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Closed... Boiler Punks and Clockworks
- Thread starter DividesByZer0
- Start date
DividesByZer0
A cunning linguist
London… The capital city of England. London was similar to New York in that its surface was entirely overgrown with city sprawl for years. But unlike New York—which was only relatively rundown and dangerous on the streets and under levels of the city—London was filthy, polluted with coal smog, and infested with crime everywhere.
The smoggy clouds of the city hung low over the slums, reflecting the sickly orange-red of the street lights. It was never truly dark in that section of the city, and the litter-choked streets trapped the residual heat from the outdated houses that still crawled sluggishly under the concrete and iron shells of the crumbling tenements.
They threaded the grimy windows with spidery black lines, ancient history compared to the current standard for building systems. The carcasses of long-dead carriages rotted on the sides of the roads, their bodies eaten away by rust, corrosion, and wood rot. The streets in the slums were long since defunct, and any vehicle that attempted to navigate the hazardous streets had to do so on its own power and own risk. The street lights, too, were mainly out, the candles blinking in eerie, irregular patterns--easy and cheap to fix if anyone had an interest in doing so. But the slums were the exclusive realm of the druggies and squatters and gangs; the city government liked to pretend they didn't exist, and corp presence of any kind was practically nil.
Only drug users and the insane walked the streets of the slums alone after the lights went down; even the cockiest of the gang members went in twos and threes. It wasn't clear which of the two categories the man coming down the street fell into. His steps were too steady for the first, his posture too erect and easy for the second. He was trim for a man, but the breadth of his shoulders under the smooth monofabric of his boot length duster coat were unmistakable, and a subtle warning. Much more telling was the way his boots were completely silent over the street, and he never missed a step even when he passed through the deep black shadows thrown by the buildings.
It was enough to warn off the slum residents, who either developed an instinctive and finely-tuned sense for danger or didn't survive for long. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, barely glancing at the abandoned apartment houses that hulked along the sides of the street like jagged, broken teeth. Even when he passed the threatening maws of the alleyways, with their dark promise of unseen dangers, he didn't hesitate at all. His steps finally slowed in front of one building nicer than its neighbors. It was ancient by city standards, with old chic cornices over the tall windows, and the walls were of actual stone that was worn and pitted with age. What little glass remained in the windows are black tracery in an ornate, repeating pattern--that hadn't been in vogue for at least a century...
Just off the busy city streets, where horse-less carriages rattle noisily over cobbled streets and the sounds of airship engines in the distance hum over head, a short flight of worn, moss encrusted steps descends to an equally weather beaten door. A rickety sign out front says, "English spoken here... American Tolerated." A tarnished brass plaque proclaims the premises "The Hole in the Wall" and faint tones of music drift through the cracks of the door.
Beyond it a dimly lit and smokey tap room opens up with sawdust floors and tipsy-legged tables. The bar a long length of aged wood, appears as if it had stood there since time immemorial. The room built around it bears the ancient battle scars of generations of drinkers, drifters, dreamers and grifters.
The corners of the room draw shadows and soft words, and the heavy scents of Eastern herbs and strong liquor, do better than brick walls to mask the conversations of the shadowy patrons of the stalls and booths that line them.
The Barman, a bear of a man of indeterminate age and temperament, his waistcoat pulled tight over the seedy fat of a muscular man underneath a layer of gelatin, polishes a dirty glass with a rag, that he tosses over his shoulder with a practiced flick. The bottles and barrels that frame his behind seem to glimmer invitingly.
"Welcome, Stranger" He says, his accent as hard to place as the rest of him, "what'll it be?"
Natalie stops eyeing the patrons suspiciously and turns back to the bartender. 'Water please.' She replies absently, as she turns to study the crowded bar again.
She takes a sip from her glass, her nose cringes, her attention finally drawn away from the other drinkers. Upon eyeing the glass, she decides that she wasn't that thirsty after all. She smiles slightly to herself, wondering what her mother would have thought if she'd seen her in a place like this. Over the past year she had gradually gotten used to these kinds of seedy establishments, and the people that came with it.
Picking up her glass again she moves to a table in one of the darker corners of the room. Settling down, she notes that the smoke of the room wasn't so much there due to bad habits alone, but to conceal faces.
A man with his back pressed firmly to the wall, takes a glance around the room, noting exits, and of people whom were carrying weapons. His own revolver sat across his lap, a comfortable weight pressing him down in his seat. In one hand, he swirles a cheap glass of brandy, letting the amber liquid effervess against the walls of cheaply cut crystal.
His appearance was quite ordinary. His hair short, black and unkempt. His deep set eyes were dark like roasted hazel nuts, and pilot's goggles adorn his head. Other than the goggles and gloves his attire was unusually plain, as if to conceal himself amidst the crowd. Something about him unnerves Natalie and a chill runs up her arms.
Natalie was not fond of waiting. She takes a deep sigh, inadvertently inhaling the smoke that the bar passed off as air, she coughes violently, takes a delicate sip of water, but immediately wishes she hadn't, the horrid taste was not doing anything to improve her mood.
The smoggy clouds of the city hung low over the slums, reflecting the sickly orange-red of the street lights. It was never truly dark in that section of the city, and the litter-choked streets trapped the residual heat from the outdated houses that still crawled sluggishly under the concrete and iron shells of the crumbling tenements.
