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{IC} The Hunters' Nightmare


Hallowed Evening

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pngtree-deaths-head-moth-in-ink-on-white-png-image_10316361.png.b5a41fd128ff1d8a981fa023f1cc305b.png

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓

Location: Hargrave House

Time: 11:00am

Phase: Day

Ambience: Silver Lining


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Hargrave House.

An old, Gothic-revival style building. The once pristine grey-white stone used for construction now carried the signs of age. Dingy black stained the eave-line and the quoin of the building. No other home on Belgrave Square compared to Hargrave House; these are done in a more conventional, classical style.

Hargrave House was also different. Certainly, it was a residence, but it was also a place of work... dark work. And some more of that dark work had just landed on the doorstep...

... quite literally. The paper boy had delivered a back issue of The Illustrated Police News, a tabloid notorious for carrying salacious, blood-curdling tales of dubious provenance. In her usual routine, Mrs. Dyer had checked for the delivery and rescued the fragile newspaper from the early morning rainfall.

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OOC

@jrsey, Most tales of hauntings are complete nonsense, especially those carried by The Illustrated Police News, but Hargrave House has some experience with ghosts, and a particular detail in this story confirms that this is a legitimate haunting. What is it?

Everyone, feel free to RP among yourselves, or what your character might be up to. We're not worried about time-lines as posts during phases will be more cinematic much like a scene in a show.

So, what would you like to do?

 

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Alastair Cole

AlastairColePortrait2.png.198769216781c0e941452c8b7fbc505d.png
The Legacy

Vitality 2 | Composure 1 | Reason 0 | Presence -1 | Sensitivity 1
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Beast Tracker: □□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ | □/●/x
Condition(s):

 

 


Alastair sits in a luxurious upholstered chair in his private quarters, across from a quiet man from the city who is nursing a head injury. A bottle and two half-empty glasses sit on a small table between them.

“Please, tell me again Mr. Thompson, what was it you saw in your foyer last night?” Alastair asked the shaken man, as he poured more of the expensive Barradas into his and his guests glasses, “and please, try to remember if you heard, or even smelt, anything out of the ordinary.” He sat forward, eagerly listening, sure he was going to get some useful crumb out of the poor fellow.

“It’s like I said already,” the man offered up meekly, his trembling hand reaching for the wine, “It was like a person, but with an arm too many. His teeth were glowing in the moonlight, in a wide smile. I blinked and he was gone; I went to rush back up the stairs, and that’s when I tripped.” He reached up and gently brushed the tender spot on his skull where he’d impacted the floor and passed out. He closed his eyes and thought before speaking, “I don’t think there were any smells.”

Alastair drained his glass and sat back, contemplating what the man said. Mr. Thompson was not the actual target of the attack; likely someone else nearby will turn up to have landed in worse shape. That was how these things had always gone, though it had taken his own investigation to uncover the creature’s insidious power. He tilted his head back, staring at the decorated ceiling of is quarters, enjoying the lingering flavour of the wine as he considered. He decided he would very likely learn no more from the man, but then also decided that he had nothing else requiring his immediate attention, and still half a bottle to finish.

“Alright, you’ve been most helpful,” Alastair reassured the man, “tell me now about your neighbours.” 

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Edited by Captain Madrick (see edit history)
Name
The Information Move (Composure)
7
2d6+1 [3,3]
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Mrs. Dyer

MrsDyer-nobg-headshot-smaller-framed2.png.1108fc11cbe3e239b4a79329e908162a.pngThe Factotum

Vitality 0 | Composure 1 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 0
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Condition(s):

 

 


Mrs. Dyer, a staid older woman in a flattering yet no-nonsense black dress, stood near the front door. She carefully read The Illustrated Police News, her pale blue eyes speeding across the page. Her neutral expression didn't change, but she visibly stiffened as she read. She paused at the end, then read the paper again in its entirety.

"Poor dears," she whispered to herself.

