Post by The Mabling on Dec 21, 2015 17:16:56 GMT -5
I have a pet project going. I have been recreating the *rushes into the room, panting* thread, and combining it with the new introductions to be found in the "Meanwhile, in the Rest of The Sitting Room..." thread, in order to have one catalog of all the personae that have been introduced thus far. It was for my own pleasure, but now may serve a purpose. Would you like me to post it here or add it as an attachment when complete? It will be long, initially. But ever so much shorter now that the storytelling and cross-talk has been removed.
Happy to do it. Longing to do it. Hoping this thread can be reserved exclusively for further introductions. Any objections?
Post by The Mabling on Dec 22, 2015 4:30:59 GMT -5
What I have attempted to do with this labor of love is zipper together the *rushes into the room, panting" thread with the "'Meanwhile, in the Rest of The Sitting Room' - Designated Personae Introduction Thread" to create a somewhat cohesive whole. I say "somewhat" because a few personae where so firmly entrenched in storytelling they could not be readily extracted and still make sense. Additionally, there may be some contextual incongruities, as I edited out various irrelevant conversations about the weather, etc., and private collaborative narratives of any length.
What remains is the first appearance of any personae in The Sitting Room, and occasional undisruptive atmospheric information. I shall endeavor to keep current with both threads as they develop over at the MPC, and copy any new arrivals into this archive for safe keeping. There are many more personae wandering about over at the MPC, to be sure. But these are those who formally introduced.
Please receive the next THIRTY PAGES as a sign of my affection and appreciation for the Community. I now give you "Meanwhile, rushing into The Sitting Room, panting..."
Post by The Mabling on Dec 22, 2015 4:48:48 GMT -5
Looks about. Pulse slows. Settles into chair. (Ahhhhh.) Pulls book off adjacent shelf. (A Global Compendium of Korarchaeotes. A classic!) Draws text up to face. Peers over the top of the book, slowly drawing my eyes over the room, surveying the landscape.
~Hush now, there's no need for such haste. Make yourself comfortable and be at ease. I'm sure we have at least a few weeks in which to pursue our own personal mysteries before the Curator again draws us into that world of madness and delight. In the meantime, do order a drink from Bernard- he's something of a prodigy behind the bar... Chelsea, M.C.
~I take it that this thread is for fleshing out one's sitting room 'alter-ego'? *out of a secluded corner, a young slightly frumpled lad with too much Brylcreem and bay rum scent gets up. He appears to be rogue-ish and terribly out of place, dressed like he should be manning a British colonial outpost from the early 20th century or at least some sort youth scouting troop. You suspect him to be an odd hipster or possibly a time traveler as he adjusts his pocket watch by verifying it with the time on a late model android phone with rough cracks in the screen. He smiles like he has been trained to be nice to strangers and quietly orders a cheap gin and a black coffee before sitting down to review crossword puzzle answers from folded back issues of C&C. The Cap'n, W.F.J.C.
~A darkly tanned, middle aged man sitting in the corner drinking neat rum nods in your directions and smiles politely. He has the far-eyed gaze of a man that has either grown up in one of those colonies where the distance to the nearest neighbor is measured in hours rather than kilometers - or has spent a great deal of time at sea. Possibly both. In front of him is a small pile of books and a notepad with a number of cryptic jottings written on it in a scratchy, hurried hand. "Hello there - any one care for some wine?" His accent is Australian, but with overtones of other regions - possibly Eastern European, possibly Asian. Michael Coombes
~A petite and unusually pale woman peeks out from a hidden reading nook. She gives an almost child-like smile to those in the room. Indeed, she appears to be the age of sixteen but in her eyes lie her true age, the eyes that have seen many long hard years. In her ink stained nimble hands is a note book adorned with an ancient language long dead. "Well, are we just going to stare at one another?", she said with a wink. Madame H. West
~There is a rustling from the curtained window seat. Several paper flowers flutter to the floor as a young woman with brown hair, thoughtful eyes, and a quick smile peers out from where she has been daydreaming over a book of Arthurian legend. There is a smudge of ink on her nose and a silver pendent of Elvish design hangs around her neck. "Wine would be lovely," she says. "And is there any cake left?" Eleanor, aka "The Bardess"
~"Wine, you say?" The azure silk whispers as she sits. Her dark hair is swept up into a coiffure of artful disarray, and her expression is distinctly one of mischief. "And what is this I hear about cake? I absolutely adore cake." Under lashes lowered over playful eyes, she surreptitiously surveys the room. The exotic dark wood paneling of the Sitting Room's walls lend the place an inherent mysterious quality- one mirrored in the room's inhabitants. Chelsea, M.C.
~"Be careful, Bardess," a Southern drawl calls wryly from the far corner of the room, "If our dear Chelsea starts in on a discussion of cake, we may never get her back to the matter at hand." The owner of the voice - a shorter, broad-shouldered fellow leaning against the wall - offers Chelsea a crooked, roguish smile before glancing back down at the cryptography manual he holds casually in one hand. His clothes are an odd mixture of functionality and affectation: dusty black work boots and dark blue jeans are topped by an odd, high-collared buttoned shirt reminiscent of a Catholic priest. A grey wool scarf haphazardly thrown around his neck is long enough that it grazes both the floor and several other tomes precariously stacked in a pile at his feet. Several atlases. Pinsky's translation of The Inferno. An architectural study of lighthouses. The Tibetan Book of the Dead. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Atop it all is a black folder stuffed with papers marked Project Blue Book: New Orleans 1948-1969. Declining the offered wine, the man looks apologetically toward Bernard while producing his own small hip flask from an inner pocket. "I know, I know," he says, "And I will put them all in their proper place when I am done cross-referencing, I promise." Blackbird
~I heard there was cake! The Beard
~With a laugh, first one, and then several bottles of wine are brought out from behind the counter. Soon it is joined by a large, rich torte made of many thin layers connected by fresh homemade jam and cream, and lightly dusted with icing sugar. He takes out a knife and starts serving the cake to anyone that wants some and asks, "so at the risk of being impolite, what is everyone up to at the moment? For myself, I'm just loitering here for a few more weeks before going off walkabout for a while. I have no idea where I'm going to go yet - which makes it a bit difficult to pack as I'm sure you understand!" He laughs lightly and gives a small shrug of his shoulders. Michael Coombes
~Tucked away in a secure corner whilst reading a book, a young man with dark brown hair and full beard sits and chuckles while listening to the chatter of his comrades. He reads some of the works of Poe while sitting in his comfy chair and decides to join in the festivities. He walks up to Michael Coombes and graciously takes an offered piece of confectionery and says "Preparing for the new mystery ahead. I feel a little late to the fun, though, as I still await the arrival of my newspapers. Hopefully soon, I can be more prepared for the journey ahead." "But first, cake!" He takes a sizable bite from the scrumptious cake and smiles happily at the wonderfully made confection. Xeaden
~Welcome good Sir, may your beard never grow thin! The Beard
~*The Cap'n staggers in with satchel seemingly filled with junk mail. On closer inspection, it would appear to be a large backlog of post. "Missing....missing! The 5th is missing!" He peeks over shoulders of other members trying to read glimpses to no avail. After a quiet sigh, he fills out a subscription card and slides it to Bernard. "Perhaps Chapter 2 will clear my head..." The Cap'n, W.F.J.C.
~Kittendumpling, being a lazy creature of comfort and leisure, pads in with an amiable yawn and curls up by the fireplace. Kittendumpling
~A woman of slight build quietly slips in and takes a seat off to the side to survey the room. She quickly begins to unpack a large collection of yellowed papers with note sheets peeking through the pages and places a few hand written pages haphazardly scattered about the table. One by one a few weathered books are pulled from a satchel and placed amongst the clutter. There seems to be some sort of order the chaos and she looks down at the confusion and relaxes into her chair. Looking about the room at the fellow inhabitants, her gaze resting a moment on the cakes and wines, a small smile plays at the corners of her lips. She casually ties back her long dark hair in a messy bun and immediately sets to work studying the works before her while chewing the end of a pencil and listening to the conversations about her. Nova
~An older gentleman, dressed in attire that seems slightly out of the norm for this point in time, sits in the corner. His face is as much a mystery as the goings on in the sitting room. Unknown to the others in the club room, he has been here before; and yet, he has never set foot in this room. He calmly sips a glass of Absinthe and watches the other members discuss the hidden mysteries uncovered in the seemingly mundane happenings of daily life; meanwhile the man also frequently checks his pocket watch, as if he were late for an important meeting. "The time draws near..." he whispers to himself before taking another sip of his drink. The Maestro
~A well aged portly gentleman strides into the room. His bearing projects confidence. However, the excessive polishing of his monocle reveals a nervousness with the current social gathering. His dress is English formal attire from the late 1800s . Patting his bald head with a kerchief he strolls up to the bar. Tapping it with his brass cobra headed cane to get Bernard's attention. "Absynthe my good man, if you would be so kind." Stroking his large side burns he intently listens to the murmurs of the sitting room. Lord Henry Bolton
~Shortly thereafter another man enters the room. His rumpled tweed coat and spectacles mark him as an academic. Glancing around the room he takes in both the assembled members and an empty table. "Trust me to be both early and late at the same time" he says in a faint accent that brings to mind the southern region of the United States. He walks over to the empty table and places upon it a binder and what appears to be a small book bound in black leather then turns and moves to the bar. "Bernard, your reputation precedes you. May I have a vodka martini, dirty, with three olives?" When his drink is served he thanks the esteemed Bernard and retreats to his chair. He opens the book and it begins to glow with a faint light revealing it is not made of paper. After some time has passed a pile of documents appears on the table in front of him, documents already familiar to those in this room. "Now I can begin" he says as he starts to catalogue and sort them. S. M. Starkadder, Professor
~A young woman with an air of mischievous whimsy enters the room and excitedly looks around. As she walks towards the bar she gives a friendly smile to those who had become aware of her sudden appearance and turned to see the newcomer. She settles onto a barstool and turns to the bartender saying "Are you the famous Bernard I've heard so much about?". Ordering a PBR and a shot of whiskey elicits curious expressions from those nearest her, to which she gives a knowing chuckle and a shrug, as if to say "eh, what can ya do". Then, she pulls the patchwork purse that she has over her right shoulder onto her lap, retrieving a small decorative notepad, a yellow writing instrument, and a roll of scotch tape. After removing a page from the notepad & carefully inscribing something, she flips the yellow implement around so that the other end points towards the paper, and presses a small button, activating what appears to be a UV light. After examining the page under the bluish light, she tears two small pieces of scotch tape from the roll and attaches them to the paper. She briefly looks around the room and then reaches down nonchalantly, affixing the paper to the underside of her barstool. Then she returns to the business of her drink as if nothing had ever happened. Metaforest
~The lover of parlor tricks and carnival magic sips his coffee and regards this strange, exciting lot of new people he's found himself in with. ParlorTrick
~Finally after a long evening in a hot kitchen my days work is over, find myself a comfortable leather chair and relax with a pint of Wychwood Hobgoblin ( Bernard keeps a great selection of ales) . The Ale tastes great, now time to finish reading chapter 5 of C&C then it's back to chapter 1 and start putting all the clues together. It's going to be a long night. Chef of Kings.
