's mysteries?"

“OhthankGodyouspeakEnglish.” He whispered all in one breath. “You know, the only other language I know is Russian, and maybe a little Scottish. Scottish is its own language, after all.” He lit a cigarette, and took a breath. “Right. The death of Ms. Elizabeth Stride, possible prostitute who was killed yesterday after midnight. On a Sunday, because the murderer fears neither God nor man. Is that what you yourself are here for?”

Gentle growling followed the Russian's own question, sounding as contemplative as a giant beasts growl could.

"Quite. It would seem we are at like minded purpose, Mr. Cereus. The rest of your party, who are they? What are their intentions?"

“Uh, the man next to me in the mask, this is Wayland,” he began his introductions. “He’s a good man, talks to ghosts, he just likes to wear a mask. I wouldn’t tell him to take it off, or he’ll grumble a lot. The little one with the fairy hair is uh…Clementine.” He nodded to the back. “Good kid from what I can tell, a bit skittish. Uses telepathy and whatnot. Can’t see, so they just know you’re probably a massive furry blob. And the woman and her friends, uh, Ms. Relia? She’s a vampire. BUT. BUT.” He knew a little of the relationship between vampires and Garou. “She’s not here to harm anyone, as she said, and we don’t want a fight. We all are here for the same purpose. So uh…yeah. That’s us. And you have me, I guess. I’m just here cause I can talk to Spirits and giant wolves!”

The moment Relia heard it was a Garou, one of the werewolves, she immediately became rather thankful to her own foresight to allow the three magi to go forth before her. In any other instance, she would be far, far more concerned. True, the Elder was not fearful, as to be fearful would be a mistake of control and of any reasoning being, but she was not the most aggressive Kindred, nor the most skilled in the arts of murder in such a forthright manner.

No, she froze still, listening as the magi relayed what they saw. Pale hands gripped at pistols under coats. The one with the bully club quickly shuffled it into his sleeve, reaching at his own pistol.

Then the foolish kine began to speak. He was, indeed, still a fool. She internally sighed, had a brief desire to rip the skin from the top of his mouth and feed it to him strip by strip. It was a worthless desire, though, all things considered. She narrowed her eyes at the ordeal. The Elder spoke to the air, as she still couldn't see the beast, spoke measured and calm as ice.

"Stay your hand, Lupine. I seek neither blood nor sport this night. The killer potentially threatens the Masquerade entire, not only the magi and your kind. I seek answers to these murders."

A disgusted scoff, some incoherent mutterings 'bloodsuckers', and finally a sigh. A deep, slow inhale, an even slower exhale, and the Garou shifted back to their human form.

With the casual ease of incredible practice, Jade stepped through the Gauntlet as if it were hardly there, and into the room. Though for now, the person they would see was of masculine form, if only just barely, dressed well in a black suit and tie with white undershirt. Long golden blonde hair was tied up, in a style reminiscent of the Far East, specifically Japan.

Silently, the figure walked to the table, picking up the Broadway style hat, replacing it upon their head with graceful precision. Jade turned, giving the briefest of side eyes to the Vampire, and looked to the man closest to her, the presumed spirit Mage.

"Mr. Cereus, for now you and your colleagues may refer to me as Emerald, or Mr. Lily if you feel so inclined. Apologies for the fright, I had assumed the only such person who would come here under cover of darkness beyond the laws favor would be the red hand itself."

The 'man' called Emerald gave a slight bow, clearly practiced of years of etiquette, his voice much like his visage, barely sounding of the masculine side.

"Mr Wayland, Ms. Relia, and..." They paused, staring with mild confusion at Clementine, before smiling with a gentle laugh, "and Clementine. Well met." He spoke calmly and with respect, despite obviously enmity with Relia, taking notebook in hand.

"It'll be door number seven you're looking for, I've notes to share as well, provided you are inclined to the same."

Clementine perks up as space seem to distort, and a humanoid shape steps into being. Emotional surges of caution and a flash of derision spikes over the shape, before settling into guardedness. The Mastigos could only sigh in relief as they smile at Emerald's entrance. "Greetings... I'm Clementine. Thank you for not attacking us."

Wayland only grunts in recognition, letting go of his necklace of swords and tucking it back in his clothing. "...Pleasure to have you, Mister Emerald. We all have vested interest on what's happening. If we have the time, we'll share what we know. Let us be off. The ghost of Miss Elizabeth Stride has been grieving since yesterday."

Wayland leads the group, now confident that there would not be any other obstacle in their way. He does the same trick for door number seven, as shadows slide in the knob and unlocks it with relative ease. The room is dark and cold, and with the Moros's finger snaps the room is awashed with brilliance as the gas lights are brought to life by his Magic. They hum for a moment as they brighten even more, dispelling the darkness of the morgue.

"Miss Relia, I'd trouble you with seeing Miss Stride's body and checking her wounds to see if you can recognize them as the workings of your fellow Kindred. Cereus can assist, as he is quite knowledgeable of the human body."

The Moros seeks a small table, where he takes out three black candles, a bowl, and a bell from within his coat. "...I shall facilitate the calling of her ghost once we're done."

"What about me, Mister Wayland?" Clementine asks as they settle in a corner.

"Try to be vigilant and keep guard, Clementine."

"Mm, mm! I can do that!" The Mastigos nods as they spread their spatial recognition outward, keeping watch against other beings that could intrude in their business.

Vasily was relieved when the tension seemed to lift around them. The Garou turned into a human, and Relia had called for a semblance of diplomacy. Everyone else seemed to go along with the events that be. He had done something right, if only barely so.

“Good, good. Alright. Let’s see the body then.” He walked over to the correct body, guided by the ghost, and he pulled open the drawer. He then took the cloaked body, and put it on a table. “Let’s see what we’ve got! Unfortunately, I don’t know a woman’s body as well as I do a man’s.” He gave a soft cough. “But I don’t think we need to worry too much about that. But uh, Ms. Relia, if you’d be so kind to assist as Wayland suggested, would be good.”

Relia followed the least polite of the kine, watching him move the body out from its coffin in the wall as the three revenants moved to keep at the door. They had little expertise in determining subtle points of torture after such a degree of mayhem and, indeed, would be far more useful in their nominal role.

She peeled back the cloak, face as unenthused as death himself as the Elder surveyed the corpse before her. The girl was, in all likelihood, likely a pretty enough specimen of kine before her death. The skin had been peeled from her, hacked away with a throat slit. Smaller incision...a smaller blade or claw, though the gash would have been bigger were it Kindred. Fingers gingerly traced along the major veins and arteries...not ever Kindred bit at the neck. Too visible. There were none. It was a killing...more than likely with a message in mind.

Some part of her couldn't help but be dismayed at the job. Lazar would have been far more thorough in his craftsmanship, that was certain. The cuts, brutal as may be, were in some places sloppy, angry, unfocused.

"There are no teeth marks. The blood wasn't drained by any other method. This...is not a Kindred's work."

Relia took a brief step back, one of the revenants stepping forward with a handkerchief in hand to proffer it forward. Taking it, she began to wipe her hands before slowly cocking her head at the body. Wordlessly, the figure stepped forward and grabbed the body by forearm and thigh, turning it over. He stepped back, head bowed slightly, accepting the dirtied cloth.

Stepping forward again, the Elder continued her examination. There might still be something to learn, something kine had missed.

While the body was examined by Wayland, Relia, and whatever it was exactly Mr Cereus was doing, Jade located herself outside the door and leaned against the wall.

Nearby was Clementine, standing watch as instructed by Wayland. Yet as Jade read her notes, small glances left a bugging thought with the wolf.

She was absolutely certain the designated watch person of this group, could not actually see, not with their eyes anyway. Of course, simply stating that would be uncouth, likely the approach of the Spirit-talker in the other room. No, she could sate her curiosity without rudeness.

"Pardon my forwardness, but if I may inquire, Clementine, what is it that the world looks like through magic eyes within the mind? I've only had the limited experience of these stock pieces from birth, I wonder how else the world can be seen."

"Oh! Hello!" Clementine focuses a bit of their consciousness towards the new member of their party. It seems that this person named Emerald has a mild temper, despite the circumstances that they've met each other. The Mastigos could only be thankful that they did not come to blows.

