Occupying the ground floor of a four-story brownstone townhouse on Barton Street, the Gas Lamp Club claims to be a coffee-house, but that's really only a facade for essentially a middle class 'gentlemen's club'. Being very eclectic, it does not discriminate against women, but then again, it doesn't have any need to.

There are some 40 tables on the floor, some round, some square, each with four chairs. Depending on a person's preference, a table may have a blue-and-white checkered tablecloth on it, or dusky rose tablecloth, or none.

There is sufficient space between tables for the wait staff to ride a penny-farthing bicycle around to all the tables. There are never more than two penny-farthings on the floor at a time; in fact, it is unclear whether there even are more than two.

There are two bars. The one on the left is larger, and serves ale, beer, brandy, wine and other spirits. The small one on the right is the coffee bar. An infernal espresso machine sits on a shelf behind the bar and dispenses frothing coffee with an assortment of whirs, clanks, bangs and whistles. Mostly, though, this sporadic din is lost in the bustling conversations contantly going on.

Behind the spirits bar is a mechanical man bartender named Hugo. He is capable of independent thought and can interact with customers in sort of staccato mechanical voice. The great thing about Hugo is that he can dispense advice with the best of them, but he never gets riled (or tired!).

A kitchen and backroom lie behind the bars with access to them through doors between the two bars. Usually only simple fare is offered, but an occasional international dish is offered up.

The decor in the club is equally eclectic. There are framed photographs on the walls, interspersed with paintings, blueprints, carvings, masks, sports memorabilia, old tools, framed newspaper clippings and dust covers from books. More tools, sculptures, sports items, musical instruments and small geodesic domes hang from the ceiling.

Nothing, however, is more eclectic than the patrons of the club. A variety of nationalities is represented, with the corresponding accents and garb, and an equally eclectic assortment of headgear is usually visible.

Patrons include singers, composers, writers, painters, sculptures, mechanics, engineers, reporters, dancers, actors, scoundrels, constables, factory workers, builders, sailors, soldiers, and other sorts too numerous to mention. Occasionally a lord can be found slumming in the club or lower classers will sneak in.


Remi and Viktor are at the bar and Remi is chatting with Mark Twain, Miko is sitting at a table with the professor on the coffee bar side, Leon has just been introduced to Mercy Kincaid by Rudy, and Felix has just saved the life of one of those slumming lords, Lord Kentigern.

Over by the window on the spirit side of the club, Anastasia is sitting at a table with Madame Irenke. Sitting on the table between them is a crystal ball on pewter stand. Madame Irenke, of course, is a medium.

"No, no, no," Irenke is explaining to Anastasia in a Hungarian accent. "You cannot look directly AT the crystal ball. You must look PAST it. The visions cannot be stared at like a naked woman. They are subtle, fleeting. Sometimes they come when you least expect it."

Pushing her hair back with one gloved hand so as to stop it brushing against her bare shoulder in a most irritating fashion, Anastasia regarded the ball before her with something approaching disdain. Her voice held a touch of imperiousness when she responded, a reaction to the fact that she loathed being unable to succeed.

"I don't know about you, Madame, but I myself am not in the habit of staring at unclothed ladies. Though I suspect it might be a more engaging pastime than ogling this blasted orb, I shall have to look into it."

Heaving an impressively heavy sigh considering the tightness of her bodice, the woman returned her gaze to the ball once more, eyes gradually turning glassy as she attempted to follow instruction and look beyond. She was well acquainted with the art of looking without really looking, having mastered such tricks during lengthy etiquette lessons on proper use of cutlery and the like.

Sat there, bathed in the soft glow of the gas lamps and soothing hubbub of mingled conversations, Anastasia gaze drifted past the glass sphere in front of her, settling on nothing in particular. She let her mind wander, only the smallest portion of her mind loosely focused on watching for images. Flickering flames and distorted snatches of the club were reflected, though occasionally  she caught a glimpse of something that didn't quite belong in the room around them, tiny scraps like pieces of a painting torn to shreds. They seemed to be swirling faster, dark shadows coalescing into a sight that was almost clear enough for her to...

*CLANK*

A vehicle outside the window clipped the pavement with a horrendous metallic screech, startling Anastasia out of her reverie. Frown creasing her brow, she looked down to find the orb simply an orb once more, the elusive moment of revelation slipped away like a wriggling fish.

"I think I need a drink."

Miko was showing the professor the proper way to dispense and serve tea in Spain which was quite different than she learned as a child.  However, with each movement and motion it was clear she was quite well practiced and meticulous in her reenactment.  "Edmund-san this is quite simply called Ceremonia del Té in Spain.  Yet, as I understand it very few people practice the art these days outside the lower courts."  As she moved she made sure to focus on her actions and their impact on the professor.  However, few would notice that she was acutely aware of all that went on around her as well.

"Often?" Edmund repeated. "I suppose that depends on how you define 'often'. I try to stop in once a week. It's usually a quite lively place. The workload, and my salary, preclude me visiting much more often than that."

He glanced around the place and seemed to spot a few people he knew.

"Oh, there's old Peabody. Another professor. He's been there forever. The joke is that he was there first and they built the college around him! Haha!"

"Oh, and there's Mr. Twain. Do you know who Mark Twain is? I wonder who that strange fellow he's talking to is?"

"Hahaha, you are a card!" Madame Irenke almost shrieked at Anastasia's comment.

"No, I don't suppose you stare at naked ladies. Well, neither do I. I was referring to the way men stare at us... even when we have clothes on."

At Anastasia's comment about needing a drink, Irenke waved her hand in the air and called out. "Hey, Hugo! The usual!"

Just then a lady that had been sitting at the table where the commotion was came over.

"Madame Irenke!" she practically gushed. "Contessa Schrondorf has spoken so highly of you! Last week, she met a tall dark stranger just like you predicted! She's already talking wedding bells! Oh, I know it's a huge imposition on your time, but could you possibly...?"

"But of course!" Irenke replied slipping into a heavier Hungarian accent. She gave a glance to Anastasia, not for approval but merely to say "What can I do?"

A nearby waiter grabbed an empty chair from another table and held it out for the woman.

"It's Mrs. Cosgrove, is it not?" Irenke said with a far away look in her eye. "Althea Cosgrove of Upper Mertsington. Oh, I'm so sorry about your cat! His name was quite appropriate... Phoenix. And like the mythical bird, he will rise from the ashes."

"How... how did you know? Oh. Right. Of course, his real name was Mr. Bedford, but we all called him Phoenix. We didn't cremate him, though."

Mrs. Cosgrove had taken the offered chair, and held out her hand, palm up.

"An impressive life line!" Irenke began reading Mrs. Cosgrove's palm and telling her fortune. "It wouldn't surprise me if you live to be a hundred. I see children. And grandchildren! And great grandchildren! You have a very detailed family line here. Not so much in the wealth line, but still, longer than expected. I daresay you will be coming into some money soon."

Irenke went on for about five minutes, delving into esoteric areas such as the weather, what side of the street to walk on, days of the week to stay home, charities that would improve...

Mrs. Cosgrove 'oo'd and ahh'd' at all the right places, and when it was over, she thanked Irenke profusely, and lightly shook her hand, which was an almost clever way to pay Irenke.

After the old bat left, Irenke held up the gold crown. "Not bad, eh, for 5 minutes work?"

Miko shook her head, "I am not familiar with Mark-san is he an interesting man?"  As she talked it was hard to tell if she was more interested in the answer or the tea.  At the moment it appeared like the tea but she did keep perfect time with the conversation.  "Do you think he would be interested in joining us for tea?"

"Mr. Twain is a famous American author," Edmund replied just as Twain crossed the room. "Is he interesting? He's an opinionated old coot, that's for sure. But, yes, I would say he is quite interesting... lively and entertaining."


"Ah, he's talking to Madame Irenke. Will he join us? Perhaps. I doubt if he'd join me... I'm not interesting enough! He does have an eye for the ladies, and I'm quite sure your exotic beauty will appeal to him. I'll ask him when he comes back. Yes, I'll do that very thing."

Anastasia discretely observed the Madame as she plied her trade, not quite sure just how much of her act was trickery. In any event, the rewards were undeniable, and she found herself both amused and intrigued by how much people would pay for a few minutes worth of reassurances from a woman with a foreign accent.

"Not bad at all, I shall keep such a career in mind should I ever find myself low on funds."

Her attention half diverted by the escalating debacle unfolding at the bar, Anastasia leaned in to address Irenke without chance of being overheard.