~The woman in azure slips from her seat and glides over to the bar, where she leans against the polished wood surface. "Surprise me, Bernard. You know what I prefer," she says, smiling at the bartender. She brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, and turns to survey the newcomers seated nearby, nodding a welcome to each in turn. "What's cooking, Chef? Meta, your research going well?" She leans toward the latter, then stoops to pick something up off the floor. "Your pencil?" she asks with another warm smile, setting the writing tool next to the young woman. One hand flutters, as if concealing something, then stills. Turning back to the bar, she collects her drink from Bernard. Taking a sip from the tall crystal flute, she briefly closes her eyes in pleasure. "Perfection, as always, Bernard. I taste a little elderflower, I think, and perhaps spiced pear?" She waves a hand. "Delicious, at any rate. My thanks." She pushes away from the bar and glides back to her cushioned seat. Once comfortable again, she produces an old book from somewhere, and a small note from somewhere else. Smiling, she tucks the note away between the pages, and begins to read. Chelsea, M.C.
~The resident kitten idly bats at the corner of the most recent issue of Curios & Conundrums with a pink-padded paw, pondering the mysteries within. Kittendumpling
~The Elderly Man observes a stack of newspapers be delivered to the Sitting Room. Looking down at his watch, he realizes that it is time. He sets down his drink and calmly walks outside, saying nothing. Outside, he steps into a phone box. A few minutes later, he steps back out and bumps into a man significantly younger than he. "Excuse me, Maestro." he says and walks off. The younger man starts to ask how the older gentleman knew his name, but the man is long gone in the crowd. He looks down and sees a business card with only the image of a street lamp. On the back, a hastily scrawled note reads, "Seek the light. C&C." The Maestro chuckles as he decides that he cannot turn down a good mystery. The Maestro
~The door slowly opens and a bespectacled young woman tentatively pokes her head around, shooting glances about the room. Spying an empty chair in a darkened corner she quickly enters and heads over to sit down. She places a pile of newspapers and notebooks on her lap and nervously fiddles with her glasses. She eyes up the bar and hopes it isn't obvious that it is her first time in such an establishment.... Jeffersun von Stock
~A rather imposing gentleman of both girth and height with a handlebar mustache walks in. His attire includes a kaki kilt, brush jacket with boots and pith helmet and a swagger stick. Walking up to the bar, be flashes his best smile at Chelsea, M.C. and our favorite bar keep. In a loud voice bellows "Hi ho wat's this all about!" Ghared Corwall
~*Walks into the room. Looking around for the most comfortable of spots, finds a nice comfy arm chair and sits down" Allow me to introduce myself to everyone before I start to start to read the paper. My name is Reid I am a bit of a explorer myself I am traveled over the globe chasing the most of exotic stories'" Now don't afraid to approach me I won’t bite you. Reid
~Present day: The Maestro walks down the busy street, stopping outside an unmarked door. Above the door hangs a sign. The paint has faded over the years, but when the Maestro looks at it from just the right angle, he can make out the same Gaslamp design from the business card. He steps inside, newspaper tucked under his arm, revealing a rather large sitting room; indeed it seems much too large for the building. He approaches a seat near the bar and pulls a journal and an odd array of trinkets out of his coat pocket. After introducing himself to the others in the room, he gets to work on cataloging the items in front of him. The Maestro
~No one notices the door as it opens. The mysterious man silently slides into the room surveying the occupants. Spying a comfortable chair, he pads quickly across the room and settles in, making himself comfortable. As he begins to relax, he pulls out his newly acquired issue of C&C - his first - and begins working on the puzzles contained within... Enigma
~A dark haired woman steps into the room. Her smiling eyes drink in the remarkable company before her. "Good afternoon, my friends." She bows slightly. "I am LadySamurai. It's a pleasure to meet others who love mysteries and puzzles as much as I. Until now I've hung back to understand how this fellowship functions, but I'm ready to step fully into the fray now. Please let me know how I may be of service." Lady Samurai
~From an unassuming door in the back, a taller man quietly enters and very politely removes his cap and places it in the back pocket of his coveralls. He nods to the patrons, almost embarrassed to interrupt. He carries with him a worn, wooden toolbox. It matches everything about the man. That is to say it is older, sturdy, well made, but not entirely the cleanest thing in the room. He looks as if he's just here for the maintenance of the radiator (which seemed to be working fine). Rolling up his sleeves, he settles into his work. From time to time he sneaks a sip from a small flask in his toolbox and looks prepared to be here for awhile. Mr. Gallerani
~A tall man in his late twenties with many space themed tattoos walks into the Sitting Room sporting a casual pair of jeans and deep red button up shirt, he takes a seat at the bar and orders a cold beer. The Boneduster has found a new home to house his passion for the strange and puzzling Boneduster
~Mr. Side has never done well in sitting rooms. He tends to stand at windows. He awaits his guest. X
~A scruffy marsupial creature, white with patches of brown fur, scurries across the corner of the room. Old Possum
~A woman of a certain age walks to a seat, quietly requesting a gimlet cocktail. Her voice has that resonating tone peculiar to actors on a stage. Perhaps Shakespeare? Viola, Katherina, Beatrice? Theseus
~A tall, heavyset man opens the door and steps inside, taking in the room and occupants with a slow, sweeping gaze. Droplets of mist shine in his long blond hair, tied back, and his goatee, braided, stretching halfway down his chest, adorned with small carved beads and trinkets. His black tactical vest has dozens of pockets, fastened with Velcro, zippers, and snaps, each pocket bulging with useful items, and each item in its own particular place. A slight smile crosses the corner of his mouth as he sees the kitten batting at the pages before her. Moving surprisingly easily for one of his size, he moves to a corner table and takes a seat. Listening to the conversations and laughter, he slowly relaxes, takes a shining metallic object from one pocket, and a leather pouch holding several extremely small, delicate tools from another, he begins to tinker. Yes, this is a place he likes. White Bear
~A middle aged gent strides into the sitting room, focused intently upon the small black notebook in his hand. He stops short for the briefest moment as his eyes adjust to the light and he realizes he is not alone. A slightly odd looking gent, hair almost entirely silvered prematurely for his apparent age. Wearing neither hat nor overcoat at odds with the inclement weather outside, his plain, somewhat antiquated garments speak of the long road traveled. Speaking in a croaky half whisper to no one person in particular "...ah ... erm ...yes, well, just in from the Antipodes you see ..." as he fumbles and rummages through the overly large satchel at his shoulder while making his way to the bar. Unnoticed a business card slips from the notebook and falls to the floor... "Monck Mason Esq. Aviator / Antiquarian / Thinking Machine Manufacturer" Monck Mason Esq.