Like an arrow shot from a bow, she launched into motion and strode towards the stairs. She radiated subdued intensity. She was a woman on a mission, a bearer of information most concerning, and there was only one man worthy of taking the mantle of responsibility from her. Her modest heels thunked rhythmically on the hallway carpets as she made her way to one of many sturdy oak doors on the second floor.

Mrs. Dyer paused outside the door. Voices rumbled within: deep and male. There was one, though, whose cadence and timbre triggered a memory from long ago. Pain and longing bloomed in Mrs. Dyer's chest. Breathing was difficult for a moment, but she quickly recovered. The passing of years had not dulled the pain, but it had made her more adept at hiding it. She drew herself up, lifted her chin, and took a quick, deep breath. She knocked briskly on the door.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, Mr. Cole," Mrs. Dyer called through the door. "I have something for you."

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pngtree-deaths-head-moth-in-ink-on-white-png-image_10316361.png.b5a41fd128ff1d8a981fa023f1cc305b.png

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓

Location: Hargrave House

Time: 11:00

Phase: Day

Ambience: Silver Lining


Mr. Thompson absently rubbed at the side of his head, feeling gingerly around the nice-sized 'goose egg' that had formed after his tumble down the stairs. He looked at Alastair with apprehension, not certain whether he could truly confide all that he remembered without disappointing him.

He took a tentative sip of wine, trying to hide his sour expression as the drink hit his tongue— he was more a brandy man. Alastair asked him a pointed enough question but he didn't know how to answer without sounding like a witless rumor-monger.

"I-I don't know if they've seen anything like it, Mr. Cole. But my neighbors— the Beales —have had tragedy strike their home. A young maid was found dead recently." Mr. Thompson took another long sip of the wine, mostly to wet his parched mouth and try to dull the ache upon the side of his skull. An unpleasant throbbing formed.

"I've heard of a similar death in that same townhouse had occurred decades prior. Scared to death, I believe. B-But I...," he mewled, rubbing his aching head, "...can't remember much of anything else about it, really."

Mr. Thompson nearly leapt out of his skin when the sudden brisk knock echoed at Alastair's room door. He lurched forward, catching his glass before it shattered on the floor but spilled some of the wine upon his trousers in the process. He mumbled a near whimper, "M-My apologies, Mr. Cole.."


OOC

The complication for Alastair's dice roll is that Mr. Thompson has memory loss surrounding the clue.

Current Threat: The St. James's Street Ghost

Clues found:

  • Evidence of a similar death in the house decades prior.

The Hunter's Journal

 

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Alastair Cole

AlastairColePortrait2.png.198769216781c0e941452c8b7fbc505d.png
The Legacy

Vitality 2 | Composure 1 | Reason 0 | Presence -1 | Sensitivity 1
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Beast Tracker: ●□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ | □/●/x
Condition(s):

 

 


"It's quite alright, Mr. Thompson, I've taken up enough of your time," Alastair said to the man as he stood and strode towards his door. He hoped to tell the faithful Mrs. Dyer what he had learned, and see if she could offer any thoughts on what little he'd heard.

"But what about the creature?" Mr. Thompson almost whimpered, a note of pleading apparent in his voice, "do you know what it is? Can you ensure it won't return?"

Alastair answered the man without looking, opening the door to Mrs. Dyer as he spoke, "I do, in fact, know what it is you saw, my good sir. It is something many others in this city, including myself, have encountered as well. As to what I can do to protect you," he paused, making eye contact with the factotum that accompanied his father, and his grandfather before that, in the same seemingly endless hunt, "that, I believe I shall have in hand in the very near future."

Alastair turned finally to look at Mr. Thompson, who had stood when he could see he was being dismissed. He nodded and thanked his host, then offered a small, polite smile and nod as he passed by Mrs. Dyer in the doorway. Alastair beckoned his old companion into his quarters and shut the door.

