The Diary of Elspeth Fry, Inquisitor

Routine post for activation.

It had just started to drizzle as Joachim stepped into the shelter that the stable provided, and he shook raindrops from his hat before putting it back on. He was early, but he'd wanted a few minutes to gather himself before Ms. Fry arrived. He'd gone back and forth about scheduling this meeting, but the last few nights had been sleepless due to the return of the nightmares. This time, the beasts weren't attacking him in the field; they'd somehow followed him to the streets of London and were intent on destroying him there. To finish what their kind had started.

The Major checked his breath. If Elspeth smelled alcohol on him, she would doubtless imagine him to be unstable. He'd been maintaining as best he could, but the previous attack had left him unsettled, to say the least. Surely such things could not be a common occurrence? He must learn more if he was to do...anything, really.

Joachim leaned the back of his head against the solid stable wall, closed his eyes for a few moments. He thought of the no-nonsense young woman that Ms. Fry appeared to be, wondered how many of his questions she could answer. He needed much more information on this subject.

Outside the barn, Elspeth attempted to reign in her nerves and don a veil of control. A pair of lace gloves dangled from the bite of her front teeth. Her hands smoothed wisps of brown hair into a bun and fastened them with pins. Often the picture of cool -- when she wasn't upbraiding a colleague, that was -- the twenty-six-year-old found herself wound rather tightly.

( Plans for a Partnership of Sorts )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/27375.html

( Might as well tell them now. )

Elspeth stood in the little study, gone quiet since the others left to wander the residence. A capable woman would be a fish out of water in this group, so after carefully considering her options, she thought it best if she remained with the growing collection of supplies. Left to her own devices, she began sorting items of use into piles... Even if it made her feel like a perfect idiot. A blanket hung between her pinched fingertips. She held it to the light and inspected it for holes or bugs. Judging it appropriate for their use, she laid it against her chest and folded it into neat squares. Its faint smells of wool and moths offended her nose.

While she worked, she kept an eye on the room. Shadows seemed to bulge from corners that looked normal upon closer inspection. One moment the air chilled her and rattled her teeth; in the next, it warmed until perspiration beaded on her nose. Was she coming down sick? Elspeth dismissed that as nonsense. She hardly ever caught cold.

A figure moved beyond the door. Laying a blanket across her arm, Elspeth rounded the desk and peered into the corridor. "Oh! Mr. Musgrave, it's you. May I speak with you?"

Alistair had made to follow those who had swiftly deserted the study, but paused as he thought a moment upon his situation. It had become clear that what he had seen to draw him there - or, rather, what he had thought he had seen - had been nothing more than some sort of illusion. How then could he trust anything else he was confronted with in the strange house? Stranded with an assortment of strangers, Alistair found himself drawn to familiarity above all. Mrs. Fry, as the others had called her, and the boy Fox were the only familiar faces in the crowd, and when Fox journeyed out into the corridors, Alistair stepped back towards the strange woman he had encountered in an East End charity ward.

( Oh Dear...That's Not Good )

( Communication Woes )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/24089.html

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/23678.html

( West and Fry in the Whitechapel Library )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/20070.html

The stables were freshly mucked out, clean hay put down for the animals, and Joachim inspected a mended stall door with a critical eye as he waited for James Thomas to appear. He'd scheduled this meeting for an early time, as the day was promising to be hot and he wished to spend most of it indoors, but at the moment he was quietly enjoying the smell of alfalfa as he lingered near the entryway. The cane was held loosely in his left hand, but he was limping less today. The physician he'd visited had offered a good prognosis and words of encouragement. He'd also provided a bottle of laudanum to assist with the sleeplessness, for which the major was grateful.

Still, it seemed as if he'd require a horse while he was in the city, as the injured limb still twinged far too often to be relied upon for long periods of walking. It was difficult not to become impatient with himself over it, this infirmity. He was assuaging his annoyance with the reminder of how much he'd missed riding since being put on leave. He'd trained Stormdancer, the animal who had died during the attack on his party, on his own, and although it would not be the same with a new mount, at this point even an echo of better times would suffice.

