themorbidsocialite | Recent Entries

The Morbid Socialite hasn't a known address besides his old, unoccupied flat. If asked, he'll insist he still lives there, though quite a few rejected former lovers claim it was to attend to a more intimate set of affairs, that the relocated and unknown address was attained to secure a marriage proposal beyond the fripperies of lovelorn suitors.

However, if one can locate his stoat, Tularemia, the little predator is set and determined to deliver all messages promptly and cleanly, including hefty packages and weighty envelopes. The mail mustelid does her best to carry all parcels and, for a small fee of dried meat or just a scratch behind the ear, may carry yours just the same.

OOC: Leave your calling card here and I will try to respond as promptly as possible, as fast as the stoat flies! This post will be updated periodically with roleplay threads for archiving and ease of access.

Week One: Shortening Sentences
A Talk with a Tailor
Fashionably Late (includes A War of the Socialites and Two Doctors)
The First Lecture
Twenty Lines

Week Two: Radicals
A Harried Entrance (includes Meeting the Mechanic and A Touchy Subject)
A Radical Lesson in Radicals
Remember: It's Flammable
A Quite Idiosyncratic Meeting

Week Three: Pattern Recognition
Gushing About Dinah
A Giddy Morning (includes Meeting the Professor and A Social Invitation)
Making Connections
Calming the Tailor
Break Time with the Professor
A Break Alone
A Dinner Invitation
In A Quiet Tea Shop...

Week Four: Conversations
Meeting the Piper
Study Groups
Fellow Hunter
A Stunning Cadaver
Failed Attempt at Rivalry
First Try of Writing (includes An Invitation to Music and Little Hunter Returns)
Conversation with the Emissary
Not That Good Actually
Don't Wish to Speak of it
A Morbid Appointment
A Marsh Guest

Week Five: A Missing Vowel
A Chilling Realization (includes Snapping at Nothing, Canceled Recovery, and Mutual Language Barrier)
Lingual Dialiction
A Game in Violant
Es Return
The Stoat Insists
After the Tailor Left
An Unexpected Expected Guest

Week Six: Adjectives
...

Week Seven: A Discordant Lesson
...

A small, white blur raced across the city like a bullet shot from a gun, guided under simple instructions, whispered to her as her favorite ribbon was used to tie a note around her neck: “Go. Find him. Be swift.”

She knew what her hunter meant, who her hunter meant. And so, as soon as the note was secure, she ran.

Faster than talkative cats and the lizards of madness she could not stop to hunt and eat. Faster than the bats that would swoop to eat her, but she could not stop to play. Faster than horses and faster than thunder and faster than any weasel. She lived and ran on a time apart. Marsh to docks. Docks to Veilgarden. Veilgarden to Spite. Spite to home.

She found her hole in the door still open, but dusty and covered in cobwebs. The spiders should know better, but she had no time to teach them. She stood on her perch and searched the home she had left alone for too long.

There, on the far side of the room, at his desk, was her hunter's mate. And his pup and the strange clothes that moved without wind sat on the other mate’s seat. She barked loudly and with authority and, finally, they listened.

The pup brightened first, rising and calling her beloved, personal sound. Her sire turned and he appeared burdened, just the same as the day they first met, perhaps worse. He hummed her sound and stood from his desk to reach her. She met him at the table and allowed him to take the note from her ribbon. Despite being happy to see her, his face fell as his eyes scanned the note. The color drained from his face and his breath hitched. His pup came up beside with a note of concern and he took her hand. He spoke something with severity and squeezed her hand as he repeated himself. She nodded, her eyes firm and sharp. She always was a clever pup. The clothing that moved without wind held his wrist in shared promise and she had to bark. There was no time.

With a quick hug and a hurried race to grab removable furs and claws and pads and tools, she was finally told to “Go. Take me to them.”

Her hunter's mate did not delay with assembling the furs he grabbed. He simply ran after, tugging them over his paws as he did. It had been a long time since she'd had to run this path and he did just the same as before, abandoning his own dens and burrows and hunts to follow her to his family. The last time she did, it was through dreams, but her hunter had no mirrors in the marshes. She simply needed to be faster than London.

She could hear him panting strangely behind her, nose irritated in a way he must not have been able to lick away for the strange way he breathed sharply in. She would not hesitate, however. She would not pause. He could fix his breathing when they got there. They both knew this and both ran, just as before, led by false stars rather than a strange sun.

When they arrived to her hunter, there was a gentle tackle, a moment of grooming, muttered words, and a return to racing, a pause lasting precious seconds that could not be wasted.

Finally, racing up the steps, at the glowing door of the ruby bee's hive-den, Mori let Tularemia onto his shoulder and scratched her ear in appreciation as he knocked his paw harshly against the surface.

“Thank you, Tula.”

She didn't think any thanks were needed. This was her pup, too.

“Hellion well!” The Topsy King waved down his former opponent before turning back to his opera. “Fowdy trumpet! FOWDY!”

The Morbid Socialite leapt from plank to rope to rooftop and hopped up the levels to where the Topsy King stood. His balance was a far cry from the man he once was, panting and exhausted and covered in bruises from a series of untimely falls. No, he knew the Flit now and knew very well how to reach the Topsy King at the top of his kingdom. “Helly to you, Tristram. How runs the music?” He didn’t bother to hide his accent around the Topsy King, knowing that, no matter what, the man would understand him, just as he could barely pick up what the former conductor meant from his childhood around more obfuscated men.

“Wretchers and snails. Old bit’s in the walksies, howling hiners. Whithers?” The Topsy King groaned and cut the music, turning his full attention to the Socialite.

The Socialite smiled as he stood next to the King. “Wouldn’t you know it: a gift for a king.”

The Topsy King’s brow furrowed as he watched the Socialite open one panel of his coat, lowering his makeshift baton made of a wooden spoon. As soon as the panel was open enough, the viric lizard with wheeling eyes hiding within leapt out and landed in Tristram’s waiting hands. “You won…” he said in a hushed whisper.

Mori smiled and closed Tristram’s hands gently around the comfortable lizard in frondular green. “I did. And I would take nothing else from him. It’s yours, guv. Hold tight to it.”

Tristram looked up with a flash of that same green. "Thank you," he said, his voice steady as a ship in calm waters. "I will always be the Topsy King. I'm as much Topsy as Bagley now. But sometimes the fog will part and I will remember Tristram." He sent for a raggedy man. "Fetch Cora," he said, "I want to see my sister again. Tell her— tell her it's Tristram."

In the meantime, Mori and Tristram spoke of everything. What happened in the match, what Mori promised himself and the other players, how Beechwood is doing and who Mr. Pages chose to go up against. Neither hiding, neither mad, a solemn and somewhat hopeful state to be.

Once pleasantries (and wedding announcements) with Cora were exchanged, the Socialite made his way quite naturally back through the Flit and to his home, where he could finally collapse with exhaustion.

The Morbid Socialite held the young Rogue’s hand as they stepped through the mirror, helping her across the threshold. Both chose to wear anything but red and gold, the Rogue specifically wearing blue (which the Socialite had warned her would garner a distasteful reaction, but she simply winked). Both Paisleys were left on the other side of the mirror, keeping watch over the Townhouse.

“Remember,” the Socialite said, “this is a very serious match. We will likely be merciless to each other. You will likely see sides to both the Manager and I that are unpleasant to witness. Should you feel uncomfortable, you can follow a lizard to the suite at any time. And I should impress upon you the importance of not wandering. Not for any sense of guardedness or risk, but for the pure fact that wandering is undeniable danger. Not a chance of it, a surety.”

The Rogue nodded without hesitance. “I know.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, I won’t be wandering. I will stay within sight of you or a lizard at all times, just like we agreed.”

The Socialite brushed a loose strand of hair behind his daughter’s ear. “Good. And you remember why we’re doing this?”

