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inbox

Sticky: Inbox

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
...

Entry tags:

roleplaying,
thread

The Stoat Insists

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.

Entry tags:

roleplaying,
thread

A Marsh Guest

Bugsby's Marshes were home to a wide and varied array of micro- and macroorganisms, the biodiversity one of its most notable features. Yes, a great many of the creatures were incredibly dangerous, but wasn't every environment filled with such risk? Surely, all one had to do to avoid assault was avoid bothering the various animals. Surely.

This was how the Morbid Socialite- Mori- found himself in the depths of the marshes, gathering samples of water, plant life, lichen, and insects to start his research. He was too busy marking notes on a variety of mushroom to notice the eyes on him. The thoughtful hum to themselves and the squeaking of tall boots, worn to avoid staining the hems of their trousers, were enough to hide the sound of something treading through the muck. They only noticed the disturbance when the bugs they'd been surrounded by had scattered. He turned and his eyes widened, finding a second pair staring into his.

"Oh, bloody 'ell."

Screaming echoed across the marsh, likely reaching at least someone's ears.

Entry tags:

An Invitation Accepted

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!)

Entry tags:

dream,
homework

An Exerpt

From the Journal of the Morbid Socialite, Dr. Mementomori Malodrema:

“This particular nightmare has haunted me three nights running since the lecture attended on the twenty-fourth of June, resisting honey, laudanum, and even forced insomnia, finding me waking at my desk, unaware that I had ever fallen asleep. As per the suggestion of the Emissary and Professor, I have seen to it that this nightmare be logged and acknowledged. If the mind sees fit to plague me to get me to pay attention, then my attention is granted, though not without bitterness and bleary eyes.

The nightmare begins thus:

I start with a foetal mound of flesh in my hands, squirming and mewling, though the features of the underdeveloped creature resemble both a human child and some unidentified creature of the Neath's design and, in doing so, resemble neither. My mind tells me to name it and all I can think of are London streets, London shops, the beating heart of London between my hands and leaking placental blood between my fingers and to the undefined floor below, spreading from the point where it drops like webbing and, all at once, like tears.

I am wearing gloves, cold, impersonal, and the premature babe can tell and cries harder, a sharp, painful, wailing thing that sounds like death itself. I am afraid. I am so very afraid.

My hands venture close to closing around the babe, trembling and strong enough to crush the frail body.

I am afraid.

A figure, simultaneously dark and bright, simultaneously merciful and hateful, simultaneously understanding and disgusted, approaches. It takes the mound of flesh from my hands before I can close them and I feel my heart- or perhaps my soul- tear free of my ribs, tethered to the bleeding creature that is both flesh and concept. London is taken from me and yet it is all I have.

All at once, I am falling through imperceptible void, though I know that it is filled with colors and lights I cannot see and figures that mean me harm. I cannot open my wings, it hurts to do so and they refuse to catch nonexistent wind. I am falling and falling and falling for ages that feel like a second. There is a great flash of light, a great, burning pain that overtakes my mind and body…

And then I awake, screaming.

I have so few days to resolve these dreams. It is time to take drastic measures.”

Entry tags:

infopost,
ooc

OOC: Infopost

Name: The Morbid Socialite or Mementomori Malodrema

Referred to as: Maury 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.