~A slightly rumpled Adventuress enters the room and heads straight to the bar. Her patched skirt is just too long for modern fashion yet too short for previous eras. Serious, well worn, multi-buckled boots are far too evident peeking out from beneath, as is the boot knife not quite hidden by the ruffle of bright orange petticoat. "Dear Bernard? I think you are the one to ask for a rather large Gin and Tonic? No lime, but please use the good tonic." Surreptitiously looking around, she ducks her head and hopes the man with the large handlebar mustache doesn't remember her, hopefully he was more inebriated than she was that night... Taking the delightfully tall glass, she makes her way to a worn leather wing backed chair near the Maestro. "Is this seat taken? You look like someone that I could talk to?" As he nods, she sweeps into the chair, sets down the glass, and pulls an old edition of C&C, a ragged notebook, and a pencil out of several different pockets hidden in the voluminous skirt. Her crocheted shawl slips from her shoulder and reveals multiple vivid tattoos as she pulls her feet up into the chair and settles into a comfortable, yet unladylike, position. "Does anyone mind if I smoke?", she asks hopefully, as she fondles a worn scrimshaw pipe. Artemis Kalliste
~For seven months, I have made my way across this very path, a slave to fate and a seeker of a greater destiny. For seven months, I have noted the abundant traffic entering this mysterious building, always entering, rarely anyone ever leaving. I must confess the intrigue that consumed me was much to take in. I noted the original attendants of said room. A motley crew to say the least. Most of you nose deep in books, manuscripts, and newspapers. A few of you still observant, peering over your books like the lady reading A Global Compendium of Korarchaeotes. Many of you are so immersed in your various mysteries, however, that you have yet to notice that I have slipped in that very room. Kittendumpling noticed. The Bardess should've noticed had she not been distracted by the thought of cake. My curiousness added handicap to my usual stealth as my entering through the window took wind to the papers at her feet. Mr. Gallerani almost seen me as he came in through the back door , though the flask in his toolbox may have impaired his observation of the scene that surrounded him as he worked on the radiator. Mr. Side watched me passing many times by his window. He claimed to be watching birds , but he was searching for something more. Had it not been for the one bird that did distract him, I would not have entered the neighboring window at The Bardess' side. I watched Metaforest hide a note. I watched Chelsea take said note and hide it in her book. I was able to procure said book , though my exit was as sadly executed as my entrance... if it weren't for the alluring Artemis Kalliste... the tattoos, the pipe, the obviously not quite hidden boot knife... I paused only a moment. It was that very moment that Mr. Monck Mason Esq. needed. He bumped into me dislodging Chelsea's book from my arm, uttering something of the Antipodes and forging through his satchel. I fumbled the book, though the note slid loose. I picked up the paper on the ground and hurried away onto that same path I walked for seven months. It would seem I have procured a business card of Mr. Mason's instead. And Mr. Mason has the mysterious note. I anticipate it was less by chance and more through genius. It may be time for me to become more well immersed in these mysterious individuals I have only so briefly forayed through as a shadow. Perhaps, should some sort of financial chance or opportunity present itself, I will check into this newspaper they were so taken by or hopefully be a recipient of a mysterious package myself that will lead me to my next dance with fate, one step closer to the allusive destiny that I seek... and to my target. The Spy Hunter
~For those in the Sitting Room perspicacious enough, they notice a young woman entering quietly. She is small and dark. Her head is down, hoping to be overlooked as she surreptitiously surveys the people around her. A small smile forms. "Yes, I have found the place", she murmurs under her breath. "I am not too late." Molly
~A young woman strides confidently into the room, pausing briefly in the entryway to adjust the white ostrich plumes cascading from the cockade that adorns her navy blue hat. She slips easily out of her white fur coat, then tugs slightly impatiently at her navy blue cheveril gloves, eager to sit down at the bar and have a moment to herself to relax and reflect. Skirts rustling, she walks to one of the more plush seats at the bar and sits, suppressing a rather unladylike sigh of pure bliss as her muscles relax. It feels as though she has not sat down in days, and she reflects that even handmade French glacé kid shoes will pinch after what she's been through in the past several days. Seeing the familiar countenance in the mirror, she exclaims, "Bonjour, Bernard! Ҫa va?" She sighs, irritated at her verbal slip, but as the arrival of a cocktail of surpassing quality appears to be imminent, she doesn't wish to delay the proceedings by dwelling on her mistake. "Drat it. I mean, hello, my dear fellow! How are you? The room seems to be full of unusually lovely and interesting people today, so I'm sure you must be tired." She almost winces in sympathy as her right foot twinges is pain, but instead flashes a smile of anticipatory pleasure at the butler. "Would it be too much trouble to ask for a champagne cocktail, with the good Veuve, if you have it. Thanks ever so much, Bernard." As the butler walks away, she catches a snippet of conversation about comparative rates of snowfall, and discovers that a man known only as "The Beard" hails from Newfoundland. The conversation soothes her, and as she waits for her champagne cocktail, she becomes relaxed and sleepy, pillowing her blonde head on the bar with her arms. She has just enough time to think, "I wonder if The Beard has ever seen a narwhal. They truly are one of my very favorite animals" before she falls asleep right there at the bar. It had really been, she reflected later, a very long day. Lady Bombasine
~A young woman trudges towards the door of the meeting place; face always turned down to watch her feet as she walks. Years spent on the field of battle taught her that trick. She almost fails to notice the man looking longingly in the window. She watches him for a brief moment then enters through the door with the lamp post. She's 25, but her haunted eyes seem ageless. She squares her shoulders and calmly enters the room, amazed to see so many people in attendance. She looks like she walked right out of the 1940s. She nervously smoothes her skirt and adjusts her blouse, noting she forgot to change before leaving the lab. A spot of blood lingers on her collar. Her curly, dark brown hair escaping her pins, as per usual. Ah, well. Can't be helped. She locks eyes with a man attired in a rumpled tweed coat and spectacles and nods politely. Noticing the drinks abundant around the room she decides to delve into the fray. With a sense of urgency she walks over to the bar. "Bernard, Darlin', make it a strong one, would ya, Doll?" With shaking hands she gratefully accepts the double whiskey, straight. The lab will have to wait... Le Voleuse
~A young man dressed in well-fitting yet frumpled attire approaches the bar. Pulling a few small, equally distressed bills from his breast pocket, he looks to Bernard. "Make it anything with bourbon in it, my new friend", he requests in an understated yet drawn out baritone voice, slowly handing over the notes with slender, drawn out fingers. Seeing no empty space in the corners (all 8 of them, by his count), the haggard man moves to a seat by the wall opposite the main entry. His back against the wall, and his mind at ease, he slowly sips his drink, an old-fashioned of rye, which while not in keeping with his request was far too good to turn down. The man behind the bar clearly had good taste and skill. The light clack of metal buckles temporarily adds accent to the din of the room as he draws his notepad and uncaps his pen. Pressing nib to paper, the ink flows as effortlessly as his thoughts, manipulating equations and symbols that seem nearly foreign in nature. Like a pen, the man is but a tool without guidance, performing calculation after calculation in and endless circle. As he works his mind drifts, a single bead of sweat running off his furrowed brow to join the sweat of the glass on the warm woodwork below. His mind drifts back, both back in time and back a score of pages in his book, to another set of symbols and calculations unlike those before and after. This set of calculations doesn't represent a mathematical function or operation. This strange connection of intertwined geometries and scrawled symbols came from no lesson, lecture or book, but from a dream. For several weeks since he put pen to paper that late Thursday evening, after awakening in a cold panic from the most vivid of dreams, he had tried to ignore the writings. The tracts of dye on soft white paper, despite their origin, should have been no more dangerous than any other arrangement of shapes he could have made and yet it pulled at him. The more it pulled the more he ignored it, but at present he feels his will breaking, being consumed. With a final burst of dedication he slams shut the worn leather of the notebook, and slams down the last of the drink. In an effort to distance himself from the magnetic pull of these strange symbols, the young academic, usually the least social of students, stands with a forced smile and moves towards the center of the room. If he cannot forget his past, perhaps he will glean a glimpse of the other patrons'. Nicholas, The Experimenter's Apprentice
~The door opens, revealing a middle aged man of average stature sporting substantial side whiskers and wearing clothing over a century out of style. He glances around the room, then takes half a step back and scans the exterior. Drawing a pocketwatch from his waistcoat he opens and considers it for a few moments before returning it to its pocket and, with a shrug, enters the room, closing the door behind him. Margrave
~The door never opens. But, undeniably, another stands by the fire where just a moment before was nothing but curling pipe smoke. A woman, perhaps? Most exquisitely womanish, though paradoxically possessing a certain masculine comportment, she surveys the sitting room with an expression both curious and confounded. Drawn here by the rustle of paper and the scratching of pens, or possibly called? Of indeterminate age, she wears the Autumn wind, as befits the season. Her eyes a mossy green, then the brown of freshly turned earth, now the gold of newly fallen leaves. She approaches the bar with measured steps. "Perhaps, you have a fortifying draught of The Tears of Persistence?"
Transfixed, the kitten regards the burnished mirror above the mantelshelf.
"Though lost to time, my name can be seen on the Western wind, tasted in the flame that draws the moth... It was once felt on the cheek of a fretful child and the memory of it can be heard in a turn of the Earth. Call me what you will." She nods respectfully to Bernard, the depth of her eyes an eon of mens' lives, accepts her drink and retires to the mantle where the kitten bats at a flurry of ash created by the opening and closing of The Sitting Room door.
~In one corner, where the shadows dance, a figure sits on an old stool. He's been there for a while, though he's not sure if anyone has noticed. He has noticed them, smiled to himself at the intrigues. In his hand he holds a newspaper, old and crinkled, but brimming with secrets. Standing, he moves out of the shadows and approaches the bar. He wears a suit perfectly tailored to him, as dark as if it had been cut from the night sky. On his fingers he wears rings set with onyx and one that appears carved of ebony. In fact everything about him is dark, except for the single white rose placed over his breast. Walking up to the bar he nods to Bernard, how moves into the back room, returning a moment later with a whistling tea kettle. He pours a cup, filling the room with the delicious smells of fruit and black tea. Then the dark man adds a spoonful of honey and Bernard finishes it off with a splash of amber whisky. Smiling the man takes his drink and turns to the room. "Hello," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet, "I seem to be a bit late to this party. Hopefully you've all left some cake for me? And Ms. Chelsea, might I say, you are always so kind to those of us who wander in here. Thank you for everything." With that he removes a small coin from one pocket, and proffers it. From the distance it seems like a Greek drachma from Ancient Athens, but somehow lacking any sign of its age. Looking up for the coin, one finds the strange man smiling, his eyes dancing in the shadows of the firelight. The Forgotten
~Fashionably late, the young lass finally makes it to the sitting room. She doesn't mean to sneak in like a shadow, silent and swiftly, but one could say it is a gift she can do. Even for being a rather tall female, she can still manage fool people in a crowd and have them lose her. The tiny click of her heels remain quiet as she finds an empty chair in the room. The small bag that traveled tucked under her arm sat down in her lap after adjusting her dress accordingly. After all, first appearance is everything though perhaps being late does make her look a bit foolish. This does cause her to be slightly nervous. Those hazel eyes tick-tock back and forth, gazing, observing; the expression she held conveyed curiosity, analyzing and the slight pinch of nervousness. Her hands tightened their grip on the bag before relaxing. With a slight nod of her head and tiny sigh, she got comfy in her chair, wondering both what she got herself into and the hidden excitement of what's to come. Candy Wren