“Because I acted irresponsibly and recklessly, putting myself in danger, betraying your trust, going behind the back of and terrifying my carers, and invading the privacy of a close family friend and surrogate sibling… Despite the fact you did so as well.”

The Socialite ruffled her hair with a huffed laugh. “As an adult and without tailing them directly. Come, the Manager will be expecting us.”

The two faced the edge of the base camp to find unfamiliar trees, withered and greyed. The roots were wreathed in rotting flowers, the air sickly sweet and the Socialite’s wall of the narrow path catching him as he moved through, brambles snagging at his coat. The Socialite sneered, trying to steel his resolve, but finding a hatred for the man now responsible for marring the fabric of his coat.

The narrow path eventually led to the silver gates of a garden, poisoned and saccharine. The gate eased open slowly and with a melodic creak, the garden a verdant, emerald heart in the middle of the gloom. At a trellis table on a patio of grey stone, legs elegantly crossed, sipping some unidentified tea, the Manager smiled at the two visitors. He was surrounded by violet roses and amber poppies and jade-green grass, framed like a Baroque painting of old. If he was bothered by the Rogue’s blue clothing, he showed no sign of it, instead standing with a smile and offering a hand out.

“Welcome back,” the Manager purred, warm and inviting. “I hope you were able to find what you were looking for. But I’m certain that’s not why you’re here.”

The Socialite took the offered hand in a firm grip. “I’m afraid you’re correct, sir. Any further ado or shall we begin?”

The Rogue found a cushioned bench on which to sit and watch the proceeding match. She made a note of the difference between the chairs at the table. When the Manager sat, it was at a cushioned, comfortable, plump seat. When the Socialite sat, his chair creaked, meagre and old and rickety beyond discomfort. The Socialite gave no sign that he was bothered. The round had begun long before any hands could be dealt, starting with psychological warfare.

As the Manager smiled, his teeth gleamed and one would be given the striking feeling of watching a predator stalk its prey. His dark hair was silvered in the beams of light from above – he held his hands out to better catch the moon on his wrists. His eyes were wide, entranced by moonish light. The moon dimmed. Beyond the garden's silver fence, the shadows stretched – lengthening inward to mingle with the shadows of the flowers, gaining dark crowns of thorns and holly and foxglove.

The Manager placed the Marvellous on the table and the Socialite stiffened. He subtly felt his pocket and found that to be the deck that he once held safely in his coat. He didn’t let his shock come across in his expression.

The Manager thumbed the cards, his eyes brimming with intent. He stared at the Socialite and pushed the deck closer. “Your shuffle.”

The Socialite took the cards and felt their thrum in his hands. He shuffled expertly, his nervous fidgeting with them granting terrific practice for moments like these. The Manager then proceeded to cut the deck and the hands were dealt.

The Socialite’s first hand was poor, switching cards as if that would change what their faces consisted of. He kept his bet low: a practice he did with the first hand of every round, no matter the worth of his hand. The Manager had learned this, knowing not to expect a tell in the betting pile. They played on, the next hand markedly better with a potential Perfidy of Sisters. The Socialite’s leg bounced involuntarily as he thought, planning out his next move, when the shadows behind the Manager began to stir.

The first king, crowned and horned, was Penury, the fear of destitution slipping from its tongue.

The second king was Last-Time-You-Close-Your-Eyes, reminding one of darkness and fealty to the abyss.

The third was named Potential, Unfulfilled and it spoke bitterly of failure, loss, crumbling infrastructure and helplessness.

Where the first two were breathed through and acknowledged as kith and kin from days long past, the third weighed heavily on the Socialite, bearing down as an iron chain or an albatross. The Manager chuckled behind his cards as he watched his bespoke nightmares do their work.

The Socialite had, however, marshalled his own dreams. Over the course of days, weeks, a month of effort, dreams were followed to their end and the end was always the same: the dead collect their number. With the sigh of a Death Rattle, they whispered into the garden in a grey throng, and pressed in on the nightmare-kings. A silent battle took place, and the dead were victorious. Fear was for the living; the dead have none.

The Manager pretended not to have noticed anything. But he played a speculative Conclave of Cats, and lost the hand. "Capital!" he said. "Capital!"

The Rogue at the edge of the garden watched nightmares and dreams collide as the match continued on. She clenched her hands as she witnessed the nightmares, some of them perhaps reaching her more than others. She had death dreams of her own, fulfilled and still striking and bitter. But she would not interfere. It would be unfair and might risk the sanctity of the round, forcing them to start over. Even if she did want to tear apart Last-Time-You-Close-Your-Eyes.

The Socialite and the Manager played hand after hand and the Manager lost one after another. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow and he gripped the cards tightly. His eyes shook like a man haunted, his tongue biting back a curse both ancient and potent, and both the Socialite and the Rogue noticed: the Manager was also assailed by the nightmares.

The Manager looked up at the Socialite with a tight smile. “I do apologize for doing this to you before your own flesh and blood, but what must be done shall be done.” He cleared his throat and a new nightmare blossomed beyond the garden’s railings.

The garden fell away into emptiness, boundless and swallowing. Nothing-After-Death approached the table, its eyes full of absences. It whispered the name of every loved one the players would never see again.

The Socialite drowned in the names, feeling fingers as long as garden shears comb through their hair, his breath stuttering with the chilling touch. Oliver Eastmoore. It settled its mass across the garden, the moon falling like a dropped penny. Lillian Hastings. The Socialite trembled, unable to control how his tears fell. Persephone Malodrema. The Nothing exhaled and its breath was like a wind from a butcher's ship: charnel and damp. August King. Mori gripped the table and looked up at his opponent, desperate for this to stop.

The Manager was just as, if not more affected by the Nothing-After-Death. His eyes saw nothing, his smile a desperate rictus, his breaths shallow and quick. The names the Nothing spoke were strange, foreign, but there were so many and each one struck harder than the last. He had hoped his familiarity with it would help him endure, but his hand shook and his lip quivered. He croaked out a sob and the smile fell, quickly hidden behind a hand.

“Your kingdom is gone, King of Uruk. Gilgamesh, you have nothing left.”

“May.” His hand was taken and brown eyes met gold, both hiding broken hearts. Mori squeezed May's hand. Neither said a word, but the hands between them stilled.

The Socialite called upon the Dead once again. Armoured in bandages, armed with knowledge, they formed a wall around the both of them. "Tell us nothing comes after," they dared, "tell us that we are not what's next. Tell us that we are forgotten." They bind the Nothing in bandages, smothering it from view – until it is one of their own, indistinguishable from the rest of them.

Despite the erasure of the Nothing-After-Death, the Manager was still struggling, his breaths trembling as he tried to return to the game. The two let go and his hand shook as he held the cards. At one point he addressed the Socialite as "My lo–" before he remembered himself. His lord? His love?

His other hand gasped for another stake, but closed over air. Out of coins, the Manager gave a brittle laugh. "Well, well! But we're both in this for the love of the game, aren't we? I offer a Chance – of course you will accept. See – it is one of my buttons, my bright brass buttons!" His grin was manic, his eyes desperate.

The Socialite looked the Manager in the eye and shook his head. “You can stop, May. You know what I want.”

The Manager's lips thinned and he clicked his tongue behind his teeth. It was his last chance, the Socialite knew. And he was still of the belief that they would reconvene in nine years. His nightmares drained, the Socialite's mind fortified, the Manager had no other choice. He looked away, caught sight of blue, and looked back at the table with haste. He finally nodded.

The Socialite did nothing fancy. He did not gloat or manipulate or twist the game to his advantage. He simply played. With a thematically appropriate Conspiracy of Tears, the Morbid Socialite won. There was no fanfare nor did anyone move.

All except for the Manager, who laid his cards on the table alongside his head. “I'm sorry,” he whispered to nobody.

