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Logfile from SamingaMU.
She is dressed in heavy, scratchy khaki gear. Thick fabric, trousers tucked into regimental calf-high boots that even in her surroundings manage to retain a semblance of shine, where not coated in mud. The weight of a pack makes her back ache, and she seems to have a rifle in her hands, smelling of gunpowder and oil. A machete hangs at her hip. All around her is the jungle at twilight, a dense, oppressive screen of greenery that has never known a gardener's touch, or an English winter chill. The thick smell of rotting vegetation is almost choking, along with the rank smell of her own sweat. In the trees, beasts call and gibber at each other in sounds that almost have the rhythm of human speech.
Imogen, not quite conscious that this is a dream, draws the machete naturally and begins to hack herself a path forward.
The vegetation seems to resist her efforts with a stubborn will, making her work for each small step forward. Above her head, a jungle bird calls down mocking laughter. Branches rustle and whisper.
"Blasted /plants/," Imogen says, freed by the dream to use crude language she'd never let cross her lips in the waking world. She continues to try to progress.
Almost as if shocked by the unladylike language, the plants suddenly release their grip on the path, and she stumbles forward into a clearing, the ground strewn with rounded, grey stones. Squatting on his haunches at the other side of the clearing is an old man, his skin tough, brown leather, his hair grayed and shaved into dizzying patterns. More patterns are painted on his skin, in blue, white, and red. He's almost nude, only a tattered loincloth preserving his modesty, and his build is painfully thin.
Imogen approaches hesitantly, lowering her machete to something that isn't 'prepare to be severed from your limbs'. "Hello?" she tries, and then follows it with the same word in Egyptian, Coptic, Greek -- all the languages she knows.
The old man watches impassively as she approaches, not responding to any of her greetings. His hands dangle down to the ground, and he appears to be tracing something in the dirt with one finger.
Imogen inspects whatever he's drawing, curiously.
The drawing appears to be a human figure, spread-eagle, crude and jagged lines where its chest would be. As Imogen moves closer, her foot strikes one of the 'stones', causing it to roll out of the ground. Human eye sockets glare blankly at the jungle canopy, half-seen things squirming within.
Imogen makes a noise that might be 'eep', well-swallowed, and her heart pounds in her ears. Nevertheless, she peers closer at the drawing, trying to make out any significance to it.
The drawing remains mute and inscrutible. Much like the man, although he smiles as she peers closer, revealing a mouthful of teeth that have been filed to points, the gums cut away from them, making each tooth longer than it should be. As the last bit of daylight flees from the clearing, drums begin to beat.
Imogen swallows hard, and backs up a step.
The old man stands, with the easy, predatory grace of a snake rising to strike, and now his other hand is revealed, with the long, black, stone blade. The jungle seems to resound to the beat of drums that come from everywhere and nowhere, their deep bass rumble making the ground shake. More skulls are dislodged from the ground, rattling and chattering together like gossiping matrons.
Imogen shrieks in surprise, and stumbles backward.
The man stalks her, moving slowly, the blade rising and falling in a peculiar pattern. Finally he speaks, and the words are thick and phlegmy, somehow abhorrent to the natural world. In the trees behind him, a sickly yellow light begins to filter through the trees, pulsing with a triple beat. The sound of something massive approaching begins to drown out the throb of the drums.
Imogen just turns and flat-out /runs/, panicked, trying not to scream if only to save her breath for running.
She flees, and the jungle seems to reach out with rotting green tendrils to embrace her, to hold her. Thorns slice along the exposed skin of her cheeks and hands, and behind her, she can hear the presence gaining, the yellow light spilling over her, and its touch has weight and rank sweetness, like poisoned honey. She feels a hand, a claw, descend on her left shoulder, the nails biting deep through fabric and into flesh, pulling her around to face her pursuers...
And then she's back in her bedroom, the smell of the jungle still clinging to her, and her shoulder stinging. The bed shakes faintly to a triple beat.
Imogen shrieks and leaps out of the bed.
Pulses of yellow light seem to flicker from under the bed, reaching out to caress her feet as they touch the floor, then die out. The door to her bedroom is flung open, Violet, her hair akimbo and her nightgown in disarray stumbles through with a footstool held high.
Imogen, white and shaking, points at under the bed, as if she's trying to direct Violet's homicidal tendencies in that direction.
Violet crouches down to peer under the bed. "Is it a rat, m'lady?"
There doesn't seem to be anything under the bed but a lonely looking wooden box, and a few dust bunnies.
Violet yawns, and shrugs, footstool still in hand. "If you say so, m'lady. But if there is someone about, be sure to scream, and I'll come right back."
Imogen nods. "... screaming seems doable."
Imogen says "The-there. Was light. Sick, horrid light..."
Violet stands up, stool dangling from one hand, and scratches her nose. "Doesn't sound like a rat, that. Don't think they go about much with lanterns. You supposin' there was someone with lantern trying to creep in? Could murder us in our beds!" And she looks around the room with some interest, as if expecting to see a knife-wielding madman lurking in one of the shadows.
Imogen shakes herself, like a cat who had taken an unfortunate side-trip into a stormgutter, and straightens. "Perhaps there was. Or a dream. I had a dreadful dream. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Violet."
Violet nods briskly, and runs a hand through her straggly hair. "Then, begging your pardon, m'lady, I'll be back to bed."
"Go right ahead, Violet," Imogen tells her, and opens the door for her.
Violet exits, footstool in hand, yawning pointedly.
Imogen shuts the door. And quite decidedly does /not/ get back in that bed. Goes to sit at her secretary-desk, in fact, and halfheartedly flips through a few books on heiroglyphics.
Behind her, the bed remains benignly waiting.
Imogen resists the temptation. That was creepy. She doesn't want to be above it, even if it means not sleeping at all.
<> Keeper grins. "Is she going to stay up the rest of the night?"
<> Imogen says, "To the best of her effort. I wouldn't be surprised if she fell asleep at the desk, but there's no way she's getting back in the bed."
<> Keeper says, "Okay then. :) We can turn the clock to morning, if no one objects? Nothing else Weird will happen."
