London rain was far different from that on the Surface. For one, it couldn’t really be considered “rain” in the first place, given the fact that it was the leaking of the cavern roof and not the skies. It was rarely ever more than a gentle, steady pattering, and it smelled strongly of the earth and strange metals that Madison couldn’t quite place. Regardless, it was still rain enough for the citizens of the Neath, and most street-goers at this time were in a scramble for shelter or an umbrella.

Madison had been on his way to the local bakery when the false-rains hit, and, like others, had been left stranded without an umbrella (seeing as how there were no clouds down in the depths to read the weather by). He enjoyed a good storm, really. Even when he lived back on the Surface, there was something magical about the quiet drum of droplets against the roof. However, given how incredibly cold underground downfall was, it wasn’t long before Madison found himself rushing to his nearest hangout, bag hoisted above his head in an attempt to ward off the worst of it.

He found himself now in one of the plush loveseats of The Singing Mandrake. It was quiet, now, quieter than it usually was in the evening, but there was still a passionate young man waxing poetic about his lover on-stage. Still a crowd that hooted appreciatively, or laughed and hurled their drunken commentary. Madison himself was content to just listen and applaud, playing a round of solitaire and taking long, leisurely swigs from a mug of oyster tea (while spiced wine was being offered on menu, it was still rather early in the day, and there was research to be done). It was good and warm and mild, and the air was sweet with camaraderie.

All in all, with the chill of the damp air sealed outside, it was shaping out to be a good day indeed.

---

The fog was particularly heavy this morning.

London always seemed to have a wall of fog thick enough to cut, but the cool rain against the cobblestone left anyone trying to navigate the city streets almost dead-blind. From what Dawn had heard throughout the years, London had been prone to seas of mist even before the Fall. The main difference now was that the eternal night made it even more difficult to tell just where you were before you walked face-first into a lamp pole. Or off a pier. Many things, really.

Dawn clicked her way down the damp streets, one hand gripped around an umbrella, the other keeping a firm grip on the oil lantern held out in front of her. It did little to break through the fog, of course, but it helped enough that she was loathe to go out without it. Her hat was tilted upwards, almost jovially compared to her usual angle, and wisps of fog curled about the folds of her dress like the ghost of a cat. If the ghosts of cats were almost a sickly shade of greenish-grey and occasionally twitched and writhed and shuddered, that is.

She had no cases, currently, so had decided to take a bit of time for herself to unwind. However, Caligula’s Coffee, her usual haunt, had been crowded to the point of unpleasantness due to the rain. So, she found herself roaming in search of the next best tea-serving, leak-proof place she could think of that wasn’t too far off.

Dawn stepped into The Singing Mandrake, folding up her umbrella and tying it in two short, deft movements. It was a bit busy here, too, but not in the case of Caligula’s, where you couldn’t take a step before bumping into some other weary occupant. She quietly bought herself a mushroom tea and sat down in one of the few empty booths, savoring the warmth with both hands as the poet on stage rambled about Tomb Colonists and the secrets you could find under their bandages (“if,” the man said, “you can charm the folks outta them quick enough.” A lecherous wink.).

The rumble of the crowd was calming, and Dawn settled in her chair to listen, sipping idly at her tea. Could never know what you might pick up here and there.

Jeffery marched through the cities streets and frowned under his hood from the pouring rain. Not only is it a pain trying to keep his gunpowder dry, but trying to find a place out of the rain seemed damn near impossible! Every building, establishment- hell, even a few boxes were filled to the brim with the cities residence. Speaking of residence, Jeffery was not to sure as how to feel about them. He had heard rumors about the fallen city of London and its people, but he just waved them off as mere rumors. He didn't really think there were these, well, unnatural beings of nature living here. Plus, the strangest thing about this city was its ability to unsettle, yet fascinate Jeffery at the same time. He couldn't explain why, maybe it was the damn rain.

Jeffery groaned and continued to scan for any suitable places to escape the cities unnatural rain. Finally, after what felt like ages Jeffery spotted an establishment that seemed perfect for shelter. "The Singing Mandrake," he mumbled to himself as he scanned the buildings sign and entered. Jeffery was welcomed by the sight of a bustling establishment. People laughed and sang as they drank their way through the rainy day. People applauded and cheered for the performers on stage and Jeffery couldn't help but smirk. "Seems like a fine place to rest," he said to himself and made his way to an empty booth. Though Jefferies smirk soon disappeared as he glanced left and right to see a few of the patrons giving him an odd, or weary look. He didn't blame them really seeing as how he had his rifle slung over his back, pistol to his right waist and short sword to his left. He wasn't looking for trouble, just a place to think and plan out his new job. Sadly though his appearance didn't give everyone else that message.

He pulled his hood a bit farther down so he couldn't make eye contact with anyone and found a empty booth. He gently placed his rifle onto the table, sat down and pulled out a folded letter left to him by is apparent new employer. Jeffery sighed and made sure to conceal the letter so no one could see it. Didn't want nosey people digging into his business. He unfolded the letter and raised an eyebrow as examined the letter. All that was written was a messy message saying over and over again, "KILL MASTERS! KILL MASTERS!" Jeffery shook his head and groaned before whispering to himself. "Who in the hell are your masters?

