𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝; 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟏.

The city of London seemed to be in a state of near-constant rain, and it seems this afternoon was no different. Though sated, drops still pitter stubbornly against the cobbled streets and the window panes of Sir Malcom’s estate, the interior of his residence painted in a shadowed light from the restless overcast sky outside. You’d taken up residence with Malcolm as well as the others within the home for a few weeks now, since your first assistance in seeking out Sir Malcolm’s daughter, Mina Harker — your main companions being Miss Vanessa Ives, Sembene, Ethan Chandler, and the occasional visit from the reputable Dr. Victor Frankenstein. The majority of your company has been spent in solitude as of late, with Miss Ives and Sir Malcolm preparing for a twilight ball later in the evening, leaving you with no escort and therefore no real plan for your time.

Frankly, you never really held much interest in balls, much less this one — usually held by the arrogant and pompous, callous ilk of higher society — this one is no different, the evening’s host one Dorian Grey; a notorious and noble bachelor of high repute, however you’ve heard one or two scandalous rumors amidst pubs and alleyways about the sort of after-hour parties the man holds. Whether or not you trust such hedonistic rumors is another topic entirely, considering the whispers come from the lips of typical gossips and those who wouldn’t hesitate to soil the name of those in the higher class. Not to mention, you’ve yet to meet the man.

Your personal feelings aside, you can’t help but feel a little frustrated at missing out on all the action though. This night wasn’t only one for a bit of well-deserved respite, but one of secrecy and gaining leads as well on a recent situation regarding an ambush on Miss Ives just hours earlier from a group of young witches that your group came to know as “Nightcomers” — witches who have sold their soul to the Devil, using their power for evil. Pushing your worry aside, you decide not to let your night remain in isolation and instead make the choice to brave the unpredictable weather outside to people-watch and socialize.

Truthfully, you don’t really have a destination in mind, your focus instead on appreciating your surrounding scenery, bleak as it is; the smell of rain thick in the air, the clamor of passersby dodging folk and carriages down the streets, the ringing of shipyards and ports as you pass by their docks, tugging your coat tighter to yourself. Only when you look up do you realize you’ve come to the Mariner’s Inn, a tavern and sleeping space practically right on the water, supported by woodwork, mostly. Entering the threshold, you scan the familiar and cozy rustic atmosphere of bleached wooden furnishing, fishing paraphernalia and dimly lit candles, their light surprisingly warm against the otherwise slate atmosphere. Striding up to the bar table with its high-top stools, you spot the familiar silhouette of none other than Ethan Chandler himself, his bowling hat set aside by a half-empty glass of bourbon atop the wooden tabletop. It takes him a moment to notice your presence, but when he does, he turns and offers you a faint smile, his features waned some but whether it’s from the alcohol or something else, you can’t decipher which.

“Well,” he starts, stifling a small cough into a tight fist as he regards you, “— fancy seeing you here, darlin’.”

Ethan’s eyes only linger on you for a moment before wandering past your shoulder and toward a few patrons in the far corner, hunched over a table, their eyes shifting to land on the pair of you before quickly averting their gaze with whispers as Ethan catches them looking. You could say the same for him, you think, considering his late partner, Miss Brona Croft, used to frequent this establishment. Let alone the rumors of disappearances cropping up in the surrounding area, gruesome tales of women and children rended and torn to gory ribbons, gossip of an unnamed serial killer as the potential cause.