They threaded the grimy windows with spidery black lines, ancient history compared to the current standard for building systems. The carcasses of long-dead carriages rotted on the sides of the roads, their bodies eaten away by rust, corrosion, and wood rot. The streets in the slums were long since defunct, and any vehicle that attempted to navigate the hazardous streets had to do so on its own power and own risk. The street lights, too, were mainly out, the candles blinking in eerie, irregular patterns--easy and cheap to fix if anyone had an interest in doing so. But the slums were the exclusive realm of the druggies and squatters and gangs; the city government liked to pretend they didn't exist, and corp presence of any kind was practically nil.
Only drug users and the insane walked the streets of the slums alone after the lights went down; even the cockiest of the gang members went in twos and threes. It wasn't clear which of the two categories the man coming down the street fell into. His steps were too steady for the first, his posture too erect and easy for the second. He was trim for a man, but the breadth of his shoulders under the smooth monofabric of his boot length duster coat were unmistakable, and a subtle warning. Much more telling was the way his boots were completely silent over the street, and he never missed a step even when he passed through the deep black shadows thrown by the buildings.
It was enough to warn off the slum residents, who either developed an instinctive and finely-tuned sense for danger or didn't survive for long. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, barely glancing at the abandoned apartment houses that hulked along the sides of the street like jagged, broken teeth. Even when he passed the threatening maws of the alleyways, with their dark promise of unseen dangers, he didn't hesitate at all. His steps finally slowed in front of one building nicer than its neighbors. It was ancient by city standards, with old chic cornices over the tall windows, and the walls were of actual stone that was worn and pitted with age. What little glass remained in the windows are black tracery in an ornate, repeating pattern--that hadn't been in vogue for at least a century...
Just off the busy city streets, where horse-less carriages rattle noisily over cobbled streets and the sounds of airship engines in the distance hum over head, a short flight of worn, moss encrusted steps descends to an equally weather beaten door. A rickety sign out front says, "English spoken here... American Tolerated." A tarnished brass plaque proclaims the premises "The Hole in the Wall" and faint tones of music drift through the cracks of the door.
Beyond it a dimly lit and smokey tap room opens up with sawdust floors and tipsy-legged tables. The bar a long length of aged wood, appears as if it had stood there since time immemorial. The room built around it bears the ancient battle scars of generations of drinkers, drifters, dreamers and grifters.
The corners of the room draw shadows and soft words, and the heavy scents of Eastern herbs and strong liquor, do better than brick walls to mask the conversations of the shadowy patrons of the stalls and booths that line them.
The Barman, a bear of a man of indeterminate age and temperament, his waistcoat pulled tight over the seedy fat of a muscular man underneath a layer of gelatin, polishes a dirty glass with a rag, that he tosses over his shoulder with a practiced flick. The bottles and barrels that frame his behind seem to glimmer invitingly.
"Welcome, Stranger" He says, his accent as hard to place as the rest of him, "what'll it be?"
Natalie stops eyeing the patrons suspiciously and turns back to the bartender. 'Water please.' She replies absently, as she turns to study the crowded bar again.
She takes a sip from her glass, her nose cringes, her attention finally drawn away from the other drinkers. Upon eyeing the glass, she decides that she wasn't that thirsty after all. She smiles slightly to herself, wondering what her mother would have thought if she'd seen her in a place like this. Over the past year she had gradually gotten used to these kinds of seedy establishments, and the people that came with it.
Picking up her glass again she moves to a table in one of the darker corners of the room. Settling down, she notes that the smoke of the room wasn't so much there due to bad habits alone, but to conceal faces.
A man with his back pressed firmly to the wall, takes a glance around the room, noting exits, and of people whom were carrying weapons. His own revolver sat across his lap, a comfortable weight pressing him down in his seat. In one hand, he swirles a cheap glass of brandy, letting the amber liquid effervess against the walls of cheaply cut crystal.
His appearance was quite ordinary. His hair short, black and unkempt. His deep set eyes were dark like roasted hazel nuts, and pilot's goggles adorn his head. Other than the goggles and gloves his attire was unusually plain, as if to conceal himself amidst the crowd. Something about him unnerves Natalie and a chill runs up her arms.
Natalie was not fond of waiting. She takes a deep sigh, inadvertently inhaling the smoke that the bar passed off as air, she coughes violently, takes a delicate sip of water, but immediately wishes she hadn't, the horrid taste was not doing anything to improve her mood.
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Lumeneire
Seeker of Stories
The Beauregards
" I think you have found yourself in quite the predicament." Eska hissed through her teeth to the man lying at her feet. He groaned as her boot heel dug into the flesh of his wrist and pleaded with her, desperation pouring out of every syllable of his cockney accent.
"Please ma'am, I didn't know who you were. I would never have tried to stab you in the back if I knew. Please, please don't kill me." Eska glanced down at the man with pure disgust. He was like a cockroach, a plague on the city that would manage to wriggle it's way out of any situation. Well, now his luck was up and there was no way she was going to let him walk away unscathed. She kneeled down and bowed her head, so that their eyes were level, and grabbed his face with the soft skin of her hand. "There is no honour amongst thieves in this city it seems. We are meant to stick together, a force against tyrannical empires, but instead, you chose to figuratively and literally attempt to stab me in the back and sell me out. If you were in my position, what would you do little cockroach?"
She squeezed his cheeks with the tips of her fingers and his grime ridden face distorted from the pressure. He tried to speak through his forcibly pursed lips and as he did so, spittle flew out with every word. "Please! I was only doing what I was hired to do, with it being hard time 'n all, I couldn't turn the job down, nothing person I swear. You understand right? This is all just a big misunderstanding." His body was shaking violently with fear and his eyes rolled back and forth, desperately searching for a means of escape. Eska gently loosened her grip and stood up with elegance and superiority. Although she was no longer holding onto the thief in any way, the man remained on the ground, trembling like a domesticated dog in the wrong, afraid to make the wrong move.