The next morning dawns with a chill, gloomy rain, soaking the houses and running in merry streams down the ill-cleaned gutters. And it seems that the ton has heard of Edward's murder. The Times has a prominent headline: 'Prodigal Son Murdered', and although there are few details to the story, the hints are undeniably sordid. It seems that two prostitutes and the madam who ran the 'boarding house' where the young man's body had been found have been taken into custody as suspected murderesses, with robbery as the likely motive. Houses noble and common alike are abuzz with the latest tidbits of gossip and innuendo.
Imogen attempts to work some of the stiffness out of her muscles from sleeping at her desk, and glares a bit at the rain out her window.
Roderick is, assuredly, reading the Times at breakfast. He throws it to the table. "Suspected murderesses," he snorts, looking towards Timothy. "As if we should believe such twaddle."
The rain gives no reply to Imogen's glare but a distant mumble of thunder.
Timothy raises one eyebrow. "Because you're of the opinion that the fairer sex isn't capable of such acts, m'lord?"
"Of course they are, Timothy," Roderick replies. "What happened to Edward, though... that was not a robbery by some jilted whore. No, they need to be overturning nests of heathens and barbarians, looking among the underclass for some sort of madmen. Thug-ays, they called them in India, or some such," he declares firmly.
"As you say, m'lord." Timothy stands about looking properly blank, and does not correct m'lord's pronunciation.
Roderick shakes his head and waves a spoon irritably at the paper. "I knew that Inspector was useless."
"As you say, m'lord." Timothy edges over very slightly to catch a glimpse inside the newspaper. "Were you planning on driving out today, m'lord?"
Also in the paper, in the Society pages, with less emphasis than the bloody murder, is a note that a certain Viscount S_ H_____ was seen accompanying a certain Lady F____-S_____ to an evening's entertainment, the writer wondering with an arch tone if it's the lady's many charms or her respectable dowry that the lord is enamored of, and whether the lord's winning ways will last long against the maiden's formidable armor.
<> Roderick says, "Aww, that's /it/. When the Society Pages are doubting me..."
Imogen, having read that particular snippet, cannot decide whether she is pleased or incredibly offended. Settles on 'out of sorts'.
At Imogen's, the servants are abuzz with the latter announcement even more than the crime, and she keeps hearing the younger maids pause outside her room. Also, when she goes to change into suitible attire, she will notice four small, triangular holes in the front of her shoulder, and one similar pinprick on the back.
Imogen very lightly, concernedly, pokes at them to see if they hurt.
They do, indeed, hurt.
Imogen makes a very tiny unhappy noise, and goes looking for rubbing alcohol to pour on them.
Roderick spends a moment brooding in his chair, staring at his spoon angrily, before nodding. "Absolutely, Timothy. Perhaps we ought to head down towards Shoreditch, hm? Mayhap we can uncover something that fool... what was his name? Wingard? Whatever. What he missed."
A small bottle of rubbing alcohol can be found in Imogen's toiletries.
Imogen attempts to disinfect the wounds.
"As you say, m'lord. Would you like me to bring the horses around?" Timothy pauses for a moment. "And will m'lord be picking up any other companions on the way?"
A short time later, the wounds are considerably /more/ ouchie, but probably as clean as they are going to get.
Imogen now attempts to bandage them.
Roderick hmms. "Well, then. Perhaps we can call on Lady Faville-Smith. Perhaps she has had time to pore over her tomes and find us some sort of hook and clue, eh?"
Keeper rolls 1d100 for 74
Bandaging one's shoulder appears to be considerably more difficult than it seemed, at first, and her attempts are sloppy at best.
Imogen, frustrated, gives up and just gets dressed.
"It seems a distinct possibility, m'lord." Timothy bows shortly. "I'll go have the carriage readied for you. Or did you want more time for preparations? Or perhaps to send ahead a message?"
Roderick nods his head. "Send ahead a message to the Lady. It is," he says, looking out at the rain, "An EXCELLENT day for a ride."
Timothy eyes the rain. "As you say, m'lord." And goes off to find someone to send ahead with a message. Preferably someone who doesn't mind a bit of damp.
There is certainly a kitchen boy who wouldn't mind running the message, and views the chance to splash around in rain puddles as a bonus.
At Imogen's, her mother, a thin and impressive dowager, has been politely grilling her daughter over a late breakfast. "...I cannot fault your taste, my dear, but you simply must tell me where you made the Viscount's acquaintance. I don't recall you speaking over much to him..."
"Oh, it was at one of the affairs Miss Parmelee gave last month, Mother," Imogen improvises.
"Mmmm," is her mother's reply. "Well, it would be a feather in your cap," she admits. Despite the light and airy tone of voice, the older woman's eyes are stern and sharp as she watches her daughter. "I do hope you are treating the man with the respect his rank deserves."
<> Timothy ponders. M'lord. Respect he deserves.
<> Timothy finds someplace quiet to break down into hysterical laughter.
<> Roderick says, "No, no. Respect the RANK deserves."
<> Keeper | Imogen's Mother points out that she said the /rank/ deserved respect. The /man/ is a secondary consideration.
<> Timothy considers everyone he's met of that particular rank.
"You think too little of me, Mother," Imogen says, highly politely. "I treat him precisely as a man of his breeding and conduct should be treated."
<> Timothy returns to the hysterical laughter.
<> Roderick says, "...With cold politeness and the occasional threat to keep him in line: just like any wild dog. ;)"
<> Timothy always thought one used rifles with the wild dogs? But perhaps that's inappropriate for ladies.
Imogen's mother's answering mmmhmm is decidedly skeptical. "I sincerely hope so. I had become despairing of your prospects. This may be your last chance to marry, before you are saddled with the mantle of one of those terrible suffragette women."
<> Imogen prefers a pistol.
"I certainly wouldn't want that, Mother," Imogen says, sincere.
<> Keeper notes that Timothy and Roderick are welcome to show up and save Imogen from her family, whenever they wish. :D
<> Imogen frantically waves 'SAVE ME!' signs.