The Mage shakes their head as the other inquired about their state, as they are more than happy to oblige and tell about how they "see" the world. "It is... quite different. It feels like seeing a map all around you, feeling the space around you. For this room..." They gesture as they point at cabinets, tables, and the walls. "I could sense boundaries, and the shapes of objects and the terrain... As for people... I can sense your overall shape, like moving mannequins."

"I could also... sense minds. When you appeared, you were covered in thoughts of caution, distrust, and..." The Mage leans a bit as they whisper towards their new companion. "Some derision towards Miss Relia. I'm glad that there wasn't any conflicts between us all. We're just trying to make sense of the murders."

Jade looked up from her notes, staring off into the distance as the mage spoke, doing her best to imagine the... Sight, if it could be called such.

"Fascinating... To think, perhaps one day you may be the envy of all the worlds generals should you ever gain such sense over a battlefield. Though, the uniform color would certainly clash with the hair, perhaps they'd make an exception out of good fashion sense, one would hope."

Clementine continued, leaning in and lowering their voice to a whisper, as Jade too reciprocated the tilt towards privacy, and a small chuckle as she whispered back.

"Garou and the Kindred aren't exactly known for amicable relations, indeed until today this was the closest I ever got to one. The rest would take off into the night before we even exchanged greetings. Granted, I did provide reasonable cause back then. Extreme circumstances, though, to rid the world of this villain, requires everyone make exceptions to their beliefs."

"...It's a bit tiring to look into larger spaces... But perhaps one day I'll be able to see that far..." Clementine smiles, thinking about the future. They've only started, but who wouldn't want to excel and see themselves at the peak of their trade? They can already see beyond their blindness, even look into far distances. Perhaps they'll reach the accomplishment that Jade speaks of, given time and effort.

"Thank you, truly... These sudden murders have been shocking for all of us... We Mages prefer to keep to ourselves and our business... but you know how these kinds of incidents cause unwanted attention...

"I guess that's also true for you and Miss Relia... I heard from my Master that we all share a similar code of secrecy to keep our identities hidden... We Mages have one... I heard the vampires have one too to protect themselves from humans.

"It would be troublesome if the Sleepers, that is... people who aren't supernatural in nature, would start sniffing us out... The brutality of the murders..." Clementine frowns a little bit, their face contorted into worry. "...From the people I've interacted with... they think it's a vampire or a werewolf... with how gruesome the murders have been... These murders are just going to put us all in danger... at least vampires and werewolves in the meantime..."

Vasily tuned-out the conversation as he turned his focus toward the body. As Relia peeled back the cloak, his eyebrows knit together with horror. Her skin was gone. He saw the muscles, the veins, the organs, the viscera...the body had almost no blood left, and so much of what remained looked shriveled and sagging. If he had not seen a human skull, and the slit in her throat, he would have guessed that they had grabbed the wrong body. But no, her wounds looked fresh enough.

"Good God...they did a hack-job, whoever they are..." He grimaced as he watched Relia turn the body, and he tried to think of what might have murdered her. "This rules out a vampire...that Nagaraja or whatever-the-hell you called it," he suggested, as he looked at Wayland, "and this is even more complicated than what a normal human being could do. It could have been several people, or it could have been something else. A Garou, even. Might be better for you to take a look while I keep watch."

He looked at Jade, as he stepped away from the body to give Wayland some room. "You know any Garou who might be causing trouble?"

"Ah, yes, the Litany, those are our rules. Covers everything from 'dont enjoy the company of other Garou too much' to the Veil, our naming for keeping secrecy from humans. Though I suspect our vampire friend would have the most trouble, Mages have their magic to hide, and entire Garou packs can disappear beyond the Gauntlet and run to where prying humans are not."

Hearing Vasily come this way, Jade would quietly close her notes, taking account of the blind Mage's worry. "I know it's troubling now, but there's only so many supernaturals one can tip off to their behavior before they are found, and I can attest from my dealings this morning the human authorities remain utterly dumbfounded as to where to even begin. This is our race to win."

The Russian Mage, now closer gathered her intention. None of them knew of course that Jade had been raised and remained a 'lone wolf', a fact best concealed with current avenues of investigation yielding suspicions of a werewolf.

"If it is they're not from around here, near every Garou in the city has a pack, they all have some contact with each other - emergencies mostly - even the very rare loners are known by each other and the local Packs. If it was any of theirs, the whole city of Garou would be on a hidden crusade for the Wyrm right now to find the taint. They're from outside the city, separated from their pack, perhaps they were mistakenly killed by humans and this is their revenge. It's known to happen on occasion..."

“Well…bloody Hell…” Vasily removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Dunno what’s flammable in here so I’ll need to put this out outside…” He then stared at Emerald. He was a chatty fellow, someone who also seemed knowledgeable about a political area he did not know. Sometimes wisdom meant gaining experience, but mercifully, sometimes it just meant listening to the wise. “Mr. Lily, do you know anybody in the city that uh…might have the Wyrm on them? I gotta say, I only know a little about Garou, but I know the Wyrm is your ‘Satan’. Do you think we ought to start looking for that?”

Jade hummed in quiet thought for a moment, thinking on the question, but more specifically the answer. It must be phrased correctly, to tell only a half of the truth.

"There are all sorts in London, tribes and packs alike, lone individuals and smaller packs are at risk. I get around the city a lot, and keep track of where I sense the Wyrm being, and have a general idea of where more than few Garou are scattered about... I just don't have that on me at this precise moment. But yes, I do know where to start looking. Whether or not we ought, I think, falls to what time and manpower we've available to do so at this moment. London is a big city, after all."

“Mm. Well, we’ve got some manpower here, if we can tolerate each other enough to do some searching. If you’ve got an idea of where to start looking, give us some ideas and maybe we can station ourselves around and keep an eye out. Because otherwise I’m going to just walk into whorehouses in the evenings and just start keeping vigil there.” He rolled his eyes as he stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and smoked it. “Honestly not the worst way to pass the time, if you think about it, not the worst company. Probably won’t like me hanging around without paying for something…”

Sometimes one almost got the sense that Vasily was speaking his thoughts out loud, and simply did not understand the concept of keeping those thoughts confined to his mind.

Relia had long since finished her examination, looking up to the others as she wiped her hands clean on a silk cloth. The possibility of a Wyrm-touched doing the act...she could see that, yes, although normally such beings had far little control. They were also rather rare and more often than not hunted by the Lupines themselves, or at least that's how Relia had come to understand it. It was little surprise that shifters kept such things generally quiet outside of their own circles. That this shifter was so willing to share...interesting, Relia thought, very interesting. A look to one of the Revenants and they, once again, turned the corpse back over to face upwards.

"I cannot spare servants for such hunts in the pause. The conditions would be...unacceptable, for them and myself. But if certain grounds are the killer's common hunts, I am sure I can arrange for some...less valuable members of the herd to stand watches. London is full of penny thugs. Such kine wouldn't be expected to fight a Lupine, after all...merely to buy time and force them to flee with a racket. They die quite loud, I believe."

She checked a pocket watch, face still blank as stone. "As to the time available...several hours. I arrived early and, I expect, shall leave late. London sprawls but I do not expect us to waste time. We can still hunt tonight."

“Well then let’s do so. If Mr. Lily can give us some locations, we can split and search for clues! After all, the crook probably won’t come for any of us. Unless, erm, they want either someone exotic or someone that tastes like cigarettes.” He continued smoking, and looked at Jade. “What locales are you thinking?”

The rest of the crew hears the sound of a crisp bell, and the gas lights flicker in and out of focus. Wayland is standing over a table, where three candles are raised into a triagular formation around a bowl. "...I believe that Miss Relia is done with the autopsy... Let me call the ghost of Miss Stride to see if she knows more about who murdered her."

He begins to murmur in a low voice, and a sourceless cold wind begins to blow in the room. The lights start to flicker, and they all see the wicks of the candles seem to spark and begin to light themselves on fire. Fog spews out of the edges of the Moros's mask, too physical to be normal condensation. It looks like living slime, milky white liquid fog bleeding out of the man as it slithers and pours down the bowl.

The fog settles, and Wayland rings the bell one final time. The gas lights burn out, plunging the room into darkness. For but a moment the group could only feel a chill in the air, only for it to be cut off by Wayland's voice. "...Elizabeth Stride, make yourself known to us."