Joachim adjusted the cuff of his shirtsleeve, glanced at his pocket watch. He kept waiting for the point when he would get used to civilian clothes again.

At the end of the stables, there was a fuss as two people entered. A female voice admonished, "Honestly, Jacob, had I known James would be gone for the week, I would've brought my things. These little emergencies of his are ridiculous!" Elspeth's riding habit was long and brown, the skirt reaching her ankles, so that just her boots showed beneath the hem. Underneath, she wore a starched petticoat and little breeches. The end result was that she was quite warm, even at this ungodly hour. A hat with an ostrich feather was pinned to her hair.

( A Little Outburst )

( The Chestnut )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/15564.html

( Meeting the Clockmaker )

The day began in a dreary fashion. It was rainy and warm, and the air like a soggy blanket, but by afternoon, gusts of wind pushed back the clouds. Sunlight evaporated the larger puddles around Sussex Square. Carriages rattled on the cobblestone and splattered people's skirts and trousers as they left their homes and ran errands at the shops.

Elspeth Fry rode in a brougham carriage, her nose hovering near the window as the wheels took them up Stanhope Street, near the boutique where she purchased fragrance from Berdette Daugney. The gift had been begrudgingly received by her sister-in-law, but was wildly popular amongst her friends, a few of whom had complimented Ms. Fry on her tastes and asked after the shopkeeper who kept it in stock. She hoped to drop off a hand-written note of thanks to the proprietress.

As the carriage rolled past her destination, she let out an exasperated grunt. "Good lord, has he fallen asleep?" Leaning forward, she rapped to get the driver's attention. "I beg your pardon, but we seem to have gone past it! Sir!" She half-lifted off her seat and struck the carriage wall with the flat of her hand. The driver brought the horses to a rough stop and Elspeth caught herself on the backward-facing bench. Through the little viewing hole, she gave his back her most severe glare. She waited for him to dismount and open her door.

Out on the street, she thanked him and sorted through her purse, looking for the square of stationary paper. "Please return for me in an hour," she said. The driver closed the door, climbed onto his bench, and set the horses moving. Unfortunately, Elspeth's skirt was trapped in the door, a fact she did not realize until she felt a backwards tug.

( Stop the Carriage! )

( A Proper Escort )

It was a dreary day in London. The clouds hung over the city as if they were God's spies, always waiting and looking for a sinner to strike with a lightning bolt. Despite the threat of holy smiting, the streets throbbed with life, from the highest Lord to the rats nibbling on the toes of some unfortunate soul. Today London showed her true face as a hole of shit, and even to true veterans it was enough to shorten the fuse on tempers. If the elbows were a little sharper, if the curses were a little harsher, nobody had time to notice. The sidewalks were just as crowded as the streets, and everyone KNEW what they were doing was the highest priority in the world. It was irrational to think another man's agenda even existed.

The Aviary was a beacon of light amongst the gloomy and forbidding storefronts around it. Literally so, as countless beeswax candles filled the windows and turned the store into a glittering treasure trove. It has been said their glow turns even the reddest skin porcelain, and the stringiest hair shining. Fitting, for a boutique focused on beauty and the pursuit of it. While one may think the smell inside would be a cacophony of contrasting perfumes, all of the samples sprayed seemed to come together and create a symphony of olfactory delight. Exotic birds roosted prettily in their gilded cages, not one squawking or screaming. If only the patrons weren't so self-centered, they might realize the atmosphere inside was almost like... magic.

It was fitting the boutique be named The Aviary, as the ladies themselves chattered and flitted like magpies. Just like magpies as well, they were often after the shiniest thing, and there was many a conversation about which fabrics, perfumes, and men were simply the best. When your livelihood depended on what was said about you and who said it, such topics could be vital to social survival. While they appeared to be gentle kittens with innocent conversations, their silk gloves hid bloodthirsty talons just waiting to grab onto someone else's folly. Right now the folly belonged to Elizabeth Harridan, who had been seen with a notorious libertine at an opera last night. Each and every one of them had saying it by not saying it down to an art form.