Fallen London, The Echo Bazaar

The frequent mists and weeping rains of London had never bothered Alex. They were staple facts of life, true, but minor annoyances at best; she had plush carriages and servants with umbrellas to keep her from the cold and the wet. Watching the curtains of rain sweep down from the roof onto the outskirts of the city from the spire-heights of her home, seeing the myriad gaslights blur into diffuse, useless haloes, that was oddly soothing. Particularly when the wild weather was safely locked on the other side of a pane of glass.

Even as London’s doughty workers scrambled for shelter, she knew, the less salubrious denizens of the Neath would be making their moves and fighting their battles amid the cloying anonymousness of the mist, relying on the chill creep of the rain to wash away the evidence and their tracks both.

Knife-and-Candle players, the agents of the Foreign Office, gang members, dockhands, even the odd academic, all of them would be flitting from shadow to obscuring light, jockeying for position, power and influence under its spell.

Not that Alex was immune, exactly, it was more that the majority of her schemes and plots were done at a remove. She had, these days, people to go out and get their hands dirty. Most of them didn’t even know the title of their employer, still less her actual name. Which was just fine by Alexandra St. Clair, just fine indeed. Of value to the Bazaar she might have been, but – simple capitalism told her – there was a point where expenditure on an asset would outstrip its value, and at that point the pragmatic thing to do was to cut one’s losses. Better all round, therefore, to keep things low-key, restrained. The Bazaar was, after all – in all things save love – ruthlessly pragmatic.

Besides, the rain would be good for the roses.

And thinking of roses…a knife-like smile cut across her bloodless features, and she rose from her wing-backed armchair in a silken susurrus, her Parabola-silk gown tumbling in liquidly-gleaming ruches about her wasp-waisted form.

Red was the overwhelming impression, rich crimson bleeding from every fold and ruffle. Scarlet dripped from her jewels, too, rubies and black opals in dark profusion, and her lips were the colour of Mr. Wines’ finest vintage. She almost seemed to leave vermilion trails in the air as she glided through the world; that overwhelming redness had become, over the years, something of a trademark. Many assumed that the Lady in Red was so for her striking clothing – not so.

Red honey, that beyond-illegal stuff of dreams and memories and nightmares, that was the real reason. A gardener of particularly eccentric tastes, taking delight in the infliction of painful senility far more than anything that might be gained supping the nectar of Parabola, Alexandra St. Clair’s prettily-manicured hands held the spigots of much of the Fifth City’s honey trade, and it was her immurement in the crimson part of it in particular which had given her the soubriquet.

That she played up to it with her clothing was merely a pleasant happenstance, a frivolous bit of obfuscation which surprisingly many fell for. Helped along, perhaps, by the poison-green viric glow of her eyes.

She sent her majordomo, a discreetly-efficient deviless with burning red eyes – furthering the Red Lady’s idiosyncrasy, naturally – to summon the carriage. Veilgarden would be humming, the district that was the haunt of the low and the dissolute, the depraved hedonists and struggling artists, all of whose habits and muses, their path through life, was eased and soothed by the sweet kiss of honey.

Alex St. Clair had a vast network of agents and distributors, of course, but there were times when it paid to make a personal visit. Just to keep an eye on things, and to remind those highly-placed enough that their employer still had her finger on the pulse. And with the honey-sippers and lovers, the desperate and the depressed, the repressed and listless, the uninspired artists and jaded whores all driven indoors, well, that was the time for the honey-sellers to make a killing.

The exquisitely-sprung coach and four thundered through the rain-slick streets from the spires of the Bazaar, trailing bats and streamers of scarletine light as it passed, the mist bursting apart before it and swirling crazily in its wake. The coachman’s lash was a line of flame in the gaslit gloom, and the horses’ brass-shod hooves struck cataracts of sparks from the cobbles as Alex St. Clair bowled through the city, scattering pedestrians like ninepins.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fallen London, Veilgarden District

Music and merriment saturated the air of Veilgarden in spite of all the rain could do, the bars and clubs of the district full to bursting as the denizens of London sought escape in wine, women and song.

Alex felt a pang of nostalgia as her sinfully comfortable carriage halted in front of Veilgarden’s most famous – and infamous – tavern. Even the sign was the same, swinging gently in the zee-breeze and beading with the moisture in the air. She paused in the entryway for a moment, even as her coachman fussed with the horses, letting the poet’s bawdy lines wash over her and the fug of a well-stocked taproom wrap her in its invisible arms.

Her baleful eyes swept the crowded Singing Mandrake, missing very little as they danced across musicians and artists, the bartender – with a nod – and the staff, and then played over the more unusual patrons, driven in by necessity or whimsy. Rubbery Men, slurping unobtrusively in one of the darker corners. A couple of deliverymen, looking anxiously out at the lashing rain. A bristling soldier-type, too, all guns and bewilderment, as ill-suited to the Mandrake as the Mandrake would have been to an Army barracks.

Hmm. She’d expected the Mandrake to be busy, but not this busy. A smile at the bartender - a demure upcurve of her painted lips, not the white-spired too-wide grin of true mirth or fulminant rage – saw one of the staff hurrying forward with a fortifying spiced wine, redder than blood and with the thinness of its alcohol hidden by the riot of spice.