The candles flare into tall flames, and the liquid fog on the table rises violently as it takes a humanoid form. It's reaching out, sobbing and wailing, and Wayland holds her hand and pulls her up. The fog falls to her feet, and they all see, except for Clementine who senses a thinking creature, the disembodied ghost of Elizabeth Stride, her countenance being what she looked at the moment of her death.

"...We won't bother you for long... Tell me, do you know who killed you?"

The ghost was pale, thin, and had a horrified expression stamped on her face. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were drawn in something almost resembling a scream. But she was still somehow able to speak. Her speech, however, was shrill, like a woman answering questions with a gun to her head.

“I don’t…I don’t…know…” she murmured, her voice the very chill of the morgue itself, “but I felt something. A taint, a corruption…pain…I feel pain all over…ohhhhh…”

Wayland faintly turns toward Jade and Vasily, remembering their recent discussion about the Wyrm. The corruption of the evil aspect of a Triune Spirit God, and it seems that in her death this poor woman has been afflicted by it. "I see..." He turns back to the ghost. "So you do not know who killed you."

He nods and turns towards the others. "If you have any questions for Miss Stride's ghost, you may ask her."

"Did... Did you see the killer's face?" Clementine asks, seemingly unafraid of the spectral figure in their midst. "And... where were you before you were killed? I heard you were... a lady of the night? Do you think your co-workers are in danger?"

“Yes…ohhhhhhh…they most certainly are…” she groaned. Her body swayed as if she was re-enacting the moment she fought back against her killer. “He told me…‘You wouldn’t say anything but your prayers.’ We were…out and about…and then he…”

She gave a loud, piercing shriek, and Vasily drew back in a fright. “GOOD LORD HAVE MERCY.”

“He did…he killed me…HE KILLED ME!!!”

"Who did you see, kine? What did you see?" Relia's voice rang out, in some ways cutting through the shrieks and screams as she lost much patience with the dead. They were clearly afflicted, afraid, cowed. It distorted much on the answers, wrenched the attention of the spirit to the terror and fear and not to what may be delivered to the yet somewhat living. She had little experience in such dialogues with the dead, in any case. The spirit, to her, was just a kine. Her next words hissed out through the darkness.

"Speak and we may save others. Speak and we may hunt what killed you. Speak, kine."

Jade was, to say the least, unenthused at the idea of using humans as bait, less enthused at the careless casual attitude of Relia's suggestion, and begrudgingly accepting internally with a sigh that if people had to die as bait, perhaps it was most merciful if they were the hapless toys of a vampire.

As soon as discussion was set to begin on places to investigate, Wayland had moved forward, bringing forth the ghost of Ms. stride. While this scene was captivating of attention enough, it was nothing compared to her first response. Taint, corruption... The Wyrm seemed at hand.

Jade stepped into the room, calmly rounding about Infront of the ghost of Ms. stride. By the time she'd gotten there though, she had shifted once again, to Glabro this time.

"I don't know if you'd have seen a face in the dark but... An assailing hand? Like this, perhaps?" She lifts her own, part human, part bestial hand, fingers becoming sharpened and like claws already in this form, "A bit bigger, sharper claws perhaps? Or maybe there was an instinctual feeling around them, no matter how kind they may have once acted, that they were dangerous?"

Ms. Stride continued to scream, until finally Jade showed the hand which modeled one that might have killed her. Her screams stopped, and she pulled away. “Yes, yes, please, please no, corruption, GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!!”

“Uh…uh, hey, she’s not the corrupted one, hold on…” Vasily was losing his sanity and his patience, and could already feel a need for alcohol. He approached the ghost, hiding the shaking feeling in his bones. “They had some sort of corruption, then?”

The ghost nodded. “No name, he had no name…I did not know his name…I just…I saw the knife…I saw his hand…” She dove her face into her hands, and she began to weep.

"Well, that about answers my suspicions..." Noted the Investigator, returning to their human form once more, "Mr. Cereus! I do believe you were correct, I believe our killer is likely to be a Garou, based on that delightful reaction. I wonder if even human form frightens her, if she can still feel the fear as she would if living."

“Some sort of a Wyrm-tainted Garou then…” The Russian shook his head. “Well, Emerald, you’re going to have to tell us where to look tonight. If the night is still young, then we ought to take advantage of it, and maybe find where the next victim might be…”

"With any luck Ms Stride will be the last of them. If no one's anymore business here, let's Mr Wayland put her back to rest and be on our ways. For safety, no one goes alone, and for efficiency, we'll have to split to groups. I'll be waiting when you're finished here to set our directions."

The sound of a bell cuts through the voices in the room as Wayland raises and rings it. Miss Stride's ghostly body shades and shudders at the sound. "...Thank you for your time, Miss Stride. We have heard your grievances." The Moros rings the bell once again and the candles flare higher and higher. They see the air behind the ghost tremble, as a slit in space slowly opens like a gaping maw.

"I shall be sending you off, with a promise that we shall find your killer. Be at rest, wayward soul." The slit slowly opens, pouring out a cold white light as if it is the Eye of God gazing upon the living and the dead. The ghost of Elizabeth Stride slowly becomes incorporeal, fading away as her essence is guided into the light. It's comfortable, a tempting pull for the dead, but for the living it is a cold chill that seems to want to rip something from deep within.

The bell rings once more, and the gate closes. The candles go out, and in a second after the gas lights return to their bright brilliance. The chilling call of the Underworld is gone, and the only thing that could attest to its appearance were the extinguished candles and the now empty ritual bowl.

"...Then let us be off." Wayland emotionlessly takes his ritual implements, returning them to the queer space within his coat and clothing. "And let us return the body back to its cabinet. Mister Emerald, if you may accompany me, I shall be cleaning up every evidence that we have left here before we go."

[Luminesa]

Co-Write with Lumi and Oblivion2

Of Men and Magic
October 2nd, 1888, Evening
Von Achthoven Household

With Mr. Saint-Francis soon to be a guest of the evening, the servants were in even more of a rush than usual. They had spent much of the afternoon preparing a large variety of foods for dinner. A juicy roast, fresh bread, several soups and salads, baked salmon, Yorkshire puddings, sauces and gravy for the food, and enough tea to please the Queen. They also had dessert-a couple of sponge cakes, more jams and marmalades, and a custard. The ladies were frenetic and extra chatty, without a moment of stillness to spare as the hours ticked forward.

“How is the roast coming, Kathy?” Melba called.

“Thirty minutes left!”

“Very good, very good.”

“The gravy is ready, should I keep it warm on the stove until the roast is ready?” Clara questioned, more nervous than usual.

“No, you silly goose, only put it back on the stove right when it’s time to serve the roast, otherwise it’ll burn!” Ada called back.

“The sponge cake is done!” A mousy girl named Hettie pulled the cake and showed it to Melba.

“Good good.”

“This fish is undercooked! Ada!” Lucy scolded.

“Then you fix it, instead of bossing me around!”

“Fine, I will!”

“Girls!”

Melba called them, and for a second, there was quiet. She then modeled taking a deep breath by pulling in her chest, and breathing out of her lips. “Breathe in…and breathe out. This evening, we cannot afford frayed nerves. Now. Lucy, the fish. Ada, help finish the sauces. Hettie, the custard. Emma and Clara, watch the puddings. Shelly, the salad. I’ll watch the roast. We’ll be all done in no time.”

As the kitchen had gathered together its collective sanity to finish preparing the food, Tabitha rushed around her room looking for a dress to wear. Sigrid stood in the room, waiting for her to pick.

“Miss Sigrid, should I wear the pink one or the gold one?” She held two very pretty dresses, one on each hanger.

The woman chuckled. “I think you’d look lovely in both.”

“You’re not helping!”

“You’re not marrying the man today, my dear. Wear whatever you like.”

The girl frowned, and she gazed at her two choices. “…Pink is good then.”

Sigrid got her dressed and brushed her hair, all while she herself needed to finish preparing. Tabitha was as chatty as any of the servants, and her hands shook in her lap.

“Sigrid, is he actually nice?”

“Ah, he was quite nice to me.”

“Oh goodness, I hope I don’t scare him off…”

“You won’t, sweetheart.”