"Let me tell you, the Albatross made himself known again last night. He frightened that man you just saw, and may have been present for another tragedy nearby. I shall have to know more about it." He looked at the paper in the woman's hands, as he moved back to his chair, picked up his glass, and sipped.

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Edited by Captain Madrick (see edit history)
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Ambience: Silver Lining


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Faintly, throughout Hargrave House, soft, melancholic notes drifted through the somber hallways, filling rooms mostly devoid of life. The sound came from the second-floor Music Room, long unused, where the grand piano had sat out of tune for years, and the room's ceiling still showing numerous faded claw marks from when the room had once been a site of struggle against a restless spirit.

Mrs. Estelle Winters was the most recent addition to the few occupants of the Hargrave House, having arrived just two days prior with a carriage full of her personal effects and a couple of servants who had departed shortly after settling her things into her quarters. No servants, had been one of the conditions to which Mr. Cole had strongly pressed to the lady who had visited the House one week prior, who had offered quite a sizable donation and assistance through her connections in high society. In return, she requested inclusion in certain investigations—those of a more subtle nature, the kinds of threats that polite society preferred to ignore.

Ordinarily, Mr. Cole would have dismissed such a proposal. The dangers faced by the Hunters of Hargrave House were not for the faint of heart, and the coffers, while running low, could not justify bringing a civilian into their work. Yet, there was some strange air about Mrs. Winters that made him reconsider, which he still did not understand, looking back.

Mrs. Winters - widowed, she had replied when asked about her obligations - was strikingly beautiful, with flawless skin and a graceful, almost languid presence that seemed as suited to the drawing rooms of society as to the shadows of Hargrave House, which led Mr. Cole to believe that she certainly would not have trouble delivering on the promise of assisting in more social avenues of inquiry in the House's business. Though she appeared youthful, something about her eyes and expression, and the way she conducted herself in conversation, suggested a woman far older than she seemed. Mr. Cole had set conditions -- she would follow their directions when danger arose, no servants were to reside within the house, and if she chose to leave, the donation would remain. Mrs. Winters had acquiesced easily, with an almost uncaring air.

The day prior had seen Mrs. Winters - after a tour of the House which she seemed to bear through with polite dissatisfaction - confine herself into the music room, tuning the piano keys with tools she'd found with the help of Mrs. Dyer. The noises of tuning the piano - endless repetition of single or discordant notes, over and over - had been quite a cumbersome distraction, but this morning, a graceful tune flowed out from the room, its soft, peaceful melody complemented by wistful low notes.


 

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Sybil Heywood 

The Vesselsybil_token.png.2e0ea87a69e4fa64b78ad7fef94f2f85.png

Vitality -1 | Compose 0 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 2
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Condition(s):
 

Ambience: What Went We



The woman awoke the way she did every morning, with a gasp as though pulling herself drowning from the depths of deep water. Her eyes, wide and wild, roamed the ceiling of the room, the walls, the decor. It was dark but a candle flickered, providing small bursts of light that made the room seem like it, too, was breathing. Her wandering eyes settled upon her own body, naked, and the similarly-clad man next to her. The next breath came normally and she wasn't a nameless woman anymore, but herself, once again.

Sybil Heywood pulled herself into a sitting position and slid from the grand four-poster bed. She picked up fallen drawers and a chemise from where they laid on the floor, discarded, and wiggled her way into both. Once again clothed, she could feel the attention of her inhabitants as they withdrew to search for more interesting fare. Their absence made her limbs feel lighter and it took a few moments to adapt to the changed feel of her own body. She crossed to a dark oak vanity and sat before the mirror. She looked at her reflected face, taking the moment to absorb the fine details and to ground herself. Mornings were always hard- it was a struggle to remember that the confines of her own mortal coil would pull her back from the dreaming, day after endless day. She smiled though; she liked the way she looked. Pale-skinned with dark eyes and even darker hair, she knew she was attractive. The man on the bed stirred, propping himself up on an elbow, and when she turned to regard him she could see that he thought she was too.

