The Visions of Destruction [Thaedael & JellyFish]

[JellyFish]

I like to think myself as a sensible person. I follow what I believe, I refuse to look foolish, and I think with a straightforward mindset. At least, that’s what I thought I did. I was taught a young age that a woman must be only a decoration to delicately be paraded around to show her husband’s good fortune. And funnily enough, I accepted that. Until two years ago. Two years ago when a notoriously wealthy banker, a friend of my father’s died. They said it was suicide. I knew better. But you already know that, it’s written in the beginning of these pages. You also know how it ended. I’m simply writing tonight before I leave on my next little mission. It seems many girls have been disappearing left and right all over the city. Even our maid’s niece has been one of the recent missing individuals. Sad really, she’s only thirteen years. Which is one of the reasons why I am leaving. Miss. Livingston can barely work properly as she drowns in her grief. So before any more unfortunate girls are taken from their homes, I’m going to put a stop to it. Swiftly, as I always do.

Darla Johnson

She looked at the page, the swirling letters of cursive flowing over the white paper. Beautifully done. Closing the leather book, she got up from her chair, pushing it back. The metal scratched against the hardwood floor, though barely leaving a scratch. She walked to her bedside table, pulling open a small drawer. She placed the journal inside, locking it away from curious hands and eyes. The moon glowed brightly, a light in the pitch darkness, a guild to those who wonder, and her only friend as she traveled down a forbidden path. She sighed, heavy hearted in this decision. There were times she felt disappointment in herself for what she did behind her father’s back. He worked so hard to protect her and make sure she was safe from the hand’s of this cruel world.

Such a disobedient child.

Pulling back the curtains of her room, she set to work. Unlacing the back of her dress, she felt the material fall to the floor, encircling her feet. She walked over it, picking up the dress, placing in on a hanger and put it into her closet. No time. Hurry. A grin spread across her face, a light chuckles passing her lips. Perhaps she would have some fun tonight. Perhaps. Gray eyes flickered over to the door, the echo of footsteps causing her body to freeze. One step, two step. Pause. Quickly she blew out the dim candle and prayed silently. They passed but not before making her heart hammer against her chest frantically. Still did she stay, until she heard the click of a door locking. “Miss. Livingston… that woman needs to take some medication and keep to her bed.”

Assured she wouldn’t be disturbed again, she picked up the new attire laid onto the back of the chair. The white corset she wore kept her proportion in place, but still anyone who held the skill of observance would notice her as a woman. Strips of cloth, torn and shredded carefully now were in her hands. She wrapped the strips around her upper body. A choked gasp made it’s way to her tongue, air absent from her lungs. She held her hand to her stomach, forcing herself to take in the oxygen that seemed to try and avoid her. Darla once catching herself pulled on a black shirt, featuring a buttoned neckline, as well as a flat, folded collar. The full length of the sleeves were designed to be loose-fitting and are drawn in to the wrists as cuffs. Satisfied, she swiftly put on the same colored pants and boots. Biting her lip, she dragged her teeth across the soft skin turning her full attention to the body length mirror.

Her double looked back at her and copied her movements as she crossed the floor to stand in front of the glass. A delicate hand reached up to her hair, pulling at the blonde strands. Messily, her hands crawled over her head, pinning the curled hair into a slack bun. Only now the short bangs were left, the same locks she kept cut for moments such as these. No one had really noticed, the rest of her mane thick and luscious. Ina matter of moments, she was dressed completely in black.

And with that she left.

Like a shadow she had made herself, she passed down the steps. Memory kept with her, placing the silver tipped boots in where no sound could be made. The soft snores of her father where the only thing that could be heard in the dark house. And she was grateful for that. Darla made it, undetected and unnoticed to the front door. Nervously, she pulled at her gloved hands. “Here goes nothing.” The winter bitten chilled of the night air, whisked past her cheeks. Her eyes watered slightly but unfaltering she walked out her home, the castle of protection in which her father made to be greeted by the unknown of the dark and the creatures that lurked.

But then again, she was now one of those creatures.

Quietly, the coat that draped her form blew behind her as she walked down the moonlit streets. The further she traveled, the further she walked a shudder passed her spine, a never ending sense of alarm. What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Go home! This isn’t something for your meddlesome nose to poke at! Women and girls are being taken! That means you! You are a woman! You -- She swiped her hand in front of her face, as if brushing away a bothersome bug from buzzing around her head. Lips drawn in a firm line and eyes narrowed, the hat she wore shadowed her face.