"I almost had it there, I believe. Were it not for some infernal contraption outside with an inept driver, I should think it would have worked. Are the visions very reliable? Of course absolutes cannot be applied to the practice in any meaningful sense, but do you find them to be generally accurate?"

Because of the position of her chair, Anastasia saw the white-jacketed man approach. His hair and mustache were the same color as they jacket, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that otherwised belied his age.

"Pardon my intrusion, Madame Irenke," he said as he reached the table. "I just wanted to check to see if the arrangements had been successfully concluded."

"No intrusion, Mr. Twain," Irenke said, slipping back into her Hungarian accent. "My friend and I were just discussing the weather. The almanac predicts late snow in Scotland, perhaps a touch in Wales, but clear skies this far south."

"Yes, the arrangements have all been made. The Ides, of course, are not auspicious for contacting the other side, which is why we needed to wait until next Wednesday. And remember, only believers must show up. Skepticism is the bane of communication."

"I assure you, Madame, that I will be alone. Not even Nikola will join me. I have often attempted to get him to turn his prodigious intellect to the problem, to whip up one of his marvelous machines to... do what you do. Alas, he is only immersed in the physical that he can understand."

As he spoke, he unabashedly studied Anastasia, though she wasn't quite sure where his interest lied.

"Oh, pardon my manners," Madame Irenke said then, giving a wink to Anastasia. "Anastasia, this is Mr. Mark Twain, the famous American author. Mr. Twain, Miss Anastasia Waldorf-Smythe."

"The pleasure is all mine," Mr. Twain said.

Expression as neutral as one could get without verging into frostiness, Anastasia inclined her head in greeting at the man before her. The  considering look he was directing at her was irksome, reminiscent of the way she felt like a prized cattle when her father introduced potential suitors. Of course that time was long since passed, and she was not so foolish as to estrange a potentially useful acquaintance. Adding a dash of warmth to her tone that was entirely manufactured, Anastasia chose her words carefully so as not to let her mild irritation slip forth.

"Good evening, Mr Twain. I must confess I am familiar with your work by reputation only, I find myself with precious little time for fiction as of late. Are you enjoying your time in London? I expect it must be rather a change from the Americas."

Remi sipped at his wine as Mister Twain departed to visit with another one of the patrons, but as soon as he departed another man appeared.



Remi sized the man up, seeing him as stiff military man. His only real experience with Military men was with the French, and he was not on such good terms with them. However, the fellow did seem friendly enough. Remi was not about to turn down more drinks, so he drained what was left of the bottle and clanked down the empty on the table.

"I would love t-" he began, before being interrupted by the cover-all clad woman. Remi would grasp at his Scimitar, the woman's prodding at the man looking slightly threatening. He lifted a brow as the Military man, now identified as 'Viktor-Stahler-late-of-Her-Majesty's-Ruritanian-cavalry', asked him what he saw.

"You mean the mockery of nature? I have been ignoring it since it gave me my drink."

FOR ANASTASIA

"A woman of discerning tastes," Twain replied graciously. "I also write non-fiction but they aren't as much fun. If I wasn't enjoying my time in London, I wouldn't stay here. Of course it's different than America! That was the whole point of coming here!"

At that point, a call of "Nick!" was heard, and Twain perked up.

"Well, at least he made it this time," Twain chuckled.

"Perhaps you'd be interested in joining us next Wednesday evening? I fear I must excuse myself from this pleasant conversation as I need to go rescue my friend from tender mercies." He chuckled a bit at his own expression, and headed back the way he'd come.


FOR VIKTOR and REMI

"It's eyes glowed blue!" Mercy half-accused (to Viktor) and half-explained (to Remi). "It can't do that! It's not supposed to be ABLE to do that!"

"Hugo... what did you say to this gentleman?"

"I. Said. Nothing. To. The. Gentleman." Hugo replied.

"He says you told him to beware the Ides of March. Why did you say that? What does it mean?"

"He. Is. Mistaken." answered Hugo.

"Well, then, what made your eyes glow blue?"

"My. Eyes. Are. Amber. Diodes. They. Can. Not. Glow. Blue."

"What the hell is going on here?" Mercy demanded to no one in particular. Just then the door opened and another patron entered the club. Mercy glanced up, then called out to the newcomer.

"Hey, Nick!" she waved her hand as she yelled. "Over here! I need your help!"

The man she was calling to was nattily dressed, had dark wavy hair and a matching mustache. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties and had classic Slavic or Italian features. He momentarily had a pained expression on his face, but walked over to join the group.

Madame, I can assure you...on my honor.....that the automaton, did, in fact speak the lines from Shakespeare. Viktor stated in a carefully measured and calm way, attempting to moderate his reactions and voice so everyone else might calm some as well. Apparently it is lying or perhaps does not realize its eyes went blue...however you said yourself you observed them do it as well Viktor smiled pleasantly first at the woman, then at Remi. Do you ride, friend? I am an avid horseman myself.He took yet another swig from his tasty pint, being a man who could handle a considerable amount of liquor before any problems ensued...well at least problems he caused...

Head tilted in a curious, avian manner, Anastasia observed for a moment as the author moved away to join another conversation.  She couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was rather more to the man than a mere writer. Turning back to the Madame, she sipped delicately at her drink before inquiring.

"What matter is he referring to on Wednesday?"

Out of the corner of her gaze, Anastasia noticed the reflections within the ball gently swirling once more, though she managed to not directly look at it and spoil whatever was unfolding.

Remi thumbed at his sword, still glancing between the two. Unsure what the man really wanted, Remi answered plainly. "No. I don't ride horses..." He stepped back a tad when the fellow named Nick sauntered over, giving the whole situation a step back.

Remi then noticed that Viktor had given the pint he promised him to the woman. "What about the Pint?"

FOR ANASTASIA

"A seance, my dear," Irenke replied to Anastasia's question. "If you hold a seance on the Ides of March, all you ever get is Julius. Such a cry baby! I always offer him cheese with his whine."

"Poor Samuel. He lost his daughter. He keeps trying to find a medium that will allow him to contact her. I told him I couldn't promise any results. It's always hard to summon a specific spirit. It may not yet be ready to communicate with the real world again."

"I couldn't very well tell him that you won't be here next Wednesday, though, could I?"


FOR REMI and VIKTOR

As the dark-haired man approached, Mercy seemed to realize she was holding a tankard of ale. She took a long swig from it, downing about half of it before having to come up with air. Apparently she was winding up for another round.

"Oh, Nick! Something's wrong with Hugo!" She then explained about the glowing eyes and what the robot said.

"My dear, Mercedez, since today IS the Ides of March, it is clear that he was repeating words that he'd heard," the man suggested. "No doubt it and the glow of his eyes was caused by an electromagnetic pulse in the aether. The club may use alternating current, but your neighbors do not. They often cause an overload in the electrical grid."

"Are you sure?" Mercedez replied. "Do you really believe in this aether stuff?"

"Oh, pardon my manners! Gentlemen, this is Nikola Tesla. Oh... damn! I don't know their names! Well, don't just stand there! Introduce yourselves!"


FOR MIKO

As the white-jacketed man was returning to the growing group at the bar, Edmund got up and intercepted Mr. Twain.

"Mr. Twain, sir, I was hoping you'd see your way to having a spot of tea with Miss Miko. She is from Japan."

"Ah, Professor," Mr. Twain responded, "nice to see you again. I was just..." He glanced over at the table and as soon as he spotted Miko seemed to change his mind.

"I'd be delighted to join you, Edmund, and the Lady. Let me just say hello to Nikola."

"Certainly, certainly," replied Edmund. "I'm surprised you remember me."

"Nonsense, Edmund! You are one of the few professors that aren't filling students heads with nonsense!"

As Twain turned and went over to the newcomer, Edmund rejoined Miko.

"He has agreed to join us," Edmund informed Miko. "He wants to say hello to his friend first."

Viktor handed Remi the pint of London Ale he was about to drink himselfA shame really, that. If ever you've a mind to learn I'd be willing to instruct you. There really are few activities in life that are more enjoyable. and then offered his hand to the latest strange newcomer, the one the woman called Tesla, in the seemingly never ending parade of the odd and eccentric patrons of this particular tavern.

Good evening Mr. Tesla. My name is Viktor Stahler. How do you do?

Miko pondered the exchange, "He mentioned your teaching your students.  What did Mark-san mean?  And, what do you know of his friend Nikola-san?"

"Some of the tribes I met on my expedition practiced a form of necromancy that apparently allowed one to enslave the spirits of the departed. Frightful stuff, but perhaps it  might be possible to..."