<> Roderick coughs. "Timothy, another time 'round the block. I'm sure we don't wish to arrive /too/ early..." ;)
<> Imogen wails.
Imogen’s mother raises an impeccably groomed eyebrow. "Indeed. Well, I suppose he does not seem put off by your...ways, so that must be counted a plus. Although I do hope you find /something/ to talk about than books and dreary old tombs!"
Timothy pulls up in front of Imogen's residence, and leans back towards the window. "Shall we stop now, m'lord, or did you wish to give her more time to prepare?"
Imogen says "He makes excellent conversation about the opera."
Roderick smiles, and waves towards the window. "I suppose we ought to go ahead and announce ourselves. We can wait inside again..."
Timothy climbs down to open m'lord's carriage door for him. "As you say, m'lord."
Mother sniffs. "A far more suitible topic for a lady, yes. Robert has told me that he sent a message asking to see you this morning?" She glances out towards the windows. "I suppose he /must/ be eager." She turns back to Imogen, a sudden frown marring her skin. "Imogen, dear...you haven't...that is, the Viscount has a certain..."
Imogen looks entirely horrified. "Certainly /not/."
<> Roderick quietly smugs. There's a REASON the elder Lady Faville-Smith is concerned for her daughter, there is.
<> Timothy says, "She's heard the tales from the other ladies. The servants. The horses."
Mother fiddles with her wedding ring. "No, no, of course not. You wouldn't. But, ah," she looks profoundly embarassed, but soldiers on, "many young women have lost their heads over him, and although you are uncommonly...sensible...men, that is, some men, well, what they want from young women..."
<> Roderick says, "Sure, that's what she says NOW. Heard tales. Indeed. ;p"
<> S.D. cackles.
Imogen blushes. Quite considerably. "Mother, I would /not/."
Mother sighs, her shoulders lowering. "Well, no, of course not. I am only saying that a man has to be handled /carefully/. They are creatures of emotion, and require a woman's civilizing touch. You must be careful in your association with the young Viscount."
Imogen nods, attentively, and privately wishes that said reprobate would just show up already.
Roderick is, just then, stepping out of his carriage and striding pleasantly up to the door.
The door is, of course, closed, but sounds of movement within suggest that the house is up and active.
Mother continues, showing no sign of stopping any time soon, "Don't insult him, of course. You don't want to turn him away. However, don't encourage him, either. Except in the small, polite, accepted ways. A wayward glance, a smile when he's been an especial gentleman..."
Imogen listens. Despairing, internally, but listens!
Roderick raps briskly upon the door, then folds his hands neatly.
The door opens almost immediately, the offended presence of Robert staring out at the young lord. "Viscount St. Hubert, you are expected," he says, ponderously, somehow conveying the impression that Roderick is, in fact, late. "Please, allow me to conduct you to the blue waiting room while I inform Lady Faville-Smith of your arrival." He holds the door open with exactly the right amount of politeness, and not a hair more.
"Of course," the Viscount replies, flashing a broad smile. "Lead on."
The Viscount is escorted to the sitting room. The same portrait glares down from the wall, making the prettily appointed room seem just a breath too small. Robert closes the door smartly behind him, then strides to the dining room, where he clears his throat before announcing, "Madame, Viscount St. Hubert has arrived."
"Thank you, Robert," Imogen's mother says, her lecture finally interrupted. She eyes Imogen for signs of maidenly excitement. "Imogen, I wish for you to take Catherine with you on your ride. She is a suitable chaperone." Catherine is the oldest of the household maids.
Imogen does not really display maidenly excitement. Her eyes glitter a bit, but that's about all. "Mother," she comments, "perhaps Violet instead? Catharine has the rheumatism, as you well know."
Imogen's mother's brow furrows. "Young lady, I do not expect cheek from you. You will take Catherine, and that is final." She dabs the corners of her mouth with the napkin and rises neatly from the table.
"Catherine, then," Imogen says under her breath.
Imogen's mother nods. "Catherine." She turns and sweeps out of the dining room towards the stairs, pausing briefly at the threshold. "And Imogen, darling? Do enjoy yourself."
"Surely," Imogen says dryly.
<> Roderick mutters, "And how is she supposed to do THAT with a rheumatic old biddie riding herd?"
With that, her mother disappears into the hallway, Catherine emerging a few moments later, her hat and outfit clean and starched. "My lady," she says, and curtseys, the lower-class accent barely audible.
<> Imogen considers the merits of hitting Catherine resoundingly over the head with the Hand In The Box.
<> Keeper giggles.
<> Keeper says, "Speaking of which object..."
<> Timothy says, "(Violet chants, "Dooooo it. Dooooo it. I'll stay quiet and out of your way! You want me along!")"
<> Keeper says, "Do you have it with you, Imogen, or is it still under the bed?"
<> Imogen says, "I've got it in my handbag. No way I'm letting that get away from me, even if it /is/ damn creepy."
<> Keeper says, "Heeheehee. Okay!"
<> Imogen .oO(Imogen is a Balseraph of Greed.)
<> Roderick says, "Greaaaat. The Bal of Greed and the Imp of ...SOMETHING, but if Roderick wasn't an Impudite, I'd eat my hat. :p"
<> S.D. .oO(Lust?)
<> Keeper laughs. "I could very much see Roderick as an Imp. Does that make Timothy his Djinn?"
<> Roderick says, "Maybe Lust. Maybe something else. He's not SOLELY focused on the nookie. :p"
<> S.D. giggles.
<> Timothy blands. Djinnishly.
<> S.D. fears. ^_^
<> Imogen says, "Y'know, I'd buy Impudite of the Game. Actually. A /weird/ one, but..."
<> S.D. ..._fears_.
<> Roderick says, "I could buy that... a VERY weird one. But too well-placed to be easily sacrificed now. :)"
<> Keeper ponders pitting IN's celestials against the true horrors of the Mythos. Demon: "Alright, Ethereal. Behave or I'll slap you into OH LUCIFER STOP PLEASE ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!"
"Please accompiany us to the Viscount's carriage, Catharine," Imogen says, trying to make the best of it.
