and the window was empty of their visage, the Devoted Huntsman considered what had happened and rubbed their neck. "That was... a bit much, wasn't it?"

The Morbid Socialite rose with a strained sigh, his spouse moving to his side immediately to help him up. "If it wasn't you, it was going to be Dinah or someone else and they would have run just the same. Like a skittish animal." Upon standing, the Huntsman wrapped their arms behind the Socialite, gentle of his injuries, and kissed his neck. "But you should have seen it, Enoch, I was reaching them. Maybe, if I had been a tad clearer or more loving or... I'm not sure. But the look on their face, they were opening up, we were communicating."

The Huntsman swayed their Socialite gently to an unheard music. "Something like how you looked after our first five free evenings together when you realized I wasn't about to bite off your head for using the wrong spoon or talking about your new favorite horror novella?"

"Something like that... I was so close, Enoch. I nearly... It nearly... I felt..." The Socialite sighed, closing his eyes and swaying with his lover.

The Huntsman was silent for a long moment before speaking up. "They won't replace Persephone."

The Socialite halted, about ready to turn and snap. "That is not what this is about! They're not meant to replace her! I wouldn't- I'm not so shallow as to believe a person can stand in place of another. But... But it cauterizes the wound. The raw ache of her loss doesn't feel so burning when I can take care of another."

"When you can still feel like a father?"

The Socialite said nothing to this, but sighed into the hold. His thumb played along the arm of his Huntsman, thinking. "They remind me something of myself..." When the Huntsman didn't respond, the Socialite correctly took it as room to continue. "Before I became someone, before I learned to remove the costume. Having grown without proper guidance or protection, with a feeling of regret for the simple crime of existing. They're not Persephone, that much is evident. But they still feel like mine..."

"Better late than never."

"I just hope it's not too late..." The Socialite hummed into his lover's chest, feeling their head on his shoulder. "If you stain my nice shirt, I'm sending you to the Boatman myself."

The Huntsman sighed and held their lover tighter. "Not if your knife never reaches me."

"You're a menace."

"And you're a snob."

"I love you dearly."

 For once, a guest did not have to find Tularemia. Instead, Tularemia found the guest, scampering up to the Tailor and immediately ramming into their ankle. She hissed as she grabbed the edge of their sock, tugging with all her might in the direction she came. There was nothing that could halt this courier from her self-appointed rounds; not rain nor sleet nor heat of day. If Tularemia decided that the Tailor was needed, then she would stop at nothing to retrieve the Tailor.

She was, though, wearing her new ribbon, so she may have had to pause to let that be applied, but her every pause ended eventually!

Tularemia had sprinted through hoards of hungry bats (perhaps snatching one as a snack in return), across puddles of moonish water with care, behind allies and away from cats, over rooftops and even across hats and heads. All to get to the Tailor.

If one had a calling card and could find an ermine stoat in the heat of False Summer, they could offer up the card and a scratch behind the ears to be escorted through London, to the flat of the Morbid Socialite. Due to the twisting nature of the streets of London, it was difficult to tell if the flat was situated closer to Veilgarden, Spite, the Flit, or Mahogany Hall, but it was nonetheless a small flat on the second storey of a building, requiring that one climb the internal stairs to reach the top floor. The door was simple, wood with a brass handle. Depending on the time of day, any number of sounds could be heard, from the chittering of weasels to the chattering of half-adopted urchins, from the cacophony of recreational drink to barren and utter silence. And, if there was a stocking on the door, it was best not to listen in.

Tularemia would climb up the simple door frame and stare down at the guest with stark, black eyes before disappearing into a small crack in the wall. Unless the guest knocked, they would be left on the stoop...

(OOC: I've realized I've handed out plenty of calling cards and invitations and had no place to start RPs, so consider this as my starter for anyone wanting to RP one on one if we haven't established how it would otherwise start!)

Name: The Morbid Socialite or Mementomori Malodrema

Referred to as: Mori or, if you happen to know him from a life in the sun, Doctor Malodrema.

Pronouns: he/they

Age: Late 40's

Species: More or less human, probably.

Ambition: Heart's Desire, Power, incomplete.

Appearance: Maury is a well-dressed man, standing at about five-foot-three, possessing of tanned skin and dark, wavy hair, a silver stripe cutting down the front fringe. His eyes are an amber gold and often peering under heavy lids, a charming smile almost always gracing his features. While often well-dressed, he's not often found well-put-together, his shirts open, ties undone, chemises open farther down than most polite company will allow. Not that he doesn't try to keep it together, he always starts the day finely pressed and presentable, but things do happen.

About: Maury's reputation precedes him, both as a former Doctor of the Morbid Arts and as London's very own public bicycle. He is a purveyor of all Neathy Delights, not the least of which include various honeys, fine arts, and pleasant company. Though, not many know what Maury does between his times spent with the Bohemians or the Well-To-Do. There may, perhaps, be more than meets the eye with this gentleman.

Personality: While they put on airs as someone far more charming and debonair, there is a glimpse of sincerity, as they study at Benthic. More patient, more poised, not so much here for the company, but rather what they can truly glean from the class. He's still a scoundrel and a hedonist, but the focus here is not something that can be swayed easily.

Why they're studying The Correspondence: Nobody is truly sure. To many, it might seem out of character, disparate from the stage presence he exudes. To the more observant, they carry an air of desperation, struggle, sleeplessness. Perhaps it's madness creeping in. Perhaps there's something they wish to accomplish. Whatever the case may be, he's not open to telling.

Interactions: Frequency may be limited by work, memory, etc, but feel free to reach out, if I accidentally left you on read or anything.

Player: Maury is played by Official-InfiniTea on Tumblr and InfiniTea on Fallen London. The art above, as well as all future icons and profile pictures, was done by OutdatedPrometheus, also on Tumblr.