The pupils of her eyes dilating to almost entirely swallow the iris, Anastasia's voice trailed off as the images within the crystal ball overcame her, hand slackening on her drink. When she spoke once more, her voice was monotone and hoarse, describing the content of the vision she was thrall to.

"An airship over misty moor. Definitely Scotland, those blasted heaths are unmistakable. More than one airship. Feels like more than a journey. An adventure, a quest. The metal man is there. His mother. The author in the white suit. Me. Others too. Not quite so clear."

Breath coming shallowly, Anastasia looked as though she might pass out for a moment, skin paling even further than its usual ivory tones. Picking up her glass, she downed the entire contents of it in one gulp, heedless of the impropriety of such an act.

"That was not pleasant. I feel altogether discombobulated." 

Remi took the Ale and nodded in thanks. "I will hold you to that, perhaps I can teach you a few things too." Taking a drink from the pint he gazed at the new comer with slightly hazy eyes, the bottle of wine catching up to him. "Nikola Tesla... damirikanye... snakhsse.₁" Remi muttered, slipping into his own dialect. He had recalled hearing about some inventor, harnessed lightning with some other fellow. Or something like that, Remi didn't care too much about that sort of thing.



_{1 He is American... I know him.}

Leon finally made his way to the gaggle of people at the bar after consuming several more drinks at the table with Mercedez blueprints. If he was going to fly something as crazy as this, he needed to be sure what it entailed.

Approaching the group he raised his half empty glass in the air. "Ah! Mr. Tesla, such a pleasure to meet you at last."

FOR MIKO

"Oh, I try to teach students to think for themselves, rather than just learn by rote," Edmund replied to Miko. "I suppose that's what Mr. Twain was refering to."

"Now, Mr. Tesla, that is also an interesting man, provided you can speak science!" Edmund explained. "He is an electrical engineer and perhaps the greatest inventor in the world! That is not my claim, although I agree with it."

He gestured around the club at the ceiling. "You see these lights? They are lit by electricity... without wires!"

FOR ANASTASIA

After her drink, as the depressant alcohol began to calm her 'nerves', there was a sudden dark swirl in the crystal ball. An image of two dark-haired men appeared, dressed in dark trenchcoats, walking down some steps. They open a door, step through, look around for a moment, and then, after apparently spotting who they are looking for, they pull out weapons and shoot him. Anastasia realizes the now-dead man is the man who was choking just a few minutes ago.

The only other thing odd about the image is that the weapons didn't fire bullet--they fired lightning bolts!

Felix continues to converse with the Lord. But finds that the man has his own problems and is obviously in no position to fund any humanitarian work. Thanking the Lord for the company and again shaking the man's hand wishing him good health, Felix decides to leave... well almost.

The establishment has grown on him, and the characters seem so diverse and worldly. It would be a missed opportunity to not use this time for some networking. Felix makes his way toward the bar, a position where he can listen in on conversations and observe the mysterious fortune teller.

Denholm -- Dash to his friends -- was settled back in the seat of the cab, wondering at the ingenuity of the steam-powered vehicle.

In style and design it looked very similar to a Hansom Cab -- two cart wheels under an enclosed seating cabin that holds two -- three in a pinch -- passengers, and a saddle set high in the back for the cabbie. The steam boiler and engine were under the floorboards, with a tall, narrow stack rising up from the front.  Where a horse and hitch would have been in a standard Hansom Cab, was placed an armiture with a small wheel for steering.

Dash had ridden in similar conveyances back in Boston and New York, but this was the first time he had encountered one on a visit to London, and he just had to ride it!  It seemed appropriate, after all, as he was on his way to a club that his older cousin Malvin had reccomended.  Well, not exactly reccomended....Dash had made some comment lamenting the lack of intellectual stimulation at the family compound on Nantucket island, and Malvin had responded that Dash sounded like "those deep-thinking freaks at the Gas Lamp Club in London".

So, after sailing across the Atlantic on one of the company clipper ships with a cargo of Cuban Rum and Cigars, Dash quickly brokered a deal to exchange his cargo for another of English Gin and Indian Teas and Silks; all of which would be welcome back in the New England markets.

*CLANK*

Dash's reveries were interrupted by a sudden shaking of the cab, accompanied by a disturbing mechanical cacophony -- as one of the cabs wheels encountered a spot in the road where a cobblestone had gone missing.

"Beggin yer pardon for that, Sor." the cabby called from abouve, "As it be, we're at yer destination.  That'll be sixpence."

Dash climbed out onto Barton street and looked up at the four story brownstone, handing up a one-shilling coin to the driver.  "Keep the change, goodman!" Dash said with a smile, then turned and entered the club.

Inside, Dash removed his khaki greatcoat and handed it to the coatcheck; pushing his crumpled white sailor's cap back on his head, he pushed back his sackcloth jacket at the waist and placed his hands akimbo on his hips, and looked around the place.  A smile slowly crept across his lips, and a twinkle entered his bright blue eyes, as he realized cousin Malvin had been right -- this was a place where he belonged.

#I wonder if there's one of these clubs in New York# Dash thought, as he made his way towards the coffe bar, #Is that Sam Clemens?#

"Turkish Coffee. Light and sweet." Dash ordered, as he stepped up to the coffee bar.

Grimacing in distaste at the thought of having to explain what she had just witnessed to a man who would likely disbelieve her, Anastasia made her excuses to Madame Irenke before rising from the table. Casting her gaze around, she tried to discern if the man who was choking earlier was still present in the club, a task make difficult by the low lighting and sheer number of patrons. As she walked to the center of the room to make her search easier, Anastasia couldn't help but wonder where these visions came from. Perhaps she would ask the Madame upon her return.

What she did notice, or rather who, was a gentleman who had just entered the establishment, his style of dress a touch different to what Anastasia would expect to see in London. But, she supposed, in the Gas Lamp Club very little could be considered out of the ordinary.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:28, Sun 06 Oct 2013.

FOR DENHOLM

The coatcheck person that you handed your greatcoat to waited until you were at the coffee bar and then promptly exited the club never to be seen again.

It's not that kind of club; it doesn't have a coatcheck facility.


FOR ANASTASIA

The choking man (sounds like the title of a detective adventure!) is still in the club; in fact, you walked past his table to get to a point where you could observe the whole club. But he had his back to you, so that's understandable.

Just as you spot him, a shadow passes over the front of the club, cast by a streetlight, and the door opens to admit two men in black trench coats and black trilby hats. They definitely resemble the men from the image. There's only one difference: you are standing between them and their intended target!


FOR REMI

As the little group by the bar continues to grow, raising the chaos factor. you can't help but notice two men step into the club. Still wary about the authorities, you assess all new factors in that light. Your first impression is that these new people might just be that, but then you realize that the way they look around is just like the way you do--assessing threats and looking for escape routes.

They stop scanning, as if they've spotted what they were looking for. One of them starts to reach inside his trenchcoat, presumably to draw a weapon, when the other man stops him.


FOR MIKO, FELIX, LEON, REMI, VIKTOR AND DENHOLM

"Ah, Nikola!" Mr. Twain calls out in greeting. "Glad you could make it! A bit of stimulating conversation is always welcome in this place! So, what do you make of Mercy's mechanical bartender? Will it ever join the army?"

He then makes sure introductions have been made all around.

"Mr. Remi here does not approve of Hugo. I daresay he doesn't approve of most technology, but doesn't have a problem using it!"

"I may rejoin you shortly... I have an engagement with a lady!"

He then heads over to the table where Miko and Edmund are seated.

"I am thoroughly enchanted to make your acquaintance, Madame!" he says to Miko, and makes an elegant bow. "Whatever Edmund has been telling you about me, I assure you it's all true!"

Catching sight of both her intended target and those who had come to murder him at the same time, Anastasia's eyes widened in shock, freezing in place for a moment while her brain frantically tried to come up with a way to resolve this situation. Surely they wouldn't be so brazen as to attack a man in the middle of a crowded club? But if they did, and Anastasia did nothing to prevent the man's death, she would probably feel a tad guilty. A positively vitriolic curse fell from her lips as the only viable solution she could think of came to mind.

Dear Lord, even if this works I'll never be able to show my face in here again.

Exaggerating a stagger, she spun on her feet to face the two men, lurching towards them as though utterly inebriated. In actuality, the drunken stumbling hid the process of her fishing around in her reticule for the small pistol she carried. She grasped the pistol, but did not remove her hand from the bag, intending to shoot through it if necessary. Letting out wail reminiscent of a banshee, Anastasia began screaming foul epithets at one of the men. Her screeching was loud enough to cut through the background noise of the club, and likely partially deafen those seated nearby.