Glass in hand, Alex St. Clair swept towards the most unobtrusive person in the tavern, reasoning that they were probably trying to appear so and therefore might be interesting. Or at least worth keeping an eye on.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she stated, sliding elegantly into the seat opposite Dawn Memoli in a whisper of dancing Parabola-silk, her glass gleaming amidst the ophidian-crimson gleam of her gloves and her venom-green eyes level and calm. “Foul weather we’re having, even for the Neath. Good for business, though, no?”

The Furtive Technician sat at a table in the lively bustle of the Singing Mandrake, staring through tinted spectacles at the cup of liquid in her hand.

It was pitch black, sort of viscous, coating the sides.

If you knew of the source, of course, you'd be aware that that was more from any botanicals it was cut with than the actual...active ingredient you could say. It was a spring that produced it. A spring that ran from a cave that was near impossible to find...and should not be uncovered.

In spite of herself, the woman fidgeted, pushing the glass between her cupped hands.

No going back after this.

Which had to be a good thing.

She would just have to count on her innate intelligence to know how to deal with things from then on. She had her wits about her enough that she could probably carve out some niche for herself in the Fifth City...maybe one day even remove the glasses.

If it worked.

If not...where to go from there?

Would death drive it away? Selling her soul to a devil? Running away to the north to live on a frigid rock among voiceless exiles and miserable monkey colonies?

Her mind was full of possibilities now... but none of those would mean a thing if she went though with her current plan.

If anything, the decision was already made. Last Echo spent on Bottled Oblivion. Probably not even the best rate, but it was becoming a little bit of a moot point really. If she was terribly concerned about her material goods she probably would not be looking even half as dishevelled as she did now...and might have thought to at least seize a few belongings on her departure from Grand Geode. She'd probably dropped about five social classes in the space of about a week...and she was remotely aware that she was getting occasional looks from the fashionable patrons as someone who did not really belong here.

At one point, that probably would really have worried her.

The Researcher smirked grimly, swirling her glass once again and peering into its depths.

"...hope I get to keep my whole new sense of perspective."

Even in a rain-thickened crowd such as this one, the woman was hard to miss. Jewels woven and buried in her hair spoke of riches that most of her fellow patrons could only dream of tasting. A dress made of finely woven, Parabolian silk, glinting with the colors of dreams. However, what stood out to Dawn the most was simply the way she held herself. Like she had the reins of life wrapped tightly around her fist, leading it along as slowly or swifty as she desired. Perfectly and utterly in control.

Dawn gave her an amiable smile as she sat down, shaking her head and placing the mug onto the table with a faint “click”. “Not at all, madam,” she said. “I don’t mind the company.” Unlike Alex, Dawn was a wisp of a woman, voice soft and face weary. Her dress was well-fitted, but simple in design and colored a modest cloud-blue. Her hair was pinned back neatly, but without much flair. The only thing particularly fancy about her appearance was her hat, which bore the black feathers of Surface ravens.

There was also her revolver, but that was concealed in the folds of her dress, neatly out of sight.

“And I’d have to agree with you, on that. There’s ah, less of a risk of slipping in regular London fog, I think. Although this place certainly seems to be benefiting from all the rain.” Dawn extended a darkly-gloved hand towards Alex, grey eyes meeting green.

“Dawn Memoli. It’s nice to meet you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn spotted a few more water-logged customers stumble in. A somewhat flustered looking soldier. A woman wearing the tattered remnants of a navy uniform. Curious, but Dawn kept her focus largely on the stranger before her, quietly respectful.

---

It wasn’t uncommon for The Mandrake to be populated with particularly colorful sorts of people. It was a place where inspiration could frolic, where Clay Men and writers could get drunk on each other’s shoulders. It was rather heartwarming to watch, really. The stuff of dreamy poetry and wistfully-woven novels, although Madison was by no means a writer. There were the Rubbery Men, a small flock of devils casting speculative looks about the bar, a soldier, a rather lovely noblewoman, and…

Madison looked up from his deck of cards, just in time to see a woman in a battered down uniform stroll in and into one of the nearest empty booths. In her hands was the muted gleam of Bottled Oblivion. It was difficult to read her expression fully, seeing as how she bore shades despite being miles underground, but she seemed rather troubled. While Madison hated to pester someone who was likely just trying to seek out some reprieve from the rain, that bottle, the dishevelled look- it concerned him.

Polishing off the last of his tea, Madison rose, patted out the front of his dress, then weaved his way through the crowd and to the table the woman was seated at. He hesitated a moment, glancing the woman over, then put on his most disarming smile and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, “I hope that I’m not bothering you, but would it be alright for me to sit here? You seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

His eyes once again travelled downward, falling upon the sinister gleam of the Oblivion.

Elias and his pals sat on the shingles of a series of row houses near Veilgarden, their little legs hanging off the edge and kicking absentmindedly. They were not an uncommon sight in the grand city; London was full of nearly feral children like themselves and the sight of five boys sitting on a rooftop barely called for a second glance.