Darla kept her head down, once in a while shouldering past a stumbling drunk or a cooing seductress of the night. This had become normal for her and showing no reaction had become a habit. An unstoppable habit. But while she had always felt calm, tonight was different. Everything told her to turn around and head straight home. “Forget this mission! Put it behind you and let Scotland Yard deal with it!”, a small shrill voice shrieked. But her legs kept moving forward, only stopping to pause and look up. And for what felt like ages, she gave one glance up and saw the place she heard in passing gossip.

Whispering Tavern: the quaint little business run by a noble. Or so it was said. No one knew who run the establishment but that didn’t matter. One thing was for certain and it was only few people knew what happened inside those walls. Rumors that illegal dealings went on, but the police had searched once the rumors had gotten out of control and nothing was found. But that was to be expected anyway.

But if she wanted a chance at learning what was going on in this town it would be here. Her heart began to pound again, harder, faster. She had no right to be here but brazenly she walked up those dreaded steps. Two knocks. Just two. Her head bent low went a panel opened, dreary eyes looking at the shadow like stranger. “How many times did the bird cry?”

“Fourteen.”

The was an eerie silence between the man and herself. Cold sweat had started a trail down her neck, soaking into her collar. Did she say the wrong thing? One of the workers he had confessed to her the password, after some persuading. But what if he lied? Her hand clenched and she waited. Waited for what would happen neck.

Click

A sigh of relief passed over her and she stepped into the muggy room. Black Jack had now made his appearance and trouble was sure to follow.

 

[Thaedael]

The Whispering Tavern, no establishment along Southwark Street was as fitting to the name as this building. It stood unassuming, on a major artery, within a major borough, which coincidentally, was the namesake of the street. The street was the brainchild of the St. Saviour's District Board, a street which was intended to fill the role as a direct means of passage from the South Eastern Railway terminus at London Bridge station to the West End. Yet it was more than this, for the Metropolitan Board of Works bestowed upon the street a vision of the future, an advancement yet to be seen in it's time. For under the cobbled stones of the street ran utilities; gas, water, and drainage pipes, together with telegraph wires for communication. With the street's position south of the the great river Thames, and along such a heavily traveled path, in conjunction with the infrastructure in place, it was no such wonder that the passageway prospered in the decade to come. Large store fronts were built along the street, bustling with activities and the latest trends in fashion. To the north, on Bridge Road, a road that ran perpendicular to Southwark Street, was the great Hop Exchange facilities. It was along an alleyway that flirted the western edge of this building that the Whispering Tavern found it's home, nestled between buildings of more imposing statures. Like it's name sake, there was little sound to be heard from the building, especially not above the bustling sounds of the street from which it found itself on.

Despite it's location midst the towering store fronts of it's opulent neighbors, the building itself held much it's own. The building was of three story height, each floor no larger than four meters tall, a large building for it's use. It was on a corner lot, and took full advantage of this, sharing two parting walls with it's neighboring buildings, the facade of the building following the right angle of the crossroads upon which it was situated. The facade was of exquisite decor, as complex a construction method as possible, and one that spared little expense. For it had a stone foundation, large slabs of granite cut smooth upon which the weight of the building rested. The builders had no qualms in expressing the architectural language of the building, for atop of this ran wooden moldings that ran the full length of the building's facade, transitioning a stone foundation towards a wooden tavern front. Upon this wooden molding rose windows, each in triplicate, each of the finest craftsmanship. Wooden frame works crisscrossed the larger wooden frames of the windows, upon which were set multiple panes of large glass. Each was then capped with semi-circle pieces of gold-gilded glass that gave the illusion that the glass formed an archway. Between each set of three glasses rose large pillars that were made of stone, once more an expression of the builders, once more connecting stone with stone. For above the windows ran one last small expression of stone work, finely carved lintels and sills of large windows, before giving way to the red masonry. It was then all capped with a flat roof, the new laws to prevent fire preventing large wooden mansard roofs like times of old. It was into this building that Darla Johnson wandered, having walked past the large double glass doors in favor of the more subdued wooden door along the furthest side from the main street.

---

The man looked at the cards in hand, the heavy stock of the paper resting tightly between index finger and thumb. He suppressed all emotions upon his face, nothing but an indifferent, apathetic composure that did little to betray the smug confidence he held in his hand. Black bangs of short cropped hair hung from his forehead, from under which his amber eyes looked out across the table. Across from him sat the man who dared challenge this hand of his, a man who unlike himself, was very easy to read. His challenger hesitated, a hand running along a small ivory playing piece, a simple rectangular sliver of bone that denoted a preset sum. In his other hand, the cards upon which his eyes trained, the expression in his eyes plain to see. A moment's more of hesitation, before he finally tossed the cards face down into the center of the table. Excellent. He too placed his cards face down in the middle of the table, a smile finally breaking out from behind his neutral composure. The man that had challenged him reached for the cards of the winner, before the winner himself slapped his hand down to the table, pinning it in place.