"Harold!! I should have known I'd be seeing your sour face again, even after you left me to run off with that streetwalker to the colonies. A harsh sentence for the poor girl, to be sure, stuck with you for the past year. I should have my brother box your ears, you sorry excuse for a man!"

Wanting to make sure that every single pair of eyes in the building was on her and the two men, Anastasia simply started hurling assorted insults, some of them Slavic in origin. She had always found that those tongues held the most foul curses.

Viktor had been quietly listening to the conversations of those in the small gaggle about him, men like Tesla and Twain. He was sipping at his pint of the fine ale served up by Hugo when he noticed Remi's gaze on two new entrants into the establishment. Once the commotion began, a giant grin creased his lips as he watched what was a truly beautiful and well dressed woman berating one of the men who had just entered the bar.

Admittedly his eyes were on the woman, but something in his peripheral was setting off alarm bells at the back of his mind, even as he enjoyed the antics...something was ...menacing about the pair of men she was haranguing.

Without really conscious thought, the former cavalry officers swapped the tankard from his right to left hand. That empty hand then settled inside his coat and atop the revolver at his hip there, discreetly ready for action...

Remi was not at all paying attention to the idle chatter, his gaze catching the men in black instead. They were certainly up to no good that was for sure, he knew the type after all. He was nursing the lovely Pint of Ale that he'd been handed, all the while rapping his fingers on the handle of his scimitar, not taking his eyes off the pair.

Then one looked to be reaching for a weapon under his coat. It was at this point when Remi put his mug down and began to walk towards the two men, the grasp on his sword tightening. He wouldn't have these two ruin his evening of drinking.



After this outburst from the woman, Remi stopped mid stride, stopping himself so as to not get in the woman's way. He quirked a confused brow, then readjusted his course. Remi made his way to a spot near the two men and the woman, close enough to react and possibly get in the way of an attack on the woman. Casually leaning against the wall, he watched.

At the sudden sound of a woman loudly haranguing some poor unfortunate named "Harold", an old jingle he'd heard somewhere quickly flashed through his mind,

#A shrew is a shrew, and it's a beautiful view, unless she is shrewing at you!#

Dash turned about and saw a young woman verbally assaulting a pair of bruisers with the kind of language he'd only heard from old salts.  The young woman was rather attractive, and stylishly dressed, while the two she was lambasting....those two had a look about them that Dash had only seen before on street toughs in the south end of Boston.  However, at the moment, both bruisers seemed completely cowed by the verbal flailing they were recieving.

"You tell'em, Miss!" Dash shouted encouragement to the young woman, as he leaned back against the bar to watch, "Give'em the full broadside! Take no prisoners!"

#Ah, London!#

Although Anastasia's tirade has given the two men pause, it hasn't deterred them from their objective. It just took them a moment to grasp the significance of their forthcoming actions, and decide to act anyway.

From within their trenchcoats, they both draw a gun, although the guns do not look like normal ones. They look like some sort of coil gun.

The man on the left starts to point the gun at Anastasia, while the man on the right aims at Lord Kentigern.

Remi was keeping a stern eye, and as soon as the trench-coated fellows reached towards their coats again he moved in like a flash. Drawing his scimitar he held it close against himself, agilely twirling his from his spot on the wall to place himself in front of the woman and the weapon. "Dame, I suggest you move away." Remi said as he would then move in towards the man who was pointing the gun at her, paying no heed to the other man.

Remi would attempt to move in very close, his body never in line with the barrel of the gun, and press the blade into the man's chest. His movements were quick and precise, clearly very adept at his art.  His techniques were reminiscent of the Dervishes.

Viktor, was only slightly slower than Remi as the new arrivals in their black trench coats produced strange yet dangerous looking pistols. The agile cavalry man planted his tankard of ale upon the bar, then flattened his hand next to it.  Using his arm as the fulcrum, Viktor sprang up, his booted feet finding steady purchase on the mahogany of the bar.

At the same moment his right hand, already grasping the butt of his revolver smoothly drew it from its holster and aimed it carefully at the most available threat, being the man whom Remi was not presently confronting. From this lofty perch, Viktor was able to both get a good view of what was happening and, if need be, obtain a clear and unimpeded shot through the throng of patrons. Cocking the hammer of his pistol back with his thumb, Viktor's commanding voice carried and cut through  the commotion like the trained leader of warriors he had once been...

DROP THAT WEAPON SIR!

Dash had just received his small cup of coffee -- laying a coin down on the bar -- and turned back to further watch the commotion.  As he brought his lips to the cup, the two bruisers in black pulled guns.

"Lord in Heaven!" Dash exclaimed; the stongest language his Methodist upbringing would allow him.

Dash quickly -- and sloppilly -- tossed his cup of coffee behind him, onto the bar top, as he took in the scene.

The young woman had been verbally flaying the two bruisers in black, but then they both pulled strange looking pistols -- one aiming at the woman, one aiming at a seated, well dressed old gent.  While the woman took momentary pause, a large, lethal-looking colored man jumped up and started flashing a scimitar, of all things.  This was almost immediately followed by a dapper-looking gentleman entering the fray in a most gymnastic way -- probably a sailor at one time in his life -- who pulled a pistol of his own.

This was looking far too dangerous, all around.  And, nobody seemed to have warned to old gentleman he was a target!  Dash recalled seeing several other patrons with the look of sailors, as he entered this establishment, and he instantly realised that the only way to settle this fracas was to escalate it -- San Francisco style!

Dash launched himself away from the coffee bar and, in his best Deck Voice, which could be heard through a raging gale, he shouted,

"All Hands On Deck! Repel Boarders!"

Dash then raced toward the seated, older gentleman with the intention of tackling him to the ground, out of the line of fire.

((OOC: the Sailor equivalent of a Carney yelling "Hey Rube!"))

Things appeared to be happening in slow motion at this point, though it was all happening quite quickly.

The trenchcoat-and-trilby man that Remi was threatening started to swing his gun around at Remi, pulling the trigger as he did so. A swirling arc of electricity leaped from the gun just missing Remi, but it was close enough to Remi's sabre that it sent a shock down the blade.

Remi had seen the look in the man's face before--he was prepared to die to accomplish his mission.


The combined  shouts from Viktor and Denholm did startle the second trenchcoat. His aim waivered for a moment, just long enough for Denholm to tackle the intended target by diving over the table. As the two tumbled to the floor, Denholm felt a searing heat on his back along with the telltale tingling of electricity.


At that point, the women at the bar in coveralls yelled out.

"They've got my gun!"

"You mean MY gun," Nikola corrected.

"Okay, so you designed it, but I built it!" Mercy added.


A few patrons are ducking under tables.

((OOC: The reactions of the rest of the bar to Denholm's shout are slow to develop, and will depend on Remi's and Viktor's actions.))

Viktor, upon seeing the man he is aiming at try to actually shoot the old chap that Denholm tackled, squeezes the trigger of his revolver which he had previously carefully aimed at the trenchcoat-and-trilby man's chest just seconds before.

Simultaneously he shouts

GET DOWN!

as a general warning to the rest of patrons of the tavern.

Remi felt his muscles contract before he even saw the flash of the Lightning striking his blade. It traveled down the weapon and into his hand, the pain unlike he felt before. Or ever wanted to feel again, to be honest. The sudden jolt caused him to drop his blade and stagger backwards, shaking his hand in unfamiliar pain. He looked at his palm and saw a burn on his palm.

Now he was mad. Picking up his blade with the opposite hand, Remi took a swift step forward and swung a heavy arching strike at the man's collar bone, then another at his chest, and the last one hoping to lop the fellow's head off.

Astounded that even men of such low standing would attempt such an audacious act in front of so many witnesses, it took Anastasia a moment to recover her senses and draw her weapon from the reticule. Though their guns discharged energy of some sort, rather than conventional bullets, it appeared that their function was otherwise quite similar. It didn't appear to be immediately lethal, judging by the effect it had on the swarthy fellow that had the gall to suggest Anastasia stand down. She was relieved to note that someone had taken the choking man out of the line of fire, and that other patrons were responding to the assault with the force she had hoped they would.

Raising the gun in a double handed grip, Anastasia relaxed her posture as she had been taught, taking aim at the trenchcoat-clad assassin that was currently being threatened with a scimitar. Should he be repelled once more, she was well prepared to loose a shot at the man's chest. At this range, it would be difficult for her to miss.