If Elspeth had her druthers, she would have remained on the Whitechapel until the weather improved. On the top deck of the steamship, the clouds felt oppressively low, a grayish lid pressing down on the cityscape. The river churned and sloshed around the boat like a murky soup and, despite the wind and rain, the air kept its sticky summer warmth. Her cabin never seemed so comfortable. Unfortunately, an upcoming birthday required the purchase of a gift and she could not procrastinate shopping another day. She dressed in her black taffeta and sensible boots and disembarked. She waited on the docks, little reticule clutched in one hand, an umbrella held aloft in the other. A horse-drawn cab arrived, one of her late husband's, and she took it to Sussex Square.

( A Nest of Vipers )

( Awkward )

"You know, generally-speaking, I much rather prefer to do this sort of thing during the day..."

Nocturnal hours seemed to have little effect on the undead, save for it being a time when preying upon the living would go less noticed. Even so, Inquisitor West preferred having the advantage of daylight in the open air. For situational awareness, if nothing else. Besides, he reasoned, the things had to sleep at some time. Or at least, that was what Michael guessed they were doing, when being caught off-guard, every now and then, in that curiously death-like catatonic state. Whatever the reason for their slumber, a skilled hunter knew that it was best to strike at a dangerous foe when they were least likely to counter anything thrown at them.

Still, though, it was now late afternoon, and the latest mausoleum they had gained access to might well turn out like the last five: A dead end, in every sense of the phrase. Extending a hand to help guide fellow Inquisitor through the unlocked door, Michael coughed at the stale, dusty air found within. Even with sunlight still visible outside, he had to squint through the internal gloom.

"Looks like an adjoining chamber," he observed, pointing ahead. A moment taken while he lit a match, by way of illumination. "So, tell me... Did 'Alfonso' live up to his reputation?"

( A Noisy Entrance )

( Stakes and Mallets )

( Catching Their Breath )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/7392.html

( Meeting Jack Doyle at the Library )

It was a rare day that found Henry Armitage still asleep in his bed past eight A.M., but they did occur from time to time and this happened to be one where he'd slept in very late indeed.

The scholar turned inquisitor had arrived at the Whitechapel late the previous evening, and the debriefing on the mission had lasted to a late enough hour that he had gone ahead and slept in the cabin assigned to him rather than make the trek back to his townhouse in the city. He hadn't returned to the land of the living until nearly eleven the next morning, when hunger roused him to wakefulness.

After taking just long enough time to wash with the towel and basin provided in his cabin, Henry dressed and made his way up to the open air dining facility aboard the ship. It was a warm day for London and he'd been able to see the sun shining from the porthole of his cabin, so it seemed perfect weather for dining outside.

Beneath the brim of a hat, Elspeth held up her silverware to the mid-day sun and inspected a spot. The cutlery had been polished to a shine recently, but the last washing cycle had left specks behind. Mildly put off, she set the fork down and put her hands in her lap. It was difficult to overlook such details. In her childhood home, she was coerced into sitting alongside a household cook and helping polish the inherited set of utensils, ostensibly so she'd know how to do so herself, or direct another in the proper way. Thankfully, she was never required to put her hands in the dishwater. The bits of soggy food floating at surface made her stomach lurch.

( Making Do )

( Powerful Spirits )

( Holy Perfume Spritzer? )

Offenbach... Specifically, Barcarolle, from 'The Tales Of Hoffman'

By Michael West's estimation, it was going to take a while before phonograph cylinder could gain in sufficient quality to rival an actual night out at a concert hall, but it was the perfect cerebral accompaniment to a quiet evening's reading in the ship's library. Hearing the subtle crackle of contact, the crudely recorded sound of violins inching themselves into a tentative appearance of flutes, Michael closing eyes for a second or two's picturing of the orchestra. The melodic build was a careful one and, once assured of its tempo, a quiet smile was given, before the man eased himself down into seat; his book opening to lay spine upon crossed legs and renew its intellectual acquaintance with the reader.

London was quiet, the Inquisition was at rest and the Whitechapel was in no danger of sinking. All was well with the world and music gently began to fill the air.

What could possibly go wrong with that?

( Lightning in a Tube )

( Subtext )

( Meeting Fox Cullen )