"Well Mr. Cockroach, I see, I see. It has been a terrible misunderstanding and I am inclined to let you scurry away." The man visibly deflated with relief and began to push himself up, no longer feeling like his life was under threat. However, as soon as Eska opened her mouth again, his body tensed and the iris of his eyes exploded with realisation. Her voice was calm, certain and cold. "Whereas I believe all of us thieves deserve a second chance, I am afraid the decision isn't mine to make." Her head subtly tilted to the shadows behind her in the alley and out stepped a man of ginormous proportions compared to her. Where as she was petite, curvy and wearing nothing but soft fabrics and expensive leather; the man was broad, draped in copper and brass contraptions and the whites of his sleeves were splashed with blood. His bronze mask that hid away his face was cast in shadow from his dapper bowling hat and the way that he walked towards them, was like a wild dog on the hunt.
Eska signed something with her hands and the man draped in weaponry pulled out an ornate looking gun from one of the many holsters. As he loomed over the thief on the floor, the vile being attempted to scurry away. His nails dug into the cobbled crevices of the ground and his feet slipped in the puddle of his own urine. He barely made it as far as the length of the giant mans shadow before he was struck down by an explosive bullet.
Eskas eyes narrowed as the loud bang echoed down the alley but didn't avert her gaze as the scumbags head exploded like a melon struck by a hammer. Brain matter skittered across the walls and splashed along the floor. The giant man at her side hadn't even flinched as his powerful weapon went off and before the smoke could fizzle away from the nose of the barrel, he stuffed it back in his holster and turned to his sister.
"Thank you Lazarus. You know how much I hate to get my hands dirty. What would I do without you watching my back?" Lazarus slowly nodded his head and gestured with his hands the symbols for brother, protect and always. It was difficult for a man of his stature to be deaf. When he was younger, it had lead to cruel bullying and difficulties in learning. Luckily for him, his twin Eska was always around to keep him safe and teach him with patience and understanding. The bullying and suffering had lead him to find an interest in weaponry and tinkering. The world was silent to him but he found connections through work with his fingers and feeling the vibrations of blasts. Eska learned how to read people and in turn, taught her how to trick and theieve. They were an unstoppable force and a name that was feared by many across the streets of London. No body crossed the Beauregards and lived to tell the tale.
Eska linked her arm inside of Lazarus' bloody sleeve and gently tipped her heart shaped face up to his mask adorned features. "I believe we have a meeting to get to Laz. Let's not keep them waiting any longer." Lazarus watched Eskas lips carefully, making sure to decipher the meaning of each word and grunted with understanding. They both began to walk, careful to step over the messy corpse, as if it was simply a pile of turd to avoid.
DividesByZer0
A cunning linguist
Miss Caterina Palomba was not enjoying her evening. The slums were never more than a middling amusement for her. And Miss Palomba was not the kind of girl who could garner even that much pleasure from the festivities of the street. To put the pudding in the puff: she had retreated to a library, her favorite sanctuary--although this one was rather small--only to happen upon an unexpected, rowdy disturbance of dregs trashing the books! How deplorable that some one would even fathom to dog ear a page! Haven't these poor people ever heard of a book mark?
Caterina was also disappointed that the library didn't have the seclusion and solitude of her personal library, and not to mention all those distractions from the streets outside disturbed her peace. She sighed dreading the lowly sorts she was about to meet, but where else could she find some... "undesirables" to employ? Maybe it would be a good idea to skip the pleasantries of civility, for all those types understood was money and violence.
She closed her book, cradled the thickness of its leather bound girth and made her way to the streets, wading through a sea of paupers and street urchins that comprised the general populace.
Caterina heard a young tart mutter something about her attire. Miss Palomba knew full well her own feminine appeal. Some liked her style some hated it, and the kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was “exotic,” never "lovely.” Not that it had ever received either.
She would have very much liked to have given that girl a vicious prod with her parasol, and watch her crumple into a fetal position. While Miss Palomba was a proper English young lady, aside from having a knack for clockworks and being half Italian, she also spent quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong. But she composed herself and smiled as the young girl sped past her and went into a hideous hangout... "The Hole in the Wall", how distastefully accurate, however she did find the sign regarding English spoken and American tolerated rather quaint. She supposed this was a place as good as any to find the sort of rubbish she needed to do unsavory work.
She didn't have much of an appetite so she would skip the food and go straight for tea and pastries, as she normally subsisted on. She sauntered in with her parasol, flicking the knob that engaged its collapsing mechanism--one of many things it could do--then grabed an empty stool at the bar. Ignoring the awkward stares she opened her book. The bar keeper couldn't help, but stare at her oddly as if he had never seen a book before. She's surrounded by poorly attired destitutes, yet they seemed to find her strange. Hmph.
..
.
The Hole in the Wall... Relative to the rest of the slums. Touristville is a Cider-clothed oasis. At its heart is The Hole in the Wall, housed in an old brownstone building on the corner of "illegal" and "opportunity," bums huddle together. Gangers strut the streets, and the occasional salaryman comes slumming, The building has been retrofitted, rebuilt, and restored so many times that it's like an aging starlet wearing too much makeup in an attempt to stay young. The wild ivy growing out of the gutters adds to this effect. As a young woman enters. The murmur of hushed conversation waffles over her. The dive bar denizens raise their heads. Take their measure. And then go back to their business. This is the kind of place where everyone knows your name, but keeps to themselves.