She took her time readying herself and relished the faint sound of piano as it floated through the cracks around the doorway. Gone were the discordant sounds from the day before, and Sybil found herself thankful. What she was not thankful for was the source of the piano music- the blonde woman who had shown up earlier in the week. Sybil had laid eyes on her only once, but she knew immediately that she could not compete with Hargrave House's newest addition. The house had always been her own feeding grounds and Sybil felt hot jealousy rage within her. It made her only more furious because she at the same time knew that she wanted the woman; how could anyone not?

As she finished her hair and makeup, cinched her corset, and donned an elegant black dress, Sybil rose. She found her attire captivating, though entirely inappropriate for a proper lady of society- having forgone the petticoat, skirt, and other fashioning that was the style. She strode to the man and laid a kiss upon his lips, feeling the cold solidity of his against hers.

"You can go now," she told him, this without any hint of feeling. The man fell apart into writhing smoke, its tendrils seeping across the bed and disappearing into the cracks of the floorboards. He was gone now, but he wouldn't be for long. They always came back, clawing at the edges of her being, clamouring for attention and begging to be let in.

For now she was content for the quiet and she left the room, moving through the house's labyrinthine hallways until she stood atop the grand staircase, looking down upon the foyer. The house was quiet, aside from the pitter patter of rain upon the windows. She closed her eyes and the shadows moved in, combing fingers and tendrils through her black hair. She took a breath and opened her eyes; once again alone. She would wait here until Alastair and Mrs Dyer came by, as they did every morning around this time. Mrs Dyer wouldn't spare the time to make Sybil coffee in any other case, but if she followed Alastair downstairs, the woman couldn't decline the polite gesture of serving Sybil alongside her master.
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Edited by Gnaws (see edit history)
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Mrs. Dyer

MrsDyer-nobg-headshot-smaller-framed2.png.1108fc11cbe3e239b4a79329e908162a.pngThe Factotum

Vitality 0 | Composure 1 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 0
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Condition(s):

 

 


When she met his eyes, a thrill ran through Mrs. Dyer. Alastair was the spitting image of his grandfather, Phineas. Since recently coming under his employ, she'd had several moments of déjà vu, thinking the young man was his grandfather. It was silly, really: roughly fifty years separated the two men. In many ways - personality and ambition, namely - they were different. But there were times when a certain gesture, word, or expression would have her believe she was a young woman standing in Phineas Cole's study again. Mrs. Dyer nodded a polite goodbye as the stranger left and the door closed.

"Yes, Mr. Cole," she said in her lilting Irish accent, unsure if the man was still near enough to hear. "I will follow up on the incident."

She walked lightly over to his chair and stopped beside him, their elbows nearly touching. She held up the paper for his inspection.

"This just arrived on the doorstep. Most happenings in this publication are rubbish, but I believe this one has merit. I knew Ginny, Alastair. She had complained of some strange happenings to some of the other servants in the neighborhood and myself when we were shopping together in the market. She would not go into detail. I do wonder, though, why they have waited months to seek answers." 

Mrs. Dyer paused. The smell of his wine was heady and all-too-familiar. It had been Phineas' favorite drink, as well. She took the glass from his hand and set it on the side table.

"Come now, it's barely noon! Let's go downstairs for some lunch, shall we?" she suggested as she corked the wine bottle and tucked it beneath her arm. She walked to the door, placed her hand on the doorknob, and froze.

"Now that I think of it, Ginny did tell me about one incident. A few weeks after she'd started working there, she awoke one night to a woman standing at the foot of her bed. Could you imagine the terror? She couldn't see much detail in the dark, but she swore she could feel the woman's angry eyes on her. Ginny blinked and the woman was gone. She questioned whether it was a dream, but I think she knew it wasn't." She opened the door with a sigh. "Poor lass."

She waited for Alastair to catch up with her before starting down the hall towards the stairwell. Up ahead stood Sybil, dressed in one of her...outfits, if you could call it that. Mrs. Dyer smiled politely.