"What you lot wanna do today?" asked Biggim, picking at a loose thread on his ragged trousers. He was by far the biggest of the group, a portly boy with a double chin, while the rest were thin, scrawny kids. His actual name was Martin, but, being the biggest of the group the other boys took to calling him "Big M", which became "Biggim" after a time.

"I dunno, mate. 'ow 'bout we go to the docks and throw rocks at the zee-bats?" Stinky suggested, tossing a pebble onto the street below. The boy lived up to his moniker. Even among this filthy and dirty group, he was by far the smelliest.

"No, Stinky, I don't wanna do that today. We did that yesterday, you smelly git." Biggim said, pinching his nose in a mocking gesture as he spoke.

Elias, or "Jimmy Slip" to his friends, laid back on the shingles of the rooftop, looking up at the cave wall and listening to the others banter. A small drop of water landed on his cheek, and a few more followed. It was beginning to rain.

"Let's head down, boys," Chuck, the oldest of the group (at the ripe age of 13) ordered, "it's beginning to rain." Chuck had an educated accent, which hinted at a proper upbringing. He didn't like to brag about it, but he was the only child in the group who could read. And, as the eldest, the default leader.

The boys began climbing down the gutter pipe they had used to reach the roof earlier. As the last one reached the cobbled stone street, they looked around. The rain was beginning to pick up, and the group scanned the street looking for shelter. "Oi," Biggim yelled, "let's get under that stoop right there, see?" he pointed to a sewer opening under a set of stairs leading to a home across the street. The sewers were relatively dry, only a small trickle of dirty water usually flowing in the very bottom of channel.

As the group hurried across the street, Petey, the smallest, youngest, and shiest quietly said, "Jimmy, I'm 'ungry."

Biggim, at the head of the group, managed to overhear Petey. "Shut it, Petey. 'ow can you be so 'ungry all the time? Look at you, mate, you're nothing but skin and bones, you shouldn't need to eat more'n twice a week!" he picked up a rock in the street and threw it Petey, hitting him in the shoulder. Petey let out a low whimper in response and brought his chin to his chest.

"Biggim," Elias said, angrily, "why you always gotta pick on Petey, mate? Pick on someone else, someone your own size..." he trailed off, then added, "Oh, that's right, cuz there ain't no one in the group that is your size!" Stinky burst out laughing. Chuck who was always serious, did not. Petey let a shy smile creep on his face.

"Oh shut it, you git." He sneered at both Elias and Stinky. "But Petey is right. What we 'aving for lunch today, eh?"

"Probably more mushrooms," Chuck stated, matter-of-factly. "That's all we can afford, gents."

"Jimmy," Petey said sheepishly, staring at his feet, "I'm tired of mushrooms."

"Yeah, bugger mushrooms, Split. Let's get some meat. I ain't ate meat in weeks." Biggim nodded as he spoke.

Elias put a hand on Petey's shoulder, and Petey looked up at him, the rain making streaks of clean in the soot and dirt on his face. "Alright, Petey," he said, "I'll go get us some money. What do you wanna eat, mate?"

Petey thought for a moment, then said, "Crab."

"Ah, piss on crab, mate. I 'ate that stuff. Can't we 'ave something better?" Biggim protested, but no one listened. Biggim always had to have his way.

Elias smiled at his buddy. "Alright, Petey. I'll go buy us some crab."

A giant smile erupted on Petey's face and his eyes lit up. "Really, Jimmy? Really?"

Elias just nodded and headed off down the street towards Veilgarden. He could always find an unassuming mark there.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Elias was set up down the street from a rather busy pub. He couldn't make out the name written on the sign, but he knew it from others as the Singing Mandrake. The rain was forcing many people into the establishment, ensuring the place would be packed, and people would be bumping into each other regularly. Most would likely not notice a small hand reaching into their pockets, pulling a few pence here and there.

He casually walked down the street towards the pub, kicking at a stone in the road to try to keep a low profile. His hands were sunk deep into his own pockets, his head down facing the rock, but his eyes were trained on the establishment itself. As he was halfway down the street to the pub, a carriage rolled up. Out stepped one of the fanciest ladies he had ever seen, all dressed in red. He stopped momentarily, his mouth agape, before he came to his senses. He smirked to himself, and went back to kicking the rock down the street.

He had his mark. She was likely not used to dealing with pickpockets like him. She'd be easy to steal from. He approached the door, and slipped in behind a gentleman and lady who entered after the red woman. She stood out in the crowded floor, sitting with another woman at a table. Trying to avoid drawing unnecessary attention, he slipped through the crowd towards her table.

He watched for a moment, looking for an opening. When the two women were deep in conversation, he approached the red woman from behind, eyes locking in on her handbag, his little hand reaching out...

It was dangerous to move about in the fog without a Lantern. Though the light could be viewed as near useless to the user, save for some measure of comfort, it was more a sign of goodwill for ones fellows on the streets. A lantern signified that some soul was there behind the fog, holding it, and trying to find their way to their destination. This avoided the unpleasant, and undoubtedly uncouth action of bumping into someone in the darker places of the Fallen London streets.

Montana, quite against his outward appearance as a well kept gentleman, had no such lantern. Which meant his eventual collision into someone that did was quite intentional.