~A woman with long red hair steps toward the bar, smoothing out the creases in her skirts. Under her arm is a copy of the Cornhill Magazine, dated January 1886. “I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived – please, do excuse my tumbled travelled state, the weather outside is diabolical and the journey was lengthy to say the least. But I’m here now and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance...” Ms Hyde
~They heard her approach before she entered the room. A gentle clinking from a row of aged coins sewn to one of the shawls tied around her hips and the heavy bangles climbing up both of her forearms announced her arrival. The scarf draped over her head kept her face partially in shadow and the sway of her hips conveyed a certain air of the exotic. But the deep auburn hair peeking out beneath the scarf and her lily white skin were quite at odds with her attire. A faint scent of cinnamon and clove lingered as she passed. Though she shot Bernard a small smile as she walked past the bar, she didn't order a drink. Unlike the others, she carried no papers or books but settled herself on a chaise near the fire and studied the other occupants of the lounge. As she reclined, her bare feet peeped out beneath her voluminous skirts. To no one in particular, she announced that her name was Genevieve, using the French pronunciation. Genevieve
~A man slowly backs into the room concealing something into his left breast pocket. A quick glance around the room to collect himself reveals to everyone a man who appears to be in his 30's, clean, well kept but a bit scruffy around the edges. He is wearing a darker suite that appears flawless except for the small cut in the upper thigh and a small cut near his ankle. As he eyes the room for a place to settle he straightens his light brown hair, then his tie, and then his jacket. His back ached and his jaw was still little sore. He ran his hand over his right breast pocket to make sure one of his artifacts was still there. Sure enough, it was but was it worth the trouble? He would soon find out. He posted his lean ,tall frame up to the bar and poured a Scotch, Neat. He noticed an occasional glance from curious onlookers and a few he didn't mind so much. He smelled something wafting through the air. A perfume, a weakness. He looks around all the while keeping an eye on the door he came in through. Deciding to keep to himself for the moment he randomly grabbed a book from the shelf and as he fell into in the large, overstuffed leather chair, near the crackling fireplace he noticed the title and it takes him slightly off guard. It reads CARMINA GADELICA - An Unpublished History. This makes him a little uneasy so he sits the book down on the small table that has lace draped across it to his right and looks at the fire and then to darting eyes for conversation…… Altamonte W. Fitzgerald
~A man in a sharp black suit with a red shirt in his early twenties his white hair shines in the dim lights of the sitting room a black satchel at his side. He stood tall with the regality of a king of an empire. He produced an old brass pocket watch from his blazer then proceeded to the grand fire place and took a seat in the high back arm chair. He pulls out a grimoir from his satchel. Alaster Von Grim
~The battered wooden door once again swings wide to admit another guest, the cold and the bluster of a late autumn night at his back. His horn-rimmed spectacles and worn tweed coat mark him as an intellectual or an academic, but as he strides into the room, his fluid gait and lean, broad-shouldered build denote athleticism. A boxer, perhaps. Eyes roving over everything and everyone with mild curiosity, he moves to the bar, removing a tattered scrap of vellum from his waistcoat pocket. "Well", he says drily, smiling faintly as he consults the scrap, "here it is...and here they are". Placing his worn leather satchel at his feet, one can faintly see aged lettering on the flap, beneath which the earpieces of a stethoscope are protruding, "Blackmoore". Although the darkness beneath his eyes denotes many sleepless nights, his short beard sprinkled liberally with silver, he nonetheless radiates a certain vigilance and intensity; an attitude cultivated in the less savory areas of Shanghai, Liverpool, Marrakesh, and Bombay, among other places. Carefully removing his coat, treating it with a respect that seems somewhat unwarranted, judging by its condition, he lays it atop his bag. Grinning at Bernard as he rolls his sleeves, revealing a military regimental tattoo , he cants his head to look around the bartender at the shelves behind him. His smile widens, teeth brilliant against his bronze skin. "The green bottle", he says, "the Laphroig", pointing. He reaches into the hip pocket of his dirty denim trousers, producing a crumpled bill, as Bernard smiles wryly, placing the glass in front of him. "My night's looking up!" Doctor Blackmoore murmurs, smiling again, raising his glass at Bernard and sliding the bill toward him. Turning his back to the bar, with a healthy dose of scotch warming his belly, he resumes his examination of the room and its occupants, amusing himself with suppositions about who and what they might be. Dr. Nathaniel Blackmoore
~She stumbles into the room, then stands, blinking in confusion as though the destination she has arrived at is not the one she had intended. Her hair is quite short, brown, with a bit of curl, and she wears oval glasses with lenses of blue over eyes that are something of a deep amber. She appears to be about 30, on the taller side of completely average with an hourglass figure that she does not seem to be quite adept at showing off. For just a moment, though, she seems to be another person entirely: a woman with skin the pure white of freshly fallen snow, eyes bright as aquamarines, and long hair of an icy blue. Some sort of trick of the light and the freely flowing alcohol, perhaps? Her clothing is blue and reminiscent of a viking's while two short swords hang at her hips, though from the way she's staring down at herself it seems that she's just as surprised as anyone else at her own attire. In her hand is a letter, and the words: "It is my great honour to grant you membership" are just visible at the top of the page. It is postmarked from only the previous day. "Oh, wow... uh... sorry," she manages to fumble out in unaccented American English. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here yet," she adds, looking at the cast of rather intimidating assembled characters as the tension of the room cuts into her like a knife. She turns and places a hand on the door, but, to her surprise, it won't open. She jiggles the handle, perhaps a touch harshly, but to no avail. She curses under her breath, then turns and laughs nervously, looking very much as though she'd like nothing more at that moment than to blend in with the extraordinarily tasteful wallpaper. A hand bell clatters loudly down the stairs, and the woman swallows, hoping this is just the distraction she needs to pass from everyone's notice. Mrs. Wells
~Delcy was always tortured when it came to decision making. Her current conundrum is no different: Do I walk in or don't I walk in? If I do enter, do I dare ask Bernard for a drink? If I do, what if I order the wrong thing? I have my favorite fountain pens and notebook ready, but I do not have all the proper papers yet. What if they know? What if I am unwelcome? But I know I have been invited, so...The familiar sound of a coin scarf broke Delcy out of these thoughts. She had been known to don a hip scarf from time to time, and her curiosity is now piqued. She followed the sound to the door, THAT DOOR, catching a glimpse of the owner with flowy hips and bare feet as she entered. "Well then, it was meant to be!", she said aloud to herself. Still, she did not enter. Delcy stayed outside, and the next time someone entered, she heard a woman's voice say, "Genevieve", in the proper, French, most beautiful way. Feeling like a coward long enough, Delcy finally went in. Wishing for a corner to hide in, she simply moved away from the door to watch and listen. Where is Genevieve? No sooner did the thought fly through her head when a disheveled version of Genevieve appeared, wearing a shorter skirt? Delcy simply sat in an empty chair, hands in pockets, observing, happy to be here. Miss Delcinea Davenport
~"Well, Bernard, that was most fascinating, wouldn't you agree..?" A tall, slender blond murmurs before tossing back his drink in one last gulp and setting the empty tumbler on the bar. Dressed in various shades of black, grey, and browns in a slightly out of place three piece suit, the sullen figure absentmindedly rakes his fingers thru short cut hair while piercing blue eyes continue to observe the other patrons and the scene that unfolded previously. With a quick, cursory glance at his cracked pocket watch, he mutters under his breath, a curse or a prayer to some old god, and then turns and slinks into the shadows by the bookcases. Arkadious
~A librarian sits quietly in the corner observing each room inhabitant, curiously. A newcomer to this time and space - she settles back into the generously padded leather chair in which she is sitting and opens one of the ever-present books in her bag and, head bowed, continues to read in the room almost pulsating from the flurry of activities of the others in the room. The librarian's eyes lift from her book every so often to watch the flows of continued merriment throughout the room ... as well as to take in the hushed but intense conversation between the parties secreted away in the darkened corner. The Tome Raider
~The door swings open and a hunched figure enters . There is a tap, tap , tap of a walking Cain as he heads to a chair near the fire . He is dressed in a heavy overcoat of deepest brown which he sheds almost immediately after sitting down. Now he can be seen better . He is dressed in a sports coat with leather patched elbows and ill fitting suit trousers of green check. Under the sports coat is a white dress shirt , with an undone bow tie hanging askance . He has long brown hair in an unkempt pony tail , and a scruffy goatee beard . Perched on his Aquino nose are reading glasses . He has a look of exasperation about him. He carries a satchel bursting with papers . He pulls out a pipe from the pocket of his jacket . "I do hope nobody minds me smoking. It has been a hell of a day , don't you know ". Dr Rook
~The sitting room door swings gently open, enter Angelo Christoph, dripping from the rain. He peers into the room and cross references a letter in hand. "Seems about right," he mumbles as he places the dampened letter into the pocket of his brilliant red tailcoat. He clasps his white gloves together in a sigh of relief... accidentally flicking rain water onto those nearby. "Apologies." He smirks uneasily, tipping his top hat in a gesture of politeness...causing but more water to patter to the floor. "Must have been out there longer than I thought..." He meanders over to the bar, constantly eyeing the roaring fire along the way. "Bernard, is it?" The bartender nods silently. "Seems I've missed quite the party this evening... Private gathering?" Christoph gently nudges the shards of a broken glass with his thick bedraggled leather boot. "And what of that man there at the center of it all?" He motions to Altamonte. "A water please... though it seems the skies have been more than generous with it this evening." he chuckles to himself as he rings out his gloves. "Perhaps I'll know them in time... for now! Warmth!" Christoph wades his way through the crowded sitting room and finds solace in a rustic arm chair warmed directly in front of the fire place. He places portmanteau at his side, as he does so, the latch comes undone causing its contents, which embarrassingly enough include his unmentionables, to spill out onto the floor. He quickly scrambles to clean up after himself and finally eases himself into the chair... not a moment later there is a crack and a thud as the chair breaks beneath him, toppling him onto the floor. "Apologies... perhaps I'll just stand..." He sips his water nervously, wishing to have not drawn quite so much attention to himself. First impressions and all that. Angelo Christoph
~The door gently opens wide to admit a lady in a flowing black velvet cape held at the neck by a clasp of mysterious and unfathomable design. She seems to be surrounded by some sort of shadow. She makes a regal march across the room to the bar where she requests a gin and tonic. Gregor who is attending the bar that evening asks if she is new here and out of interest enquires where she may be from. ' why I am the Duchess of Nowhere' she replies. Then she and her accompanying shadow take refuge in a dark corner of the room. Duchess of Erehwon
~At the side booth there sits a young brunette. Nobody knows quite how she got there, but only that she is there now. A small beam of light breaks through the stained glass window, catching small particles from the dusty bar, and making them dance about in the morning light. She slides her small frame along the weathered leather so she can bask her fair skin in the warmth. You ask her for her name. She looks up at you with her piercing green eyes, and quietly whispers "Jade". Jade A. Meridius
~A slender Asian woman of indeterminate age enters. She wears a severe black business jacket and skirt and she is carrying a slim black briefcase. There are traces of gray at the temples of her hair, which she wears pulled back into a bun. Looking neither right nor left, she walks to the bar. She places her briefcase on the floor next to a fellow patron--a disheveled academic wielding a cane. Catching Bernard's eye, she says, "gin martini please, very dry, twist of lime." Her words are clipped, but she speaks with a trace of an accent. She places a well-manicured hand on the bar as she waits--on her second finger she wears a silver ring with a large red stone. The stone appears to be carved, but it is impossible to tell in this light. She turns to the man beside her. Without expression, and more as a statement than as a question, she says, "where is it." P. V. Thornton, Esq.