"Care to join us for lunch, dear?" she asked, pausing with Alastair when they reached her.

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OOC

Move: Vulnerable


OOC Information: Clue - Ginny once saw a woman at the foot of her bed in the middle of the night.


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Alastair Cole

AlastairColePortrait2.png.198769216781c0e941452c8b7fbc505d.png
The Legacy

Vitality 2 | Composure 1 | Reason 0 | Presence -1 | Sensitivity 1
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Beast Tracker: ●□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ | □/●/x
Condition(s):

 

 


Alastair smiled at the younger woman in the hall, sensing from her posture and the look of her face that she had recently been in the presence of the otherworldly. This was not strange, however, and certainly did not frighten him. It was, in fact, one of the main reasons he wanted her here so fiercely. He looked into her dark eyes as he spoke warmly, "Good to see you, Sybil." He nodded then moved past her, heading for the door of the music room. From within came such lovely music; before Estelle had come, it was rare that music emanated from within the space, and when she played, it didn't carry the same haunting tones as when played by a restless spirit. Alastair liked it quite a lot.

He knocked on the door. I should invite her, he thought to himself, I am curious to see how she handles something like this. How someone so lovely can provide us avenues of resolutions we've previously lacked the skill to explore.

"Mrs. Winter? Estelle? Will you come and join us in the kitchen for some refreshments? There is something we all need to discuss." He spoke with a commanding, but welcoming voice. The music within stopped, and he stepped from the door without waiting for an answer.

Together, he led them down the stairs to the first-floor kitchen. While many rooms in the house were dusty and unused, the kitchen was immaculate, and equipped with the finest necessities for preparing a feast. While Alastair insisted on no servants in the house, he was certainly not opposed to hiring the occasional chef to come in and prepare something special. The dark wood of the floor and cabinets shined, and the marble counters were spotless. The light from the chandeliers was brighter in this room than in any other. He walked past the impressive stone over and made his way to the icebox. From within, he began pulling various meats and cheeses, so as to prepare a board for them to eat from. He motioned for Mrs. Dyer to place the paper on the counter for the other women to see it, choosing not to say anything and allow them to share their own insights in their own time. Besides, he was hungry.

The older woman placed the paper on the counter, then moved quickly to take over for Alastair, her stern expression and firm approach all the convincing he needed to allow her to replace him. Instead, while waiting for the others to speak, and the food to be ready, he walked over to a cabinet, removed a small hidden stash of silver stakes, small vials, and holy symbols, and rolled it out on another section of the counter. He sat, idly checking and cleaning the various weapons as he gave the others his attention. This is good upkeep, he thought to himself, and I want Estelle to see how things are around here, and where she can expect to find things like this when she needs them.

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Edited by Captain Madrick (see edit history)
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Sybil Heywood 

The Vesselsybil_token.png.2e0ea87a69e4fa64b78ad7fef94f2f85.png

Vitality -1 | Compose 0 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 2
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Condition(s):
 

Ambience:



Apparently it was noon and Sybil had overslept. "Would you mind putting a pot of coffee on, Mrs. Dyer?" Sybil hated referring to the older woman as 'Mrs', but she'd do whatever it took to avoid preparing some herself. She also didn't know Mrs. Dyer's first name, but had taken to referring to her as Anne until such a time came that the woman would lower herself to tell her her actual name.

As she waited, she perused the newspaper and let out an irritated huff. "Ghosts," she said plainly. "Are rarely ghosts. But when they are, they're entirely annoying. They either want you to finish their business for them or they want your body because they miss being alive." She paused to take a cup from Mrs. Dyer and sipped the hot black coffee, relishing the warmth as it filled voids in her that her residents kept chilled. "Thank you, Anne. Anyways, it's nice to see something of interest turn up. I was beginning to think you were changing careers and considering opening a brothel." The end of the sentence was punctuated by Estelle's arrival into the kitchen and Sybil smirked coyly as she brought her cup to her lips again. She simmered in the heat of the drink, as she noticed how the kitchen seemed to brighten at the woman's presence. She's just a naïve blond- why the hells can't I keep my eyes off of her?