As he rounded off of a particularly dark alleyway, his body met with another. He quickly made his apology, and left with a quick pat of the other persons breast-pocket. The slight out of paper giving way under weight could be heard. A message delivered, a message received. This person would be momentarily confused, obviously the kind of person who's first reaction wasn't one of immediate retribution, hence the lack of knife in Roderic's ribcage. By the time they realized that a message had been left, the courier was long gone lighting the lantern he had stowed to blend in with the other responsible, self concerned citizens of the Fifth City.

The Singing Mandrake was his final destination, somewhere to idle for a few hours while he decided what his next job was going to be for the day.

He crossed the threshold, quickly shaking whatever droplets had gathered on the brim of his hat, off. There was little do be done about his overcoat, he had no choice but to wait for the room temperature to dry it out.

The man took a quick run of the room, a dash of colour caught his eye, which inspired him to take a seat in the immediate area. The only available booth seemed to be manned by a heavily armed gentleman sporting a rather obsessed look.

Roderic removed his hat, and strode towards the booth, before he spoke, he gave a short, but courteous bow.

"Good Day, It's not my wish to impose so boldly, but would you mind if I took a seat here? I'm quite fond of it's proximity to the bar."

Jeffery glanced up from under his hood and was greeted by a dark haired stranger giving him a courteous bow. Jeffery inspected the man with a weary eye. On first glance he didn't seem dangerous, but he's learned from past mistakes that not every respectful individual is to be trusted. Sadly Jeffery's judgment was clouded from both the rain and his frustration for his current job. He shrugged and gestured towards the empty seat with a smirk. "She's all yours mate," he said before removing his rifle from the table and setting it down next to him. "Names Jeffery, but ya can call me Jeff."

@Magister

One a few hours off the boat in London, Caede, the Dauntless Chelonite, was still acclimatising to the size and scale of the Fifth City.

She'd been to many places across the Unterzee. Seen the standing stones of the Shepherd Isles, the great sunken shard of Godfall, the snow-battered rocks and fizzing salt-pits of Whither. Nowhere even came close to the Fifth City as far as scale went.

Though some parts were turning out to be a constant disappointment.

The drink, mostly.

The beer in London was thin as drownie piss and everywhere was unduly full.

Seemed like most of the land-loving Londoners were frightened inside by even the smallest sniff of rain. Caede regarded herself as made of stronger stuff than that. What fell was a gift from Storm, whether water, jewels, or stalactites the size of small towns. You took what he sent with good grace.

So that saw her striding along a street in Veilgarden, with no use of hat or umbrella, peering into the hazy lights of the district.
She had not a single blasted idea where she was. The city was averse to street signs in such a way that even the mention of them appeared to elicit nervous glances from the men at the dock...and it made navigation rather tricky.

But it seemed at least one of the Gods of the Zee had some mercy upon her, as the chelonite appeared to have stumbled upon a pub.

The Singing Mandrake.

She had fifty Echoes burning a hole in her pocket, a few days before the next trip up round Censor's Arch, and if she had any say in the matter she was going to get intoxicated.

The sometime zailor strode in through the doors of the place, rather a sore thumb amongst the fashionable patrons. Tall, maybe a bit too tall, outlandishly dressed in clothes of zee-creature skin, and dripping rain-water onto the floor, she approached the bar. a few coins hit the wooden surface and the chelonite enquired as to what was it that the establishment stocked that was "stronger than the city's pitiful beer".

---

The Technician's eyes might have flicked up to the figure who approached, and regarded him suspiciously. It was impossible to tell when looking into those glasses.

Certainly she was silent for quite some time, as if weighing up her options.

Eventually however, she did give a slight nod of acquiesce and spoke.
"I won't stop you. Although if you're planning to make introductions you'll have to forgive me if I instantly forget you name. Literally." she responded.
"And if you are attempting to sell me anything, con me out of something, or convert me to any sort of religious sect I'll save you the effort by letting you know now that I don't have any money so would not be of any use to you."

Reinol took his usual seat by a corner in the Mandrake. He didn't really know why he decided to come here. A honey den such as this was far from his idea of a quiet place to work on another story. But alas, a chance of fate brought him here. Damned rain. He scowled as he brought out his quill and paper. No typewriter here...might as well see if can interview anyone.

"My thanks." Montana lightly dusted himself off, and removed his overcoat. He was loath to fold it, creases and all, so he opted to hang it from a small piece of wood extending just beyond the top off the booth. While largely unspectacular save for the top notch tailoring, the corner of a piece of paper could be seen jutting from the left ticket pocket.

There was a shoulder holster over his waistcoat, but it was curiously void of any weaponry. He was, at least at face value, completely unarmed.

That flash of colour was the true reason he had decided to take this familiar seat. Along with it's view of the door and behind the bar. All points of entry and exit. There were some deliveries he had yet to make, and one could never be certain of where hard to find people might pop up from.

As he sat, he made eye contact with the barkeep, and held up his pointer and thumb, signaling he wanted two drinks for the table.

"If you don't mind, I've taken the liberty to order you a beverage."

The hooded man across from him had been marked as a mercenary in his mind due to the variety of his gear. Long and short range weapons, plus a short sword. Which was a deadly weapon in it's own right, and quite different some the sabers and rapiers members of the military tended to use.