The silence rang for several minutes, long and arduous and broken only by haggard, weak breathing. Then, after so long, there was the rustling of clothes and a soft, dull thump. The Manager didn't lift his head yet, speaking hoarsely from where his head laid on the table. “Why are you still here?”

“I don't believe a heart's greatest desire should be kept behind some game.”

The Manager slowly turned his head to look, then sat up from his misery. There, seated on the table before the Socialite, shining in the dim light like nothing else could: a Mountain Sherd. The Manager was in shock. “You- How did you-?”

The Socialite spoke calmly, gently, like he was comforting a mourner. “When you're in the business of fulfilling what people want, you tend to make some friends. It and my assistance in its use are both yours on one condition.”

The Manager's eyes narrowed. He half expected cruelty, but gave a miniscule nod.

“If the Marvellous must resume - or something similar takes its place - you cannot rejoin.”

The Manager watched the Socialite, but the latter gave no tells. “Takes its place? What do you intend to do?”

The Socialite gave a small smile. “I - which is to say, the Monkey - will win and cancel the Marvellous. As I said before, I don't believe in hiding a heart's desire behind a game. I have my daughter, as you noticed, through alternative means. I've seen the suffering this game causes, the anguish and despair. I intend to put an end to it. But it would be cruel of me to do so without offering alternatives.” He pushed the Sherd a little bit closer. “This is yours - I'll even work with you to learn how and conduct the surgery - but I don't want to see you at the Masters’ card table again.”

The Manager looked between the Socialite and the Sherd. He let out a breathy chuckle. It soon turned into a guffaw, then a choking wheeze, then trembling sobs. He braced against the table once more, no longer hiding his pain behind a trained stiff upper lip, wailing as if in mourning yet again. A hand rubbed his back, murmuring comforts and assurances in Mori's native language, where May suffered in his.

When silence returned, May looked down at his shaking hands and clenched them to force them to still. He straightened and, from within his coat, he pulled a small, green lizard with wheeling eyes. “You won. It's yours.”

Mori accepted it gently with a smile. “Thank you. I know where it goes.”

May refused to meet Mori's eyes as he spoke, twiddling with his bright, brass buttons. “I will think on your offer. It seems too good to be true. You would assist in learning how to do the procedure?”

Mori nodded. “I'm already part way there.”

“Why?”

Mori could not provide a simple answer. He could only take May’s hand again and squeeze it. “Regardless of everything, May, I still want to help.”

May considered the hand in his and frowned. “Where did you learn that name?”

Mori gave a sly wink. “There are many stories in Zenith. Being brothers in arms against the Prester is but one.”

May spluttered on a laugh and squeezed the hand in turn. “You truly are something else, Mr Malodrema.” The Manager breathed into stillness, looking up at where the moon was peeking out from behind a false cloud. “All is well. Go. I will linger here a while longer.”

The Socialite stood and nodded. “You know where to find me, my love.”

As the Manager processed what had been said, the Socialite took the Rogue's hand as she stood from her bench and the two left the garden.

It was a frigid day as the knock came at the shared door of the Creaking Quartermaster and the Pinked Master at Arms. They’d received the letter ahead and expected the arrival of the Morbid Captain and his Reckless Daughter. Both looked exhausted and burdened as they stood in the door, at least to Aria McCawley. She smiled and opened the door wider.

“About time. Would hate to have to send a letter because you were late.”

The Captain - Mori Malodrema - chuckled weakly as he stepped through, regarding that she’s apparently memorized the requests he’d sent ahead. “I do appreciate you doing this for us.”

Aria laughed. “Oh, don’t sweat it. Will’s always been good with kids and I need to start learnin’, if we’re ever gonna get li’l’uns.”

Mori considered his crewman with a sideways smile. “Pregnant?”

“Pfft, no, not ever. But Will and I agree that startin’ a foster home wouldn’t be too bad; they like kids and I like livin’ with my best friend and don’t mind kids.”

Mori laid a hand on his daughter’s head. “Well, this one should give you good practice, if not a run for your money.”

“I’ll behave,” Persephone protested.

“Please do.” Mori sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t expect there’ll be too much trouble, first time and all. She’s also got another chaperone, erm… watching out for her, let’s say.”

“Friends with the Marksman? I know you have that game, but–”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just trust me when I say that you’re not her only carers at the moment.”

Aria raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Fine, you’re the Captain and her father. You know how to watch after her better than us.”

Mori gave a tight smile. He really wished that were true. With a breath, he kneeled to look his daughter in the eye and impress upon her the importance of the situation. “Percy, darling, I promise, I’m going to find out as much as I can. We’ll figure this out, but I need you to trust me. You’re young and this city - this whole mystery - is more dangerous than I feel comfortable letting you venture into. You haven’t even lived here a year. And I know you’re clever and stubborn and precocious and resilient, but this place wears down on even the strongest, toughest adults. I–”

“Papa,” Percy interrupted, “you don’t need to convince me. I’ll stay.”

Mori smiled and cupped her face. “That’s my girl. Be good, stay safe, try to have fun, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The two hugged and Mori made his way out the door, unsure if he was doing the right thing…

The morning was tense in the Unfindable Townhouse. Mori set a plate of food in front of Persephone, sitting across from her at the dining room table.

Persephone grimaced and gently scooted the plate away. “I'm… not really hungry.”

“You should eat regardless. What we have to talk about will be strenuous and I would prefer to do so on occupied stomachs.”

Persephone gave a gentle hum and the two ate in silence. Eventually, once both plates were cleared, Mori set his cup of tea down. “Now, Persephone, I want you to tell me exactly what happened the day you found the Paisley.”

“May I have a moment to gather my words first?” Percy did her best to keep her voice from cracking. Her cup of tea was refilled and she slipped it readily. “I-I’m sorry–”

Mori raised a hand to call attention, offering his daughter a sympathetic gaze. “We can talk about what happened after you tell me your truth of what happened, as you understand it. Please.”

Percy nodded and held the cup between her hands, letting the fingers of her flesh hand soak in the warmth and the plant within the other reach out impossibly slowly. “You sent me to Macaria's that day and I thought I might stop by the Tailor's shop, just to talk. The shop was locked, though, which was strange. I'd been learning lockpicking, so I thought they might be impressed if I could do it on their door.”

“Did you knock first?”

“I did! The, um… the lock broke my pick, although. But it still opened from the inside and the Paisley glove led me upstairs to the wardrobe the rest of the suit was in. It fell on top of me and asked me to take it somewhere safe, so I brought it back home, leaving a note saying it was safe, but no location in case a Master saw it, and it told- er, it showed me all it knew about what the Tailor was doing. It was worried and lonely, so I wanted to help it. You were there for the rest…”

Mori frowned. “The Tailor said you and it had been gallivanting across the city.”

“We did not! The only travel we did was from the spire back home! It… it could've been spotted by a Master.”

“And the party?”

“The Paisley wanted to see the Tailor really bad. It wanted to go home and be worn by them again. But then the Tailor got really mad and started accusing me and it of things we didn't do and I swear we didn't do anything and-!”

“Persephone.” Mori took her hand across the table, making her stop before her voice fully cracked into more, frustrated tears. “Breathe. I believe you. Take a moment to calm down, then I'm going to ask you some details that'll help me determine what to do next.”

Persephone nodded and tried to breathe. The table was quiet for several, long minutes, broken only by sniffles and gentle breathing. Eventually, Percy nodded again. “Okay…”

Mori clasped his hands in front of him on the table. “Did you send letters to Macaria and to me saying you were with the other?” At Percy's nod, he continued. “Did Macaria check in on you at all?” She shook her head. “Was the Paisley the one that told you to investigate the Tailor?”

“We decided to together.”

“Did you have any intention of coming forward about what was happening?”

“After the party…”

“Are you aware that lockpicking - breaking and entering without permission - is a crime?” Another nod. “And are you aware of just how wanted the Paisley is? What the Masters would do to anyone they spotted wearing Paisley?”

“We were careful not to be seen!”