Sybil turned to study what Alastair was doing, mainly to put her back to Estelle. She drove her crazy- Sybil was no stranger to lust, but when she looked at Estelle she felt desire, and that was alien. She had much preferred being the only partner to Alastair's wild investigations. She got to plumb the depths of London's dark corners for doing what she could not help doing to begin with. In return, she had her own rooms and was left to her own devices. She had also enjoyed the cat-and-mouse challenge of toying with Alastair and Mrs. Dyer. Sybil didn't discriminate- she would offer either of them comfort if they looked for it. Hargrave House had become her playground; Estelle's arrival put that at risk.

Sybil reached out a hand and stroked one of the polished silver stakes that Alastair had cleaned. The passing of her finger left no streak of oil behind to mar the weapon. "Do stakes generally work on ghosts, Mr. Cole?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in jest.
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estella_token_gray.png.5580278052ee1913bed108e01c05e87f.png

Mrs. Estelle Winters was the last to enter the kitchen, having followed the other three down the grand staircase. Just the day before, during her morning tour of the house, a hint of dissatisfaction had occasionally slipped through her polite inquiries. Today, however, as she exchanged greetings at the staircase and stepped into the kitchen, she seemed in better spirits, whatever had been not to her liking purged away cleanly.

She paused just inside the doorway as the others busied themselves or found their spots, instead taking a moment as her gaze wandered about the room. Likely, she was familiarizing herself with the space. Dressed in soft-cream color, her attire complemented her light complexion and soft blonde hair. Her blouse, high-necked and buttoned, was paired with a modestly flared skirt, its gentle curve formed by the light petticoat beneath. Suede cotton gloves that perfectly fit her hand completed the ensemble, which might have been wholly proper, save for the puffed sleeves at the shoulders being faintly sheer, which allowed the soft curve of her shoulders to subtly show through and invited a second glance.

At Sybil's quip about opening a brothel, Mrs. Winters responded with a playful note in her otherwise calm tone, "If we do open a brothel, Ms. Heywood," she gave a nod toward Sybil, her gaze lingering on Sybil's face for a second, perhaps appreciatively. "I imagine we should be able to charge quite a premium. Wouldn't you say?" She offered a faint, pleasant smile before giving a nod of greeting to the others as well. "Mr. Cole, Mrs. Dyer."

She poured herself a cup of coffee, her movements smooth and elegant. Turning to Mrs. Dyer, she added, "Mrs. Dyer, thank you for finding the tuning tools for the piano yesterday. It’s a comfort knowing I can turn to music when I find myself restless." After the exchange, she crossed the room and took a seat opposite Sybil, arranging her skirt and petticoat neatly to the side with a practiced hand.

Even as Mrs. Winters looked to be studying the Hunters' implements, or as she listened with interest - politely so - to Sybil's jest to Alastair and his reply, her eyes rarely seemed to be touched by the rest of her expression. It wasn't that they were cold or proud like the eyes of one who faked politeness; rather, her eyes always seemed distant, appearing pensive to some, dreamy to others, or forlorn, or even seductive, and seemed oddly to depend more on who beheld her, rather than reflecting her mood of the moment.


Edited by Booker28
Edited to reduce ambiguity and improve readability (see edit history)
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Alastair Cole

AlastairColePortrait2.png.198769216781c0e941452c8b7fbc505d.png
The Legacy

Vitality 2 | Composure 1 | Reason 0 | Presence -1 | Sensitivity 1
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Beast Tracker: ●□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ □□□□□ | □/●/x
Condition(s):

 

Ambience: Silence of Trees


Alastair tried his best not to let his gaze linger too long on Estelle, but it was a challenge. Despite his rigorous training and general disinterest in pursuits of romance, he found himself exceptionally drawn to the woman. He told himself, at least, that this was part of what convinced him to have her join; the usefulness of her attraction. He wondered briefly at his decision to invite two beautiful women into the house, reflecting on the possibility there was some deep-seated reason within that he was not admitting to himself. He did not spend long thinking about it, finding that if he got lost in thought, his gaze naturally drifted to Estelle again.