~A woman is curled into a comfortable looking chair. Her bright red hair is tangled, with a few blossoms and leaves scattered throughout. She sips occasionally from what appears to be orange juice as she takes notes in a scruffy leather bound book. On closer inspection, minuscule vines are scratched into the margins. She takes a moment to glance about the room, the light from various lamps reflecting off of her thick rimmed glasses - obscuring her expression. She chuckles to herself, "seems I'm not quite refined enough for this establishment...no matter." She shrugs and returns to her book, adding tiny flowers to the vines already drawn. Daakshi
~Slowly she opens the thick wooden door and peers inside the sitting room. The gray, downcast December day has dampened her long blonde hair with drizzle. She tucks a wisp of hair that has fallen across her cheek behind her ear, and eases inside. Her long black skirt rustles as she makes way for an over-stuffed leather chair placed strategically near the fire. Settling into it and feeling the warmth of the flames, she sighs. Cold fingers renewed by the warmth open the weighty tome in her lap, carefully placing the blue ribbon bookmark on the arm of the chair. With a nod to a friend yet unknown sitting in a booth in the corner, she breathlessly whispers to Bernard “A white wine please”. Runa von Gimli
~The door once again opens, admitting a tall lanky stranger in a rumpled raincoat. Absently running a hand through his tousled hair, he considers the room for a moment. After taking in the placement of the various patrons, he nods to himself briefly, and shambles over to the bar. Seating himself, he leans over the bar a bit, gesturing to the barkeep. His cheap, stained tie hangs loosely around his neck, collar undone. "Scotch and soda, please. And possibly a bowl of nuts if one is available, much thanks." Order placed, he swivels a bit openly considering each of his fellow occupants in turn, eyes full of curiosity...and possibly a little mischief. Abelard
~A 20-something kid looks around the table again, bones hurting and feeling old from life's journey. Dimly lit room, the boy smiles at the absinthe fizz, two glasses, and bottle of Woodford he just brought over from the bar as he pulls a cool PBR from a pocket of his work jacket and pulls a worn copy of The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses he'd inherited. He popped the can and lit the bowl on his long stem pipe, and smiled even wider as he began on his fizz. After a bit, he brought an empty can and cocktail glass to the bar, finally feeling warm and offering a quiet "thanks, Bernard!" Finally getting a good look at the room as he walked back to his table, his smile finally broke through his beard with an "I'm home." Denica Rises
~He steps through the door with prominence, the nuance of his stride denoting a sort of self- imposed importance; only to be offset by clown shoes and smeared lipstick that he has apparently failed to wipe off. As he tops his brightly dyed hair with a flat cap, the gentleman promenades to the bar and asks Bernard for a Strong Rocky Barleycorn, being presented a short time later with a simple glass of vodka with ice. Pleased, he takes this drink to an empty table, setting down the drink as well as a stashed revolver and a detective badge on the table in front of him. The obviously stressed yet content man kicks his feet onto the side of the table and hurriedly sips the liquor as if it may disappear were he not to. As the man relaxes for what seems like the first time in a while, he opens the latest chronicle of Curios and Conundrums with "To Agent Koehler: A Curious Read" inked with what appears to be quilled calligraphy at the top. Agent C.C. Koehler
~The door once again opens to admit a lady well dressed. Full of energy yet a ever so slightly bedraggled. The explanation soon teeters out from behind her. A small child holding a juice cup. The young girl is polite and obedient. There lies a gleam in the child's eye that tells of sass, spunk and energy. The lady gets a water and the settles into an overstuffed couch. Observing the room and even more closely observing the child. The child explores the room never out of sight of her mother, seeming to know where the invisible thread that tethers her to her mother is. The child is not bothersome just curious. Thus giving the lady a chance to observe the room and the occupants more closely. The quite observer
~I became aware of myself again. A word whispered brought me back, back from...I know not where, or how. I see the Manor house before me across the expansive south lawn. Whose house? I know not. I float across the frosty grass on this cold December morning, making my way to the enormous brick and timber structure. Float? Interesting, I have no structure, no body, no....anything; yet, I must be ...something. I can move freely. I am called to the house, compelled to enter it. Why? I feel a need, a calling if you will, but I don't understand. Questions. I should...will find, answers. I see a bird returning to its nest high in the eaves of the attic. I follow at a distance, careful not to startle the creature. As I move in closer I see it has a morsel of some kind in its beak. Landing now, it shares it with another its kind already in the nest. Neither bird notices me as I approach their winter sanctuary. Why? I move to engage them, but I cannot. I seem to be invisible to them. Interesting. Am I nothing in this world? And yet, I exist. I move to rest on the roof and find myself moving through it into the attic. It is dark in this space, but the lack of light does not seem to hinder my vision. Vision? I move to explore this windowless room, and eventually discover amongst the forgotten furnishings of ages gone by, a dust covered upright mirror half clothed in some old forgotten sheet. I see nothing; no reflection, no glowing phantasm, no substance. I move through the mirror to find I leave no trace. Interesting. What am I? Why am I here? Who called me into existence? As I reflect on these weighty matters, a nagging thought arises. I am familiar with this world, the names of things, and their purpose. I have a conscience of some kind, I must have a purpose of my own. The answer is here, in this house. I feel that I am tied to it somehow. I must explore further. ( Please don't interact with this character yet. I will be using clues from your story-lines to inform this character of its purpose ) Mr. Phneh
~The door to the bars slams open with a great crash, spewing a bedraggled blonde woman and copious amounts of snow into the entrance. She looks up bewildered, her soft green eyes darting around as they adjust to the hazy interior. "Hi..." She says to no one in particular when she notices that the soft buzz of conversation has come to an abrupt halt at her appearance. " I was just looking for a spot out of the wind in front of an abandoned building, the sign outside said The Sitting Room? " The spell of silence is broken by the delighted laugh of a small child, playing near her ever observant mother and the bar's patrons slowly turn back to their work . Embarrassed, the green eyed girl whips around to dash out, only to find the doorway has been sealed tight with bricks. "Do you see..." she stammers out to the crowd, as she places her hands pleadingly on the obstacle blocking her way back to the mundane. But everyone has resumed their hushed conversations in the dark cozy corners of the bar. Resigning herself to the bizarre turn of events her life has taken that day, she gives up her pathetic attempt to get back outside and instead tiptoes to the bar where a mysterious man is wiping clean a whiskey glass. "Bernard?" she asks, gesturing at his name tag, "Tequila please, straight up." Without so much as a blink, Bernard pours the drink and slides it to the girl. She gulps it down and tosses a tip on the counter as she moves toward the back of the room. She passes by a lovely lady wearing a luxurious velvet cape, bent head to head with a doctor in a brown overcoat, a smoking a pipe clasped loosely in his hand as they whisper over a Chinese puzzle box. To her left, a lady, perhaps a woodland sprite, doodling vines in an old leather bound book and a mysterious man endlessly flipping a gold coin over his knuckles. Finally she plops down in soft leather chair worn with age and shakes the water off her winter coat. Unwinding her scarf she leans back in the chair and closes her eyes. These people, she has seen them in a dream before. Is that where she is now? What are the rules of this delicious new world she has found herself in? She is hopelessly behind in understanding the secret all these characters must share. How did we all end up in this place, she wonders. Especially me of all people... shouldn't there be some sort of guide?! Opening her eyes, she glances at the agent in the corner, distinguished by his badge and revolver laying near his hand. He is leaning over a stack of papers, and she can just make out the title "A Curious Read". I must get one of these, she decides, to truly understand the nature of this place. With the tequila beginning to enhance what little boldness she possesses, she sits back to wait for her own copy of mysterious material to appear, determined to belong in this strange place though she's sure now that she is dreadfully under qualified. Nobody learns anything by playing it safe, she reminds herself. Time to do some research, and maybe make a few friends along the way... JR
~Julianna peered into the room. She was actually older than her demeanor and countenance appeared, but she was someone who preferred conversations with individuals, than interacting with groups. Her loosely curled black hair framed her fair ivory face, as brilliant blue eyes looked out from behind black horn-rimmed glasses. In her arm, she clutched a paperback book of poetry from an obscure poet. She went to the bar and asked Bernard for a soda. Finding a comfortable leather chair, she studied the room and the people in it. It was her ritual for unfamiliar places. Eventually, she would start up a conversation or two, but for the moment, she was getting her bearings. Julianna Winslow
~There were quite a few at this gathering already, that was perfectly clear, and Ms Thalaba de Bavin had little knowledge as to the whys and whats of how she had come to this place, but if pressed her answer would most likely be for the expected adventure. Her eyes glimmered amusement as she waited at the bar brushing snowflakes off her wool wrap, then shaking out her red skirts, taking the time to observe patrons with a friendly glance. There are several stationed near the fireplace--but of course, any weary traveler would wish to feel warm and safe, (though with the remains of one poor chair shattered on the floor Thalaba worries for the safety of any of the furniture here and may have to reconsider the appearance of otherwise comfortable leather armchairs )--and interesting ladies and gentlemen seated around the vicinity, journals, books, and papers in various states of being read, even a puzzle box being examined. Thalaba nods to herself, quickly reclipping the ever-so-slightly bedraggled fascinator slipping off her dark tresses, and accepts her creme de minthe on ice from the bartender with a smile. Her satchel holds its own poetry, stories, collections and secrets; like everyone else some are easily shared while others...well. In any event Thalaba is thoroughly amused. She clinks glasses with a passerby. "Cheers!" Thalaba de Bavin
~In a world where time moves swiftly, beyond the realm of full comprehension, many fail to observe. The machinations of time are indifferent, and yet to each being of every plane, the world shifts in strange ways. So could be said for the cozy room in which people of all walks of life and in all manner of dress and state of being were. Some reading, some watching, some solving puzzles and speaking together in like minds, and others still, gathering bearings as if sailors lost at sea, only just finding a safe harbor. Here, she observed; with crimson hair flowing to her shoulder blades, and eyes the hue of sage, she observed with quiet, serene contemplation. She took in each guest for their appearance and expression, for the pitch in their voices and the words that were said. There was kindness here, a quiet companionship that required little speech, and sometimes a simple glance was enough for a greeting. So could be said of an ebony haired woman, whose bright blue eyes met hers, and a simple nod of ‘hello’ was given. Garbed in an ebony wool coat falling to her knees, leather gloves of supple, worn condition and skirts of tarnished silver, she lingers. Though silent, ever watchful and curious while nursing a glass of ruby wine, a glass meets hers, and she starts at the pleasant chime of ‘cheers’. She smiles, raising her glass in kind. “Cheers!” Varnų