"Yes, my lady," the maid says, promptly, and falls in behind Imogen. Robert leads them to blue sitting room, and opens the door. "The Lady Faville-Smith," he proclaims, in a deep, carrying voice.
Imogen curtseys.
Roderick bows. "My lady," he says. "So kind of you to accept my invitation on this positively delightful day." He smiles, widely. He glances towards Catherine and back towards Imogen questioningly.
Catherine regards the Viscount with a schoolmarmish expression.
Imogen attempts to convey through widening of her eyes that she's stuck.
Imogen says "It was my honor. Shall we?"
Roderick nods his head. Well, if that's the case, it's time for the St. Hubert Charm Offensive. Against All Enemies, that's the family motto... "We shall. Are we to be accompanied by a friend of yours?" He takes a step towards Catherine. "/Do/ introduce us."
Catherine purses her lips, and glances uncertainly towards Imogen. Behind her, Robert goes even stiffer and yet /more/ offended.
Imogen says "This is Catharine, one of the lady's maids. She is a most accomplished woman, having watched me when I was a small child."
Imogen isn't dry at all. Really.
The Viscount's eyes light up. "Is that so? It's quite a pleasure to meet a figure so central to your formative years," he says, the Smile on full force on Catherine as well as Imogen. "I'm certain, then, that there will be MUCH to talk about. Shall we quickly to the carriage? I think the rain may be lightening for a moment, and we ought to take advantage of whatever the weather will allow."
"Oh, certainly," Imogen says, and grasps a parasol as if it is a weapon.
You paged Roderick with 'If you're going to be trying to bring the maid over on your side, it'll be a persuasion roll. I'll give you a bonus to the roll when you make whatever request, depending on how charming he's been up to then. :)'.
Catherine steps up, and holds a hand out for the parasol. "If you'll allow me, miss? That way you can keep your hem out of the water." She does her best to ignore the Viscount's existence.
Imogen hands over the parasol with a sigh.
Roderick pages: For the moment, it's an attempt simply to reduce the threat level of The Rakehell Viscount (tm). Also, to keep her just a bit confused and off-balance. :)
Catherine takes the parasol, and stands waiting to follow her lady out into the rain.
Roderick keeps on smiling. It could be worse! It absolutely could be. He touches his coat. "I fear my coat is not quite sufficient for me to emulate noble Sir Walter Raleigh, but whatever I can do, I am, as always, at your service, my lady." He inclines his head again, and prepares to follow back out.
Imogen follows Roderick, then. Does not react to the flattery.
Timothy holds the carriage door open for approaching lords, ladies, and chaperones.
Robert proceeds to the door, and holds it open for the nobles and Catherine. As soon as they pass over the threshold, the parasol is opened, and placed where Imogen gets the maximum benefit.
Imogen does privately admit that Catherine's good for /something/.
Roderick awaits the lady's and gentlewoman's entry into the carriage before boarding himself.
Imogen gets into the carriage.
Catherine follows, snapping the parasol efficiently shut as she takes the seat beside Imogen.
Roderick gestures towards the window. "Timothy, as we discussed," is all he says. He turns towards Imogen. "So, my dear -- did you sleep well? It feels like it has been far longer since last we saw each other, even if it was merely last night. Quite the performance, no?"
Timothy taps the horses lightly into motion, still careful about those lingering welts from the day before.
The horses seem to have recovered...or are just so miserable in the rain that they can't muster the urge to shy, and set off at a good pace through the busy London streets.
<> Imogen says, "So is Catharine /between/ Imogen and Roderick?"
<> Keeper says, "Yup! :)"
<> Imogen says, "Blessit! *giggles*"
<> Roderick says, "She's quite skilled at thwarting matters!"
Imogen waits for Roderick to tell her where they're going.
<> Keeper | Catherine has had years of practice. Knows what you young bucks want.
<> Roderick blinks wide-eyed and innocent. To avenge his slain comrade-in-arms and put an end to the heathen murderous cultists?
<> Imogen scientific knowledge, damnit!
<> Keeper | Catherine HMPF.
Roderick seems in no hurry to enlighten anyone as to the destination. "So, Mrs... Catherine, was it? Has the Lady always been such a studious sort? I find that a good education makes for such excellent conversation. Do I have you to thank for it?"
Timothy quietly listens at the window, and studiously practices the expression that's won him many a game of cards.
Catherine looks uncomfortable at being directly addressed, but she answers crisply, "No, my lord. The lady's accomplishments are quite her own." She purses her lips over any commentary on her employer's habits.
Imogen stares fixedly into space.
Roderick looks towards Imogen, and offers a smile. "So quiet, Lady Faville-Smith?"
Imogen says "My apologies, Viscount. The rain makes any -- company -- slightly more taciturn, don't you think?"
Timothy is certainly being drizzled upon outside the carriage in silence.
"Apology accepted," Theodore says, smile never flinching, even if it no longer reaches his eyes. "How have your studies been progressing? You had only begun to mention them to me when the... opera... interrupted us."
<> Imogen says, "... how much did I discover during my nighttime perusal of various interesting tomes, anyway?"
Keeper rolls 1d100 for 57
You paged Imogen with 'Your personal library has more on Egypt than Africa, but there are some interesting things. For one, several minor treatises have been written on burial artifacts of cruder than usual manufacture, made of some sort of stone as black as coal, but harder, and not as fragile as obsidian. These artifacts are often found in tombs of priests, but not in positions of honor. It's more like the priest is placed in a position to guard the artifacts, rather than take them with him as supplies for the afterlife. Also, that there are rumors of an African tribe called by other savages, "Souleaters", apparently for their dark religion and cannibalistic ways. They are especially fond of hearts, and are rumored to be able to consume the very soul of any heart they devour.'.
You paged Imogen with 'The native word for the Souleaters is N'gnwe, by the way. And you have little idea how that's supposed to be pronounced.'.
"I've been reading about African savages lately," Imogen says, airily. "It passes the time so well. They have such cunning little artifacts. Made of this black stone, black as coal, but much harder. Very unusual! Mostly it's their heathen priests who have them. They're /buried/ with them. Must be terribly important, to have priests buried with them, even if they are just heathens." She pauses, and acquires an expression of concern.