"We should look into this today," he put forward to the others, deciding finally that it was likely the best strategy for him to lead the planning, "we will need to discover more about what happened before we can formulate a plan, but we should also not go to the house unequipped for combat." It was familiar to Mrs. Dyer and to Sybil, him taking this approach, as the Cole family training had always focused on the more violent solutions to such problems.

"I recommend bringing whatever weapons you are able to keep well concealed. Estelle, if you do not have any, we keep small vials of blessed water in the foyer." His voice increased slightly in volume and intensity as he got going, the ingrained inclinations towards planning and leading hunts taking him over. He reached over, and as though accentuating his point, lifted his cane from behind the counter and set it atop in plain sight. The words, "Decorum Maintained" were visible in brass along the side. The others were sure he had not come into the room with it.

He looked to Mrs. Dyer, expecting her input, as was customary in the group up until this point. Starting with the Cole family hunter, then his factotum; this, he thought, was the right approach.

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Mrs. Dyer

MrsDyer-nobg-headshot-smaller-framed2.png.1108fc11cbe3e239b4a79329e908162a.pngThe Factotum

Vitality 0 | Composure 1 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 0
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Mrs. Dyer slid the completed charcuterie board across the counter and set a small china plate before each of the hunters. As always, she served Alistair first. The most savory items on the board were closest to him. He was the first to receive a plate and she began placing some of the choicest morsels on his plate. As the others continued chatting, she made a cup of coffee for him and topped it with some foamed milk sprinkled with cocoa.

Only after Alastair was well taken care-of did she think of herself. She poured a small cup of coffee, black, and sipped it as she listened. Mrs. Dyer watched the two young women and Alastair interact. Sybil was unique. Prone to pulling threads and picking scabs, that one. There was a darkness with her that seemed to weigh down the very air they breathed at times. Would she one day be a target? Mrs. Dyer certainly hoped not. She liked the girl, despite her vexatious tendencies.

Estelle, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. What a proper lady! Mrs. Dyer glowed under her appreciation for the piano tools. It was all she could do to smile and nod in polite recognition. This was the type of woman her Alastair deserved. Judging by the way he looked at her, there was some modicum of attraction there. The very idea was thrilling to Mrs. Dyer. Alastair had spent most of his years quite purposely romantically uninvolved and he showed no desire to change that. Until now. Until Estelle. Mrs. Dyer smiled and took a dainty sip of her coffee, her mind abuzz with plans and schemes. Alastair's voice rising in volume and intensity was the only thing that broke her from her thoughts.

"Yes, Mr. Cole, that is quite right," she agreed as she set her coffee back on its saucer. "We must be prepared for anything. It is of the utmost importance that we are able to defend ourselves."

She took the cane from the countertop gently, almost reverently, and carefully leaned it against the counter.

"You should catch the ladies up on what you've discovered so they have a better idea of what we may be dealing with." 

Mrs. Dyer looked at Alastair adoringly, lapping up every moment he commanded the room. His success was paramount. Perhaps if she could make him see just how absolutely marvelous he was at this, how brilliant of a hunter he was, he would not wish to leave the family business.