“Persephone, that is not what I asked.”

Percy sniffled and nodded.

“Persephone, I need you to understand that what you did that day was not only illegal, but beyond dangerous. You could have been spotted, followed, kidnapped, even killed. You could have led Neddy Men or another Master of the Bazaar straight to our door. A more dangerous Master, one willing to do anything to get what it wants–”

“Veils?”

Mori sighed, closing his eyes and trying to maintain an even tone. “Among others, yes, but especially Veils. Had you been hurt while I was unaware- Had you been spotted while you were at the Bazaar- Persephone, everything about what you did was dire and a risk I should hope you know by now that you should not take. Irresponsible, reckless, dangerous- you should know better. You're a smart girl, Persephone, and I know I raised you wiser than this.”

“But I-!”

“Not only did you put yourself and the Tailor's Paisley in danger, you lied to me, you lied to Macaria, you lied to Derek and Jane, you obfuscated facts from the Tailor–”

“But the Tailor was in trouble!”

“Persephone, what the Tailor does in their life is not our business–”

Percy stood abruptly, hands braced against the table. “You're just mad because the Tailor got on your case for doing exactly the same thing!”

Mori struggled to bite back the need to defend and retaliate. He clenched his eyes closed and breathed. He heard the chair scoot again and breathed out as his daughter's voice came out small: “I'm sorry…”

He shook his head and opened his eyes. “Percy, you're ten years old, nearly eleven. I know you think that's a mature, nearly adult age - I mistakenly thought so as well - but this incident has made me realize you're still a child and I cannot trust you to do the responsible thing in the event of upheaval.”

“But, the Paisley–”

“The Paisley has been blatantly irresponsible as well, which is tragic for a mature clothes colony such as itself. We will be talking about its own reckless, immature, selfish behavior later. For now, though, I will be setting some ground rules. For the foreseeable future, you will either be accompanying me when I go out or I will be walking you to the door of your carers myself, to ensure you make it there without distractions. You will be staying with Willard and Aria until I have had a chance to speak with Macaria about her own misbehavior. No puddings for a month. And I am fully aware I cannot hope to separate you and the bad influence that is the Tailor's Paisley, so I will be introducing a chaperone in the form of–”

The bell above the door chimed as the cord outside was pulled and Mori stood. “That'll be your chaperone now. I'll see to the door.”

Persephone scoffed. “I don't need a chaperone!”

Mori continued his walk to the door. “The events over the holidays have very clearly proven otherwise. I have been very careful to make sure your actions have consequences corresponding. I cannot trust you to arrive at your destination without reckless detours, so I will be seeing you to your destination myself. I cannot trust you with Macaria's guidance, so your carers have changed. I cannot trust you to be alone with the Paisley, so you will not be alone.”

He opened the door and paused before giving a tired smile. “Don't you look dashing.”

The apparent stranger on the other side grinned, their eyes hidden by the brim of their hat. “And dash, I did. Your letter seemed urgent, darling. I came as soon as I could.” A gloved hand lifted the batling from her place on the brim and handed her back to Mori. “Now, what's happened? You look awful. Are you certain I'm not here to be worn?”

Persephone stepped out from the kitchen with a furrow in her brow. “Papa, who's this?”

Mori turned and nodded. “Right, you wouldn't have met. Percy, this is my Paisley. Paisley, this is Persephone, my daughter.”

Hat firmly affixed to the head, the Paisley gave a deep bow. “Ah, so you're the prodigal daughter I've heard so much about. Your father's spoken of you at length. Persephone, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Percy gave a polite curtsy, finally noticing how the fabric of the clothing the individual wore shimmered in a familiar pattern, a deeper indigo than the cerulean of Tailor's Paisley. “I… didn't know there were more.”

“Neither did we, until–”

Mori shook his head. “She doesn't know yet.”

The Paisley rose and grinned, head tilting as if it were winking. “I see. Well, I can assure you I am a Paisley like no other.”

Mori's hand landed on its shoulder. “Paisley, I called you here today about something that's occurred that I need your help with.”

The Paisley turned to its Socialite and gave a kind smile. “May I?” At Mori’s nod, the Paisley placed a glove gently on their face and leaned in, flicking through their mind to find the answers. It made its host’s voice soft and low as it purred. “Ah, you’ve quite had your fears and imagination run away with you. And the feckless youths certainly haven’t helped assuage it. Not to worry, my dear, I’ll take care of it all.”

Mori gave a gentle sigh and nearly toppled as the lambskin and Paisley glove was pulled away. “Could you?”

“You can count on it.” The Paisley trotted back over to Persephone and crouched. “Now, I understand that I’m to be your chaperone when you’re with a… sort of cousin of mine. Is the other Paisley here at the moment?”

Persephone shook her head, then looked back at her father, who was seeming closer and closer to just collapsing by the minute. “What did you do?”

The body possessed by the Paisley smiled. “Your father has quite the thing for young roues and cads. And for me. With a little bit of persuasion, I’ll be bringing him right to sleep. He seems as if he’s been avoiding it, no?” At Percy’s exasperated, slanted nod, the Paisley gave a laugh. “Let’s see if we can’t fix that. But, before then, while he’s still upright, how about a proper introduction between us? Or, at least, you and the piece of me acting as chaperone. Scarf or glove?”

“Why not both?”

“Alongside pieces of the other Paisley? Much too far, you’d be taken over in moments.”

Persephone considered her choices. A scarf was warmer in these cold, winter months, but also damn itchy. A glove would even out the ensemble, but it would claim both her hands in addition to being harder to tell pieces apart. “Um… Scarf.”

“Smart.”

The Paisley scarf slithered off the neck of the host and around Persephone’s arm. She got the sense that this Paisley was slightly older in maturity, but perhaps that was just the slightly more out of date style, as the fabric itself seemed to be newer. The scarf was warm, soft, comforting, not itchy at all, and looped gently, willfully, unlike the prideful cling of the Tailor’s Paisley. Both were terribly handsome clothes colonies, but where one announced itself and felt the need to be loud and attention grabbing, the other was much more subtle, quiet, not needing to yell to be heard. Both were revolutionaries, but one fed off the brashness of a monster hunter who charged ahead while the other took on the silent poise and graceful urging of a mortician and social face. Percy felt she could love them both, but she felt she could understand where her father thought one could be a better influence in her desires over the other.

Persephone’s hands were taken and she was brought out of the introductory trance. Her father brushed a hair behind her ear and she sighed sadly. “Sweetheart, I know you’re worried. I am, too. But we can’t just elbow into people’s lives. We can love them without needing to be a knife between their ribs.”

“Like that time I hugged a cat too long?”

Mori smiled and cupped her cheek. “And got those nasty scratches, yes. Patience is a virtue here. I know it will be of little comfort, but I will be doing some investigations of my own and I will inform you of what I find. But I need you to promise me you won’t betray the small trust I still have in you. You’re a smart girl, but running into a wall over and over is just going to hurt and do nothing to the wall. I’ll be the one to find a way around it.”

It was slightly comforting, but still frustrating. She wanted to be a part of this, wanted to be a hero, a spy, a rogue. How could she do that stuck at home or with a chaperone? “I… I don’t want to make any promises…”

“Persephone–”

“I’m scared. What if they get hurt? What if they never come back?” Percy rubbed away her tears with the heel of her palm and sniffled, unsure why she was being so forward with herself. Was it the Paisley’s doing? “I want them to come home. What if we work together? Why do you have to do this alone?”

“Because I don’t want to lose you, too. I need you to be a good girl and, no matter what happens, stay safe. For me? Please?” Persephone nodded and Mori smiled. “That’s my girl. Come here.” He tugged her into a hug and she obliged with haste. “I love you, Percy. You have such a big heart and a brilliant mind. I don’t want to see that snuffed again. We’ll work together, but it’s too dangerous for now. I’ll tell you everything once I find it and we can make sure they’re safe. Deal?”