"You will find gentleman, that there is very little you need to know about me, or my actions." He slowly eased up the pressure of his hand upon that of his challenger, allowing him to withdraw the hand out from under his own, all the while without letting him take the cards once more.

The winner took the cards, before once more delicately placing them in a pile atop one another, then he placed the stack before the man to his right, intending for him to shuffle them once more. His hand now free, he pulled into his palm a tumbler that had sat on the lip of the octagonal table that he and his seven guest sat around. With fine crystal tumbler in hand, he drew upon a fine liqueur, the warming sensation of the drink soothing his throat with a gentle caress.

"I like to know who I am getting in bed with Vincent Gallagher. You cannot expect me to bid in good faith, can you?" the loser had said.

Vincent Gallagher smiled, one put on mostly for show, a master manipulator and charming gentleman that got what he want through hard work and webs of intrigue. This was such a web, and all of them were mere prey now that they were tangled in his world.

"But I can." he said, taking pleasure at the sentiments of the man who questioned his motives. "You see, John Stone..." He paused once more to take a sip of his drink, before allowing the heavy tumbler to sound against the wooden lip of his poker table with the ring of a crystal glass. "One does not simply find me. If you wish to bid, you must do so in good faith."

Another man to the side of John Stone spoke, "This is no game for the feint of heart. It is not too late for you to back out if the stakes are too high for you". The other five regulars that gathered for such a game chuckled, knowing full well that the man could no longer back out.

John Stone hesitated, and this brought pleasure to Vincent Gallagher. Already was John Stone implicated in this act of illegal gambling, but to have succeeded in seeking out Vincent, now that was the real leverage that was now at the disposal of the scheming man.

"I will do good on my words" John Stone managed, before finally backing down off the topic. The other six gentlemen straightened up in their high-back chairs, getting ready for what was to come.

Vincent, content to have set the mood, pulled the remaining ivory chips from the center of the table, leaving the hard wooden leather surface clear once more. "Gentlemen, we all know why you are here." As if on cue, the man to his right tossed four cards down onto the table, each a queen of the different suits.

"The buy in is a mere one hundred pounds. A fair price to arrange all this, don't you think?" he asked rhetorically. It was an exuberant price, but one that the gathered guests would each have to pay for the mere privilege of bidding on the next hand.

Again, the four queens were pulled back into the deck of cards, and the cards shuffled once more. With all the buy-ins already placed in the center, cards were dealt, but the intent of such an action was merely a token gesture. Not a single soul looked at each pair of cards, before John Stone, the newest member of this circle, tossed in the first of his chips, starting the bid. The man to his left immediately raised the bid, tossing in more chips to the center of the table.

"Too rich for my tastes" said the man next in line, tossing his cards to the center of the table.

"Vincent" a voice came from behind all of them. Through the doorway spoke an employee of his, one that stood in the now open archway that lead from the private smoking room towards the main service hallway of the tavern. "You have a visitor" he said, before nodding and backing out from under the door-frame.

Annoyed, Vincent let out a long sigh through pursed lips, before standing up. "Excuse me gentlemen. Apparently I have business to attend to. He looked to the man to his left, nodding as he spoke, "Try and keep them honest will you?"

---

He had changed from his smoking jacket, and had washed the smell of cigars from his lips with a stiff drink of alcohol. All in the name of etiquette, he supposed, for he knew not the gender of his unannounced guest.

Checking himself once more in the mirror of the drawing room off the side of the smoking room, he was content to look once more the part he played in society. Looking back at the full length mirror was his form, a lithe man clad in the finest of attires. Simple brown hair drawn carefully in a traditional side part. He wore a stiff collared shirt that was buttoned down over a dapper bow tie of crimson fabric. Over this a simple double breasted coat, both columns of brass buttons pulled through the black fabric carefully. Peaking out from under the length of his coat were the pin stripe patterns of his black pants. Content, he walked towards the back entrance of the establishment, already sweat beading upon his brow from the muggy warmth of the kitchen and brewery to one side.

He walked towards the guest who stood waiting with the doorman, a man of effeminate proportions. "Good evening" he said. "What business have you here?"