The sudden shock was a surprise, causing Remi to drop his sabre. As he recovered his sabre, the man swung his gun around and fire again. The electrical discharge zapped over Remi's head.

He came up swinging, hacking into the man's shoulder blade. It was a nasty blow, easily drew blood and would affect the man's aim, but it didn't cause him to drop the weapon though is arm dropped to his side.

He swung again, across the man's chest.

Just as he did so, Anastasia fired. Sabre and bullet struck the man almost simultaneously, and the man fell down, though it was unclear if he was dead or not.

Viktor shot the other man, and it appeared to hit him in the left shoulder, which, unfortunately, wasn't his weapon arm. He didn't go down, but he seemed to hesitate as he re-evaluated the situation. Clearly his intended target was not immediately accessible, but rather than flee, he turned his attention to the more immediate threat--the man who had shot him!

As he swung his weapon around to the new target, Viktor fired again. The two of them fired at the same time. While Viktor was firing, the man named Tesla grabbed a serving tray off the bar, dumping glasses and drinks all over the place. He held it up in the line of fire of the electric gun, and the electrical discharge hit the metal tray and seemed to scatter in all directions. For a moment, the lights in the club flared brighter.

Viktor's second shot took the man down.

In the few seconds of aftermath, police whistles could be heard outside the club.

Viktor's eyes glanced to and fro, seeking out any more threats through the haze of smoke from his pistol's discharge.Mr.Tesla...I believe you saved my life, which places me in your debt. Upon hearing the Police whistles in the distance, Viktor suddenly remembered his somewhat dubious immigration status. Perhaps it's time to remove the intended target of these would be assassins from any more potential harm? and ourselves  from any legal entanglements eh?Viktor stated loudly to the group of persons involved in the fracas with him.
Jumping from the bar, he moved towards the nobleman who had ben the obvious target of the attack, with the intention of hustling him out the backdoor and somewhere...anywhere safer...

More concerned with the muffled sounds of police whistles than anything else, Anastasia swiftly stuffed the recently fired weapon into her reticule. She already held the dubious honor of a reputation as eccentric, and her mother would likely take a fainting turn if she heard that her only daughter was involved in a barroom brawl. But then, her mother was the type to take a fainting turn if her new pouffe didn't match the drapes, so that wasn't saying much.

Carefully stepping over fragments of broken glass and other detritus from the scuffle, Anastasia moved over to check upon the target of the attack, and the man whom had shoved him out of harm's way. Peering down at them where they lay, her voice was somewhat lacking in concern. For her mind was now far more occupied by the prospect of further investigating precognition, now that she had witnessed it efficacy firsthand.

"Are you quite alright down there? I would be rather irritated if I involved myself in this debacle only to find you dead."

"Gah!" Dash shouted, as the tingling heat washed across his back, "Son of a..."

However, just then, the old gentleman -- now laying underneath Dash -- stirred.

"Ow!  I do beg your pardon, Sir -- ah!" Dash said, as he rolled off the gentleman and onto his hands and knees -- all while more shooting and commotion was going on abouve -- "But my rough abuse of you was -- ow-ow-ow! -- neccessary in order to prevent your rather shocking assassination."

Rising to his knees, Dash saw a tall, thin, dapper gentleman create an impressive energetic display with a serving tray, as well as the last remaining bruiser dropping to the floor.

"Perhaps it's time to remove the intended target of these would be assassins from any more potential harm? and ourselves  from any legal entanglements eh?" said a dapper fellow, waving around a pistol as he jumped down from the nearby bar and started towards the now-recovering older gent.

"Hold on now, my good man!" Dash said in his distinctive New England accent, grimacing as he stood to his feet, then assisting the older gentleman to his, "This is London, not Saint Louis! The authorities are on their way. The miscreants here have been dealt with, everyone here saw who did what.  Why should we go any place?  I'm sure the police -- excuse me -- the constables will wish to verify the story of what has happened.  No, no, we are quite safe here, I'm sure."

Dash turned to the older gentleman.

"How are you, Sir?  Again, I appologize for the rough handling."

Remi breathed out a long breath, watching the man before him fall to the ground, his blood dripping from him scimitar. He would wipe the blood off the steel using the assailant's coat, stopping to look down at him. Remi's face was conflicted, showing a mix of anger and guilt. Finally he spoke aloud in his tongue "Nalla nsamhasste. ₁" Remi then slid the scimitar back into his sash, taking time to realize that his right hand was still in pain.

His palm had a nasty burn on it, certainly going to form a blister. With a sigh he rifled around the bar to find a handkerchief, wrapping the wound, grimacing only slightly. Then he heard the whistles of the Police outside. Oh no, no no no... This will not fare well for me. Remi also made his way over to where Victor was, saying bluntly "I agree with Victor, we should leave. It does not bode well for a fellow such as myself to be in a situation like this." He stood with his wounded hand hidden behind his back, and the other resting on the blade.

Remi was clearly not at ease.


_{1 We forgive him.}

"Oof! *sputter*" was Lord Kentigern's comments to being tackled and knocked out of his chair to the floor.

Once he regained his feet, it was clear that he was outraged, almost to the point of apoplexy.

"This is... preposterous!" he fumed. "No, no, not you, good sir," he hastily explained to Dash. "It would seem as if I, perhaps, owe you my life, sir!" He extends his hand to Dash.

"Ruined, almost choking to death and now nearly assassinated... all in one day! It's an outrage!" he continues to rant, though it's clear he's using, perhaps unintentionally, his anger to mask his dire straits and fear.

He glances around at the rest of those involved in the little fracas just as someone else rushes into the club and pulls up short when guns point at him.

A moment later he is followed by a pair of constables, who begin to arrest him upon seeing the two bodies on the floor. They look around at the rest of the club's patrons, and eye Remi suspiciously.

Lord Kentigern steps forward then.

"I am Lord Kentigern! These two... assassins!" he snarls gesturing at the bodies, "They tried to kill me! It was only because of the heroic actions of these gentlemen... and lady..."--he bows to Anastasia--"that I still live!"

His knod and arm wave seem to be broadlly referring to everyone in the club.

At that point, another constable enters; this one is a sergeant. Explanations are quickly made.

"Does anyone know these men?" he asks, pointing at the bodies.

As he looks around to see if anyone responds, he notices Mercy who has been 'hiding' behind Tesla.

"Mercedez Kincaid!" the sergeant frowns in disapproval. "I might have known you'd be mixed up in this!"

Mr. Twain steps forward, and addresses the sergeant. "You, sir, should get your facts correctly aligned before you jump to fanciful conclusions faster than that celebrated frog of Calaveras County!"

This comment brings a laugh from several of the club's patrons.

"Miss Kincaid was as innocent a bystander as myself and Mr. Tesla, though I must confess my own innocence was lost somewhere on the Mississippi many years ago."

A few more laughs... but the sergeant seems impressed as he recognizes Mr. Twain and obviously knows the name of Mr. Tesla.

"My apologies, Mr. Clemens," the sergeant replies. "Trouble seems to find Miss Kincaid whether she looks for it or not."

Matthew recoils in horror at the sight of the guns, corpses, and... <Some kind of electrical gun? Possibly an energy weapon, though it could magnetically accelerate projectiles instead... oh, right. Dead people.>

"Ohmygoddeadpeopleokwaitpleasedon'tshootmeIdidn'tseeanything!" He quickly spits, attempting to back out the door just in time to bump into a constable. Said constable promptly began to arrest him, leaving Matthew confused for a moment, and then a little bit annoyed. And, scared of the men pointing guns at him, of course. "Wait, I just got here, they're the ones that were shooting each other!" Ow. His handcuffs were tight. "Look at their guns, and look at ALL THE GUNS I DON'T HAVE." The young man continues to protest as the police roughly attempt to pull him out of the club, when a man steps forward. To Matthew's defense? Probably not. <And here we go, I get framed for the whole thing...>

Or not. And apparently the man was a lord too. Matthew would be more impressed if he wasn't in the middle of being arrested. <Wait, what was that about assassins?>

Matthew kept his mouth shut for a few moments as the sergeant entered. Oh, and Mark Twain was here. And Nikola freaking Tesla. This place was definitely some sort of brothel... "Ok, yes, erm, we've established that I didn't do anything." He said, craning his neck to look at the constable behind him. "So, handcuffs off, please?"