"... that was the interesting part. The rest of the book was just /horrid/, Viscount. I certainly shan't speak about it, or read it again! It was about some /awful/ people with an unpronounceable, unChristian name, who /ate hearts/." She sounds entirely horrified.
"My word!" Roderick blinks. "Your studies are certainly... /interesting/," he says, endeavoring to look faintly disturbed.
Catherine is looking a little green by this point, her lips pressed tightly together.
Imogen fans herself with her hand, attempting to look pale and wan. "Sometimes I fear it will be too much for me -- but there's so much to know, Viscount, and I do pride myself on my education; my husband will never be bored."
A somewhat different smile catches Roderick's lips, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment.
Outside, the trim and elegant homes are giving way back to the London slums of Shoreditch, the crowded, tiny shops, the rickety wooden houses, and the teeming people stopping and staring at the noble's carriage as it rattles over the cobblestones.
Roderick sits in quiet, as the carriage rolls on through Shoreditch. "Quite the neighborhood, this. It seems suitable in the rain, don't you think?"
Imogen looks out the window. "Indeed. Most dreadful and despondent."
Catherine looks progressively more uneasy, her distress finally making her break her silence. "Surely, my lady, nowhere in /here/ is our destination!"
Imogen says "Is it, Roderick?""
Imogen is very calm.
"Oh, heavens no! Of course not," Roderick says disarmingly. "Merely cutting through here, en route to the Reading Room. I thought that Lady Faville-Smith would enjoy an outing there, in good company -- I could, perhaps, prove an assistance in her studies. I have authored several monographs on archaeological subjects."
Catherine seems somewhat appeased, and sinks back against the bench, nodding to herself.
"What a lovely idea, Viscount," Imogen says, honestly pleased.
Roderick leans back towards the window. "How much farther to the Reading Room, Timothy?"
Timothy says "Nearly there, m'lord."
She is dressed in heavy, scratchy khaki gear. Thick fabric, trousers tucked into regimental calf-high boots that even in her surroundings manage to retain a semblance of shine, where not coated in mud. The weight of a pack makes her back ache, and she seems to have a rifle in her hands, smelling of gunpowder and oil. A machete hangs at her hip. All around her is the jungle at twilight, a dense, oppressive screen of greenery that has never known a gardener's touch, or an English winter chill. The thick smell of rotting vegetation is almost choking, along with the rank smell of her own sweat. In the trees, beasts call and gibber at each other in sounds that almost have the rhythm of human speech.
Imogen, not quite conscious that this is a dream, draws the machete naturally and begins to hack herself a path forward.
The vegetation seems to resist her efforts with a stubborn will, making her work for each small step forward. Above her head, a jungle bird calls down mocking laughter. Branches rustle and whisper.
"Blasted /plants/," Imogen says, freed by the dream to use crude language she'd never let cross her lips in the waking world. She continues to try to progress.
Almost as if shocked by the unladylike language, the plants suddenly release their grip on the path, and she stumbles forward into a clearing, the ground strewn with rounded, grey stones. Squatting on his haunches at the other side of the clearing is an old man, his skin tough, brown leather, his hair grayed and shaved into dizzying patterns. More patterns are painted on his skin, in blue, white, and red. He's almost nude, only a tattered loincloth preserving his modesty, and his build is painfully thin.
Imogen approaches hesitantly, lowering her machete to something that isn't 'prepare to be severed from your limbs'. "Hello?" she tries, and then follows it with the same word in Egyptian, Coptic, Greek -- all the languages she knows.
The old man watches impassively as she approaches, not responding to any of her greetings. His hands dangle down to the ground, and he appears to be tracing something in the dirt with one finger.
Imogen inspects whatever he's drawing, curiously.
The drawing appears to be a human figure, spread-eagle, crude and jagged lines where its chest would be. As Imogen moves closer, her foot strikes one of the 'stones', causing it to roll out of the ground. Human eye sockets glare blankly at the jungle canopy, half-seen things squirming within.
Imogen makes a noise that might be 'eep', well-swallowed, and her heart pounds in her ears. Nevertheless, she peers closer at the drawing, trying to make out any significance to it.
The drawing remains mute and inscrutible. Much like the man, although he smiles as she peers closer, revealing a mouthful of teeth that have been filed to points, the gums cut away from them, making each tooth longer than it should be. As the last bit of daylight flees from the clearing, drums begin to beat.
Imogen swallows hard, and backs up a step.
The old man stands, with the easy, predatory grace of a snake rising to strike, and now his other hand is revealed, with the long, black, stone blade. The jungle seems to resound to the beat of drums that come from everywhere and nowhere, their deep bass rumble making the ground shake. More skulls are dislodged from the ground, rattling and chattering together like gossiping matrons.
Imogen shrieks in surprise, and stumbles backward.
The man stalks her, moving slowly, the blade rising and falling in a peculiar pattern. Finally he speaks, and the words are thick and phlegmy, somehow abhorrent to the natural world. In the trees behind him, a sickly yellow light begins to filter through the trees, pulsing with a triple beat. The sound of something massive approaching begins to drown out the throb of the drums.
Imogen just turns and flat-out /runs/, panicked, trying not to scream if only to save her breath for running.
She flees, and the jungle seems to reach out with rotting green tendrils to embrace her, to hold her. Thorns slice along the exposed skin of her cheeks and hands, and behind her, she can hear the presence gaining, the yellow light spilling over her, and its touch has weight and rank sweetness, like poisoned honey. She feels a hand, a claw, descend on her left shoulder, the nails biting deep through fabric and into flesh, pulling her around to face her pursuers...
And then she's back in her bedroom, the smell of the jungle still clinging to her, and her shoulder stinging. The bed shakes faintly to a triple beat.
Imogen shrieks and leaps out of the bed.
Pulses of yellow light seem to flicker from under the bed, reaching out to caress her feet as they touch the floor, then die out. The door to her bedroom is flung open, Violet, her hair akimbo and her nightgown in disarray stumbles through with a footstool held high.