However this woman happens to stick out a bit more then the last one that walked in. Both equally out of place, but this girl has a slim figure clad in the latest Victorian fashion, her parasol collapses in on it self. The smooth, auto mechanical nature of it was something people of the slums could only dream to own... or steal. Clockworks were the tech of the distinguished. People lick their lips hungrily. Not only does she seem to have plenty of coin, but perfectly pouty lips that read somewhere between "save me" and "take me." A gloved hand spins the body of her parasol as it lands in her other. She clutched its silk in a away that showed it to be quite heavy, revealing two things. Firstly she was deceivingly strong, secondly there was more to that parasol then meets the eye.
Natalie couldn't help, but remark when the woman took a seat next to her. "You don't really seem like the type to come into a place like this."
"Nor do you, but then again you aren't exactly... How do I put this lightly? 'Edified'."
"Oh keep talking like that and you're bound to be 'EDIFIED' here." Natalie was only tring to be polite. How rude.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe someone of your..." The rude woman seemed to pause when she was about to say something rude that masqueraded as civility. "Nature," she tried, "can do well in the ways of edification of someone like me."
"Well Miss Prissy Pants, in fact there is!" Natalie stared, but drew a blank as to what to say. She balled up her tiny fists. She calmed herself and reminded herself that it wasn't worth it. She needed to work with her hands to make some coin and could not risk breaking them on the woman's obviously Italian nose.
"My dear..." the rude woman paused a moment to sip her tea. "Perhaps you don't understand who you are talking to. I am Contessa Caterina Anna Palomba Di Calabria."
She said a mouthful and Natalie racked her brain. Royalty. A Countess from Calabria.... The Queen of Engines!
Caterina was also disappointed that the library didn't have the seclusion and solitude of her personal library, and not to mention all those distractions from the streets outside disturbed her peace. She sighed dreading the lowly sorts she was about to meet, but where else could she find some... "undesirables" to employ? Maybe it would be a good idea to skip the pleasantries of civility, for all those types understood was money and violence.
She closed her book, cradled the thickness of its leather bound girth and made her way to the streets, wading through a sea of paupers and street urchins that comprised the general populace.
Caterina heard a young tart mutter something about her attire. Miss Palomba knew full well her own feminine appeal. Some liked her style some hated it, and the kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was “exotic,” never "lovely.” Not that it had ever received either.
She would have very much liked to have given that girl a vicious prod with her parasol, and watch her crumple into a fetal position. While Miss Palomba was a proper English young lady, aside from having a knack for clockworks and being half Italian, she also spent quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong. But she composed herself and smiled as the young girl sped past her and went into a hideous hangout... "The Hole in the Wall", how distastefully accurate, however she did find the sign regarding English spoken and American tolerated rather quaint. She supposed this was a place as good as any to find the sort of rubbish she needed to do unsavory work.
She didn't have much of an appetite so she would skip the food and go straight for tea and pastries, as she normally subsisted on. She sauntered in with her parasol, flicking the knob that engaged its collapsing mechanism--one of many things it could do--then grabed an empty stool at the bar. Ignoring the awkward stares she opened her book. The bar keeper couldn't help, but stare at her oddly as if he had never seen a book before. She's surrounded by poorly attired destitutes, yet they seemed to find her strange. Hmph.
..
.
The Hole in the Wall... Relative to the rest of the slums. Touristville is a Cider-clothed oasis. At its heart is The Hole in the Wall, housed in an old brownstone building on the corner of "illegal" and "opportunity," bums huddle together. Gangers strut the streets, and the occasional salaryman comes slumming, The building has been retrofitted, rebuilt, and restored so many times that it's like an aging starlet wearing too much makeup in an attempt to stay young. The wild ivy growing out of the gutters adds to this effect. As a young woman enters. The murmur of hushed conversation waffles over her. The dive bar denizens raise their heads. Take their measure. And then go back to their business. This is the kind of place where everyone knows your name, but keeps to themselves.
However this woman happens to stick out a bit more then the last one that walked in. Both equally out of place, but this girl has a slim figure clad in the latest Victorian fashion, her parasol collapses in on it self. The smooth, auto mechanical nature of it was something people of the slums could only dream to own... or steal. Clockworks were the tech of the distinguished. People lick their lips hungrily. Not only does she seem to have plenty of coin, but perfectly pouty lips that read somewhere between "save me" and "take me." A gloved hand spins the body of her parasol as it lands in her other. She clutched its silk in a away that showed it to be quite heavy, revealing two things. Firstly she was deceivingly strong, secondly there was more to that parasol then meets the eye.
Natalie couldn't help, but remark when the woman took a seat next to her. "You don't really seem like the type to come into a place like this."
"Nor do you, but then again you aren't exactly... How do I put this lightly? 'Edified'."
"Oh keep talking like that and you're bound to be 'EDIFIED' here." Natalie was only tring to be polite. How rude.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe someone of your..." The rude woman seemed to pause when she was about to say something rude that masqueraded as civility. "Nature," she tried, "can do well in the ways of edification of someone like me."
"Well Miss Prissy Pants, in fact there is!" Natalie stared, but drew a blank as to what to say. She balled up her tiny fists. She calmed herself and reminded herself that it wasn't worth it. She needed to work with her hands to make some coin and could not risk breaking them on the woman's obviously Italian nose.
"My dear..." the rude woman paused a moment to sip her tea. "Perhaps you don't understand who you are talking to. I am Contessa Caterina Anna Palomba Di Calabria."
She said a mouthful and Natalie racked her brain. Royalty. A Countess from Calabria.... The Queen of Engines!