Utterly unimpressed by the apparent incompetence of the police force, who saw fit to arrest a man clearly uninvolved with the incident, Anastasia took a seat at the nearest table without concern for who might already be sitting there. She had had half a mind to accompany those who were leery of the police, but that option was long gone and she probably wouldn't see much trouble over this. Probably being the operative word.

Feeling slightly magnanimous following her successful experimentation with the crystal ball, Anastasia voiced some of her own insights about the identity of the men.

"I would hazard a guess that they were professionals, given that they fired even after I drew the attention of the entire room to them. Also considering the fact that they didn't stand down even when faced with several armed individuals."

Casting a swift glance at their now discarded weapons, she continued.

"They must be well funded too, I don't believe those guns are things one could come across on any street corner."

Viktor turned his back on the coppers as they entered.  He retrieved his pint of ale from the bar and took a deep pull from it, while at the same time nonchalantly holstering his sidearm. He listened to the conversations of conjecture about the assassins taking place, as well as the intended target, who had identified himself as one of Britain's high noble class exonerating all of them with his story.

Remi never looked at the Constables when they came in, doing his very best to not stand out. No easy task for a 6' tall Negro with swirling tattoos, a large sword, and a strange hair-do. Regardless, Remi made his way over to Victor, keeping his back to the rest of the Club. He would pick up a random glass that had booze in it and take a drink. Remi whispered, "What do you think the chances are of us being able to slip out of here... unseen..." Remi would trail off, watching the reflection off his glass.

Grimsby slipped quietly into the club, and carefully took in the sight of Kentigern, the assassins, the electric guns, and the very mixed company. He knew his duty lay with Kentigern, but his fascination with the exotic lured him to Remi.
Keeping one hand in his pocket just in case, he slid over to the tall man and remarked courteously in Arabic "Peace be unto you, O mighty one. May I ask what brings one so far from the sands of the south to this great city of the unbelievers?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:51, Sat 12 Oct 2013.

Remi watched Grimsby's silhouette reflect itself in his glass, and instinctively he grasped his Scimitar with left hand. He was not taking any chances with any more strangers. But then he spoke Arabic, granted not the Dialect of Berber, it was queer to hear the tongue spoken so far west. Remi turned himself to look at the man, noting that the man had his hand in his pocket.

"Remove your hand from the pocket then I will converse with you. I have had enough surprises this evening," he stated sternly back in his native tongue. Remi's eyes locked with the newcomer's.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:43, Thu 04 Aug 2016.

Viktor was about to reply to Remi's inquiry about slipping away, but was delayed by yet another tasty gulp of the ale he had been enjoying at the bar as he attempted to be ever so nonchalant in the presence of the local authorities.

Having already taken a liking to the African, simply on the idea that he had risked his life to save a man he did not know, the former cavalry officer visualized and mentally prepared for what it would take to smash his mug into the new arrivals face, just in case.

Although it seemed the two were conversing in Remi's native tongue and that was calming somewhat to the situation. Viktor half faced the new comer (Grimsby) and curled his mouth into a smile, hoping for the best. He really wanted to introduce himself to the beauty who had caused the commotion in the first place, alerting everyone to the danger. It was too bad she was seated right at the center of the legal storm as it were, effectively cutting Viktor and his dubious immigration status, off from meeting her, for the moment...

"Denholm Agravain Saebroc Hawkesbury," Dash managed to only wince a little, as he raised his arm to take Lord Kentigern's hand, "Of the Hawkesbury Trading Company, Boston, Nantucket, and San Francisco.  At your service, Sir.

"Under more normal circumstances I would be pleased to be of any further assistance -- even if it were only to help you commisserate over your misfortunes. However, I'm afraid that the blast from that infernal pistol has not only burned away the back of my jacket, but it has rather heavilly blistered my back.  I ask your forebearance, should I fall down.  I am feeling rather light headed, just now..."

Dash glances around, and barely manages a controlled fall into a nearby chair, rather than collapsing onto the floor.

"I say, would someone summon a doctor." Dash manages to get out through gritted teeth.

At Lord Kentigern's comments, heard by nearly everyone in the club, Mr. Twain walked over to him.

"My dear sir, how can you claim to be ruined when you have friends like these?" Twain gestured around at those who'd just saved his life.

"Save my life they may have, but I am not so sure they did me a favor!" responded Kentigern. "I do not know these people, so why should I consider them friends?"

"Sir!" Mr. Twain replied in exasperation. "I do not hold much stock in nobility... the majority of them are parasites on society... but faster friends you could not find! So let me introduce them to you."

Nearly ignoring the police presence, Twain promptly goes around and introduces Kentigern to everyone. Even if he doesn't know that person, he introduces him or her. He starts with Anastasia, elicits Matthew's name from him, moves on to Viktor, Remi, Grimsby, Leon, Mercy, even Hugo, Tesla and finishes with Miko, who he hasn't even met yet.

"Of course, Matthew here wasn't involved, but he heard the shots and rushed into the face of danger to help!"

"I am an observant fellow... a nosy one by others' lights... so I couldn't help notice that your choking episode was prompted by the telegram you were reading. That leads me to believe that this ruination of which you speak is quite recent, recent enough that it may not yet be set in stone. These assassins would seem to verify that, else why go to so much effort to eliminate you?"

After Denholm alerted everyone to his need of a doctor, Felix stepped away from his examination of the two bodies and began treating Denholm.

After performing his introduction service, Mr. Twain chose to join Edmund and Miko.

"My apologies, Madame, if I embarrassed you by dragging you into this sordid affair," he says to Miko. "However, I perceive you to be a bit more than you appear. If it is not prying, might I enquire what brings you so far from your homeland?"

Tesla and Mercy go over to the constables and ask to examine the weapons, which the sergeatn reluctantly hands one over to Nikola.

"It is my design," Tesla comments to Mercy, "but it is not of your construction."

"How do you know that?" asks the sergeant.

"It is close," Tesla explains, "but the lensing brass is too large, resulting in poor focus and shortened range. Clearly, Mercedez did not construct this weapon. I have seen the one she made. It is of superior quality to this one, though no less effective."

In reply to Remi (msg # 51):

Grimsby cautiously removed his hand from his pocket and turned it over to make plain it held no weapon. Still in Arabic, he continued "I trust to the honor of a warrior that we may speak in peace."

Remi let his hand leave the sword, gesturing to the stool next to him, turning back to his drink.

"I'm no warrior, just a man who has no more patience for such silly things," he said, keeping his back to the Constables still.

"You ask why I am here? I think the better question is why does the Whiteman know our Language?" Remi questioned, still speaking in a flowing and elegant Arabic. He was very curious as to why this man came to him speaking Arabic straight off, making him wonder if he was an agent of sorts.

Though, Grimsby looked like no Frenchman he's seen before...
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:40, Wed 16 Oct 2013.

Grimsby said, "I learned the tongue of the Prophet while traveling in the east; I am a wandering scholar particularly given to the study of speech, a skill which has at times been of service to the Crown. Forgive me if I presumed too much in addressing you. It is rare to have an opportunity to use this language in London." "
This message was last edited by the player at 01:51, Mon 14 Oct 2013.

After Felix proclaimed the two would-be assassins to be dead, the sergeant began searching the body. That included removing the gloves that the assassins were wearing.

"Now that's strange," he commented, holding up the hand of one of them. "They have no fingerprints."

There was also a tattoo on the back of each hand.

"Mr. Grimsby, sir," the sergeant called out, "what do you make of this?"

While waiting for Grimsby to respond, the sergeant went through the pockets of both men. All he found was ten pounds each and a note that had few words on it: Kentigern Gas Lamp Club.

That personage in question was still flabbergasted from Mr. Twain's... tirade. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner, particularly from a commoner. It took him time to work through the 'insult', which, perhaps, was Mr. Twain's intent, as it gave Kentigern time to actually process his words.

"Dash it!" he finally replied to Mr. Twain's retreating back. "What can I do? They'll have armed guards on the mine by now! By the time the courts wade through the legal issues, it'll be too late!"

"Perhaps you are right," Tesla interrupted, seeing as how Twain had other things on his mind. "I am not legally-minded or trained, but since it has been used against me by certain unscrupulous individuals who shall remain nameless, I might suggest the barely legal phrase 'possession is nine-tenths of the law'."

"Exactly!" Kentigern replied, missing Tesla's point.

"Then all you need to do is take repossession of the mine!" suggested Tesla.

"Of course, of course... all I need to do... as if it was that simple!" protested Kentigern.

"If it was 'that simple'," answered Tesla, "it wouldn't be worth doing."