“But mother keeps saying it’s because I read too many books!”

Her tutor smartly held her tongue regarding Myra. All yesterday the woman had not spoken to her. Today, she had only stiffly managed to greet her for breakfast, lunch, and tea. She hoped that the woman of the house would not continue such a foul mood during dinner. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

When Tabitha was ready, Sigrid excused herself to finish getting her outfit together. She went through her own little closet, and she smiled at a pale-blue, frilly gown with long sleeves. Very sweet and songbird-esque. She dressed herself, blushing as she looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Maybe she could allow herself to feel pretty every now and then. After she took that moment to herself, however, she pulled her hair into a soft bun, and she went to join Tabitha in the drawing room to wait for the others.

Lord Gerrit went to the door himself, along Lady Myra and Nathaniel, the butler of the house, and they waited to greet their guest.

A knock sounds at the door of the estate, brass on oak as the knocker is used. Behind stood the Kindred, Etienne Saint-Francis. He smiled that easy smile, allowing his Presence and magnetic personality to ease his hosts into relaxing around him. He was dressed in a frock coat of charcoal grey, accented with a fine top hat and a walking stick of ebony wood. Burgundy vest and cravat polished off the look; the man appeared to be nothing so much as a well bred and dressed gentleman.

“Bonne soirée.” He says graciously, bowing and doffing his top hat in a single smooth motion, “I am Etienne Saint-Francis, and I am delighted to be your guest this evening, Lord and Ladies Von Achthoven.” His words came through with an almost lyrical grace, ringing in the ear like silver bells.

Lord Gerrit chuckled, and gave a bow in return. “And good evening to you, Mr. Saint-Francis. It’s a pleasure to have you at my residence this evening.” He then shook his hand and nodded. “I must say, the way you’ve ended-up at our humble home is a little more than unusual, but nevertheless we’ll be sure to give you our best welcome. This of course is my wife, Myra, and this is my butler, Nathaniel, who will be glad to take your hat and coat.”

Myra would have rolled her eyes at Gerrit saying “humble home” when their house was bigger than most in London, but she instead-perhaps mercifully for everyone-would act the part of the perfect Mistress of the House tonight. She gave a graceful curtsy, and nodded to Etienne. “It is indeed a pleasure to have you in our home. Dinner is almost set, the servants have been busy all afternoon. But please, do come inside and meet the rest of the household.”

All the while, Tabitha and Sigrid sat near the further end of the room. Tabitha rose as soon as she heard the newcomer, and then she looked down at her tutor. “He’s here! Let’s go greet him!” she murmured with excitement.

The older woman rose slowly, and something clicked in the back of her mind. The little glow she had felt flicker and dance in worry around Relia, she had to conceal that once again. She did not know if she would frighten Etienne, if he discovered what the Kindred woman had seemed to recognize, and so she would do her best to once again be the meek, polite tutor that had allowed him to walk her home the previous evening. “Coming, dear.”

They then both stood at attention inside, all while the servants worked frantically in the dining room to make sure that not a platter, a cup, or a candle was out-of-place.

Etienne shrugged out of his coat and gently handed his hat to the manservant with a faint smile, “Merci, good sir.” He’d say politely, though he kept his walking stick as something of an amusing affection. Etienne walked with the same smooth grace he had when he’d escorted Sigrid through the streets. “I will confess,” he says to the Lord of the House, “That this has all been some happy accident. I believe, sir, that our outside most social circles intersect if only a little. I simply had to make your acquaintance.” He brightens a little at seeing Sigrid and gives her a polite half bow before he beams and offers his hand out to Tabitha to press a gentlemanly kiss upon the back of her hand should he be so allowed. “I see that you have your mother’s loveliness, and the proud set of your father’s chin.” He compliments her shamelessly before stepping back and away.

He had expended Vitae this evening, to appear as human as he could possibly manage. A handy trick when dealing with the Kine up close like this when simple presence or charisma alone would not suffice- still, he didn’t want to give anyone a chance to test the limits of his artifice.

Men had approached Tabitha before with some guise of polite interest or passing affection, though she had not been presented to the public yet as a lady. Oftentimes they did not come so close, and when he kissed her hand, she felt the little jolt of pink rush into her face. Her mother did not like to discuss these matters, those of what might happen after a girl receives a kiss from a handsome man, and so she just gazed up at Etienne with her shyest, giddiest smile. “Oh why…th…thank you, sir!” Myra could tell that her daughter was following Etienne with her gaze around the room, and she gave a very tight look while the guest was not facing her. Quickly, the girl stabilized her expression back to a more sweet, polite look.

Sigrid, in the meantime, had only responded with the same curtsy in response to Etienne. Even with her eyes down, as Gerrit stood a few feet away, she could tell that the Master and Mistress of the House were both curious to see how she behaved around this man she had just met last night.

“Ah, quite! I’ve met many a foreign noble, many a gentleman from among the highest echelons of our lovely society, but I’ve not seen you! Once I was told by my wife that you wished to meet, I was quite eager to see who had inquired of me. But come, let us not dwaddle too much here. The servants have fixed most of the food, I imagine.”

“They’re coming!” Clara called from the kitchen.

“Shhhh! Get the roast, don’t raise your voice,” Melba reminded her.

The women went for the roast, and began to set the table. They would stand at attention once the guest entered, and the oldest servant kept her firmest hold over the girls to keep them from idle talk.

Etienne would nod and follow along, fixing the Lady Myra with his politest smile, as if to tell her he had no designs upon her precious daughter. That much was true at the very least- Etienne’s appetites did not run to despoiling poor noble’s daughters before they were of marriaging age. A little snack here and there, but he wasn’t willing to sully his honour by bedding or even chasing women of such innocence.

“I am newly arrived from the continent these past weeks sir, and my business has mostly kept me in the new world; typically the West Indies.” Not a lie, and some background work would see Etienne’s latest identity involved in the shipping businesses in the Caribbean colonies of both Britain and France. “However, friends of mine know friends of yours, so it seemed rather natural that we meet, no? I’d have perhaps invited you to my home, but alas my apartments here in London do not yet reflect my stature. It is difficult to find things to suit discerning taste at times, is it not?”

He gave the table a respectful glancing over. Food didn’t interest him as it might have half a century previously, but he could respect the effort and he might even enjoy the taste. It wouldn’t equal the Vitae running in the veins of such a noble family, but alas, one couldn’t have everything. Not yet at least.

“Excellent! You’re quite the well-traveled man then. I’ve got my stocks in shipping in the West Indies, and I’ve met quite a few men in the business. Very good, very good.” Gerrit was in his natural environment, chatting happily with an esteemed man who worked with plenty of money.

Myra, in the meantime, had caught Etienne’s look, and had not responded. Her expression, however, showed that she understood.

“But yes, the price of living in London is dreadfully high, even for us who have plenty. But you’ll soon find that we like to help each other here. Especially those of us who have means, and why would I mistreat a man who is making his way and doing well?” Gerrit grinned at his guest, and then turned to the servants as they presented themselves in the dining room. From Melba, the oldest, to Lucy, the youngest. If they had been jittery and scared before, they did not show such feelings now-not even nervous Clara.

“These are the servants of the house, or most of them. Poor Cora has been ill, so she’s been allowed to rest the last few days,” the master of the house explained. “Melba Everly, Kathy Bell, Clara Thomas, Emma Wilkes, Harriet Miller, Ada Harkner, and Lucy Miles.”

All the servants curtsied at once, as if they had been practicing all day. Indeed, they had been-Ada had made them practice on the off-chance that this purported man found one of them to be his type.

And the spread at the table was as elegant as could be. The china on the table was pristine and ivory, the tablecloth was set in its shades of rose, gold, and pink over a thick, mahogany table, and the chandelier that glowed over the food, drinks, and utensils gave them a sparkling appearance. Gerrit and Myra would have nothing less.

“Ladies.” Etienne says with a wide smile. “I would tip my hat to you if I still wore it. The spread is magnificent.” He gives them all a bow and then another to his hosts, “And to your impeccable tastes and hospitality.”

He takes another look at the table and then his hosts, “Please, if I am not being too forward, let us be seated. I should hate for any of this lovely work to grow cold!”

“I very much agree,” Lady Myra responded, showing her first outward good will of the evening toward the new guest.