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Lumeneire
Seeker of Stories
The Hole in the Wall. Eska always wondered why people chose to set up their meetings at that dive. There were much nicer bars in the city, but then agin, a meeting with the Beauregards usually had unsavoury subjects, conversation best had in the dark, amongst other thieves and scallywags. She however did not see her and Lazurus as criminals, but merely efficient businessmen that provided a much needed service.
Lazarus opened the door for her as he always had, even though he looked tough, he was a true gentleman at heart. It was a shame women couldn't see past his disability and try to get to know the man beneath the silence, he would make a marvelous lover. Eska was more like a praying mantis. Men would be lured into her trap, she would have her way with them and then attempt to get rid of them. But when a man fell for Eska, they fell for her hard. On more than one occasion, Lazarus had had to dispose of an admirer because they simply wouldn't take no as an answer. Laz hated the men that entered Eska's life, he was all the male influence she needed. He was caring, loyal and would never harm her in any way. But she was human, with human needs, needs of a sexual nature that would be wrong of him to satisfy and so, he had to put up with the fiends that defiled her body and would then partake in great pleasure as she asked of him to dispose of them. They were his favourite test subjects for his new weapons and inventions.
Eska ducked into the pub and was hit by a onslaught of aroma's. The most pungent of course was the undeniable fragrance of body odour, the second being a delicious hint of opium and the third, a mixture of herbal teas and absynth. Both of the siblings were used to the aroma's and simply ignored them as they made their way through the table in the room. Eska spotted a few women sat on stools at the bar and subtly nodded her head towards them, so that Lazarus would follow her gaze. He noticed them too and pointed towards two vacant seat at the opposite end of the bar. He pulled one out for her and she daintily hopped on. He followed suit and slammed down onto his own. The amount of differences between the two of them were impossible to count. They were on opposite ends of the spectrum in both appearances and mannerisms.
The barman sauntered over and leaned himself against the bar, obviously flirting with Eska as he asked for their order. She of course ignored the obvious compliment and asked for two Absynth teas whilst Lazarus balled up one of his fists in anger. Slyly, Eska slipped her hand under the bar and onto Lazarus' fist. She slipped her fingers between his, trying to diffuse the situation. She slightly turned towards him and shook her head. Laz loosened his grip and let out a sigh under his mask. She withdrew her hand and started to sign under the bar at him, so that no one else could see the exchange.
"Calm down. He was a fool, I ignored him, not everyone is a threat."
"I know sister, I just can't stand the way men look at you like you are meat."
"And I don't like the way you treat me like your possession. I'm not having this argument with you again."
They both turned away from each other and focused their attention on the women at the end of the bar, nobody any the wiser about their silent argument. The barman slid over two clear glasses of green tinted tea and winked at Eska. She threw a pile of loose change across the bar and hissed at him under her breath. Even though she hated how Lazarus fussed over her at times, she didn't want anyone to annoy him more than they had to. The barman flinched away, now understanding the situation and carried on cleaning glasses at the other end. Lazarus withdrew a bronze straw from his pocket and plonked it into his glass, little drops of the warm tea splashed over the size and sizzled as it hit the surface. He wedged the straw under his mask and began to sip, just as Eska picked up her tea and suckled at the edge of the glass.
After a few minutes of staring and drinking, they both placed their half empty teas on the table and let their hands slip below the bar again. They kept their eyes posied on the women before them but watched the fluid hand gestures unwaveringly from their peripheral vision.
"Do you think it's one of them them we're supposed to meet Laz?"
"Probably the posh looking one. She looks like she doesn't belong here."
"A trap or a serious business offer?"
"I'd say serious but then again, I know how dangerous you women can be."
Eska tore her gaze from the female subjects and threw Lazarus a dirty look. He shrugged his shoulders and signed for her to 'take a joke'. This time, when Eska stared at the woman, she made sure to make eye contact with them. If one of them was the person who had set up the meeting, she would know who the pair were and initiate contact. The Beauregards were cautious and would never speak first, in case they accidentally spoke to the wrong people. If you called a meeting with the siblings, then you knew what to expect and how to find them.
Lazarus opened the door for her as he always had, even though he looked tough, he was a true gentleman at heart. It was a shame women couldn't see past his disability and try to get to know the man beneath the silence, he would make a marvelous lover. Eska was more like a praying mantis. Men would be lured into her trap, she would have her way with them and then attempt to get rid of them. But when a man fell for Eska, they fell for her hard. On more than one occasion, Lazarus had had to dispose of an admirer because they simply wouldn't take no as an answer. Laz hated the men that entered Eska's life, he was all the male influence she needed. He was caring, loyal and would never harm her in any way. But she was human, with human needs, needs of a sexual nature that would be wrong of him to satisfy and so, he had to put up with the fiends that defiled her body and would then partake in great pleasure as she asked of him to dispose of them. They were his favourite test subjects for his new weapons and inventions.
Eska ducked into the pub and was hit by a onslaught of aroma's. The most pungent of course was the undeniable fragrance of body odour, the second being a delicious hint of opium and the third, a mixture of herbal teas and absynth. Both of the siblings were used to the aroma's and simply ignored them as they made their way through the table in the room. Eska spotted a few women sat on stools at the bar and subtly nodded her head towards them, so that Lazarus would follow her gaze. He noticed them too and pointed towards two vacant seat at the opposite end of the bar. He pulled one out for her and she daintily hopped on. He followed suit and slammed down onto his own. The amount of differences between the two of them were impossible to count. They were on opposite ends of the spectrum in both appearances and mannerisms.