He gestured around at the patrons in the club before continuing.

"I see at least a dozen people that I would venture are willing to assist you... not for any monetary gain, though I suspect that wouldn't be turned down, but... for the sheer adventure of it!"

"And, if I'm not mistaken, you have your own airship currently moored at St. James Park. We could be in Scotland by morning."

His handcuffs removed after a few long seconds after Mark Twain of all people came to his defense, Matthew massaged his wrists gently. Overcome once again with a sudden contradiction of desires, the young man wanted as before both to retreat and press forward. The former was, as ever, the most logical choice; here he was caught up in what was likely to become a criminal investigation, and the police had already tried to arrest him once. Matthew didn't fancy his chances of staying out of prison if he stayed in the club, not one bit.

However... behind the bar he could see a most curious contraption. Some manner of mechanical man; Mr. Carswell's automaton, no doubt. It seemed well made at any rate, but that was just the exterior. For all Matthew knew there was a dwarf inside operating it. Glancing around at the people decidedly not paying him attention, he slipped away from the constables and towards the bar.

"Ahem." He coughed into his hand quietly, attempting to get the attention of the object of his interest without attracting anyone else's. Rummaging through his pockets, he placed a bit of money on the counter; not much, but likely enough to buy him the cheapest drink this place had to offer. Matthew glanced over his shoulder as he waited for the automaton to respond. The nobleman and the others were arguing about something. Airships, Scotland, armed guards... it didn't sound like something the young man would like to get involved in.

"Name. Your. Poison." the mechanical bartender responded to Matthew's prompt. He moved with somewhat jerky movements, and made a considerable amount of noise from clanking and escaping steam. It was made with quite a bit of copper and brass overlaying an iron structure. It had amber diodes for eyes.

The robot glanced down at the coins on the counter and added, "Sarsaparilla. It. Is."

As the robot went about fetching Matthew's drink, Matthew noticed that most of the club's customers seemed inured to the mechanoid's noise. A few no doubt looked over just for the novelty of the bartender, or else in hopes it would explode or at least break down.

It had set the drink down on the counter and taken half of Matthew's coins when its eyes suddenly glowed an electric blue and it spoke again in a different voice.

"Cavor. In. Graustark."

As suddenly as it came, the eyes returned to their amber shade.

In reply to GM StarMaster (msg # 58):

Grimsby Baskerville on being addressed by the sergeant, winced slightly --he had not expected to be so openly recognized as having official status - but said to Remi, "Pardon my haste. I must take my leave as duty calls."
He bowed slightly, went over to the policeman and examined the hands of the dead men. He remarked, "It appears these fingerprints have been deliberately obliterated, perhaps by cutting or burning. In India the Anthropometric Bureau has lately been devising a system of criminal identification by fingerprints, based on the work of Sir Francis Galton here and others abroad. It appears that someone was very determined these fellows should not be identified by such methods."
He then examined the tattoos and added --"the fact that both men have these tattoos suggests they are insignia of some secret society or criminal brotherhood, like the Assassins of old. Clearly this was no random crime."

((OOC: OMG!!  Guys -- GUYS!!  I was just re-reading this thread, to see if I had missed anything, and I just realized that TWICE now we have ignored Anastasia TALKING TO US!!! As proper GENTLEMEN I believe we owe the Lady our attentions, wouldn't you agree? My sincere appologies, Miss Anastasia. ^_^ Dash/Vince))
This message was last edited by the player at 05:15, Tue 15 Oct 2013.

((OOC: Okay, I've waited a few days, and since Felix hasn't posted since Oct. 4th, I'm just gonna move on. StarMaster has informed me of the extent of Dash's injuries, so...))

The good-looking chap who presented himself as a Doctor assisted Dash to re-seat himself sitting backwards on the chair, so that the Doctor might have better access to Dash's injured back.

The entire back of Dash's tan sackcloth jacket was completely burned away, leaving only the collar keeping it all attached to itself. The back of his white cotton shirt was heavilly soot-marked, and had several spots where the material was burned away, but the shirt was still, mostly, intact -- until the Doctor produced a penknife and cut it all away from Dash's injuries.

"Ahhh..." Dash cried out as the Doctor cut away his shirt back, "I don't know which hurts more," he continued through pain-gritted teeth, "my injuries, or the loss of a fine Egyptian cotton tunic!  My tailor shall weep, Doctor, when I tell him."

"Better the shirt than your epidermis, my good man." Felix responded, as he poked, prodded, and diagnosed the severity of Dash's injuries, "Just some moderate blistering, for the most part, with a few serious small but serious spots."

Felix looked up without actually seeing the people around him, "I shall need a pot of hot, clean water, a bottle of tincture of Iodine, and some clean bandages -- quickly, if you please." he called out, then turned back to Dash's back, produced a pair of silver tweezers from a jacket pocket, and began carefully removing bits of burnt thread from the more serious burn blisters.

"Ssss..." Dash hissed, as the Doctor began his ministrations, then he looked up at Anastasia with a grimace.

"Sorry, Miss, I heard you speaking, but I'm afraid I didn't quite hear what you were saying." Dash hooked a thumb back over his shoulder, indicating his injuries, "Though I would like to say it was quite bully of you to confront those two bruisers, as you did.  I daresay, if it wasn't for you bringing the entire rooms attention upon them when you did, things might have turned out much more grisly, once they'd shot His Lordship, there, and then had to blast their way out, after the deed."
This message was last edited by the player at 05:14, Tue 15 Oct 2013.

Grimsby can see that the black tattoos on the back of the assassins' hands are in the shape of a hand. However, the edges of the tattoo are slightly blurred, indicating that the tattoos were probably done with India ink... and that they are only temporary tattoos. In fact, they aren't true tatoos at all, just drawings on top of the skin, possibly to cover up something underneath.

Head practically whipping round at the mention of an airship, Anastasia could scarcely believe what she was bearing witness to. Mere moments had passed since one vision had come to be, and she was now watching the seeds of another take root. She cared little for the Lord's plight, and had half a mind not to go in order to see what would happen if she directly contradicted the premonition. She could overhear two men conversing in Arabic, though she was only passingly familiar with the tongue and didn't catch much more than the general jist of their words.

Anastasia was neither foolish nor ignorant; she knew that few of the men present would believe her were she to recount her vision to them. Which meant, of course, that she would have to find some other reason for why she would be interested in joining Kentigern on his expedition. After all, women of her standing didn't typically dash off to join complete strangers on spontaneous missions to reclaim mines. But then, women of her standing weren't commonly found declaring themselves the lover of technologically advanced assassins and then shooting the aforementioned  paramour.

"I should be glad to accompany you, Lord Kentigern. I do not wish to be in London when my mother hears what has transpired here tonight. I don't quite know if Scotland is far enough, but I suspect we shall soon find out. Not to mention that those assassins might not look kindly on us interfering with their work. I should rate my odds of survival rather low if I were attacked by myself, rather than in the company of these able individuals."

A pained hiss drew Anastasia's attention to the man who had thrown himself at the Lord to get him out of harm's way, and in doing so caught the blast of the strange weapon. Though it was more than a tad inappropriate for him to be addressing her while in such a state of undress, she supposed that she could overlook it given the circumstances. The doctor's call for supplies was routinely ignored by Anastasia, for never once in her life had such a request been directed at her rather than a servant.

"I was merely speculating about the origins and motives of the assassins, though I believe that the police may have the matter under control now."

Her tone turned dubious at the tail end of this sentence, clearly still unconvinced of the competency of the men. A touch of color rose in her cheeks at the mention of her outburst earlier, more due to the fact that it had failed than anything else.

"I had rather hoped that they would have halted once I drew the attention of the club to them, but clearly they were far more determined than I realized. I just wish to reassure you that the dead assassin is not named Harold, and he is not my estranged lover that fled to the colonies with a harlot. It was the most attention grabbing thing I could devise at such short notice."

In reply to GM StarMaster (msg # 64):

Grimsby looked at the assassins' hands more closely and said, "It seems these tattoos are only temporary. If we could clean them off, we might learn something from whatever lies beneath. While subtler chemicals might be more suitable, we might try just wiping them with a cloth dipped in alcohol--there is plenty of that available."

Glancing up sharply at Anastasia, he comments, "I had not learned of your earlier statements yet, but I am glad you cleared that up.  This case looks to be quite intricate enough without any additional fictions. Not that I blame you for saying what you did at the time. You may have saved a valuable life."