Persephone didn’t exactly want to accept, but she sighed and nodded. “Deal.” She added a caveat in her head, perhaps heard by the Paisley: until she encountered something she could deem an emergency.

“Good,” Mori smiled, standing. “Relax for a while, read, draw, whatever you wish, but just don’t leave the townhouse? The Paisley and I have much to catch up on.”

As Mori led his Paisley to the bedroom, it bowed, its movements just a little stiffer and its voice just a fraction more false without the help of the scarf. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Persephone. I hope you and a part of I can work well together.”

Percy looked down at the scarf as it curled like a snake to look up at her. “You’re not gonna be weird whenever they do things, are you?” With its mimed shake of its ‘head’, she nodded. “Good. I have more reading to do. You can join me for that.”

The Morbid Socialite returned home from a thoroughly unsatisfying dinner with a selection of devils and their guests and the first thing he did was check on Persephone. She was still collapsed on her bed, dead tired, curled around her pillow like a lifeline. Mori lingered in the doorway, watching her breathe, and sighed. He eventually closed the door and moved to the chaise lounge just under the parlor window. He collapsed under the false starlight, arm draped over his eyes and breathing out.

He was still so hungry… Something about that dinner hadn’t been right and the odd behavior of the other guests was just the start. He knew Abstraction was an attractive fashion at the moment, but this was beyond odd. The food was entirely unfulfilling and one of the guests had miserable table manners, but the rest of the guests seemed to ignore it.

Curiouser and curiouser…

Mori didn’t have the energy to get up and move to his bed, so he simply closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep draped over the chaise. He could deal with his sore back in the morning.

Robes the colour of salt… Trimmed in red fox-fur… The only one to bring a gift rather than take one… His breath is saccharine sweet… It drips like rot and coats the tongue… His voice is the sound of a hungry well, bottomless and cold… So familiar, so familiar… Don’t take them, you cry, please don’t take them… They’re only a child, they’re only a child… You know this hunger and cold like a distant kin, a memory held by someone with your face and name and nothing of yourself… You beg… What do you want… You will take his heart, you will take his robes, you will take his cold, you will take his face, you will take his flickering, sputtering candlelight, you will ensure it lasts forever… He reaches within and pulls and you are cold… You are drowning and you are cold… You are dreadfully hungry and so very cold…

Mori awoke with a start, face wet with frigid tears, hands grasping for something he’s unable to feel. A burning flame? A set of robes? The sleeve of a loved one? He couldn’t remember, but he felt a hunger and a sadness choke him, scrubbing the chilled tears away from his face.

They smelled like ammonia…

Taking a moment to fully wake up, Mori realized he and the chaise and the window ledge were soaked with the slow dripping of melting lacre, piled as snow along the window that had been left open. Mori’s breath stuttered, wondering how much of that had been a dream… There was no time to dwell on that. Mori shoveled the lacre from the window into a pail and shut the window. He used a towel to mop up as much melted lacre as possible from the chaise and moved it to sit just in front of the fireplace, setting up a fire. He changed his clothes and pinned the lacre-soaked set before the fireplace as well. He mopped up the ammonia-smelling tears that puddled on the floor and the windowsill and hung the towel before the fire as well before seating himself there with a sigh.

The fumes of evaporating lacre were unlikely to be good for him, but he had to dry off somehow. He sat on the chaise with his head in his hands, propped up on his knees, and stared into the fire. That dream… That dream that wasn’t a dream…

A letter slipped through the mail slot and Mori sighed, grunting as he stood to fetch it. He looked it over at the door. The seal of Mr. Iron, the note reading: ‘You are pursuing a name. End your pursuit now.’

It took him a moment to realize he hadn’t heard footsteps retreating. He read over the note a couple times, becoming certain of what it meant, then sighed. “Inform the Masters of the Bazaar,” Mori started, propping the mail slot open, “that I have no intention - nor will I ever have any intention - of pursuing any names unless they refuse to leave me alone. Ensure that Mr. Iron, in particular, is aware of this fact and that my continued control of the situation is based solely on my good favour towards the spare few Masters that still maintain it. If they could have some amount of patience, I will be rid of what plagues me in a day’s time. Good day.”

He let the mail slot clack closed and listened to the sound of footsteps retreating from his door. He sighed, his hand running through his hair and his stomach growling as he returned to his seat before the fire. He considered the note and folded it gently, since he was evidently being watched, and set it aside. Mori scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked up at the mantle. The clothes had slowed their dripping, the fire sending a glow up the chimney, the red and gold lizard almost seeming to purr like a cat with the gentle warmth stolen from the bricks.

Mori smiled and hung his head.

Wait!

Mori straightened again and locked eyes with the red and gold lizard that certainly wasn’t his beloved Fig. It licked its eye and stared back, curled up gently on the bricks. Over several moments of staring, Mori slowly loosened, eyes still locked on the lizard, but the shock and fury fading into a simmer.

“If you can wait for me to be dry and fed,” he started in a quiet tone, exhaustion seeping through, “then I can let you soak in the fireplace for as long as you wish.”

The lizard continued to stare, the crackling of the fireplace filling the silence between them, before it laid its head down again and closed both layers of eyelids. Mori sighed and turned his attention back to the fire, content with this temporary truce.

Persephone Malodrema took her hand from her muff to knock on the door of A King's Timeless Couture. As she waited, she turned and waved at some of the people passing through the Bazaar. She watched the way the lacre fell outside the Glass Door, gentle and drifting and reminding her of the silence of Durham in the snow. London wasn't nearly so quiet, but the energy was still there.

After five minutes of waiting, Percy knocked again, harder. Maybe the Anachronistic Tailor just hadn't heard? She'd feel bad trying to just walk in, if they were in the middle of a consultation or focused on a design, but...

Another five minutes and Percy huffed, air coming out in a fog. She finally checked for signage around the entryway and found one that said they were closed. This did not, however, explain the Tailor's absence from their own home. She could wait, see if they were coming back soon, but it was tea time across the city, which meant they would either be gone for an hour or two - until which time they would return from Beatrice's - or they were, in fact, home and having tea and simply ignoring her. And ignoring her was not an option she could abide by.

Besides, Persephone had been practicing with her lockpicks and it would be a prime opportunity to show the Tailor just how much she'd learned. Surely, after all this time and effort, they'd be proud, right?

Persephone took off her shawl, laid it on the ground under her knees, removed the secret lockpicks from her dress' pocket, and set to work on the lock within the door, tongue held between her teeth as she focused.

The Socialite stared up at Jasper and Frank as the two glowered back. While he knew the answer, he could only ask: “Are you… here for more lessons?”

Jasper turned to Frank. “Yea, Frank, did we bring Lyme with us?”

“No, Jasper, don't think we did. Though, that'd be pretty clear just from lookin’.”

“And who did we bring with us, Frank?”

“Oh, someone who'd like a word with Mister Malodrema, Jasper.”

The Socialite's eyes kept getting drawn to the huge figure behind the two, unfinished Clay Men. He swallowed and stepped back as Jasper and Frank shoved their way in.

“Leave nothing unturned,” Mr. Fires ordered, its voice piping and smooth behind the breathing mask. “If she's here, we'll find her.”

The Morbid Socialite watched the Clay Men venture into the flat, heart hammering in a way he was certain was audible. A massive, clawed hand fell on his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck, his breath hitching. “I have some questions for you, Mister Malodrema, and I think it's in your best interest to answer them honestly. Wouldn't you agree?”

The Socialite swallowed with a subtle nod, bit his lips, and said possibly the worst thing he could've: “D-Doctor Malodrema.”

He was suddenly shoved into the wall by his throat, breathing mask and attached tubing hissing as it invaded his space, eyes boring into him. “I would not care less if you were the Traitor Empress herself; where is Dinah Hewitt?”