As soon as everyone was seated, the servants made sure to fill the first drink of choice for all of the guests. They then filed out of the room, down to their quarters. Once again, Sigrid sat with the family. Ada would mutter something about that out of earshot, but not while they were anywhere on the same floor as the guest.

As the household seated themselves, Gerrit would invite Etienne to sit near him. Opposite of him sat Sigrid, who as usual kept her eyes down toward her plate as she passed the gravy to Tabitha for her slice of roast.

“Sigrid?”

The woman looked to Myra, who whispered to her softly.

“It’s quite rude to have your eyes down when a guest is present. Keep your eyes up, dear.”

Sigrid was surprised, and blinked a few times before she adjusted her posture as the mistress of the house had suggested. She looked up, and Gerrit did not frown at her. He was busy smiling at his guest and tucking into the roast. She turned her head, and looked toward Etienne. The blush in her collar barely suppressed itself, and she looked at Tabitha. The girl gave her an encouraging smile, as if telling her that she could indeed eat. She had to wonder if the kind gesture was because of that aura which Mr. Saint-Francis carried with him.

“Mr. Wilcox was over last week and told me that he had met a Frenchman who had just come into port. He was quite enthusiastic, but he had never mentioned you by name. I wonder why that is,” Gerrit questioned.

“I do hope you don’t have Mr. Wilcox’s propensity for losing money playing cards,” Myra murmured as she cut a piece of fish. “Or for staying out too late. His wife often calls the house looking for him.”

“Ah, Marianne is just too nervous,” Gerrit dismissed, “some women are just that way. But I am curious, Etienne, surely you’ve met him?”

“I am acquainted with Mr. Wilcox, yes.” Etienne said, making a show of mentally translating the man’s words. He’s been speaking English longer than his host has been alive, but sometimes a little mummery went a long way. “I confess madame et monsieur that some nights I have been the reason he is out late and away from his wife. As I have no wife of my own, I have to find ways to pass the time and expend some of this vigour. It happens that I am a rather clever card player. I suspect your wife is correct in that our friend Mr. Wilcox was simply too embarrassed to mention to whom he’s lost so much of his lovely British spending money to.”

He casts the table a wide grin, “But, now you know my secret, so I will have to suggest brandy and cigars after dinner rather than a little light gambling.”

“Ahhh that sounds perfectly fine by me!” The master of the house laughed and grinned, while Myra suppressed the need to shake her head. “I have an excellent brandy, one from 1880, I got it as a gift from a friend. I also have a ten-year rum from Martinique, I’m sure you’re familiar with the location given your work.” He then continued with his fish and some of his soup.

Tabitha decided that she might take advantage of the pause, and before her mother could make a comment, she looked to Etienne. “What do you like to do for fun, beside cards?”

“What a lovely question.” Etienne said as he smiled brightly at the girl, her tutor and then her mother and father. “I, my young lady, am an avid traveller. Nothing like the open air and sea to make me feel as gay as a bird in spring.” He makes a clever flapping motion with two interconnected hands to emphasize the point. “My mother saw to it also that I recieve something of a classical education, so the piano and I are well acquainted. And then, I read rather vigorously. There is so much knowledge in the world and it’s a clever man- ah pardon-moi, or woman who knows how to use it to their advantage. Kernels of wisdom to be found in the most unlikely of pages.”

“I agree.” Sigrid smiled as she finally managed some confidence, and she looked toward her young student. Tabitha felt some vindication in the man’s statement, and her tutor wanted to encourage that feeling. As much as she could without antagonizing Myra. Then again, she did not know if breaching such a topic at all was wise around her. And yet the conversation had turned in that direction, and she would keep it light and thoughtful, as a good Victorian woman should. “It’s very good for a woman to read much, I think.”

Tabitha was already charmed when she saw Etienne playfully motion regarding his travels, and now both her tutor and the guest seemed to encourage her to talk about her interests. “I do so wish to travel myself! The islands have the most fascinating wildlife. Father, you mentioned Martinique, did you not?”

“Ah…” He met his wife’s gaze, but only for a moment. He would have felt terrible in that moment to let the light of his daughter’s eyes fade away. “I did! Though I have not been there myself.”

“I’ve read that the Windward Islands have many types of birds and creatures which can only be found there! The nature must be fabulous. I’d like to go there and sketch them one day, and perhaps write a book about them?” Her ideas and dreams which had bubbled in her head suddenly poured out into the conversation.

Sigrid looked around the table. Myra did not comment, but gave a small nod. Gerrit continued to grin at his daughter. And she smiled at her student as well, though she knew what sort of conversation might come after dinner between the girl and her mother. She deserved to have her fun for now.

“Such lovely goals.” Etienne would say with easy charm. “The West Indies are a lovely place, though occasionally dangerous. Weather and such, war sometimes too. T’would be proper for a lady to be escorted should she end up going on such a voyage. Perhaps in the future, should you and your family decide to make such a thing a reality, I could recommend a ship and a crew or various other minutae that might make such a trip easier.” Etienne smiled ingratiatingly at his hosts, not at all presuming to offer outright but making it an option that his social betters could pursue at their leisure.

“I will confess a particular love for Saint Kitts myself, I have a lovely twenty year old rum from there that I think I would like to share for the next time I find myself invited to this lovely dinner table. Another locale of wonder is Havana. Such an old town compared to much of the new world, though, one must get used to the customs. Very different there compared to the English and French territories.”

“A whole ship? And a crew? Oh Father that sounds amazing, does it not?” The girl practically bounced in her seat, a little less than proper in the way she sprung upward. Sigrid, however, had to hide a little giggle at her excitement.

Gerrit nodded, to the quiet surprise of his wife. “Ah, I’m sure that is something we could arrange at some point. Perhaps once you are done with your studies and are married. It would be a lovely trip indeed, and the change of scenery would be good for us as well.”

“Yes! And I’ll be in Cambridge, I’ll make it a part of my studies even!”

Sigrid looked down the table at Myra. As much as her normal look was strict and stern, she could not lift any sort of defiance or resistance in the presence of a guest. More small victories for Tabitha and herself, Sigrid thought. She almost had to smile at what she noticed, and confirmed, when she was at the table and able to actually look upon everyone.

“That would be splendid, indeed,” the tutor agreed.

All the while, Gerrit continued the conversation when Myra would not add her dissent. “Ohoho, a twenty-year-old rum? I must have a taste of that! I must say, I don’t drink often, but if I had any vices, they would be good alcohol and good cigars. And possibly horse-racing. But I haven’t bet on a horse race in a while.”

“Because when you, Wilcox, and Heriman go to the races, you often come home broke. I had to put a stop to that when you were a little younger, I believe,” Myra added.

He shook his head. “Back when I was a little wilder, I’d say.”

The food and drink continued, along with lighter conversation, until dessert came and went as well. Finally, Gerrit invited Etienne to the drawing room for more conversation over cigars and rum. He needed to get away from the women for a little while, and Myra needed to step away to breathe after an evening of stifling her opinions at the table.

Meanwhile, Tabitha was triumphant. As she was soon to go to bed after dinner, Sigrid helped her to get ready, and the girl was practically cheering.

“He likes traveling! He likes books! He likes learning! He didn’t think I was a blue-stocking at all!” she cheered in a hushed voice, as she heard the men’s buzzing talk down the hall.

“Indeed. I’m quite happy, and I’m happy for you. You looked radiant at the table.”

“Do you think he liked me, Miss Sigrid?”

Sigrid knew what exactly she meant. That sort of like. But after one meeting was something else entirely. “I believe it’s a little soon to say, and plus you still need your ball, my dear.”

“Bah! It needs to be tomorrow! I’m a grown woman, I’m ready to go!”

“But not with a man you’ve just met.”

Tabitha scowled, but only playfully. She understood that Sigrid was right, and she simply did not know as much how to process such feelings.

When the girl was in bed, and Sigrid was able to walk where she pleased, she heard part of the conversation among the men in the drawing room. She had enjoyed the walk in silence, but now came the conversation which had been more pertinent to last night’s conversation.