“Thank you very much, miss.” Smiling a moment, Madison settled into the chair opposite the woman’s, hands clasped properly upon the tabletop. “I can assure you that I’m not here to try and swindle you out of your money or anything of the sort. All I’m hoping for is a bit of conversation, that’s all.” Unlike the Technician, the Scholar’s face was an open book. His eyes were wide and concerned, occasionally flitting down to the glass, then back to the woman’s nigh-unreadable expression, struggling to read it.

“My name is Madison Lovette,” he said, eventually. “It’s nice to meet you, miss. And it’s quite alright if you don’t remember it- I don’t mind reintroducing myself if need be.” A pause. A frown, contemplative, before Madison spoke again. “If I’m not being too prying, may I ask how long you’ve been in London? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before.”

Asking directly about the Oblivion seemed rather on the nose. It was troubling- very much so- but you didn’t take a glass of the stuff to forget anything good, let alone something you’d want to babble about to a stranger. Smaller, simpler conversation seemed like better territory to touch upon.

Alex took the offered hand, glove meeting glove for a handful of seconds. “The Mandrake is always busy,” she remarked indulgently, casting a fond glance around the place.

“Although today is particularly so. That said, it’s been a while since I paid a visit, so who knows how much the carrying traffic has risen?” Her voice was high, whimsical, almost musical in its tumbling cadences, the substance-light sort of conversation one made with an incidental acquaintance.

In point of fact, the Singing Mandrake was a key node in the honey-trade, and Alex St. Clair knew very well how busy the pub tended to be, and how many of her agents plied the crowds there. A cautious sip of honey there, a ladleful here…and for the truly committed, the tiniest glimmering drop of crimson liquid, the quintessence of another person drained by the exile’s roses and distilled by the lamplighter bees into tiny, perfect teardrops of searing crimson.

“Alexandra,” she said in reply to Dawn’s name, and then nodded at the detective’s cup. “Tea?” It was mostly rhetorical; Alex St. Clair had a good sense of smell. “Can we not press you to something more fitting of Veilgarden? A glass of wine, perhaps, to keep the chill from settling into your bones, or a drop of honey to pass the time? I doubt the rain will ease any time soon. Now-” she smiled and leaned forward, an action carefully calculated to make her seem approachable, cheerful and conspiratorial “What brings you to Veilgarden? Business or pleasure? Or a mix of the two, perchance?”

She ignored the small figure of the street urchin behind her; they were part of the scenery in the less-salubrious parts of the city, a continually-renewed population that had claimed the ramshackle rooftops of Spite as their natural stomping-grounds, and Alex St. Clair was used to seeing them lurking vaguely in the background. Living furniture, in a way, no more remarkable than the lamp-posts.

For Elias, his assessment would have been right on the money – literally – had he met Alexandra St. Clair many years earlier. She still had the aristocrat’s unshakeable belief in herself, of course, in the fundamental rightness of who and what she was, in the superiority ordained by her lofty birth, but it had been tempered and polished, buffed and sharpened and winnowed in the crucible of hard-won experience.

These days there was little actually in her bag, just a few handkerchiefs of burgundy silk decorated with a rose in full bloom, a delicate little mirror in its own ornate casing, a few odds and ends of makeup, in case her appearance was ever less than perfect, and – carefully wrapped in cotton – a small, unmarked glass vial containing perhaps a mouthful of red honey, thick and viscous and relentlessly drawing the eye.

Bottled temptation.

She’d learned her lesson; her purse and key hung around her neck, and further essentials – or simply sensitive documents or items of various shades – were cunningly hidden in the pockets between the ruches of her dress. The tailor had been worth every echo, and Alex hadn’t regretted the exorbitant prices even once.

Alex leaned back in her chair and tipped her glass back, sending the spiced wine streaming into her mouth with a satisfied sigh. The motion also, quite by chance, made it easier for Elias’ little reaching hand to slip, all unnoticed, between the clasps of her bag.

Jeffery's eyebrow rose a bit at the strangers kind action, but a grin came to his lips as he thought of his coming beverage. He may have been in unfamiliar surroundings with a completely new set of individuals to deal with, but he was never one to refuse a drink. Plus he's been on the road for weeks now dealing with both mother natures cruel love and the fiends who hid in the shadows ready to kill and steal all that was valuable. A good drink was very much needed for the young mercenary. He chuckled and flipped his hood off from his head to fully reveal his face. Dirt and a few scratches covered his face from his travel, his hair was a complete mess and it was easy to tell he never really took much care in keeping it groomed and finally heavy bags rested below his eyes from the many sleepless nights on the road. Jeffery has surely seen better days. He scratched the stubble on his chin and spoke. "Thanks, I could use a good drink, getting real tired of dirt filled water. Ah, hope my appearance don't bother ya, haven't had time to stay in my usual glowing form," he chuckled and spotted their drinks coming over to their booth. A meal wouldn't hurt either, but he didn't want to push his luck. The drink was enough.