Around his clenched throat, the Socialite struggled to push out anything more than a squeak. The claws pressing in loosened only slightly, still crushing and cutting at the back, but giving enough air to speak. In return for the ever so generous provision of air, the Socialite managed to push out a few words. “I don't… know…”

Fires drew closer to his face, teeth baring audibly behind the mask. “She is your illegal spouse and you don't know where she is? I find that hard to believe.”

The Socialite's hands reached up to clench at the massive claws, trying to afford himself more breathing room. “We… fought… Left the… next morning… Have not seen… her… Miss her…” The edges of his vision were starting to grow dark, his lungs screaming for air and thin tears streaming down his cheeks.

Finally, after several long minutes of suspicion, Fires let go, letting the Socialite hit the ground hard. He choked and rasped, hands to his bruising throat and chest, barely able to hear what his assailant said. “Seems like you're telling the truth. At least enough of it. But, if you're hiding her here, we'll find her. In fact…” It was difficult to tell which sense Mr. Fires was using - sight, sound, or smell - but it worked nonetheless. “There's someone else here. One other person.”

The Socialite leapt to his feet, ignoring how his body and lungs ached and how noises of destruction echoed from the bedroom. He tried to intercept the Master, but knew impeding its movement would be impossible, so he tried to gather words from an oxygen starved brain. “My daughter! That's… That would be… my daughter, Persephone. She- she's not related to Dinah at all.”

Fires did not move, hood still facing the kitchen door. “And have they met?”

“Shortly. Barely.”

“Enough to have recognized her, if she passed through, then.”

Fearing what Fires would do to interrogate his daughter, the Socialite stepped more between it and the door. “I-I can ask her. She'll trust me with the truth.”

Mr. Fires squinted, the Socialite unable to tell if it was out of offense or suspicion or something much more inscrutable. But it eventually waved a hand. “Do it out here, where I can see and hear, then.”

The Socialite nodded, swallowing his fear. He straightened and turned his head to call. “Percy, dear, could you come here a moment?”

The Morbid Socialite and Mr. Fires both listened to the sound of a door opening and closing, then footfall padding closer with a muffled “Coming!” The Socialite made sure he was stood between the door and the Master, less to block Fires’ view and more to block Percy's. The kitchen door finally swung open. “I'm here, Papa! What's wrong?”

The Socialite turned, trying to put on a smile. “Darling, don't look behind me just yet. It could impact your answer.”

Persephone was halted from doing just that, newly hesitant, but obedient. “Okay…?”

“Good. I… I need you to tell me where Dinah went, if you saw her, if she told you anything about where she was going.” The Socialite was trembling, refusing to look Persephone in the eye.

Percy shook her head. “You remember, I wasn't at home when she left.”

The Socialite nodded. “I remember, I just needed to confirm. And have you seen her since she left after the fight?”

Percy, once again, shook her head ‘no’. “Not at all, Papa. Is she okay?”

There was no good way for the Morbid Socialite to answer, his mouth gaping like a fish as he tried to find words. However, a clawed hand landed on his shoulder. “Oh, she's just fine,” Mr. Fires purred. “We simply need to talk to her about a business venture. You see, she has something of ours and we would like to… compensate her for returning it.”

Something instinctively shivered in Persephone under the gaze of the Master, suddenly holding herself close and shrinking back. “Oh…”

Jasper and Frank moved on to the kitchen and the Socialite watched them, thinking of the noises that came from the bedroom and paling. “Please, don't break anything! I can open things, if needed!”

It, at first, seemed like the Clay Men were going to completely ignore the request, but a hand gesture from Fires got them to look between each other and move through the kitchen with a little more grace. The Socialite watched them go, failing to catch how Fires bent down to take Persephone's wrist and rolled up her sleeve with force. Her yelp caught his attention, however, and he stepped between them.

“I thought I smelled smoke,” Fires hissed.

The Socialite needed to think fast, feeling his daughter tremble behind him. “I… ask that you be careful with her. She's quite sensitive after the operation.”

Mr. Fires almost seemed to grow, looming over the two of them threateningly. “An operation to apply Correspondence in an illegal manner?”

“Hearts!” The Socialite proclaimed in a hurry. “A-an extension of my work with Hearts and the-the Individual that introduced us. Quite the honorable opportunity and one that's- that's granted me my daughter back. I am so very, very grateful for what I've been legally allowed to do under their strict and intense guidance.”

Mr. Fires squinted, but it seemed illegal use of the Correspondence was not at the forefront of its mind, as it let the overly-praising lie pass. “I see.”

Jasper and Frank returned through the kitchen door.

“Nothing of worry or worth,” said Frank.

“Though we searched tip to tail,” said Jasper.

Fires nodded with a gruff hum. “You’re quite the unfortunate spouse, Mister Malodrema. The Pertinatious Pickpocket seems to have abandoned you in full. Luckily for you, however, that means we must take our leave. I can assure you, however, if you harbor her, assist her, or otherwise act against our retrieval of her, we will know, we will return, and you will not be so fortunate.” It leaned back with a self-satisfied trill. “I’m glad we could have such a productive conversation. Morbid Socialite… Child, good day.”

Mr. Fires left out the still open door and Jasper and Frank were about to follow when the Socialite reached out. “Jasper, Frank, please wait.”

The two paused, played a round of Granite-Coal-Marble, and went their separate ways with differing expressions. Frank went ahead to follow Fires while Jasper stayed behind, a touch impatient.

The Socialite steeled himself and straightened. “I’ve helped with tutoring Lyme for years now. I ask only one favour and it won’t interrupt Mr. Fires’ search. Please, let me know what’s going on. What’s happened with Dinah? Why is Fires searching? Is… is she okay?”

Jasper hummed and crossed his arms. “Well, the Pickpocket’s stolen somethin’ of worth to Fires in particular and it’s not rightful pleased about it. Last we saw, she smashed a phial of… somethin’ toxic in the face of one of its enforcers and ran off. That’s about as much as you can know. That all?”

The Socialite nodded. “Please, keep me updated. I won’t do anything, I just… want to know what’s going on.”

Jasper tapped his fingers against his thumb and sighed. “Fine. If only because you’ve taken care of Lyme so long and so well. But, if you do interfere, you know what happens.” Jasper looked down at Persephone, effectively communicating what he meant, while also changing the topic. “Left your collection well enough alone, miss. In the small trunk, right?”

Persephone sighed. “Thank you, Jasper. I promise, Mama wasn’t in there.”

“Not like she could fit anyhow. You both stay out of trouble and out of the way.” With no further ado, Jasper left.

Finally alone in his own flat, Mori breathed out a raspy sigh. “Good lord, Dinah, what have you gotten yourself into?”

At the knocking of the door and the ringing of the bell, Persephone padded her way to the door and opened it, but was promptly picked up by the Familiar Thief, Macaria. Macaria finished opening the door with a laugh, the adopted younger sister squirming in her impromptu rugby carry. "Good evening," she greeted. "This is the residence of the Morbid Socialite, Devoted Huntsman, and Pertinacious Pickpocket. Is there something I can help you with, sir?"

Percy wiggled enough to turn and see who was at the door. "Professor Ángel! Hi! Can you tell my sister that she's being monstrous!?"

"If it'd been a Jack at the door, you would've thanked me," Macaria purred, smug as the cat that caught the canary.

"But it's not a Jack, so put me down!"

It was the season of Hallowmas, of frights and secrets and the thinning of the Veil. The roles of the world were reversed, with all crimes legal under the guise of a mask. For the non-criminal, however, there were the occasional, appeasing festivities. Among these were themed plays. As long as the director and writers wore masks at the meeting, they could get away with paying only a small portion of royalties to the Stoker Estate. In return, a B rate theatre in Veilgarden was allowed to put on a seasonal performance of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

Among those in attendance were some of the students of the Benthic University Mycology Course, as invited by the Brash Devil (if asked tonight, she said to call her Belle). Their tickets were printed with their seat numbers and they were, thankfully, all in a row. The orchestra in the pit were tuning their strings and, slowly, the lights in the theatre began to dim. The play was starting.