Imogen, white and shaking, points at under the bed, as if she's trying to direct Violet's homicidal tendencies in that direction.
Violet crouches down to peer under the bed. "Is it a rat, m'lady?"
There doesn't seem to be anything under the bed but a lonely looking wooden box, and a few dust bunnies.
Violet yawns, and shrugs, footstool still in hand. "If you say so, m'lady. But if there is someone about, be sure to scream, and I'll come right back."
Imogen nods. "... screaming seems doable."
Imogen says "The-there. Was light. Sick, horrid light..."
Violet stands up, stool dangling from one hand, and scratches her nose. "Doesn't sound like a rat, that. Don't think they go about much with lanterns. You supposin' there was someone with lantern trying to creep in? Could murder us in our beds!" And she looks around the room with some interest, as if expecting to see a knife-wielding madman lurking in one of the shadows.
Imogen shakes herself, like a cat who had taken an unfortunate side-trip into a stormgutter, and straightens. "Perhaps there was. Or a dream. I had a dreadful dream. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Violet."
Violet nods briskly, and runs a hand through her straggly hair. "Then, begging your pardon, m'lady, I'll be back to bed."
"Go right ahead, Violet," Imogen tells her, and opens the door for her.
Violet exits, footstool in hand, yawning pointedly.
Imogen shuts the door. And quite decidedly does /not/ get back in that bed. Goes to sit at her secretary-desk, in fact, and halfheartedly flips through a few books on heiroglyphics.
Behind her, the bed remains benignly waiting.
Imogen resists the temptation. That was creepy. She doesn't want to be above it, even if it means not sleeping at all.
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The next morning dawns with a chill, gloomy rain, soaking the houses and running in merry streams down the ill-cleaned gutters. And it seems that the ton has heard of Edward's murder. The Times has a prominent headline: 'Prodigal Son Murdered', and although there are few details to the story, the hints are undeniably sordid. It seems that two prostitutes and the madam who ran the 'boarding house' where the young man's body had been found have been taken into custody as suspected murderesses, with robbery as the likely motive. Houses noble and common alike are abuzz with the latest tidbits of gossip and innuendo.
Imogen attempts to work some of the stiffness out of her muscles from sleeping at her desk, and glares a bit at the rain out her window.
Roderick is, assuredly, reading the Times at breakfast. He throws it to the table. "Suspected murderesses," he snorts, looking towards Timothy. "As if we should believe such twaddle."
The rain gives no reply to Imogen's glare but a distant mumble of thunder.
Timothy raises one eyebrow. "Because you're of the opinion that the fairer sex isn't capable of such acts, m'lord?"
"Of course they are, Timothy," Roderick replies. "What happened to Edward, though... that was not a robbery by some jilted whore. No, they need to be overturning nests of heathens and barbarians, looking among the underclass for some sort of madmen. Thug-ays, they called them in India, or some such," he declares firmly.
"As you say, m'lord." Timothy stands about looking properly blank, and does not correct m'lord's pronunciation.
Roderick shakes his head and waves a spoon irritably at the paper. "I knew that Inspector was useless."
"As you say, m'lord." Timothy edges over very slightly to catch a glimpse inside the newspaper. "Were you planning on driving out today, m'lord?"
Also in the paper, in the Society pages, with less emphasis than the bloody murder, is a note that a certain Viscount S_ H_____ was seen accompanying a certain Lady F____-S_____ to an evening's entertainment, the writer wondering with an arch tone if it's the lady's many charms or her respectable dowry that the lord is enamored of, and whether the lord's winning ways will last long against the maiden's formidable armor.
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Imogen, having read that particular snippet, cannot decide whether she is pleased or incredibly offended. Settles on 'out of sorts'.
At Imogen's, the servants are abuzz with the latter announcement even more than the crime, and she keeps hearing the younger maids pause outside her room. Also, when she goes to change into suitible attire, she will notice four small, triangular holes in the front of her shoulder, and one similar pinprick on the back.
Imogen very lightly, concernedly, pokes at them to see if they hurt.
They do, indeed, hurt.
Imogen makes a very tiny unhappy noise, and goes looking for rubbing alcohol to pour on them.
Roderick spends a moment brooding in his chair, staring at his spoon angrily, before nodding. "Absolutely, Timothy. Perhaps we ought to head down towards Shoreditch, hm? Mayhap we can uncover something that fool... what was his name? Wingard? Whatever. What he missed."
A small bottle of rubbing alcohol can be found in Imogen's toiletries.
Imogen attempts to disinfect the wounds.
"As you say, m'lord. Would you like me to bring the horses around?" Timothy pauses for a moment. "And will m'lord be picking up any other companions on the way?"
A short time later, the wounds are considerably /more/ ouchie, but probably as clean as they are going to get.
Imogen now attempts to bandage them.
Roderick hmms. "Well, then. Perhaps we can call on Lady Faville-Smith. Perhaps she has had time to pore over her tomes and find us some sort of hook and clue, eh?"
Keeper rolls 1d100 for 74
Bandaging one's shoulder appears to be considerably more difficult than it seemed, at first, and her attempts are sloppy at best.
Imogen, frustrated, gives up and just gets dressed.
"It seems a distinct possibility, m'lord." Timothy bows shortly. "I'll go have the carriage readied for you. Or did you want more time for preparations? Or perhaps to send ahead a message?"
Roderick nods his head. "Send ahead a message to the Lady. It is," he says, looking out at the rain, "An EXCELLENT day for a ride."
Timothy eyes the rain. "As you say, m'lord." And goes off to find someone to send ahead with a message. Preferably someone who doesn't mind a bit of damp.
There is certainly a kitchen boy who wouldn't mind running the message, and views the chance to splash around in rain puddles as a bonus.
At Imogen's, her mother, a thin and impressive dowager, has been politely grilling her daughter over a late breakfast. "...I cannot fault your taste, my dear, but you simply must tell me where you made the Viscount's acquaintance. I don't recall you speaking over much to him..."