“You know, Mr. Wilcox and I were at a party recently, with a man who had actually talked of some rather…exotic experiences.” Gerrit had a cigar twined in his fingers, and a glass of rum in the other hand. “He had a book with him, something about the…the practices of shamans in the West Indies.” Myra was not in the room, and so he thought he sounded clever by hushing himself. Of course, Sigrid heard everything from where she stood in the hallway. “Did you happen across any such things on your journeys? I find such cultural practices rather fascinating, myself.”

“Once.” Etienne said after lighting his own cigar, taking care to disguise the shaking of his hands as the motions of a man flicking out the burning of a match. “I perchanced upon a medicine man in Haiti whom the locals believe to have heathen powers of healing and fortune telling, I’ll admit I had quite little idea what to make of him, but I know that some of the practices come from the peoples of Africa from whom the former slaves are descended and have been juxtaposed with both Christian influences and the belief systems of the locals. It’s all rather interweaved and complicated, but it makes for fascinating reading.”

He takes a sip of his rum, wishing to God that it had just a little squeeze of Vitae in it. Everything tasted much like a shadow of its former glory once you became a member of the unliving. “I take it you find yourself with some scholarly interests despite your preference for betting and horse racing, my Lord?”

“I do indeed. Though not quite the same interests as my dear daughter. Tabitha has quite the big dreams…and her mother disapproves of them.” He shook his head. “But you asked about myself, I find the…unknown to be very interesting. The hereafter, and men who know more about it. I received that book from Mr. Wilcox, a book of spells that a man had recorded from a shaman. Very interesting reading. Er, ‘spells’, I should say, I don’t know if they work, I haven’t tried them yet.” He chuckled.

“But supposedly, there are books by men and women who claim to be able to bend and shape the world around them. Rather dangerous, I imagine, but I find I enjoy danger too much at times.”

“Men are drawn to danger! Molded by it!” Etienne would say, playing the role of the dramatic Frenchman to a tee. “Did mighty Caesar or Great Alexander stray from it? Of course not! Neither did your Lord Nelson or mine own napoleon! Men are meant for danger.” Etienne grinned and waggled his eyebrows, letting the lord know he wasn’t taking himself overly seriously. He slowly sips his rum and puffs on his cigar, to let the silence build a moment before he speaks. “It’s funny you should mentioned spells and tomes and all those such things. I recently have come across a rather interesting book, though I’ve since sold it, called Ars Goetia. From a series of books called the Lesser Key of Solomon. Potent stuff that, and perhaps a touch sinister.”

“Oh?” Gerrit found himself leaning forward in his seat. Man who shared his interest in the forbidden and mysterious, he was impressed as he put the cigar back in his mouth and pondered his question. “…I believe I have heard of such a book. The Ars Goetia. One can summon demons and unclean spirits, one can curse others, quite a powerful book to simply sell somewhere. Where exactly, if I may ask, did you bring the book?”

“I’ve quite forgotten the name of the bookstore.” Etienne says with a Gallic shrug, “But I’ve kept the receipt. I’m rather careful with my funds, you understand. I like to know where every shilling has come from and gone to. Shall I bring it at our next meet? It would be no trouble at all.” That would give him time to warn Wayland, even perhaps to come up with a plan with the Mage. Etienne never minded dealing someone in when there was something for everyone to be gained. Greed got even the most careful of kindred killed.

“I would greatly appreciate it. It would be a great book to add to my collection. And a good conversation piece for our little talks, I believe.” He smirked, believing himself quite secure in his interests.

He had only just barely noticed that outside the room was Sigrid’s little shadow. But it vanished before he could speak toward her. “…Hm. The women are ever so curious, I think. Even Myra, though she would hate to admit it.”

“A curious woman is not do be despised in my thinking, my Lord. Though I would agree, that your Lady wife is interested in more than she lets on. She puts up a stern front, but there is more to her than I think she’d be willing to admit. I suspect that is part of the reason why the two of you were married, no?” Etienne has another few puffs of his cigar before going on. “As I said, our circles of friends seem to intersect in a few places. I thought we might have some things in common, your Lordship.”

“Ah yes, she used to be a little more…playful, I would say. But she runs a tight ship, and what with myself as her husband, I don’t blame her.” He snickered a little, and looked down the hall in the direction that Sigrid had disappeared. “And that one is…curious. Tabitha is curious in a good way, she enjoys learning from Sigrid, her tutor. And she loves talking about birds, nonstop. But Sigrid is…hm…”

Finally, the man seemed to have a pensive appearance. “One of the servants said you…also spoke to her the previous evening. I’m sure you’re good company if you know Jack Wilcox, but…that she already went out by herself makes me wonder about her. She’s not quite afraid of the dark, or much of anything which frightens the other women. I believe that is why they tend to be uncomfortable around her.”

“I escorted her back to your grounds.” Etienne admits. “There is a killer on the loose, and no woman deserves an unkind fate such as that. Upon my honour, I swear to you however that I was the perfect gentleman. Nothing untoward at all. I suspect she’d have left me in the gutter somewhere with a rather private pain, if you take my meaning sir.” He smiles knowingly before going on. “I can see why she’s been chosen to tutor your daughter, but she does seem a little withdrawn at times. Perhaps uncertain of herself?”

Gerrit nodded. “She is quite the shy sort, but a pleasant young woman. She and Myra disagree on Tabitha’s education, but otherwise they get along enough. And ah…” He looked down at his glass before taking a thoughtful sip. “There are some…strange things which have happened around her, and perhaps that makes her feel as if she is not safe around others. But she is quite safe here. Even if the other women in the house do not believe so, except Tabitha.”

“Would your Lordship be so kind as to explain that?” Etienne says in tones that border on comradely conspiracy. “We, after all believe in many of the same things, do we not?”

Gerrit gulped down a little more rum. Unwise for the telling of secrets. He then lowered his voice. “Once she was talking to one of the servants, and ah…they have a tendency to rile each other up. So she was arguing with Sigrid…and something caught fire. Spontaneously.” He frowned. “Sigrid would not say what had happened, and poor Ada almost fainted from her fit, but this was about two years ago. Then a year ago, one of my friends told me that when they saw her, she looked…quite strange. As if something about her was just wrong. Which I found rather puzzling. Does she not look like a normal woman to you?”

“She seems perhaps a little odd around the edges.” Etienne says in a low murmur, playing his part perfectly. “But I do not have what some people might call a bit of the Sight. Tell me… When and how did her employment begin with you?”

“Ah, she was without a job a few years ago. Some sort of accident had left her on the sidewalk near our home. No memory of her old self,” he explained. The rum indeed made his lips a bit loose. “Myra and I decided to employ her. After we noticed that when she was awake, and after she began to recover, she seemed kind and intelligent. Perfect sort of woman to tutor my daughter, I thought. So we employed her.” He did his best to avoid showing it, but his eyes seemed to look more toward the hallway, as if he was expecting Myra to arrive at any second.

“Was this your idea, or your wife’s?” The Kindred man asks, glancing down the hall to follow his gaze.

Gerrit paused for a moment, putting his cup on the table. He was curious now, even in his alcohol-buzzed mind, as to why this man had so much interest in Sigrid. He had to ponder on what they had discussed the previous night. The answer was easy, but loaded, and had many implications. And neither of them could quite tell whose shadow was in the hallway.

“It was mine. I talked to Myra about it, and she agreed that Tabitha needed a tutor. After all, she’ll be having her debutante ball next year, and we wanted to make sure that we had another set of eyes beside Myra’s to help her to finish her schooling.” His expression became more neutral, and he coughed before he looked down at his cigar. “I hope that answers the question? I figured it would be a charitable act for her, and one for Tabitha. She’s quite fond of her teacher, after all.”

Etienne shrugged his shoulders easily, “Forgive the imperious nature of my questions my Lord. You just mentioned some odd happens and my inquisitive mind led me on a merry little chase. In business it often helps me see my way to success, but in the depths of rum and cigar smoke? Alas it leads me to dead end thoughts such as, ‘Perhaps she really does fancy me!’” He flashes the man a faint grin, “Surely you’ve experienced such things for yourself, no?”

Despite his easy manner, beneath the mask Etienne was less than pleased. There was something about Sigrid; he couldn’t perfectly tell what it was, but there was something Other about her. A measure of the arcane or the divine. His Lordship seemed to just simply be doing someone else a good turn, his lady wife however was not above suspicion. Though she could simply just be showing disfavour to a woman she saw her husband giving more attention than he ought to…

“Tell me your Lordship, your library consists of some interesting literature, does it not? And your interest would see you gather some more?”