The foley artists backstage created the sound of passing carriages and conversation as the curtain rose and the first character, Jonathan Harker, began his narration. To some, this was just another actor on the stage, unfamiliar except for the character he played. For others, they likely could recognize his voice from summer days at Benthic University: “Third of May, Bistritz; Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on the 1st of May, arriving at Vienna early the next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but the train was an hour late.”

There, up on stage, was the Morbid Socialite. Stage makeup and lighting did wonders for making him look like a young man on his first business trip rather than the middle aged father and friend he was. He was seated on a prop bench, speaking aloud as he wrote in his travel journal, making note of the surrounding countryside and people.

The narration was shortened to just a few lines for each scene, the events of the story mostly played out directly. Friends and strangers alike witnessed a young man slowly realize he’d been trapped, first by a madman, then by a monster. The play was real, believable, and quite horrid to those of sensitive dispositions in the audience.

Left for dead, the play cuts to a young lady on one side of the stage, writing and narrating just the same as her husband-to-be: a Miss Mina Murray, as played by the Soft-Hearted Maven. It certainly explained why she wasn’t present among her peers in the audience. “From Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra, 9th of May: My Dearest Lucy, Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.”

(For what it was worth, as her scene went on, the Brash Devil sat, enraptured, and she gave the loudest applause as the lights fell and the scene changed. She would do the same for every scene her lover was in.)

The audience, now knowing the dangers headed for England, could do not but watch as the young Lucy succumbed to the hungers of a vampire, no matter how her suitors and Dr. Van Helsing attempted to help, while Mina received word that her betrothed was sickly and mad in Hungary and was forced to leave her best friend to see him at once.

Act One ended with the return of Mina and Jonathan to London, walking arm in arm, only to witness the Count in disguise, hungrily watching a young lady and, in doing so, throwing Jonathan into a frighteningly believable fit of trauma and hysteria.

Intermission lasted about twenty minutes and, in the rush of the cast and crew to prepare for the next act, one may be able to sneak backstage and speak with the actors.

Act Two saw the hunt for Count Dracula out of London and across the Carpathians, along with the tragic almost-vampirization of Mina and her drinking from Jonathan, as forced by the Count in a dark baptism. Those familiar with the story might not remember such a scene, but the chemistry between the actors and their location in Veilgarden did inspire a seamless increase of intimacy.

Some later reviewers may theorize that the expression of slaughter present in the penultimate scenes was achieved through the real (although temporary) death of the actor playing Dracula. It was the only feasible way to explain the intensity and the visceral hatred present in some of the actor’s faces and the realistic splatter of blood against the killers in question. In the spirit of Hallowmas, this crime would go unreported.

The final words were spoken by Jonathan Harker, narrating a reunion between the heroes of light seven years after the death of Dracula, Mina and Jonathan’s son (played by a young, up and coming actor, 6 years of age) seated on Van Helsing’s knee. Jonathan finished writing and rejoined his family as the curtains closed.

They opened again only once for a final bow of the cast, the crew, and the management before the lights came up and the whole hurrah was finished.

(The Devil, once again, applauded the loudest among the entire audience, cheering as her Maven - her brilliant, beautiful Maven - stepped forward to bow.)

The Morbid Socialite didn't know how to fight. He couldn't punch, couldn't effectively dodge, couldn't take a hit, could do not but run and hope he got lucky. When he took on the Black Ribbon Duels, he won by cowardice and good fortune. If he attempted again, he would not be able to replicate such a win. That needed to end.

The Socialite was sick of running, sick of getting lucky, sick of not being able to hold his own. He needed training. What better way to train than by the hand of one's skillful friend and colleague?

That was what found the Socialite at A King's Timeless Couture one Sunday afternoon, testing the door for a lock at the same time as he knocked. They had agreed to doing this, but he could forgive, if the Tailor forgot. They'd been putting it off for so long.

The Cardsharp Monkey could be found, as usual, in a pub off Wolfstack Docks. The Monkey was, however, not aware of his state of quantum flux, an existence between several hundreds of thousands of alternate states determined only through observation. When the Morbid Socialite entered the pub and spotted the Cardsharp Monkey, the quantum state entered a fixed point, skewered in place by a particular person keeping his eyes on him.

The Socialite looked back outside and waved the Soft-Hearted Maven in, gesturing with his head to the still static Monkey. The Monkey was unaware of any of this, focused on his hand and his rivals. It glowered between two remaining players before laying down its hand with a strong, authoritative, chimpish noise. The other players muttered oaths and dropped their hands on the table, watching hatefully as the Monkey took his winnings.

The Socialite placed a hand between the Monkey and the deck before the next hand could be shuffled and distributed. "Before you go on," they said, "we would like a word." They nodded to the other players. "Gentlemen."

The two players picked up the hint and, likely preferring not to lose anything more, decided now was as good a time as any to cut their losses and head for the bar.

Mori Malodrema was speaking with Jane and Derek when the door of the zub's main command deck creaked. He looked back and found his daughter, in her nightshirt and new greatcoat that she'd yet to grow into, leaned against the door. "Percy?"

Persephone Malodrema rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Can't sleep. Can you come help?"

Mori smiled and stood. "Sorry, loves. Duty calls. I'll be back soon." He escorted his daughter back to the guest bed and tucked her in once again. He brushed her bangs away from her face. "So, you don't think it's all the extra sweeties you bribed from the crew that's keeping you up?"

Percy giggled, but shook her head. "No. My brain just won't be quiet."

Mori nodded with a hum. "I've had that happen plenty of times. And how are we going to solve this?"

Persephone yawned and thought. "We don't have any books... Can you tell me something?"

"Another story?"

"Sorta. Can you tell me what it's like to talk to Stone?"

Mori considered, them sighed. "Scooch over. Coming in beside you." Percy scooted over on the bed, plenty of room left for her father to climb in on top of the blankets, one hand propping up his head and the other affectionately petting her hair. "Now, talking with Stone is complicated, because she doesn't talk."

"Like Rudy?"

"Not like Rudy, either. She's not mute. She communicates in... something like another language. You know when you're listening to your conscience and you understand what it's saying, but it's not in words? Or when you're reading and you're imagining the scene and you realize you haven't actually been paying attention to the words? She speaks in thoughts. So, talking with her, you can't use words. And she's very, very slow, so a single conversation can take days."

Persephone watched the ceiling, breathing slow. "But what's it like?"

Mori hummed, tracing a finger gently on his daughter's forehead. "Imagine... You're standing in a river. Close your eyes and imagine it. Good. You're standing in a river and you feel the water rushing all around your ankles. You bury your feet in the bottom to keep from falling and, as you do, you notice the water start to rise. Up to your knees. To your hips. To your elbows. To your shoulders. You take a deep, deep breath and the water rises up and up past your head. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, but the water urges them open. It stings, but you can see clearly. Fish are swimming by you so fast and the water is moving so fast and... You're slow. Like the algae on the rocks and the long, green plants, like the watercress and the tumbling pebbles and the erosion of rocks, you're moving slow. The water is rushing over, under, around, and through you. You gasp with the sense. You can breathe. The water embraces you, welcomed you. You feel it in you, one with the water that makes up your body. The river is home. The river has always been home. The river wraps you up in its waters and welcomes you home. It's so much at first, but you eventually ease into it. You let the water in you speak with the water of the river. And--"

Mori was interrupted by a soft snore. He smiled, tucking Percy's hair behind her ear. With a kiss to her forehead, he rose from the bed and took the lamp with him out the door. "Goodnight, Persephone. Sleep well and dream of kind mountains and rivers."

Mori hadn't actually been expecting to do anything for a second birthday. It'd been a slow, painful process and not really akin to birth in anything but arduousness. It'd just been a point of humor shared between him and the Maven to his perspective, an in-joke that meant nothing.