"Oh, it was at one of the affairs Miss Parmelee gave last month, Mother," Imogen improvises.
"Mmmm," is her mother's reply. "Well, it would be a feather in your cap," she admits. Despite the light and airy tone of voice, the older woman's eyes are stern and sharp as she watches her daughter. "I do hope you are treating the man with the respect his rank deserves."
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"You think too little of me, Mother," Imogen says, highly politely. "I treat him precisely as a man of his breeding and conduct should be treated."
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Imogen's mother's answering mmmhmm is decidedly skeptical. "I sincerely hope so. I had become despairing of your prospects. This may be your last chance to marry, before you are saddled with the mantle of one of those terrible suffragette women."
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"I certainly wouldn't want that, Mother," Imogen says, sincere.
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Imogen’s mother raises an impeccably groomed eyebrow. "Indeed. Well, I suppose he does not seem put off by your...ways, so that must be counted a plus. Although I do hope you find /something/ to talk about than books and dreary old tombs!"
Timothy pulls up in front of Imogen's residence, and leans back towards the window. "Shall we stop now, m'lord, or did you wish to give her more time to prepare?"
Imogen says "He makes excellent conversation about the opera."
Roderick smiles, and waves towards the window. "I suppose we ought to go ahead and announce ourselves. We can wait inside again..."
Timothy climbs down to open m'lord's carriage door for him. "As you say, m'lord."
Mother sniffs. "A far more suitible topic for a lady, yes. Robert has told me that he sent a message asking to see you this morning?" She glances out towards the windows. "I suppose he /must/ be eager." She turns back to Imogen, a sudden frown marring her skin. "Imogen, dear...you haven't...that is, the Viscount has a certain..."
Imogen looks entirely horrified. "Certainly /not/."
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Mother fiddles with her wedding ring. "No, no, of course not. You wouldn't. But, ah," she looks profoundly embarassed, but soldiers on, "many young women have lost their heads over him, and although you are uncommonly...sensible...men, that is, some men, well, what they want from young women..."
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Imogen blushes. Quite considerably. "Mother, I would /not/."
Mother sighs, her shoulders lowering. "Well, no, of course not. I am only saying that a man has to be handled /carefully/. They are creatures of emotion, and require a woman's civilizing touch. You must be careful in your association with the young Viscount."
Imogen nods, attentively, and privately wishes that said reprobate would just show up already.
Roderick is, just then, stepping out of his carriage and striding pleasantly up to the door.
The door is, of course, closed, but sounds of movement within suggest that the house is up and active.
Mother continues, showing no sign of stopping any time soon, "Don't insult him, of course. You don't want to turn him away. However, don't encourage him, either. Except in the small, polite, accepted ways. A wayward glance, a smile when he's been an especial gentleman..."
Imogen listens. Despairing, internally, but listens!
Roderick raps briskly upon the door, then folds his hands neatly.
The door opens almost immediately, the offended presence of Robert staring out at the young lord. "Viscount St. Hubert, you are expected," he says, ponderously, somehow conveying the impression that Roderick is, in fact, late. "Please, allow me to conduct you to the blue waiting room while I inform Lady Faville-Smith of your arrival." He holds the door open with exactly the right amount of politeness, and not a hair more.
"Of course," the Viscount replies, flashing a broad smile. "Lead on."
The Viscount is escorted to the sitting room. The same portrait glares down from the wall, making the prettily appointed room seem just a breath too small. Robert closes the door smartly behind him, then strides to the dining room, where he clears his throat before announcing, "Madame, Viscount St. Hubert has arrived."
"Thank you, Robert," Imogen's mother says, her lecture finally interrupted. She eyes Imogen for signs of maidenly excitement. "Imogen, I wish for you to take Catherine with you on your ride. She is a suitable chaperone." Catherine is the oldest of the household maids.
Imogen does not really display maidenly excitement. Her eyes glitter a bit, but that's about all. "Mother," she comments, "perhaps Violet instead? Catharine has the rheumatism, as you well know."
Imogen's mother's brow furrows. "Young lady, I do not expect cheek from you. You will take Catherine, and that is final." She dabs the corners of her mouth with the napkin and rises neatly from the table.
"Catherine, then," Imogen says under her breath.
Imogen's mother nods. "Catherine." She turns and sweeps out of the dining room towards the stairs, pausing briefly at the threshold. "And Imogen, darling? Do enjoy yourself."
"Surely," Imogen says dryly.
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With that, her mother disappears into the hallway, Catherine emerging a few moments later, her hat and outfit clean and starched. "My lady," she says, and curtseys, the lower-class accent barely audible.
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"Please accompiany us to the Viscount's carriage, Catharine," Imogen says, trying to make the best of it.
"Yes, my lady," the maid says, promptly, and falls in behind Imogen. Robert leads them to blue sitting room, and opens the door. "The Lady Faville-Smith," he proclaims, in a deep, carrying voice.
Imogen curtseys.
Roderick bows. "My lady," he says. "So kind of you to accept my invitation on this positively delightful day." He smiles, widely. He glances towards Catherine and back towards Imogen questioningly.
Catherine regards the Viscount with a schoolmarmish expression.
Imogen attempts to convey through widening of her eyes that she's stuck.
Imogen says "It was my honor. Shall we?"
Roderick nods his head. Well, if that's the case, it's time for the St. Hubert Charm Offensive. Against All Enemies, that's the family motto... "We shall. Are we to be accompanied by a friend of yours?" He takes a step towards Catherine. "/Do/ introduce us."
Catherine purses her lips, and glances uncertainly towards Imogen. Behind her, Robert goes even stiffer and yet /more/ offended.
Imogen says "This is Catharine, one of the lady's maids. She is a most accomplished woman, having watched me when I was a small child."
Imogen isn't dry at all. Really.
The Viscount's eyes light up. "Is that so? It's quite a pleasure to meet a figure so central to your formative years," he says, the Smile on full force on Catherine as well as Imogen. "I'm certain, then, that there will be MUCH to talk about. Shall we quickly to the carriage? I think the rain may be lightening for a moment, and we ought to take advantage of whatever the weather will allow."