@Magister

Lightening quick, the well trained hand of the child pickpocket plunged into the Red Lady's handbag as she took a drink. His years of self-training had taught him to almost see with his fingertips... There was a woman's makeup compact, a tube of lipstick, some tissues, some kind of cloth wrapped...cylinder? Vial? In the short span of seconds his hand was in her purse he felt no money. Making a split second decision his hand grasped the strange object and withdrew, as quick as it plunged into the bag, back to his knickers pocket. Hopefully the cloth-covered thing would be worth something, otherwise Elias was a bit disappointed in his appraising abilities.

He glanced at the woman sitting across the table from his mark, avoiding eye contact. It didn't appear she had noticed his little movement, but he couldn't be sure. To be safe, he slipped back through the crowded pub floor, putting other patrons between himself and the two ladies (the whole time slipping his hands into their pockets as well, stealing not-quite an echo's worth of pennies).

After putting a good bit of distance between himself and the Red Woman and her friend, Elias casually scanned the room again. There was a large foreign-looking woman. She wouldn't have enough real money to be worth robbing. He scanned around and saw a disheveled looking sailor woman talking to another lady at another table. That was promising, but neither looked especially affluent. Two young men sat at another table nearby; one a dapper-looking gentleman, the other a well-armed and dangerous looking character. The gentleman would have made a great target for the young pickpocket, but he couldn't risk the wild looking gunslinger catching him in the act. Elias was fast, but not fast enough to outrun bullets.

Finally, amidst all the crowd, Elias noticed a single scholarly-looking man sitting alone, scratching away on parchment with a quill. That was it. He would be distracted with his writing, and even if he didn't have money on his person, he might have some interesting things written on parchment in his pockets. The right story could feed the boys for a week or two.

Slipping unnoticed through the crowd once more (inspecting each pocket as he passed) he made his way towards the lone scholar. Similar to the Red Woman, he sneaked around behind his target. He approached, reaching out, his fingers closing in on each other to make his hand as small as possible...

"No, you wouldn't have. I pulled up in Wolfstack three days ago." the Technician responded,

Give or take. It was difficult to be entirely sure when the level of light remained completely constant.
And you weren't sleeping at all.

"And probably will not be staying very long either. Mostly likely just around long enough to accrue enough Echoes to buy passage further along."
Where she hadn't decided yet. The Tomb Colonies. Whither. Codex. Anywhere that was a long way away from the southern Unterzee really. London was not nearly far enough away.

"I'd regretfully inform you that if you were looking for any interesting stories, you're not likely to find a lot here. I'm relatively unremarkable. "

That was most certainly a lie, but, as far as she was concerned, a virtuous one assuming this individual was just attempting to strike up innocent conversation. There was really nothing she had to tell that anyone would be better off for hearing. She wouldn't be swilling around a glass of Oblivion if there was. She was a researcher after all. Her knowledge was one of her most prized possessions. She didn't seek to give it up lightly.

That did seem to be a bit of the elephant in the room.
"I just have some...baggage to get rid of."

Montana briefly stood, and thanked their server for bringing them their drinks. He left his payment on the tray, along with a small bit of foreign currency, a few pounds by the looks of it, as a tip. He placed Jeffery's drink in front of him first, and his second. The other males surprise perhaps said a bit more than expected. It at the very least said kindness was not something he expected in London, or at least from a stranger, at least to Montana. Along with his weather marked look, he had obviously experienced the unkinder aspects of humanity during whatever journey he was on. It spoke of experience.

"My pleasure, and not at all, would be a bit presumptuous of me to be off-put by the wear and tear of travel."

Montana wiped the rim off his glass slowly, and gave his drink a small sip.

"I'm hesitant to potentially spoil a relaxing drink with talk of work, but I must say your choice of weapons leave me curious." In regards to the short sword he wore at his hip.

"Certainly more function than fashion."

His dark eyes settled on the boy who had undoubtedly been caught by the glamour of the woman in crimson. To him, the urchin was like a magpie who had spotted a pearl in the mouth of a great beast. Perhaps disdain or flippancy would work in his favour.

Jeffery was greedy with his beverage as he nearly downed the whole thing in one gulp. He coughed a bit as it went down the wrong hole and cleared his throat with a grin. He had to work on pacing himself. He chuckled as he tapped onto his chest with his fist and chuckled as his favorite new stranger pointed out his short sword. "T-this old thing?" he asked as he unsheathed his weapon halfway to reveal its newly sharpened edges. He always made sure to keep his sword nice and pristine, but it was clear from the hilt of the sword that it has seen many years of combat. Jeffery ran his thumb across the grips worn out leather and chuckled. "No sword can even come close to replacing this thing. Been in the family for years and hasn't failed its wielder yet. Hell, its even broken a few of those fancy sabers belonging to rich nobles a couple of times," he boasted as the memories of past battles flooded his mind. "Plus it's much easier to use when in close courters, not like those sabers or other weapons," he mumbled and took a smaller sip from his drink with delight. This places drinks weren't half bad actually, he'd need to come here more often.

He re-sheathed the word and looked back to the stranger. "By the way, I've gave my name so how about we learn yours? I don't mind a new drinking mate, but I rather learn their names while we drank," he chuckled while pointing his finger towards him.