Looking over at Kentigern, he added, "Speaking of which, Your Lordship, I trust you will permit me to escort you on your journey. We do not want your life to be lost in Scotland after it has been saved here."
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:34, Wed 16 Oct 2013.

Kentigern was one of those nobles who'd had things done for him his whole life rather than actually do anything himself. He would tell others to do something and it would get done. Or else it was something he played at, like fox and hounds. It wasn't always that these nobles were incompetent, though it was mostly the older silver spoon-fed son (and daughter) that grew up spoiled, having everything done for them and only required to hobnob with other nobles. The younger sons were the ones that became men-of-action.

While it seemed that Kentigern fell into the former category, it also appeared that he might be made of sterner stuff.

Having been given a plan, and in such a way as to knock the starch out of his stiff-upper-lip, he was now resolved to fight.

"Your presence, Mr. Grimsby, would be most appreciated," he began making the rounds.

"I may not have been an ardent supporter of the modern woman before now," he said to Anastasia, "but you, madame, have opened my eyes. I would be honored if you would join us as well, Miss Waldorf-Smythe."

"If would also appear, Mr. Tesla, that you have already invited yourself along," Kentigern says to the electrical engineer. "Again, I would be honored, but can't help wondering why."

"I am not the detective that Mr. Holmes is," Nikola replied, "but I feel an obligation and an overwhelming desire to find out from whence these electric guns have come."

"What he said!" Mercy interjected. "If he's going, then I'm going!" She glanced over at the bar before adding, "And I'm bringing Hugo! He's got something to do with this... even if I don't know just what yet."

Kentigern glanced at Tesla first, who nodded, before replying, "I'm not sure I could keep you off the ship if I wanted to, My Good Lady, but your company would be most welcome!"

"I ain't no lady!" Mercy snapped back.

"I suspect you are," was Kentigern's response, "and perhaps much, much more."

Kentigern next went to Dash. "Mr. Hawkesbury, having saved my life once already, it would be quite presumptious of me to request your presence aboard my airship for this foray north, but I do ask if you would care to join us?"

His next stop was Matthew.

"You, sir, are of singular courage or else sublime foolishness to have run into this club not knowing if the gunplay was done," Kentigern said. "I believe I can use a bit of both on this excursion. Mr. Dixon, would you care to join us?"


((OOC: More to follow...))

"My good doctor," Kentigern began, addressing Felix, "I daresay such adventure is probably not to your liking, but I am quite sure your presence will be greatly appreciated, though hopefully not needed."

Kentigern moved over to the bar next, where Viktor and Remi were standing.

"Mr. Stahler, Mr.... ah, Remi," he addressed them. "You are quite handy with firearms and sabre. I fear such men of action as yourselves will be sorely needed on this venture. Will you join us?"

"Mr. Kauffman, as an acquaintance of Miss Kincaid," Kentigern then said to the German pilot, "you are also welcome to join us. I cannot say if your particular talents will be needed, but certainly our journey will begin in the air. Technically, I suppose it started here in the Gas Lamp Club, but think of this as the single step from which our real journey will begin."

Finally, Kentigern walked over to the table where Mr. Twain was attempting to charm Miko, but not ignoring the professor either. Before Kentigern could say anything, Mr. Twain spoke first.

"It would be a strange day, indeed, should Nikola Tesla, who disdains such random adventuring, go on one without Samuel Clemens! Angry demons could not keep me away, sir!"

"I certainly hope Miss Miko-san will accept my invitation to accompany me," Mr. Twain continued. "She is here to expand her experiences of other cultures, and this is the perfect opportunity to visit Scotland."

"As for Professor Trowbridge here," Twain further explained, "I'm sure he's eager to join us but I fear his duties at the college may keep him from doing so. And someone will need to explain Miss Miko's unexpected trip."

"Yes, yes," Edmund quickly agreed with Twain's 'excuse', "my schedule completely prohibits me from joining you, as much as I would like to. Plus, in order to... uh, cover Miko's unexpected field trip, I'll have to fill out at least a dozen forms... get permission from other professors... going to Scotland at this time is completely out of the question."

Seeing that Lord Kentigern was already moving on after accepting his offer of protection, Grimsby Baskerville merely nodded briefly in acknowledgement and turned back to the corpses. Dipping a handkerchief in alcohol from an abandoned glass, he began rubbing briskly on the tattoo to see if he could discover any sign beneath.

"Well, Miss, rest assured that attention is indeed what you grabbed!  I don't doubt but that every single male head in this room turned to look, once you started lashing into that rogue.  Surely you must have know that?  And also that, if either one of them had made any move against you, physically -- which, actually, they did -- that said action of yours would have brought half the men in this room to their feet to defend you.  Which, as it happens, is pretty much what happened.  Again, Miss, a clever, quick-thinking strategem. Very clever."

One of the Club's waiters brought a tray with a pot of steaming water, several clean bar towels, a small brown-glass bottle with ball of cotton wadding, and three rolls of gauze bandaging.  Felix immediately took up a towel and soaked it with hot water and began gently abrading the worst blisters, afterwhich he applied iodine with the cotton wadding.

"Say, Miss," Dash added, looking thoughtfully up at Anastasia, "just what was it clued you to the nefarious nature of those two, any-ee-yahaha!" Dash suddenly ground out in pain, turning his attentions from Anastasia to the doctor's ministrations, "If I didn't know you were a doctor, Doctor, I would swear you were the the Bos'ns mate from the old Sea Spray who gave me my first three stripes from the lash, back when I was twelve."

"I assure you, Sir, that I am being as gentle as possible." Felix groused in reply, "And your salty anecdotes aside, this proceedure shouldn't hurt nearly as much as you profess.  Now I reccommend that you be a man about this, Sir, and shut up."

Dash's eyes went wide, "Be a...?  Be a what?!" he sputtered in mock indignation, searching the room for unfound support towards his suffering.  Finding no such support, he suddenly grinned, and relaxed a little in the chair.

"Oh, I like this Doctor." Dash pronounced to the room in general, "He's got grit.  Yes, ineed, he does."

"If the good Doctor, here," Dash responds, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder, at Felix, "pronounces me fit for duty, I shall be happy to go.  A chance to travel with Nicola Tesla, of all people, on an adventure into Scotland to recover a stolen mine from villans who have the audacious grit to send lightning-gun armed assassins into London, the very heart of the British Empire!  By Heaven, Sir, who would not wish to go?"


((OOC: What I Listened To, While Writing This Post: "Best of InuYasha" audio soundtrack.  Yes, in Japanese ^_^ ))
This message was last edited by the player at 04:21, Thu 17 Oct 2013.

Lord Kentigern, my sword and pistol are at your service.  Viktor replied to the English nobleman's offer of an adventure. He assumed he'd have some better odds of avoiding deportation in the Lord's company, he liked the idea of travelling on a quest as it were with other brave souls such as Remi and then of course the beautiful Anastasia would be going and that would allow him to get to know her, he hoped. I have no love for dishonorable assassins and even less for the despicable types who would employ them.  I hope to assist you in any way I can. The cavalry officer smiled charmingly , then glanced first to Remi and next to Anastasia.

Using some strong alcohol--vodka seems to work just fine--Grimsby is able to wipe off the black hand symbol. Underneath is a strangely-shaped 'V', or possibly two 'V's, one above the other.

The point is toward the wrist.

((OOC: There is a picture of it in the Group 1 Game Map tab.))
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:35, Fri 18 Oct 2013.

In reply to GM StarMaster (msg # 72):

Grimsby Baskerville eyes the newly revealed VV symbol and remarks thoughtfully, "A singular and sinister mark.  That both these fellows bear it confirms that they were both members of the same cult or brotherhood."

Grimsby did recognize the over tattoo, which was apparently meant to incriminate the Black Hand. That's a group of anarchists. The under symbol he does not recognize at all; it's a new one for him.


"Well, then," Lord Kentigern announces, "I see some of you need to make arrangements. So, shall we meet in St. James Park... in one hour?"


One of the club's servers brings a new shirt and jacket to Dash.

"I believe these will fit you, sir," the server says. "It might not be up to your usual sartorial standards, but we are quite aware that accidents can happen, and try to keep spares in stock. Truth to tell, though, sir, no one has ever been shot here before. You now hold the nebulous honor of being the first!"

Grimsby added "The Black Hand and is a tolerably well known sign, used for an Italian gang of anarchistic tendencies who extort funds from their fellow-countrymen in Britain and abroad to support their dubious cause. But the underlying symbol is new to me.  The hand is bad enough, but if it is only meant to divert us from the true nature of these villains, they must be even worse."