"Oh, certainly," Imogen says, and grasps a parasol as if it is a weapon.
You paged Roderick with 'If you're going to be trying to bring the maid over on your side, it'll be a persuasion roll. I'll give you a bonus to the roll when you make whatever request, depending on how charming he's been up to then. :)'.
Catherine steps up, and holds a hand out for the parasol. "If you'll allow me, miss? That way you can keep your hem out of the water." She does her best to ignore the Viscount's existence.
Imogen hands over the parasol with a sigh.
Roderick pages: For the moment, it's an attempt simply to reduce the threat level of The Rakehell Viscount (tm). Also, to keep her just a bit confused and off-balance. :)
Catherine takes the parasol, and stands waiting to follow her lady out into the rain.
Roderick keeps on smiling. It could be worse! It absolutely could be. He touches his coat. "I fear my coat is not quite sufficient for me to emulate noble Sir Walter Raleigh, but whatever I can do, I am, as always, at your service, my lady." He inclines his head again, and prepares to follow back out.
Imogen follows Roderick, then. Does not react to the flattery.
Timothy holds the carriage door open for approaching lords, ladies, and chaperones.
Robert proceeds to the door, and holds it open for the nobles and Catherine. As soon as they pass over the threshold, the parasol is opened, and placed where Imogen gets the maximum benefit.
Imogen does privately admit that Catherine's good for /something/.
Roderick awaits the lady's and gentlewoman's entry into the carriage before boarding himself.
Imogen gets into the carriage.
Catherine follows, snapping the parasol efficiently shut as she takes the seat beside Imogen.
Roderick gestures towards the window. "Timothy, as we discussed," is all he says. He turns towards Imogen. "So, my dear -- did you sleep well? It feels like it has been far longer since last we saw each other, even if it was merely last night. Quite the performance, no?"
Timothy taps the horses lightly into motion, still careful about those lingering welts from the day before.
The horses seem to have recovered...or are just so miserable in the rain that they can't muster the urge to shy, and set off at a good pace through the busy London streets.
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Imogen waits for Roderick to tell her where they're going.
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Roderick seems in no hurry to enlighten anyone as to the destination. "So, Mrs... Catherine, was it? Has the Lady always been such a studious sort? I find that a good education makes for such excellent conversation. Do I have you to thank for it?"
Timothy quietly listens at the window, and studiously practices the expression that's won him many a game of cards.
Catherine looks uncomfortable at being directly addressed, but she answers crisply, "No, my lord. The lady's accomplishments are quite her own." She purses her lips over any commentary on her employer's habits.
Imogen stares fixedly into space.
Roderick looks towards Imogen, and offers a smile. "So quiet, Lady Faville-Smith?"
Imogen says "My apologies, Viscount. The rain makes any -- company -- slightly more taciturn, don't you think?"
Timothy is certainly being drizzled upon outside the carriage in silence.
"Apology accepted," Theodore says, smile never flinching, even if it no longer reaches his eyes. "How have your studies been progressing? You had only begun to mention them to me when the... opera... interrupted us."
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Keeper rolls 1d100 for 57
You paged Imogen with 'Your personal library has more on Egypt than Africa, but there are some interesting things. For one, several minor treatises have been written on burial artifacts of cruder than usual manufacture, made of some sort of stone as black as coal, but harder, and not as fragile as obsidian. These artifacts are often found in tombs of priests, but not in positions of honor. It's more like the priest is placed in a position to guard the artifacts, rather than take them with him as supplies for the afterlife. Also, that there are rumors of an African tribe called by other savages, "Souleaters", apparently for their dark religion and cannibalistic ways. They are especially fond of hearts, and are rumored to be able to consume the very soul of any heart they devour.'.
You paged Imogen with 'The native word for the Souleaters is N'gnwe, by the way. And you have little idea how that's supposed to be pronounced.'.
"I've been reading about African savages lately," Imogen says, airily. "It passes the time so well. They have such cunning little artifacts. Made of this black stone, black as coal, but much harder. Very unusual! Mostly it's their heathen priests who have them. They're /buried/ with them. Must be terribly important, to have priests buried with them, even if they are just heathens." She pauses, and acquires an expression of concern.
"... that was the interesting part. The rest of the book was just /horrid/, Viscount. I certainly shan't speak about it, or read it again! It was about some /awful/ people with an unpronounceable, unChristian name, who /ate hearts/." She sounds entirely horrified.
"My word!" Roderick blinks. "Your studies are certainly... /interesting/," he says, endeavoring to look faintly disturbed.
Catherine is looking a little green by this point, her lips pressed tightly together.
Imogen fans herself with her hand, attempting to look pale and wan. "Sometimes I fear it will be too much for me -- but there's so much to know, Viscount, and I do pride myself on my education; my husband will never be bored."
A somewhat different smile catches Roderick's lips, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment.
Outside, the trim and elegant homes are giving way back to the London slums of Shoreditch, the crowded, tiny shops, the rickety wooden houses, and the teeming people stopping and staring at the noble's carriage as it rattles over the cobblestones.
Roderick sits in quiet, as the carriage rolls on through Shoreditch. "Quite the neighborhood, this. It seems suitable in the rain, don't you think?"
Imogen looks out the window. "Indeed. Most dreadful and despondent."
Catherine looks progressively more uneasy, her distress finally making her break her silence. "Surely, my lady, nowhere in /here/ is our destination!"
Imogen says "Is it, Roderick?""
Imogen is very calm.
"Oh, heavens no! Of course not," Roderick says disarmingly. "Merely cutting through here, en route to the Reading Room. I thought that Lady Faville-Smith would enjoy an outing there, in good company -- I could, perhaps, prove an assistance in her studies. I have authored several monographs on archaeological subjects."
Catherine seems somewhat appeased, and sinks back against the bench, nodding to herself.
"What a lovely idea, Viscount," Imogen says, honestly pleased.
Roderick leans back towards the window. "How much farther to the Reading Room, Timothy?"
Timothy says "Nearly there, m'lord."
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I got better.
I think. >_>