@Magister

“I’m not surprised.” Dawn tucked a hand beneath her chin, gaze sweeping from one end of the bar to the next. “I don’t come here often, but it’s always been a very welcoming place each time I stop by. And the oyster tea is excellent.” There was the faintest lilt of an Italian accent hanging off her words, dripping from particular sounds and vowels and consonants. Faint, but not enough to make it difficult to catch.

Alexandra. The name itself wasn’t too strange, but when paired with the rather lavish appearance of the woman, it rung a bell. While Dawn herself wasn’t overly involved in the creme de la creme of London society, a few of her investigations had brought her to the doorsteps of some, and she had enough contacts in gossipy pools to catch a handful of trickle-down snippets here and there. “Alexandra St. Clair” was a name that she caught quite often. Dawn took a sip of her tea, brows knitted in quiet conversation, before replacing the cup back onto the table and settling more comfortably into her chair.

“I’m not one for drink, actually,” Dawn admitted. “Wine doesn’t sit well with me. As for honey…”

A grim look flashed across her face for a moment. Her fingers curled into the warm wood of the table, then released.

“It’s, ah, not something I enjoy either, unfortunately.”

She cleared her throat, and took another swig from her mug. “I’m here on a day off, I suppose. Was originally going to take tea at Caligula’s, but with the rain, there’s not much in the way of elbow room there at the moment.” Dawn chuckled. “And you?”

It was between sips that Dawn caught movement. Her attention was largely on Alexandra, but she still had a detective’s eye- prone to wandering, and attentive to detail. She caught the urchin as he slipped in, and had almost passed him by under the assumption he was simply another looking for shelter when she noticed him again.

She had to admit, the boy was good. His size, coupled with the sort of finesse that could only come from years of experience, had made her almost pass him by. But now that she saw him, she couldn’t ignore him. Especially after he slipped out from right behind Alexandra, eyes pointedly averted as he escaped into the crowd. Dawn quickly polished off the rest of her tea, and, placing the cup back upon the table, gave Alexandra an apologetic smile and rose to her feet.

“Excuse me for my abruptness, Ms. Alexandra, but I think I just saw an old acquaintance of mine in the crowd,” Dawn said. “I’ll be back as soon as I speak with them. I’m sorry to interrupt our conversation so soon.” She tipped her hat. The feathers bounced. Then Dawn was off, melting into the crowd with little effort on her part.

It didn’t take long to find the boy, or to confirm her suspicions. He was reaching out towards a young gentleman’s pocket, fingers open and hungry, unseen and unheard. With steps silenced by her own experience, Dawn wound her way through the throng of bar-goers, around the table, and crept behind the boy. As soon as she was close enough, her hand shot out, wound itself about his wrist, and held fast. Given her own sickly appearance, there was a surprising amount of strength in the action. It would be hard for him to slip away so quickly.

“Hello there,” she said, softly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a quick word with you.” There was no anger in her tone- only the same sort of politeness that she had held in her conversation with Alexandra. Dawn gave a brief nod in the writer’s direction, not looking to see if he glanced over at all the movement- if he asked, she could think of an excuse.

At the moment, her mind was largely on the child, and what might be lining his pockets.

---

“A very recent arrival, then.” Madison nodded a bit to himself, fingers tracing the lining of his sleeve. He picked idly at a loose strand as he listened, pulling it until it snapped. “May I ask where you’re heading off to? You’ve mentioned not having any Echoes left, and I know a few kind people overseas who’d be more than happy to let you stay in their home for a time if you’re heading in that direction.”

Madison had known the woman for only a few minutes, now, but he felt compelled to lend aid to her regardless. Perhaps it was naive of him, but she seemed at a point where she was struggling. No money, a bottle of fresh Oblivion, and a tattered navy coat. A bit of a lending hand seemed like something she really needed.

“I’ll admit that I’m not sure if that’s right, miss,” Madison said, “but I won’t pry. Before you take that drink, however, would it be alright for me to ask you your name? You haven’t said it since I began speaking with you.” It was likely that the name, too, might be connected to the same past the woman was drinking to forget, but Madison thought it somewhat impolite to keep referring to her simply as “the woman” in his head.

Montana's eyebrows lifted sightly as he watched the younger man across from him inhale his drink. He didn't seem off put by his actions, rather, a glimmer of humor seemed to dance on his face for a few moments. In contrast to Jeffery's first gulp, Montana raised the glass to his lips, and took a slower, smaller drink from his own. His story painted a firmer picture of his past. Generational sword meant fighting at the very least was in his family, with an heirloom that likely predated the use of modern firearms.

"They abased themselves the moment they drew steel against a more hardened weapon. I've found that the inexperienced noble often conflates expensive with practical."

His eyes moved back toward the woman in crimson, her companion had left her seat, and was moving to intercept the pickpocket. She was a perceptive one. Perhaps she'd be able to spare the urchin an unpleasant possible fate.

"I go by Enoch currently. I'm a courier, so switching names every so often comes with the business. Better I reach out to a client if I need work, than for clients to pursue me so easily."

"The regulars are as you say, fine, but I imagine you've encountered unsavoury characters that, working for once is an experience best not replicated."

Montana raised his hand, and ordered two more drinks. "Are you hungry Jeffery? I'm more fond of my own cooking, but the mushrooms prepared here aren't terrible." A second motion indicated some food for the table. A small helping between them.