The barman sauntered over and leaned himself against the bar, obviously flirting with Eska as he asked for their order. She of course ignored the obvious compliment and asked for two Absynth teas whilst Lazarus balled up one of his fists in anger. Slyly, Eska slipped her hand under the bar and onto Lazarus' fist. She slipped her fingers between his, trying to diffuse the situation. She slightly turned towards him and shook her head. Laz loosened his grip and let out a sigh under his mask. She withdrew her hand and started to sign under the bar at him, so that no one else could see the exchange.
"Calm down. He was a fool, I ignored him, not everyone is a threat."
"I know sister, I just can't stand the way men look at you like you are meat."
"And I don't like the way you treat me like your possession. I'm not having this argument with you again."
They both turned away from each other and focused their attention on the women at the end of the bar, nobody any the wiser about their silent argument. The barman slid over two clear glasses of green tinted tea and winked at Eska. She threw a pile of loose change across the bar and hissed at him under her breath. Even though she hated how Lazarus fussed over her at times, she didn't want anyone to annoy him more than they had to. The barman flinched away, now understanding the situation and carried on cleaning glasses at the other end. Lazarus withdrew a bronze straw from his pocket and plonked it into his glass, little drops of the warm tea splashed over the size and sizzled as it hit the surface. He wedged the straw under his mask and began to sip, just as Eska picked up her tea and suckled at the edge of the glass.
After a few minutes of staring and drinking, they both placed their half empty teas on the table and let their hands slip below the bar again. They kept their eyes posied on the women before them but watched the fluid hand gestures unwaveringly from their peripheral vision.
"Do you think it's one of them them we're supposed to meet Laz?"
"Probably the posh looking one. She looks like she doesn't belong here."
"A trap or a serious business offer?"
"I'd say serious but then again, I know how dangerous you women can be."
Eska tore her gaze from the female subjects and threw Lazarus a dirty look. He shrugged his shoulders and signed for her to 'take a joke'. This time, when Eska stared at the woman, she made sure to make eye contact with them. If one of them was the person who had set up the meeting, she would know who the pair were and initiate contact. The Beauregards were cautious and would never speak first, in case they accidentally spoke to the wrong people. If you called a meeting with the siblings, then you knew what to expect and how to find them.
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DividesByZer0
A cunning linguist
Miss Caterina Palomba was REALLY not enjoying her evening. In fact now she would go so far as to say she hated it. Miss Palomba was not the kind of spinster who could garner even that much pleasure from a pointless argument. To make matters even worse, a drunken man had taken it upon himself to slap her fanny.
She glared at the ill mannered man.
For his part, the man seemed to feel that their encounter had improved his bar experience immeasurably. For there she sat, without escort, in a low-necked gown.
In this particular case, what he did not know could hurt him. For Miss Caterina had been stronger than she looked. And as any good engineer would know, she was a master of unusual weaponry.
Yet he moved toward her, darkly shimmering out of the bar shadows with touchy hands ready. However, the moment he touched Miss Palomba, he was suddenly no longer darkly doing anything at all. He was simply standing there, the faint sounds of music in the background as he foolishly fished about with his other hand for feeling in his fingers, unaccountably mislaid.
Miss Palomba was not in the least surprised; her technical know how and propensity for self defense lead to an array of ways to protect herself. She issued the man a very dour look. Certainly, most folk wouldn’t peg her as anything less than a standard English prig, but had this man not even bothered to read The official science weekly for London and its greater environs?
The man recovered his equanimity quickly enough. He reared away from Caterina, knocking over a nearby table. Physical contact broken, his fingers regained feeling as the electric shock left his body. Clearly not the sharpest of prongs, he then darted forward from the neck like a serpent, diving in for kiss.
“I say!” said Caterina to the drunk. “We have not even been introduced!”
Miss Palomba had never actually had a man try to kiss her. She knew one or two by reputation, of course, and was friendly with Lord Ravenscroft. Who was not friendly with Lord Ravenscroft? But no man had ever actually attempted to force himself on her before!
So Caterina, who abhorred violence, was forced to grab the miscreant by his nostrils, a delicate and therefore painful area, and shove him back to the bar top. He stumbled over the bar, lost his balance in a manner astonishingly graceless for a man, and fell to the floor after banging his head. He landed right on top of a plate of pie.
Miss Palomba was most distressed by this. She was particularly fond of pie and had been looking forward to consuming that precise plateful despite herself and this bar. The pie looked delicious. She picked up her parasol. It was terribly tasteless for her to be carrying a parasol indoors, but Miss Palomba rarely went anywhere without it. It was of a style entirely of her own devising: a black frilly confection with purple satin pansies sewn about, brass hardware, and buckshot in its silver tip.
She whacked the man right on top of the head with it as he tried to extract himself from his newly intimate relations with the wooden floor. The buckshot gave the brass parasol just enough heft to make a deliciously satisfying thunk.
“Manners!” instructed Miss Palomba.
The man howled in pain and sat back down on the saw dusted floors.
Caterina followed up her advantage with a vicious prod between the man’s legs. His howl went quite a bit higher in pitch, and he crumpled into a fetal position. While Miss Palomba was a proper English young lady, aside from having a knack for clockworks and being half Italian, she did spend quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong.
Miss Palomba leaped forward—as much as one could leap in full triple-layered underskirts, draped bustle, and ruffled taffeta top-skirt—and bent over the man. He was clutching at his indelicate bits and writhing about.
Caterina pulled a long wooden hair stick out of her elaborate coiffure. Blushing at her own temerity, she ripped open his shirtfront, which was cheap and overly starched, and poked at his chest, right over the heart. Miss Palomba sported a particularly large and sharp hair stick.