So, when she replied with gift ideas and asking after Persephone's favorite cake, Mori was suddenly faced with the realization it'd been serious the whole time. He'd need to remember the date, how many years it'd been, plan for gifts or events. Because it was his daughter's second birthday and he would be damned if he didn't try to make it pleasant and memorable.

On short notice.

On a Monday.

After nearly a week of constant stress and anxiety.

Mori crashed the moment he looked at how much pinnet banners would be in terms of echoes. Maybe, perhaps, it could be a surprise...

He'd still make her favorite food for Monday lunch, however: paprika hendl. He'd made it when they started reading Dracula as the bedtime story, finding a recipe in the card box of his foremothers, and his little girl fell in love. Especially when it came to the spice level, true Hungarian peppers being hot and dry and quite thirsty. Mori could take it or leave it, but it was his daughter's second birthday. He could survive food neutrality.

Sunday at noon, Mori received the return letter from the Professor. He read it over as he gave his bat, Poppy, a treat and some well-deserved scritches. He nodded and informed his spouses he would be expecting someone. Enoch was already planning on going out on a hunt and Dinah had to a man about a mask, which left Mori and Persephone to see to it.

Mori briefed Percy quickly on how people could look odd in the Neath, some people choosing to look completely inhuman because that was how they felt most comfortable. Percy took it in stride, as she does many things, and pointed out that she looks odd, too, so it's not a big deal.

Scones and tea were prepared and all that was left was to wait.

Persephone startled awake with a gasp, sweating and coughing and trembling. A hand settled on her back and she flinched slightly before leaning into the warm body beside her. It took her a fair few minutes to remember how to breathe, think, be, but she eventually settled into a passive shiver.

She was so cold...

Her father's voice whispered into the top of her head. "A nightmare?"

She didn't have to say a word for her father to understand, just nodding as his hand rubbed her back and eased her body into relaxing.

"It must have been quite startling. I'm sorry you're plagued."

Percy just sniffled, leaning in closer for warmth and comfort, body held in a loose ball.

"Do you wish to speak of it?"

She shook her head. No, it was... It wasn't pleasant and she didn't want to relive it. They sat in silence for a while as Percy tried to calm her thoughts and trembling hands and her father rubbed her back and hummed some soft, distant melody. He interrupted his own humming with a pat.

"May I offer you advice that may help?"

Percy sniffled, but nodded, letting her father talk.

"When you have dreams or nightmares of any kind, you live them in a realm beyond the mirrors, like with Alice. That means there's something real on the other side. The rest is thought and imagination, but here's what I want you to do: the next time you have a nightmare, look for a scarlet lizard. Look away and look back and, if she stays scarlet, follow her. Her name is Pomegranate and she belongs to a friend of mine. If you see her, follow her, and she'll lead you to a magnificent building, a hotel, by the name of the Royal Bethlehem." Her father's hand traced along her hair as he spoke, gentle and easy. "Find a man with a stovepipe hat and a maroon tailcoat. Tell him you're the daughter of the Seventh Player. From there, he should welcome you to a room. If we're sleeping at the same time, I'll find you. If not, there you can rest more easily there."

Per her request, Percy's father repeated the instructions a few more times before she fell asleep once more, thinking about scarlet lizards and red and gold hotels.

Persephone Malodrema still sometimes got nightmares. That was the cost of living, especially doing so in London. But now, when she did, they were often interrupted by dreams awash in red and gold.

Over the four days following the Tuesday Gathering, nobody saw the Morbid Socialite - Dr. Mori Malodrema - outside, in the rest of London. Not at any parties, not at Benthic University, he even missed the chance to sign up for the Mycologist's class. Nowhere in the streets, at the pubs, at the theatre on nor off the stage, or at the Bazaar. Not on the Rigor Mortis nor anywhere in Veilgarden or the Flit. The Players of the Marvellous had no clue and, if you were able to track down their spouses, the two of them would have matching, shifting, worried glances and tight lips.

That left only one place to look.

The Unfindable Flat in which the Morbid Socialite, the Devoted Huntsman, and the Pertinacious Pickpocket resided echoed with harried footsteps interspersed with long stretches of silence and smelled faintly of formaldehyde and flowers and smoke. The door was most certainly locked, but there was nothing that said you couldn't knock or pull the cord to ring the bell.

(Anyone can pop in, but I kindly ask that we keep everyone to separate threads, one at a time. :3 )

The Morbid Socialite - Mementomori Malodrema - had been traversing with the Shuck for some time, passing by wild and overgrown swathes of Parabolan forest, the Cosmogone sun shining down and lighting their path endlessly between the leaves of the trees, many of them a solid mass that only appeared to shift and move as real trees might. The Shuck would often bound ahead, leading the way it somehow knew.

The Shuck took the form of a large, black dog with violently green eyes, preferring this shape for intimidating anything dangerous that dared come close. It spoke, but it's words did not come out as words, but as ideas, concepts, mutual understanding. It reminded Mori that it found distaste for the idea of leaving Parabola. It didn't like being so weak and fragile. If it was to meet this Chimeric Professor, it would be done on this side of the mirror.

Mori chuckled. "Yes, I remember. You don't have to cross to the other side, if you don't want to." As they walked, he looked over his small sheet of paper again, looking over the details. He'd taken so long to decide and had even made some changes after the events of Saturday. He hoped it was all well...

The Shuck inquired in a sing-song tone if it might tweak the Professor's reality just a little.

"Not unless they directly invite you to."

The Shuck pleaded, whining and exaggerating its body language to appear so dejected. It asked even nicer if it might be able to temporarily change Mori.

Mori sighed, but considered the option. "Just to show what the adjustments might look like. That's it."

The Shuck was practically bouncing along the forest floor, excited for the opportunity to show off its fine detail work!

"We're coming close. Maybe take a form a little bit softer? Ángel isn't easily frightened, but we still want to make a good first impression."

The Shuck leapt and landed on Mori's shoulders as a sleek, black cat, same green eyes staring. It inquired teasingly if this was good, knowing both Mori's affection for Surface felines and how the weight and angle nearly knocked him over.

"Y-yes, fine, this is fine. I think I see it up ahead." And Mori trotted forward.

The Morbid Socialite - Dr. Mementomori Malodrema - had, at this point, sufficient knowledge of the marshes to find the cottage of Dr. Jane Rosewood and Derek. He did, however, have to double and triple check that his path and information was right; that he was coming on the right day, that he was going the right direction, that he was aware of his surroundings and not about to need a leg amputated because of another marsh-wolf.

Perhaps he was a mite paranoid. His last visits to the marshes by Watchmaker's Hill had been enough to teach him the value of being cautious. He wasn't the kind of man to repeat mistakes... often.

Mori, upon catching a glimpse of the cottage, smiled and jogged up to the door. He'd decided to wear his oldest, most athletic clothes, prepared to get them torn and dirtied and rumpled. He gave a firm knock and waited patiently, in the meantime thinking about how he hadn't been here any other time than the once, with the torn side and leg. He still had the scars, but at least they were just scars now...

If asked, no, he did not jump at a loose branch falling off a tree in the distance. That would be humiliating and he was no such coward.

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February 2026

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The Morbid Socialite

A man of honeyed words and bloodied hands.

Recent Entries

Sticky: Inbox

A Message Delivered

The King's Mind

May Flowers in the Garden

Trailing the Tailor

A Stern Talk

Uneasy Truce

A Helping Hand

Where Did You Go?

A Wild Socialite Chase

A Bloody Adaptation for the Stage

Lessons Against Cowardice

Red in the Water

Mountains and Rivers

Happy Belated Second Birthday

Afternoon Delight

The First Nightmare in the Neath and the Old Friend that could cure it

It's Time (OPEN RP)

Fun with Amber

The Hunt is On