The master of the house was thankful to be talking back about himself again. “Ah! Oh my goodness, quite a lot when I was a young man. It’s not so good to say in polite company, but ah, Jack and his cousin once had to help me out of quite a situation…I had fallen for a woman I shouldn’t have, and the alcohol had gotten to me. If he hadn’t hit me with his cane I would have gotten into quite some trouble.” He chuckled, and allowed himself another sip of his drink.

“As for interesting books, I have plenty. It’s no wonder Tabitha hasn’t somehow read all of them yet. But most of the Magic books are not quite for her to reach. If you’d like some time, I could let you see a few of them.”

“Oh, you are gracious indeed. I should like that. Perhaps I could expand on your collection from time to time.” Etienne would say with a bright smile. “A little favour between new friends goes a long way; who knows, you may even introduce me to someone over a game of cards or two.”

“I agree! I ought to bring Jack over one of these days, he’ll be interested when I mention he’s possibly seen you and never got your name.” He laughed and drank a little more of the rum, nonchalant now that the liquor made him feel even more at ease.

But in the hallway, Sigrid was shivering. She had moved away from the doorway when they had caught sight of her shadow, but something about how the conversation had suddenly turned to her made her afraid. Gerrit’s words turned and curved around a truth that was still a blank. She could not crack it, though Etienne seemed to be trying to do so. She wondered what the guest was thinking about her now.

About what was wrong with her.

“He made the decision…with Lady Myra…out of charity…but…is that it? Is that really it? No…why do I suddenly feel ill?”

“And I’ll take a look into that book, if you’ll let me have the receipt. It’s been a wonderful evening, and a very productive one, I think. Well, at least I would like to think so.”

“I think you wise and correct sir.” Etienne said with a smile, nodding his head a little more aggressively than he needed to. He was supposed to be drinking after all, best to act like it was doing something to him.

He would finish his cigar and his Rum and play the charming guest for awhile longer before begging his leave and beginning to make for the entry hall, no no, no need to see me out, I’ll be fine. A reasonable enough excuse, and one that would allow him to find Sigrid for a moment, hopefully alone.

For a moment, the woman had fled a little further down the hall, in order to try and gather herself before she attempted to go back toward the drawing room. In reality, she had been thinking similarly. Etienne had realized something, and she had wished to escort him out quietly, since Myra was elsewhere and Gerrit was starting to be drunk. But as she had plucked her courage and had turned back down the hallway, the man had come to meet her himself.

And indeed, they were alone.

“…Mr. Saint-Francis?” she inquired softly. Even if Gerrit was drunk, she did not want to raise her voice and somehow cause alarm. “I…I apologize for being rude…I…” she trailed off, her hands clearly shaking as she tried to clasp them to make them stop. The fire had not emerged this evening. She needed to keep herself calm.

He waved her words away before gently taking her hands and squeezing. “I don’t have much time.” He tells her with soft, gentle words. “But something feels off about all of this. When and where can you meet me next?”

Sigrid blinked. She could feel herself breathing normally once again. She listened to his words, and she nodded. “…Tom…tomorrow evening would be just fine, I think…” She looked at his face. “Um…the bookstore? Wayland’s bookstore. Unless you have another place in mind, sir.”

“There’s a park near there isn’t there? Let’s do that. I don’t want to get anyone involved just yet.” He answers with a shake of his head. “Seven thirty, you be there and be there in time, I don’t like worrying.” He retreats, headed for the door, his coat and hat and quite possibly more questions than he possibly had answers for. One thing Etienne did know was that he smelled opportunity in all this.

“Yessir. Be safe going…” Before she could finish, he was off, grabbing his clothes from the hook and darting out of the house. Her hands were still outstretched, as if she could still feel his hands holding hers, and only after a moment of warm confusion did she pull her hands back to her chest.

Sigrid committed the time and date to memory. Seven thirty, October 3rd. Tomorrow. St. James Park, which was one of the nearest parks. She nodded to herself. Fanciful enough, but not so busy that someone would bother them.

She could hear snoring down the hall. Gerrit had fallen asleep on the couch in the drawing room. Any minute, Myra or one of the servants would drag him off the couch so he could get into comfortable clothes. The mistress of the house had most likely been complaining to Melba, and once she had aired her grievances, she would be coming to straighten her husband. And Tabitha, dear Tabitha, remained asleep, unaware of the darkness and shyness which fumbled around in her teacher’s chest.

“Dear, oh dear…why do I feel so afraid…”

[Zei-Aeiytenia]

Sorcha - Clockwork
October 1st, 1888, Morning
London

Which was stranger, Earth or Arcadia? A question which should, perhaps have been simple, eludes answer to one born in the former into the latter before the current queen had even drawn her first breath out the womb. Earth was certainly the less fantastical of the two, yet that detail was part of its grand peculiarity. The wonders of Arcadia were at once confounding to the mind to comprehend and explanatory answer of every question, provided you knew how to ask it. The Fae were as they were because they were gods, towering above any even of their realm in power, and so did as they please.

Humans on Earth were scarcely different, except that the power of the 'betters' was all a paper facade. The wealthy who ruled like the Fae without the phantasms of Arcadian reality shared little difference to the poor over which they could do as they pleased. They still did now, moreso than ever infact, lord themselves over the poor - Sorcha included - despite evident fact that she could lay waste to an entire ballroom of them in minutes without a single hand giving her aid. When the police showed up to detain her, they too would have fallen into pools of their own vital flows, impotent to stop her.

Yet, here she was, in this strange world feeling of faithless imitation, now for two years drifting across just one of its thousands of fragmented pieces, and in each were a thousand more specks, all just a bit different, with their own arbitrary, nonsensical confusion. Arcadia was a place of dreams and nightmares, pure fantasy made reality, at times heaven, but often hell. The hell of Arcadia, at least, made sense. That was what she scoured the lands of the British Isles for, a place which made sense - a different Arcadia. She would have been there already, but in the embattled and bloody escape of her conspiratorial troop, the battered Clockwork found themselves stumbling out the other side of the Hedge alone.

Since then she had traveled, hoping to find any of them, or any Changeling at all, though it seemed they had all wisely found their ways elsewhere. A ticking cycle, like clockwork, from city to city, town to town, living a life of a thousand rotating lies, performing jobs of little consequence for little money to continue forward, keeping all emotional approach at blades' length away. Each leg of the journey, each new step, each new township, time and events and people spinning by as the predictable numbers of a clockface. Was existence this mundanely pointless to all humans as well, did they do spin forever aimlessly in an endless cycle, an ever sinking feeling of lost confusion leaving them, no matter where they set foot, feeling dead on arrival?

Now here was London, of all places she had yet set upon under humanity's dawn, it was by far the grandest of soulless feeling imitations of the past she had fled which she had so far seen. It was also an excellent hiding place, all sorts existed in London, werewolves and vampires and mages and more, if any Changeling who could tell her where she was going could be found in the dredges that were human society, it would be London, no?

Whereabouts in this city even was she? It was of little help that faint images of Arcadian skylines would supplant themselves over it. Knowing the Fae though, it was perhaps not far off from a coin-toss that they were not mere images. Precise location uncertain, the available certainty was that of the angry shouting from nearby. An open shop door, Help Wanted sign in the window, a man past his brightest years shouting down somewhat younger one, apparently being a local teamster for businesses moving goods throughout the city was not as straightforward as one may think.

"Ah quit with the damned excuses Edwin, ahm not the one out hiring these wannabe gangster lads who only show up when they feels like, and even then its just ta smuggle some sorta contraband to their pals, no wonder we're always fallen behind!" There was a loud knock, sound of boot colliding with wall, a head of short red hair peeking into the doorway at the man remaining the counter.

"Can i help you...?" Came the exasperated voice of, presumably, Edwin. Sorcha only pointed at the sign in the window, silent for now, as the frustrated man went through the usual song and dance of irritated mutterings and sighs. It was not her first time experiencing this. Getting work not related to traditional 'womanly' duties was near impossible for most, but a necessity in this case. It's not that she had any particular issue with the textile factories, it was more that a bad day in her head would result in the incredibly difficult situation of explaining why a supposedly human girl started moving and working several times faster than any human could.