“Desist that horrible noise immediately,” she instructed the miscreant.
The drunk quit his squealing and lay perfectly still. His beautiful blue eyes watered slightly as he stared fixedly at the hair stick. Or, as Caterina liked to call it, her shock stick.
“Explain yourself!” Miss Palomba demanded, increasing the pressure and voltage.
“A thousand apologies.” The man looked confused. “Who are you?”
To make her position perfectly clear, she shocked him again for good measure and kicked his teeth in. He gasped in in pain.
"Pleathe, I did not mean to prethume,” he lisped around his missing teeth, real panic in his eyes.
Caterina, finding it hard not to laugh at the lisp, said, “There is no cause for you to be so overly dramatic."
Miss Palomba was surprised he didn't know her. “I am The Queen of Engines.”
The man looked embarrassed. “Of course you are,” he agreed, obviously still not quite comprehending. “Again, my apologies, lovely one. I am overwhelmed to meet you. You are my first”—he stumbled over the word—“Queen.” He frowned. His eyes narrowed into craftiness. He was now studiously ignoring the hair stick and looking tenderly up into Caterina’s face.
Miss Palomba knew full well her own feminine appeal. The kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was “exotic,” never ‘“lovely.” Not that it had ever received either. Caterina figured that men, like all predators, were at their most charming when cornered.
The man’s hands shot forward, going for her neck. Apparently, he had decided if he could not kiss her, strangulation was an acceptable alternative. Caterina jerked back, at the same time pressing her hair stick into the man's flesh. It slid in about half an inch. The man reacted with a desperate wriggle, unbalanced Caterina in her heeled velvet dancing shoes. She fell back. He roared in pain, with her shick stick half in and half out of his chest.
Miss Palomba scrabbled for her parasol, rolling about inelegantly on the floor, hoping her new dress would miss the fallen foodstuffs. She found the parasol and came upright, swinging it in a wide arc. Purely by chance, the heavy tip struck the end of her hair stick, driving it straight into the man's heart. If it didn't pierce it, the shock would certainly shock it into stopping.
The man stood stock-still, a look of intense surprise on his face. Then he fell backward onto the much-abused plate of pie, flopping in a limp-overcooked-asparagus kind of way. His alabaster face turned a yellowish gray, as though he were afflicted with the jaundice, and he went still. Caterina, who thought the action astoundingly similar to a soufflé going flat, decided at that moment to call it the Grand Collapse.
She had never killed someone before. All she wanted to do was find some unsavory person, which she did, but for the purpose of employ. She intended to waltz directly out of the place. This would have resulted in the loss of her best hair stick and her well-deserved tea and pie, as well as a good deal of drama.
Fortunately, bobbies never came traipsing in places like this. But the presence of other drinkers forced her to pretend that she had just been accosted and the dead man brought it upon himself. With a resigned shrug, she screamed and collapsed into a faint.
She stayed resolutely fainted, despite the liberal application of smelling salts, which made her eyes water most tremendously, a cramp in the back of one knee, and the fact that her new ball gown was getting most awfully wrinkled. All its many layers of green trim, picked to the height of fashion in lightening shades to complement the cuirasse bodice, were being crushed into oblivion under her weight. The expected noises ensued: a good deal of yelling, much bustling about, and several loud clatters as one of the barmaids cleared away the fallen pie.
Natalie couldn't believe what she saw. What a ham...
Then came the sound Caterina had half anticipated, half dreaded. An authoritative voice cleared the bar of onlookers and nosey people who couldn't keep their mouths shut, and all other interested parties who had not been used to a body in this place. The voice instructed everyone who couldnt handle it to “get out!” while he “gained the particulars from the young lady” in tones that brooked no refusal.
Silence descended...
Caterina spied about with one eye open.
"You can get up now Miss Palomba. And why is the Queen of Engines in my bar?" A man who had been slipping into the scenery and unnerved Natalie had been speaking.
"So you're Cid Kirkland, skypirate and Captian of the Golden Peregrine. Can I join your crew?" Natalie was star struck and fan girling pretty hard.
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She glared at the ill mannered man.
For his part, the man seemed to feel that their encounter had improved his bar experience immeasurably. For there she sat, without escort, in a low-necked gown.
In this particular case, what he did not know could hurt him. For Miss Caterina had been stronger than she looked. And as any good engineer would know, she was a master of unusual weaponry.
Yet he moved toward her, darkly shimmering out of the bar shadows with touchy hands ready. However, the moment he touched Miss Palomba, he was suddenly no longer darkly doing anything at all. He was simply standing there, the faint sounds of music in the background as he foolishly fished about with his other hand for feeling in his fingers, unaccountably mislaid.
Miss Palomba was not in the least surprised; her technical know how and propensity for self defense lead to an array of ways to protect herself. She issued the man a very dour look. Certainly, most folk wouldn’t peg her as anything less than a standard English prig, but had this man not even bothered to read The official science weekly for London and its greater environs?
The man recovered his equanimity quickly enough. He reared away from Caterina, knocking over a nearby table. Physical contact broken, his fingers regained feeling as the electric shock left his body. Clearly not the sharpest of prongs, he then darted forward from the neck like a serpent, diving in for kiss.
“I say!” said Caterina to the drunk. “We have not even been introduced!”
Miss Palomba had never actually had a man try to kiss her. She knew one or two by reputation, of course, and was friendly with Lord Ravenscroft. Who was not friendly with Lord Ravenscroft? But no man had ever actually attempted to force himself on her before!