~A lithe woman enters, hoping not to draw attention, but with an appearance that demands attention - her golden hair elaborately braided around her head, pearls woven through the braids, an alluring, yet old-fashioned blue dress, drapes around her lightly skippered feet. She keeps her eyes down, not from fright but modesty. Slipping into the first available seat, and looks up through her lashes to see who else is about. Gwenyffar
~As the door to the sitting room burst open with a sudden draft the lights flicker as lightening strikes. An attractive woman of undetermined age in possibly a 1880 garb, steps into the room. As a drop of rain falls from her thoroughly soaked hat. She smiles taking people off guard. And simply says "Sorry I'm late pressing business matters. Have I missed the party?" Then walks over to the fire to dry out some from being soaked in the rain. Her mind cataloguing every player in the room. Her name is Lady Sarah Ravenhurst, a time traveler who is not only wealthy, a railroad heiress but she is a very wanted jewel thief known as Scarlett. Her blond curls are pinned up beneath a silk black hat with its once beautiful plumage ruined from the rain. She is wearing a lavender traveling dress with a rather large an ostentatious diamond brooch and black leather gloves. She eyes seemed to carry the glee of one having a high adventure or knew a wonderful secret Lady Ravenhurst
~A curious woman with eccentric taste in clothing sits in the corner glancing suspiously at everyone in the room. Timidly sipping her drink she holds her first newsletter tightly in her fist. Paranoia seems to be creeping across her face as she surveys everyone in the room looking for 'Reds'... Stella Roth
~The door bangs open and a chilly blast of air cools the room, ushering in a spray of papers that scatter across the wooden floorboards. A waifish creature scrambles in after them, riding hat askew, one arm thrust toward the wayward notes while the other protectively clutches a bundle of leather-bound books and folders. "Excuse me, pardon!" she yelps, darting frenetically back and forth in an effort to avoid colliding with anyone as she chases the papers down. She manages to pluck a few from against the baseboard, but others elude her, hidden beneath the bar and underfoot. Hazel Merriweather
~The doorknob rattles as someone struggles with the heavy wooden door, finally opening with a flourish. “Whew! I just about got blown away!” she exclaims, part exasperation, part wonder. In an instant, she feels all eyes on her, some aggravated with her interruption, others appreciative of the break in silence. Looking around, her whiskey-brown eyes adjusting to the dim room, she spies an empty leather chair and tosses her over-stuffed canvas satchel into the seat. As she digs through the bag, looking for her wallet, a cracked tablet is barely visible, with the map to the sitting room still glowing on the shattered screen. A well-worn copy of “The Vampire Lestat” and a leather-bound collection of Longfellow’s poems can be seen amid the crumpled papers and receipts, haphazardly crammed into the bag. Wallet in hand, she walks up to the bar, almost 6 feet tall in her scuffed cowboy boots. Pushing her tousled auburn hair back from her lightly freckled face, she leans against the bar. “Are you Mr. Bernie?” she asks the distinguished gentleman behind the bar. “They told me to ask for you. I’m Sabine Le Fouilleur. Y’all have any milk punch?” Sabine Le Fouilleur
~The door swings open and she strides in, boot heels clicking on the floorboards with a purposeful cadence. There is a sureness in her movement, an awareness of every muscle that is completely unapologetic. A few steps from the threshold and she stops, slides the hat off of her head, shaking the raindrops from the wide brimmed fedora and tucking it under the arm that carries the beat up black leather satchel. She shakes out her long dark hair, and slowly scans the room with her bespectacled eyes. An eyebrow shoots up as she catches the scent of the tobacco the gentleman with the papers over there is smoking, and her mouth, so determinedly set, upturns nearly imperceptibly on one side. Strawberry, she thinks to herself. Interesting choice. Her eyes come to rest on the bartender. Clicking of boots again as she moves forward, the folds of the skirt of her long velvet dress and the black leather duster coat almost creating a wake behind her that ends abruptly as she reaches the bar. “I was told there would be a package waiting for me,” she says. “My name is Alythia.” The bartender shakes his head. “Thanks anyway.” The only hint of her displeasure is a small soft sigh. “Scotch please,” she says. “If it's not old enough to drive a car, I’m not interested.” A crystal jewel of glass with a pool of amber secured, she nods her thanks and turns towards an armchair and side table in one corner. She drops the bag and hat and settles in to the chair with a deft turn. Bringing the glass to her lips, she scans the room again. Her other hand makes a random gesture, a flick of the wrist and an artful wave of the fingers, as deliberately done as it is inscrutable. She sets the glass down and settles back into the comfort of the chair, and a tight- lipped smile fleetingly plays across her lips. “I guess I shall have to wait,” she murmurs. Alythia
~Leaving her cloak and hand muff with the doorman, a newcomer makes her way into the lounge. She looks from left to right and nods when her gaze is met. Bernard motions to the tea urn when she looks his way. She nods. Moving, as though her circa 1895 traveling outfit is the mode of the day, she pulls her skirt tightly to her body. She slides sideways through the room to a small table with wide backed chairs. Safely out of the flow of traffic, she removes her hat with its small veil. She unbuttons the top 2 buttons of her traveling jacket to let the warm air of the room near to her skin. Her blouse is ivory and her jacket and skirt are forest green. Her complexion is Victorianly pale with rosy cheeks from being outdoors. He hair is pinned up close to her head and seems coppery and blonde. As she carefully sits to table, Bernard brings her a cup of tea with milk, sugar, and lemon on a tray. With a flourish, he places a plate of water crackers next to the milk. "Thank you." she says. Lady Moonraker
~Mr. Erdnase and Mr. Andrews are both sitting in the corner playing cards, each one trying to engage in "advantage play" against the other. Both gentlemen, unbeknownst to one another, have the same small hardcover book, covered in green cloth, in their satchels. Titled "Artifice, Ruse, and Subterfuge at the Card Table," it is little known outside of certain clandestine circles. On the shelf beside the table on which their playing cards are being dealt is a small brass lamp containing a Genii. One of them will shortly notice the lamp and absentmindedly give it a rub ... and suddenly the Genii will emerge and the game between them will change entirely. The Genii
~A curious hum accompanies light from beyond, illuminating the outline of the door. As suddenly as it appears the light is gone and the door opens. A lean figure cuts through the smoke and enters. From behind dark spectacles he surveys the collected company for possible risks, his cold silence dropping the temperature in the room by a few degrees, despite the crackling fire. Making a quick mental note of the other operatives, he walks to the bar, the outline of oddly shaped instruments barely detectable under his long, mandarin-collared, black coat. "A Heineken, and a side of mash potatoes, if you have them." As he raises the bottle to his lips, he mutters to himself, "This means something. This is important." Agent CE7
~The door opens quietly, a woman enters. Her hair is dark, like shadows that frame her face. Her frame is drawn by a long grey sweater, beneath which shredded ends of a grey skirt are viewable, which hang tattered over black knee high boots. She has a simple cloth bag, worn across her chest, with feathers and various tools hanging off of it. She moves swiftly to the bar, tattoos visible up and down her arms in the dim light. Bernard glances at her warmly, pouring an amber colored liquid from an unmarked beer bottle into a tall glass and passing it to her. "Spiced mead?" She Asks, surprised, but he has already made his way to the other end of the bar. Molieux Petrichor
~The door crashes open and a disheveled young woman stumbles over the threshold. She stands up, straightens her long dark skirt, gathers up the umbrella and leather bag that flew from her hands when she tripped, and sheepishly exclaims, "Raining...puddle by the door...terribly sorry, pardon me." Her pale face flushed scarlet with embarrassment she quickly makes her way to the bar, green eyes downcast. She takes a seat on a stool with her back to the wall and sets her dripping belongings on the floor. She rubs her aching ankle, but is relieved to find it isn't twisted, just a bit sore. She inwardly curses her clumsiness, and is certain that she's made a terrible first impression on all of the mysterious patrons of The Sitting Room. "Can't go anywhere without bashing into something," she thinks to herself, "had to go off and make a fool of myself before saying hello." She turns and tries to nonchalantly scan the room, noting a pair of gentlemen intensely concentrating at a card table, a pale elegant lady drinking tea, a lean man drinking a beer at the bar, and a curious gentlemen smoking a pipe that smells of strawberry among the various people in the room. Bernard, the all knowing barman, pushes a steaming mug of tea and a warm blueberry scone across to her with a sympathetic smile. She gratefully accepts the pastry and tea, further mortified that this small act of kindness is causing hot tears to gather in the corner of her eyes. She blinks them away after the first bite of the delicious buttery After wiping away the crumbs she holds a hand out to Bernard, "Pleased to meet you sir, I'm Matilda Cunningham, but everyone calls me Tilly." Matilda "Tilly" Cunningham
~The door opens with a bang to reveal a young redheaded fellow struggling with an arm load of leather bound books. He has thick spectacles and the pale complexion and slight squint of someone who's spent most of his life hunched over dusty tomes in dim libraries. "Sorry about that.." He says sheepishly as he closes the door and makes his way to a quiet table under a reading lamp. Dirk Quatermain
~Her reply was was interrupted by the sudden intrusion of yet another blast of wintery air as the large wooden door flew open once again. Peeking around the door frame, a tall fair haired woman who was thoroughly drenched from the weather meekly asked "Shall I leave my goat outside?" in a thick Eastern European accent. The Gingerbread Witch
~"Hi!" In the entrance to the room stands a gentleman of average height and build. A smile forms easily over his soft face as he approaches the first member who makes eye contact. As his hand lifts out of his corduroy coat a pile of white business cards scatter on the floor. The bends over to collect them up, in an effort to be polite he is helped by several members. Printed in plain font on the card is "M. Card, Freelance Coroner." Several members are already reading the card with perplexed looks on their faces. Some have even dared to turn over to read the other side. "Spells, incantations, exorcisms extra." "You'd be surprised how many people try to get those for free." he said. "Why don't you keep that one" Turning to the bar he asks, "So, what's the beer selection like?" Mr. Card