This risk, of course, was much smaller when doing more basic manual labor. An option impossible to most women, but as Edwin would soon find as she stood upright and stepped proper into the doorway, she was far from most women. The average man stood three inches shorter, and whatever genetics the good Lord had given her saw fit to make sure it was not merely height in which the lads found themselves dwarfed. The intelligent creator it seemed, knew damn well her father would be 'cursed' with six daughters, and kindly sent him a reprieve, one he would find his ungrateful self robbed of.

She stood before the counter silently a few moments, a small smile and a wave, allowing the man to process the immediate shock of finding himself staring at a crimson amazonian. As Edwin did his best to come to terms with his new reality, the man from before entered the room once again, momentarily stopped by his own realization that she stood taller than both of them.

"Well that's different... what're here for?" Still without word, she gestured once more to the window sign. In a somewhat shocking twist, the second man, much older and seemingly of some Irish descent, appeared relieved. "Thank the lord for that..." Edwin, near immediately turned to shoot him a look, one which, again, Sorcha was all to familiar with, "Oh don't even be openin' yer mouth, do ya really think i was heading o'er to the East End alone? Now instead of your dumb arse i can take the fiery giant. 'Sides, if i told her ta hogtie ya and load ya in the cart, i don't think there's a thing on the Lord's earth ya could do about it."

With that and a gentle laugh, she was waved back. This, too, was not unusual, there was always some overworked manager somewhere who'd be grateful for a gentle giant regardless of her being born to the fairer sex, and there'd always be some traditionalist stewing over it and his inadequacy in the wake of such pragmatism. Sexism, yet another example of Earth's incomprehensible oddities. Though, to be a bit fair to the humans, its not as if the denizens of Arcadia abided the biological concept in the first place, as per usual, they did as they please, in everything.

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October 1st, 1888, Midday

The midpoint of any workday was man's time to take a moment to feed himself, and this job was no different. Rather uneventful, the man she worked with was named Liam, though he was certainly into his fifties, it was technically younger than Sorcha herself by a good four decades, and he seemed well despite times embrace. He was right too, about the East End, many characters about who seemed of ill intent, though she had found most of them seemed to become distinctly uncomfortable when a hammer was idly held in her lap.

Throughout the day they had gotten to know bits about each other, both spending their youthful looking years travelling about the country, looking for something but never knowing what. Liam had lost his family when young but she was not sure how, in a sort of way, so had Sorcha, you could even say she lost it twice when emerging back to Earth alone in the breeze.

She had become rather lost in her thoughts though, tucked off around the corner in a nearby alley as Liam came to summons her back to their duties, he could hear laughing and talking, yet there seemed to be no one that she spoke to.

"An whit exactly are ye gunna dae aboot it? Is ma fruit now, ye best be makin yerself 'cepting of 'at fact!" Indeed, as he turned the corner, there was only Sorcha, seemingly lost to her own world of memories. It seemed to be a happy one, at least. A hand placed gently on her shoulder, he tried to reinstate reality to her senses.

"C'mon now Ailia, is time to be going..." With a light shake thereafter, she seemed to snap back to the alley she was sat in, a bit dazed, and certainly sadder than a few moment before, why she'd almost forgotten to respond to her own cover alias.

"Ahah... sorry aboot that..."

"Ye were thinking about them, the old times, swept away a bit... i know how that is." The girls eyes began to fade away at the relation, already deep green seeming a turbulent verdant ocean, while to her eyes, London began to blend a bit too closely with Arcadian pasts to wholly separate. "It's alright, let it out, we been making good time, it'll be alright..." He said with a gentle sigh, taking a seat next to her. "I know those eyes too, an what they're thinking. Been there too."

"Ye too huh? Going roond this 'ere world, feelin trapped in 'is pointless cycle, furever looking fur whit ye already lost, wonderin how tae bother?"

Liam nodded solemnly, beginning with a deep breath, "Many many moons ago, when i was still a young lad just tunrin' to a man, that's when the famine hit. Ma and Pa had a plan to get way to America, sacrificing the now for every little pound. Instead, whole township got hit with the smallpox, by some miracle i was spared. Me younger sisters had already past, the eldest had took off months ago on 'er own, brothers were fighting for their lives, Pa already in the grave and Ma wasn't recovering well. Eldest of us lads drug himself half alive to me one day, all the money he could find. Told me to run like the devil was chasing behind, far as i could go. Years i kicked 'round from Scotland to Wales to the Midlands, and so on, can't tell ya how many times i was robbed, sometimes by folks i thought was friends."

"An one day i ended up 'ere, more of the same really, eventually havin those same eyes you do now standin over a bridge. Got myself a revolver an only one bullet to finish the job. Nah, i don't know precisely how it is i never pulled that trigger, but i know because i didn't i found my family again, folks i could call my brothers truly, i found a loving wife here, a home, an i got four kids now. Have a look at me, Ailia," A by now, sobbing Sorcha lifted her head to look her new friend in the eye.

"What ah i want ya to understand is, even though yer family is long past, they sit up with the Lord watchin' ya, they're waiting for when you'll be back to them, but i tell ya now dear, they don't want to be seeing yer face in person anytime soon. An your friends, the family ya found after loss, they're feeling just as torn without ya, may even be searchin' still themselves. One day, both you an them, ya may never find each other, but i promise you'll find what your looking for. See, that's the one thing i do know, if ya don't give in now, Ailia, you will find yer family again, even if they faces and names be new, you will find your family again. This i know, and this i swear upon, with all my faith in the Lord, so..." He stands, softly lifting Sorcha by her shoulders.

"Let's be picking ourselves up, give a smile an a wave to our folks so they know we're okay," Liam looks up to the cloudy sky, smiling and waving, as she would do her best to smile the same, waving to a family she had not seen in seventy years, knowing a comfort, an understanding and relatability to another person, a human for the first time in just as long, "An let's get ourselves through this day, and onto the next, ye?"

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October 1st, 1888, Night
East London

First day on the job had ended some hours ago, Liam checking up on her before she went, she assured him all was fine and she had a place to rest. Now, this was a lie, but she hadn't known that, Sorcha was sorely unfamiliar with the lodging pricing in London. Even coming over to the East side, where things would surely be cheaper, she had run into another problem. You see, though many parts of Sorcha had been perfected by her Keeper over seventy years, she was always an experiment, even now. She'd been trying to find books and research to ascertain what exactly they were doing, and perhaps find a way to finish it, but for now the odd setup, while more powerful when in motion together, was very clunky when not.

To achieve this required Kerosene, and especially given she lacked access to fuels better than wood or typical food stuffs, she needed more than she was used to. Her current supply was nearly out, and while the massive petrol companies of the world throwing hands at one another kept prices down a bit, it wasn't exactly cheap. The choice fell to having a room for a night or having the ability to function normally without any potentially alarming oddities for another fortnight, and naturally she had chosen the latter.

This left the problem of where to sleep. First of all, she didn't exactly know where she even was, the only thing remarkable about this place was... the random bits of deteriorating Glamour in a random alleyway?!? Of all the confusing bits of modern Earth, this was the most bewildering, nobody just leaves this stuff sitting around, nor does it exactly have the greatest shelf life. Yet despite the abundant confusion, the price levied was free, and in her current situation, that's not a price you skip on.

With a quick saunter across the street, stepping into the sheltered darkness, she took a quick look around. Surely enough, it was late, and no one was around to see a thing. With no one to thank for this meal, she absorbed all that remained of it, a sudden indescribable rush of energy tearing through every gear, piston and belt, causing mechanical muscles to clench with incredible force, and green eyes to glow gently in the night for just a moment.

She peaked out the corner again, still no one, still catching her breath and dashed back across the street, into the opposite alley. At around its midway point, next to conveniently left and abandoned boards and other wayward trash which she would utilize to make an impromptu lean-to shelter. Her large knapsack set as a pillow, blanket removed - she did not actually need one, benefit of steam power - for necessary cloaking to appear a normal human who fears cold. Laying down as she had many times before, mind weary even when the body knew not exhaustion, her eyes slowly closed. In the bag she could hear, perhaps her most valuable possession, which made this survival of hers so possible, softly ticking and tocking away in the night, for only her to hear.