So Caterina, who abhorred violence, was forced to grab the miscreant by his nostrils, a delicate and therefore painful area, and shove him back to the bar top. He stumbled over the bar, lost his balance in a manner astonishingly graceless for a man, and fell to the floor after banging his head. He landed right on top of a plate of pie.
Miss Palomba was most distressed by this. She was particularly fond of pie and had been looking forward to consuming that precise plateful despite herself and this bar. The pie looked delicious. She picked up her parasol. It was terribly tasteless for her to be carrying a parasol indoors, but Miss Palomba rarely went anywhere without it. It was of a style entirely of her own devising: a black frilly confection with purple satin pansies sewn about, brass hardware, and buckshot in its silver tip.
She whacked the man right on top of the head with it as he tried to extract himself from his newly intimate relations with the wooden floor. The buckshot gave the brass parasol just enough heft to make a deliciously satisfying thunk.
“Manners!” instructed Miss Palomba.
The man howled in pain and sat back down on the saw dusted floors.
Caterina followed up her advantage with a vicious prod between the man’s legs. His howl went quite a bit higher in pitch, and he crumpled into a fetal position. While Miss Palomba was a proper English young lady, aside from having a knack for clockworks and being half Italian, she did spend quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong.
Miss Palomba leaped forward—as much as one could leap in full triple-layered underskirts, draped bustle, and ruffled taffeta top-skirt—and bent over the man. He was clutching at his indelicate bits and writhing about.
Caterina pulled a long wooden hair stick out of her elaborate coiffure. Blushing at her own temerity, she ripped open his shirtfront, which was cheap and overly starched, and poked at his chest, right over the heart. Miss Palomba sported a particularly large and sharp hair stick.
“Desist that horrible noise immediately,” she instructed the miscreant.
The drunk quit his squealing and lay perfectly still. His beautiful blue eyes watered slightly as he stared fixedly at the hair stick. Or, as Caterina liked to call it, her shock stick.
“Explain yourself!” Miss Palomba demanded, increasing the pressure and voltage.
“A thousand apologies.” The man looked confused. “Who are you?”
To make her position perfectly clear, she shocked him again for good measure and kicked his teeth in. He gasped in in pain.
"Pleathe, I did not mean to prethume,” he lisped around his missing teeth, real panic in his eyes.
Caterina, finding it hard not to laugh at the lisp, said, “There is no cause for you to be so overly dramatic."
Miss Palomba was surprised he didn't know her. “I am The Queen of Engines.”
The man looked embarrassed. “Of course you are,” he agreed, obviously still not quite comprehending. “Again, my apologies, lovely one. I am overwhelmed to meet you. You are my first”—he stumbled over the word—“Queen.” He frowned. His eyes narrowed into craftiness. He was now studiously ignoring the hair stick and looking tenderly up into Caterina’s face.
Miss Palomba knew full well her own feminine appeal. The kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was “exotic,” never ‘“lovely.” Not that it had ever received either. Caterina figured that men, like all predators, were at their most charming when cornered.
The man’s hands shot forward, going for her neck. Apparently, he had decided if he could not kiss her, strangulation was an acceptable alternative. Caterina jerked back, at the same time pressing her hair stick into the man's flesh. It slid in about half an inch. The man reacted with a desperate wriggle, unbalanced Caterina in her heeled velvet dancing shoes. She fell back. He roared in pain, with her shick stick half in and half out of his chest.
Miss Palomba scrabbled for her parasol, rolling about inelegantly on the floor, hoping her new dress would miss the fallen foodstuffs. She found the parasol and came upright, swinging it in a wide arc. Purely by chance, the heavy tip struck the end of her hair stick, driving it straight into the man's heart. If it didn't pierce it, the shock would certainly shock it into stopping.
The man stood stock-still, a look of intense surprise on his face. Then he fell backward onto the much-abused plate of pie, flopping in a limp-overcooked-asparagus kind of way. His alabaster face turned a yellowish gray, as though he were afflicted with the jaundice, and he went still. Caterina, who thought the action astoundingly similar to a soufflé going flat, decided at that moment to call it the Grand Collapse.
She had never killed someone before. All she wanted to do was find some unsavory person, which she did, but for the purpose of employ. She intended to waltz directly out of the place. This would have resulted in the loss of her best hair stick and her well-deserved tea and pie, as well as a good deal of drama.
Fortunately, bobbies never came traipsing in places like this. But the presence of other drinkers forced her to pretend that she had just been accosted and the dead man brought it upon himself. With a resigned shrug, she screamed and collapsed into a faint.
She stayed resolutely fainted, despite the liberal application of smelling salts, which made her eyes water most tremendously, a cramp in the back of one knee, and the fact that her new ball gown was getting most awfully wrinkled. All its many layers of green trim, picked to the height of fashion in lightening shades to complement the cuirasse bodice, were being crushed into oblivion under her weight. The expected noises ensued: a good deal of yelling, much bustling about, and several loud clatters as one of the barmaids cleared away the fallen pie.
Natalie couldn't believe what she saw. What a ham...
Then came the sound Caterina had half anticipated, half dreaded. An authoritative voice cleared the bar of onlookers and nosey people who couldn't keep their mouths shut, and all other interested parties who had not been used to a body in this place. The voice instructed everyone who couldnt handle it to “get out!” while he “gained the particulars from the young lady” in tones that brooked no refusal.
Silence descended...
Caterina spied about with one eye open.
"You can get up now Miss Palomba. And why is the Queen of Engines in my bar?" A man who had been slipping into the scenery and unnerved Natalie had been speaking.
"So you're Cid Kirkland, skypirate and Captian of the Golden Peregrine. Can I join your crew?" Natalie was star struck and fan girling pretty hard.
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