~Hesitant at the door, Chloie reached to grasp the large, ornate handle. Inside voices murmured. "Hm... Ah, what the hell." She considered the foreign dive before pushing the door open, opposite hand clasped tight to a letter in her cloak pocket. She was met with a sweet and pungent scent and a warm, orange glow. Stepping through the lavish portal, Chloie noticed the faces of many a character staring back at her. "Er, hey!" She flit her hand at her side as a greeting. Coupled with the awkward grin spread on her thin, rosy lips you'd think she was a shy child. Although to her credit, entrances were never her forte. As the dozens of eyes fell back to leather bound books, artifacts, letters, and other patrons Chloie found herself breathing a deep sigh of relief. Whisking her traveling cloak from her shoulders in one fluid movement, she worked her way between the others towards the bar. A drink was definitely in order. "Bernard, yes?" She asked coolly to the gentleman behind the counter as he slid a drink to another thirsty woman. He nodded and made his way to the end of the bar where Chloie had perched herself upon an old bar stool. "Good, then I'm in the right place." A wider smile graced her lips, this time revealing a much more confident gaze. "Ya know, usually any booze will do. But in light of this, er, strange adventure I have found myself on--better make it strong. Bloody Mary, easy on the 'maters, extra-extra olives, please and thank you!" She flashed him a nervously excited grin as he turned to grab a glass, returning only moments later with what Chloie was sure was the best Bloody Mary she'd ever had. "OH MY GAH-" She blurted after an un-ladylike slurp. It was then she really took notice of those in the room with her and suddenly she felt very out of place. Scattered throughout the space were patrons of all shapes and sizes. Men and women dressed in turn of the century clothing--and not just from one century turned. She noticed cloaks and capes, gowns and regal garb, even some looking as though they had woken up and thrown on whatever was on the floor. She took a moment to consider this. It was odd. SLUUUURP One Bloody down. Chloie slid the glass back across the bar at Bernard and signaled for another one while sliding an olive off the swizzle stick with her teeth. It occurred to her that there was so much going on and nothing happening at all. "Better get comfortable until I know more..." She mumbled, reaching up to unravel the large roll of streaked, auburn hair situated at the crown. Thick locks adorned with beads and crystals and thread came tumbling down over her shoulders. They danced in between thin strands of natural hair as she brushed the shoulders of her hand-sewn, army green blazer. She looked much like a romantic gypsy who'd gotten lost in the wrong century. A slight build, tall with long arms and fingers; her features were plain despite being heavily freckled and eyes so deep brown, they could have passed for black. Her fitted, navy pants were tucked into knee-high boots that were festive with baubles and thread. Every finger showcased a ring, either with symbols or gems pressed into the glinting metal. Chains of varying lengths hung from her neck and wrists, each with even more symbols and gems than her rings. It was a wonder no one heard her approach the door from miles away. Chloie reached inside the breast of her figure-flattering blazer and pulled out a leather-bound journal. It certainly didn't seem that something of that size should fit unnoticed in such a garment. Another sitting at the bar noticed this with a curious glance. "Heh, it's just an old coat I...repurposed..." She trailed off suddenly remembering there was a reason they were all gathered in this strange venue, not just for drinks and casual conversation. Bloody number two was on its way out and she was no closer to knowing how she came to be involved in this party, nor what was in store for them--friends or foes. Chloie
~A young Wolf steps out of the shadowy corner & takes him place on the carpet by the fire place no one even know when or how he entered the room, only that he's arrived & has been there silently watching in the shadows for some time "Well I guess I well then, I’m a Simple Young Wolf, my friends called me Wolfy in school for some, select reasons only a few are privy too. I suffer from desilexya so please don't mind the spelling errors at times." "I have recently just joined & I'm looking to solve these mysterious puzzles with My Beloved Darling who I have nicknames "Lil Red Ridinghood" I look forward to interacting with all of you & I apologize for my eairlier out burst" proceeds to quitely lay down gazing into the fire Wolf in the Shadows
~The heavy wooden door swings wide to reveal a flustered-looking young woman. It is difficult to determine her age, which might be anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. She rushes up to the bar, as much as anyone in full skirts can rush. She is neither tall nor short, the bodice of her gown accentuating her generous curves. She is slightly winded, her bosom heaving as she vigorously fans herself with a lovely black lace fan. “Gowns are terribly lovely, but not the most practical mode of dress,” she states to the barman, her eyes twinkling mischievously. Though her eyes are light, their precise colour is not easily identified. They might be blue, they might be green; they appear to be somewhere in between. A tiny top hat sits atop her coiffure at quite a jaunty angle, warning others of her sassy disposition. Her light brown hair is mostly pinned up, a few loose curls falling to playfully caress her ears and shoulders. “My good man,” she says. She addresses the bartender as though they are old acquaintances, though she is quite obviously new to this place. “A gin and tonic, if you please.” She grasps a small chain hanging at her waist, and follows it to a watch hidden in a pocket, eyeing it almost suspiciously. “Bollocks, I’m late again!” she exclaims at it, as though blaming the timepiece for her tardiness. Her hand reaches into another pocket in skirt - of which there appear to be several - pulling out a lumpy, mysterious little bundle. It is wrapped carefully in bright purple silk, a crisp white ribbon tying it closed. She tucks it safely back into the pocket from whence it came, patting it protectively as though assuring herself it is still there. “Here you are, miss,” says the barkeep, sliding a glass toward her over the bar’s polished surface. She hands him some coins and retrieves her drink. Turning away from the barkeep, she lets her gaze skip across the other patrons, searching for her contact. Should have know he’d be late too. She shrugs to herself and makes her way to the most shadowy corner she can find, which is impressively shadowy indeed. She makes herself as comfortable as her wardrobe permits, teetering precariously on the edge of her seat. And she waits. Madame Delphine Fontaine
~A mysterious stranger walks into the room. The stranger is dressed in a black suit with long white European cuffs covering his hands, while Also accompanied by a long black coat with cryptic symbols embroidered in white. The man has no eyebrows and a wild hair style that would be suited for mad scientist. He orders a drink and sits in the darkest corner of the room....... observing......quietly. Maru Diru
~A blue police box materializes on the top of the bar, forcing Bernard and the oft forgotten mojito to move aside. The doors pop open and a purple haired young woman stumbles out, giggling and narrowing avoiding collision with the mojito. She's dressed in a brown leather corset over a thin blouse, a gray and purple short pleated skirt, mismatched striped stockings, and high leather boots; a paper party hat is perched rakishly on the top of her head. It's somewhat like Victorian wear, but more...punk. She looks back into the TARDIS and laughs, waving at a tall figure standing in the shadows. "Thank you for the ride, dearest, perhaps we shall meet again? But next time, I'll drive. And no more potatoes." She turns to the mojito and whispers, "Is this seat taken?" This place is oddly familiar, as if she's been here before. It's as if she's sat at this bar before, waltzed across the hardwood floor with a gentleman whose name she didn't now and who was dead within three days. But then, her memory wasn't always reliable. No matter. It cut down on regret. "Bourbon, if you don't mind, friend." She glances at the door and jerks her thumb towards it, glancing at some of the more blatantly curious onlookers. "I'm Belle. Aren't any of you at least marginally worried about the wolves prowling about outside?" Belle Noir
~A handsome man dressed in waist coat and top hot saunters into the bar. He slowly ambles to the counter to talk with the barkeep, not oblivious to the looks he receives from the women in the establishment. He meets their curious gazes with amusement, but sends no encouraging signals as he is undeniably taken. Not wishing to be rude, however, he lightly touches the brim of his hat in their direction and courteously flashes a quick smile that says: "Hello. Pleased to make your acquaintance, but make no mistake, I'll leave here alone tonight." As he approaches the bar to order his first drink of the evening, not recognizing him as a regular, the barkeep asks brusquely: "Haven't seen you here before. Who might you be? And what can I get ya?" With a nod of the head the gentleman replies. "Why, I'm John Carter, Sir. I trust you know the name? I'll take a whiskey, neat." John Carter
Cheers for doing this Mahling . I admit it was getting a little silly with all the intro threads on the old board . I myself though was really enjoying an exercise in creative writing . :-) thanks again :-D
Post by The Mabling on Dec 23, 2015 16:00:10 GMT -5
~Good Fortune has come upon the woman, as she has been wandering aimlessly in front of the Sitting Room for some time. Watching the comings and goings of what can only be considered an eclectic place, the patrons have all been well-dressed, if not mysterious. Having once popped into the room, she already knows that Bernard has a special flair for mixing all sorts of alluring concoctions. And oh what a sight it was, peering through the window not nearly a month ago to see a near fight break out, mysterious women with birds atop their heads, a gypsy, a stately looking man, one who considers himself a Reaper, and all manner of other patrons seemingly oblivious to the ruckus that could be heard from the street. A magnificent marble table was there! "Oh what a place to be!", she thought to herself, yet hadn't found the time to actually visit the Sitting Room, what with her very unpredictable schedule. Today, however, after completing several dastardly deeds for her employer, and as happenstance would have it, wearing a military inspired overcoat, atop a simple, yet alluring knee length black dress, and magnificent sparkling red heels, she decides to walk in. "It is a lovely day for a cup of tea" she thinks. Approaching the bar, removing her blue/grey overcoat, she smiles to Bernard while ordering a pot of Peach Rooibos tea. Unsure of where exactly to seat herself, she chooses to face the room at large, scanning for a comfortable, yet central place to be seated. Noticing several interesting places, and a beautiful marble table, intrigue and curiosity take over. A smile plays across her unpainted lips, dancing light into her blue/grey eyes. She flicks a loose strand of blond (or is it white/silver?) hair behind her right ear. She is happy to be able to relax a little after such a whirlwind sort of day. Amazingly, while slyly checking out the other patrons, she thinks to herself, that her current image will reveal absolutely nothing to these folks. Perhaps even what she is seeing won't readily reveal much about them either.... The Fixer
With feverish curiosity, I opened the initial 4 Curios and Conundrums this morning. For it slipped the mind of my dearest daughter that this package had arrived in yesterday's post. Mind racing wildly, I flipped through the paper unable to focus my eyes upon a single word or image. The feeling which is welling up inside, reminds me of the fever that took hold before the film "A.I." It was during the time before its release, when I became enmeshed in "The Beast." A game of puzzles and riddles for the like-minded... for the inquisitive... for the enlightened. M.P.C. is what I have been yearning for over these long years. Thank you, Curator, for this. Delivering an escape from the mundane... thoughtful, curious reflection with those who resemble my likeness. Is there another locale where my esteemed colleagues are congregating within the madness of the internet? Or are we all here, within the warmth and glow of the sitting room?
As ever, yours most warmly. mskimie
Since then (which was ever so long ago) I've popped in and out of the main Sitting Room - Thank you, by the by, for this shiny corner of the net. Even visited the former address... ahh the adventures. The Sitting Room sometimes gets positively impassable.