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Sybil Heywood 

The Vesselsybil_token.png.2e0ea87a69e4fa64b78ad7fef94f2f85.png

Vitality -1 | Compose 0 | Reason 1 | Presence 1 | Sensitivity 2
Advancement XP:
 □□□□□ | □/■
Condition(s):
 

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"Right then," Alastair began and it was immediately apparent to Sybil that Mrs Dyer's reminder had prompted him to share the information as he had not considered that he hadn't yet done so. Alastair was many things, Sybil thought, but he was first and foremost a monster hunter and anything else was tertiary to him and prone to being forgotten. "Well, an acquaintance of mine- one Mr Thompson- lives next to the Beales' and remembers that a similar incident happened nearly a decade ago in the same house. In addition, Mrs Dyer recalled speaking to the deceased before and said the poor girl had encountered a woman appearing at her bed in the night, who promptly disappeared."

"Spoooky," Sybil commented upon the completion of Alastair's recounting. She smiled as if in jest, her mood completely unaffected by the fact that the group was discussing a recent death. "I'm sorry," she continued, holding a hand up as if to shrug. "But we're all in agreement that if you think your house is haunted and that the spirits wish to do you harm, you should consider other living arrangements, right?" That thought spurred another and her hand now found its way to her chin, to indicate that she was in thought. "Now, if it was actually a person that was haunted- that might change things."

She knew the others might think that she meant herself, for even though they could not see them, there was no doubt that they sensed that Sybil shared the space she occupied with more than her own self. In contrast to the light that Estelle brought to a room, Sybil unquestionably brought the opposite. They were always there, sitting on the edges of the curtain between their world and hers, no matter where she went. Even now, in the kitchen, the Red King stood behind Mrs Dyer, his gold crown sitting atop a featureless face that stared towards Sybil. Shadows twisted and turned around Sybil's feet; wound their way around her arms and neck. She could banish them, for a moment, but they filled in the cracks again almost instantly, like water finding its way into sand. If they only knew. It didn't concern Sybil; it had always been this way. She was in control. They were drawn to her as a bridge between worlds, no doubt, but she would not open that passage for them and they had come to know it.

But back to the thought. Sybil's attention refocused on the possibility of a haunted person. Was it possible? She'd interacted with ghosts before, but ghosts were not what plagued her. They were predictable and altogether quite irritating. She'd always thought that if the things they had left unfinished in life had been so important, they would have taken the time to finish them. Procrastinators; that's what ghosts were. The thought that they might be able to haunt an individual, rather than a location, though; it was intriguing.

"Well then, to St. James's Street?"
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Edited by Gnaws (see edit history)
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At Alastair's urging, Estelle rose gracefully from her seat, setting aside her coffee and luncheon. She walked over to the counter where the weapons lay, her movements slow and measured as she approached. Her gaze swept over the silver stakes and vials, her expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something—reluctance, perhaps—as she reached out, gloved fingers closing around two small vials of holy water.

She paused a moment, as if weighing the vials in her hand, before picking up the tabloid paper as well. Returning to her seat, she held the paper in her left hand while she ate the meats and cheese with her right, somehow appearing utterly relaxed yet elegant at the same time. She seemed to study the article for quite a while, enough to have read it several times over.

At Sybil's comment about haunted lodgings and haunted people, Estelle turned her gaze toward the dark-clad woman, a flicker of amusement on her lips. "I must confess, I do hope my dear late husband doesn’t come back to haunt me. After all we’ve been through, it would be rather inconsiderate of him." Her voice was light, slightly playful. "If the ghosts haunted a person instead of a place, now that is a truly dreadful thought. Leaving my estates wouldn’t solve that problem."

Finishing her meal, Estelle laid the paper down with a thoughtful air. "Under ordinary circumstances, I'd suggest a visit to the police or the coroner to confirm if the maid's death was as mysterious as claimed. But with two other incidents adding weight to the story, perhaps going directly to the townhouse would indeed be more fruitful. I'll go fetch my jacket. And perhaps, along the way, someone can enlighten me on the finer points of exorcising a ghost?"

She stood, retrieving the two vials of holy water she had set down earlier, but before leaving, she gave a nod of appreciation to Alistair. "I am actually pleasantly surprised that you are bringing me along as promised. I had thought I would need to fight for my case."


Edited by Booker28 (see edit history)
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