Post by The Mabling on Jan 6, 2016 16:40:19 GMT -5
~The blonde woman with the nervous smile and selection of unnoticed feathers in her hair tentatively enters the room, and secretly hopes she may work up the nerve to ask Bernard for a sazerac at some point. Pigeon
~The heavy door is held open for the next patron of the room, a lady. Tall, stark and dressed in a silver mink wrap over a rather tight fitted black dress. Long chocolate hair swaying rhythmically as she walked towards the bar. Cold storm blue eyes fixed like a preditor watching a gazel on the barkeep. Her stilettos sounded like war drums as she came swiftly to the bar. Gently flicking back her hair the lady tapped 2 fingers on the streach for the barkeeps attentions.
"Vodka, straight. " came a clear And demanding voice. Her fingernails painted a brilliant Ruby and shaped into rather menacing points...akin to claws.
Feching a compact from her small clutch the lady let out a sigh as she checked her bold cats eye in the mirror. Using the small device to inspect the others in the room as well.
When her drink came she grinned. "Welcome back Mrs.Marshall" the male said abit shakey. Taking the round glass she snapped her compact closed and shot the drink. " Its Ms actuly" with a satisfied smirk she droped the glass on the counter with a loud clunk. "Another. " The Iron Rose
The door creaks open and a tall, dusty, slighly heavyset man slides through. He looks over his spectacles, scanning the room as if he expected to find something or someone he does not. He sighs, closes the door and continues shuffling until he finds an unused seat at a table with a lamp.
He takes the seat, settles in and drops his brown leather medical bag bag to the floor, which sends a poof of dust in to the air. Wherever he is from, one can tell it was a long road travelled.
He calls out to no one in particular. "If anyone comes a callin' for Trowen McAllen..... "
He pauses as a mechanical spider liberates itself from his bag and crawls up a table leg. "Tell her where I am and there's a gold piece in it for ya."
He pinches the spider then picks it up by one shiny metal leg and chuckles "Tell her I died and fill me in on whether she smiled or looked worried first and there'll be two gold instead."
He openes the bag and drops the spider in. It lands with a clink. He kicks out the seat next to him and puts his feet up, his fringed moccasins swinging slightly as he lays back and adjusts his leather pilots cap so it drops over his eyes.
Barely a breath passes before his snore echoes through the room.
A Youthful sort of scamp slips in with the barest hint of a trailing breeze from the chilled outdoors. 'He' is a lanky, unkempt boy of maybe teenage years, with sprigs of straw-colored hair poking out of his patched cap. 'His' face, though spotted with a bit of well-earned dirt, is narrow and smooth. He'd be an attractive sort if he cleaned up.
Also, if he was a HE at all.
Her name, at least to everyone that meant anything, was Oru. A name of her own fabrication as it were, having eschewed her given name as soon as she could speak straight. Presently, her bosom was cinched tight beneath the layers of hand-me-down clothing, covered entirely with a baggy, patched gray tail coat that would have made the Artful Dodger proud. Oru wore tattered britches and knee socks, with a pair of leather shoes (more obviously then not stolen, due to their relative good contidion.)
Oru gave herself a seat at the end of the bar, and looked around. No suspicious looks so far. No coppers to kick her out. Only a smiling bartender extending a mug of something steaming hot that smelled absolutely delicious -
"Sorry Guv'nor, I ain't got any coin for ya. But iffin you need dishes done, I'll crack em out right quick I will!"
The bartender nodded amiably, and Oru took the offered mug with a deep, relieved sigh. It was something sinfully chocolate, and her first sip was met with a delighted whimper, then a round of furious blushing as she laid into the rest of it with reckless abandon.
Once the mug was placed gently on the counter, she fished into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the invitation. It was beaten and ragged, but undoubtedly had her name and gender written at the top. 'Dearest Miss Oru.' It was like a daydream come true! She read it over and over until the bartender approached.
Oru held out her hand and grinned. Her face, through the smudges, had a few sunny freckles on her cheeks, and her lips, for a girl, were thin and lovely. Her eyebrows were very expressive, and her teeth were delicate and mostly even (Save for the left front one, that one stuck out just a hair more then the others. Liked to make itself known when she smiled.)
The Bartender shook her hand jovially and introduced himself as Bernard. "Right pleasure it is, Bernie! I'm Oru. You just lemme know when I can git to them dishes! Until then... don't s'pose I could git another of them chocolate thingies?"
Post by The Mabling on Jan 10, 2016 0:03:59 GMT -5
~The door swings open, apparently moved by the wind. A slight chill sweeps through the room. The door returns to its original position of its own accord.
A new chair has materialized in a corner of the room. It appears to be made of used matchsticks and cardboard tubes. Upon it sits a disheveled man in his mid-twenties. He is clad in a shabby charcoal overcoat and trousers. At his side, he is carrying a longsword. He is wearing a paper crown atop his head.
His eyes dart around the room, scanning for any sense of familiarity. He sighs.
"Where have I landed now?" he wonders aloud. The King of Nowhere
~ The fire flickers as yet another guest dramatically flings open the door, and the shadows in a far corner shift subtly. A young man stretches and rises from a worn leather chair. Observers would swear they'd never seen him before, though no- that couldn't be right, he'd been there for quite awhile, hadn't he? Must've just forgotten about him in all of the commotion.
Not of the flashy short, it was forgivable that Rensselaer had been overlooked in his little nook, though shrewd observers in the room might have suspected something may have been deliberately diverting their attention from that area of the hall.
He was on the shorter side and slim with a mass of floppy-though not unruly- dark hair and merry olive eyes set into an open, honest face. He wore an impeccably tailored modern-cut charcoal wool suit- the jacket and a navy overcoat were draped over the arm of his abandoned chair, and his white sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was precisely dressed and neat, a stark contrast to the black stains that permanently spattered his fingers and the backs of his hands.
The man weaves his way through the crowd- careful not to jostle anyone- and approaches the bar. Leaning in, he murmurs something to Bernard, then nods his thanks as he's handed a pint of something thick and black as motor oil with a modest caramel head. He takes a sip, closes his eyes in pleasure, then carefully picks a path through the throng back to his corner which doesn't seem quite as shadowy and dim as before.
The young man sets his glass down on a nearby stool and takes up a slim black book. Scanning the room, his eyes settle on a group of men and woman seated close to the fire. He studies them intently for a few minutes then, pen in hand, begins to work. Rensselaer
~ Time passes and eyes grow accustomed to the jumping light emitted from the fire in the hearth. A quick flash from a nearby table puts a halt to any and all work being done. Where did that woman come from?
Red hair, wrapped tightly around her head, she lifted her chin and smiled. Reflections of a past life danced across the sclera of her eyes.
"Bernard, my dear friend, can you get me the usual?" Whisper Red
~ The establishment door neither bursts, crashes nor creeps open, yet a new patron is suddenly present. His wild, unblinking eyes and unkempt hair are seemingly at odds with the gold-rimmed spectacles and smart grey waistcoat suit that he wears. His facial features all seem to be either slightly too big or small (it is difficult to put one's finger on precisely which), and the casual observer will find themselves not-so-casual upon observing them. Those who have dabbled in the esoteric or gnostic arts will have their minds suddenly and emphatically screaming the word "WRONG!" whilst in his vicinity.
After studying each of the existing occupants in turn (particularly Bernard) with the pitiless stare of a man who expects imminent treachery, he visibly relaxes. He moves to a vacant corner of the room, and stands with his back to the walls, humming an unrecognisable tune as he broadly casts his eyes over the scene. Xavier Grey, Immortal Custodian of Crystalpeak Mountain
~ With the door already open, an average height fella, with bright blue eyes, and a beanie loosely on his head walks in. Left hand in his Jean pocket, right hand clutching a mug full of coffee, and creamer. Looking around with a smile bursting of curiosity and wonder. "At your service" he says. "The name, my dear fellows is Howlett. Mr. Howlett. I dare say it is a pleasure" he sips his coffee rather slow and takes a seat by the fire in a red velvet pin cushion chair. Mr. Howlett
~ With a cheerful wave to the room, she glided to the bar and adjusted her frock. The ornate beading on her peacock-themed evening dress was heavier than she expected, but the dress was so FUN she didn’t mind. With a twinkle in her blue-green eyes, she said “Champagne, please, dear Bernard. There’s so much to celebrate.” Contessa Paloma Mattei
~ Her tall, slim figure seemed out of place in her dress, it's dark color nearly matching that of her hair. Intelligent green eyes offset the mundane brown color of her garb, and a smattering of freckles gave a her quiet façade a girlish quality. At first glance, one might assume she had been travelling much as of late. Leather boots adorned her feet, but there were traces of dried mud across their toes; a small twig remained stuck in her laces, and her cloak appeared worn though well cared for.
She cleared her throat and, after pulling a flask from the depths of one pocket or another, took a swig. A grimace flitted across her face and a pink flush began to bloom across her cheeks. She exhaled slowly through pursed lips before smiling and revealing even teeth, slightly elongated canines sparkling in the light produced from a nearby candle.
"Salutations, kinfolk. I hope I'm not intruding." She glanced about cautiously, with an air of someone used to constantly assessing her surroundings. Relaxing visibly as she took in the current inhabitants of the room, she tucked her flask away and curtsied.
"My name is Ambrogia, and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance." Ambrogia D'Wert
Post by The Mabling on Jan 21, 2016 16:15:23 GMT -5
~ Quiet, and unsure, the Lady enters the room. Amazed at the quietude and curiosities, she is satisfied to sit a spell by the fire. A servant appears at her arm with a tray of proper tea, of which she is grateful. As she gazes about the room, she finds every manner of personage, all gathering to share in the long-forgotten art of intrigue. A Nurse by trade, with a criminology past, she is more accustom to the care-taking of others, and not much known for her own intelligence. The Doctors, of course, take all the credit. Alas, such is the norm. The ability to occasionally flex her intellectual bite is the one thing she keeps concealed. The firelight shines in her auburn hair, and she becomes aware that she will not be able to keep a low profile for long. Perhaps it is best that way. For here, she feels, she might be able to be herself. Lady Catherine of the Fern
~She quietly slips unnoticed into the room. Her dark hair and bright green eyes hidden beneath the hood of her over sized cloak. She keeps to the shadows as she surveys the other guests, unsure of her place among these fine people. She is most comfortable blending into the background for now. But is her reluctance to show herself due to a overabundance of nerves or a dark secret she is hiding. For now she will only be known as the wonderer. Wonderer
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