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As the shadow of night falls over the city of Arkham, anyone with any sense flees for whatever respite their homes can provide. And yet, on this night, there are those who strike out into the darkness, whether by choice, or compelled by some greater purpose. Avery Wilde has issued her summons, and there are few that would ignore an invitation to a night at Wilde Hall. Whether through a meticulous sense of timing, or through sheer fluke, the first to set off for the ball is a figure that would not look out of place in the whispered rumours of the Wilde Woods. Drachen Steinboden is a hulking figure, heavily scarred not only from his work, but from those that are foolish enough to cross him. The invitation, dwarfed in his hand, instructs him to travel to the edge of Wilde Woods, the point where the city loses its fight against the twisting trees and the path to Wilde Hall itself winds into the shadows, and so it is to there that he walks.

The mere sight of him attracts glances from those still braving the streets of Arkham, but the glances are brief, not wanting to risk angering this giant. As he nears the edge of the woods, he sees a black carriage waiting, a lone lantern casting a flickering halo against the darkness closing in. The coachman says nothing, and Drachen's experience as a fighter means that he can't help but notice the stocky frame beneath the formal black attire, or the shotgun slung from the carriage itself. The stony faced servant holds out a hand, and Drachen takes the prompt, holding out his invitation. The coachman casts a cursory glance over the writing, before looking up, and handing it back to Drachen, no hint of expression on his face.

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The parties of Avery Wilde have long courted the rich and powerful of Arkham, and although the invitations have found their way into more and more eclectic hands with each passing month, the masquerade balls still hold an impressive reputation. Perhaps that is what has prevented Rosanna Liang from concentrating on her studies, or perhaps there is something more at work. Whatever the reason, Rosanna also makes her way through the dark streets of Arkham, leaving her lodgings at the Miskatonic University dressed for the occasion. Just as Drachen did, Rosanna attracts glances from those that she passes, although these glances are more wont to linger. After all, Arkham is a dangerous city even in the light of day, and a slim, young woman setting out into the night is more than likely to raise a few eyebrows.

Rosanna arrives at the edge of the woods just a moment after Drachen does, and she finds herself faced with a similar scene. She see's the carriage, the two dark horses waiting to be driven onwards, the coachman, and a silhouette that she almost took for a statue before she saw it move. The sheer size of the figure almost makes her falter, as he stands more than a foot taller than her, but Rosanna has never let her size stop her before, and she is not about to start now. Not when there is a party to go to. Striding up to the carriage, she holds out her own invitation, opening her mouth to greet the two men. One sullen glance from the coachman stops the words in their tracks, and as he stoops down to inspect her invitation, she decides that it may be better to bite her tongue for now. The coachman seems to be satisfied with the invitation, and straightens up, turning away from the pair as he takes up the reins, making it clear that he wants to be on his way.

"You're early. But that's not my problem."

---

Doing his best to smooth down the creases in his shirt, a third figure is travelling across Arkham. Simon Adam Hart stands out less than the two that have come before him, but then, that's the way he's always liked it. It is curiosity that always seems to drag Simon out from the peace and quiet, and into the world, and what is more curious than an invitation to Wilde Hall? For much of the day, his eyes have been drawn to the clock, counting down the painfully long minutes until he could feasibly make his way to the edge of the woods. Finally deeming it to be socially acceptable, he still can't stop the quick pace of his strides. It is perhaps surprising then, when he catches sight of two figures, presumably other guests, that have already reached the carriage.

Something, some instinct at the back of his mind, causes Simon to hesitate, and as the coachman turns his gaze back towards Arkham, Simon ducks back into the shadow of an alley. He watches the carriage for a moment, trying to calm down and suppress whatever sense is stopping him from closing the final few dozen paces, and then he hears it. A footstep, muffled slightly and faint, but close behind him. Whirling round, Simon found himself face-to-face with a shadowy figure. Taking a hurried step backwards, back towards whatever safety the street might offer, the figure followed after him, and the light of the streetlamp fell onto a face, thin lips pulled into a snarl by a scar running across one cheek, and piercing blue eyes staring back at Simon. The voice was reedy and harsh, but the words were clear, even above the rush of blood in Simon's ears.

"You shouldn't go into the woods. Not the Wilde Woods."

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Not all those that are travelling to Wilde Hall decide to take the streets. Perhaps it is caution, or perhaps it is an appreciation of the relative peace, but as the night draws in Renee Bellerose is to be found walking along the edge of the Wilde Woods. The city barely reaches out this far, only the occasional building serving as a reminder of civilisation, and in the peace, Renee can almost believe that she is back in France, back before the war, before all the horribleness that consumed her peaceful corner of paradise. Almost, but not quite. The past is behind her, for the better or for the worse, and Renee has not made it this far by wringing her hands together and fretting. No, she has made it this far by putting her best black-clad foot forward. The invitation clutched in her hand gives her purpose, and besides, she is not the sort to turn her back on good drink and pleasant conversation. And considering the wealth that the Wildes have no doubt accumulated, the drink should be good enough to make up for any lacking conversation.

Renee has almost reached the point marked on her invitation when something catches her eye. The few gas lanterns that reach this close to the woods cast only dim light, but Renee has always had a sharp eye, and in the half-light, she makes out a gap in the trees. Curiosity getting the better of her, Renee walks closer to this gap, instinctively treading softly as she approaches. A narrow path, little more than a deer trail, dissapears into the darkness of the woods, but as Renee leans to get a closer look, she can see that there are fresh footprints in the mud, leading deeper into the depths of the forest. A local going for a late evening walk? The idea seems hardly likely, especially considering the dark reputation that the Wilde Woods has gained, but whatever reason, someone has come this way, and moved through the twisted trees. The footsteps are clear, even in the half light, and it would be no great task to follow them, but then again, the Wilde Woods does not have its reputation for nothing, and the party is waiting...

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The path that follows the edge of the Wilde Woods is proving to be a popular route, although the reason that Moses Reaves is taking the more scenic route is perhaps more obvious than the one that sees Renee taking the same route. Anyone in the line of business that Moses inhabits develops an aversion for streetlights, and for the curious glances that the streets of Arkham had in abundance. Heavy jacket pulled tight around him, he takes long strides through the shadows. Wilde Hall is an opportunity, and Moses is not the type to miss an opportunity, especially one that presents itself in the form of a fancy invitation. And then one of the shadows moves.

Moses stops in his tracks, eyes straining against the half light. A figure, close to the edge of the forest. Moses has no shortage of enemies who could be lingering in the dark, but the figure doesn't seem to be looking at him. Instead, it seems to be focused towards the woods themselves. With the soft steps of a man that is no stranger to the rougher side of the law, Moses moves forward. As he gets nearer, he realises that the figure is smaller than he first though, standing a good few inches shorter than he does. Not only that, but the figure is a woman, dressed all in black. Moses is wise enough to know that that fact doesn't make the figure any less dangerous, but they seem to be fixated on the trees, or rather a gap between the trees. By the looks of it, Renee hasn't heard Moses approaching yet, but every step risks alerting her. Is it a trap, or a curiosity?

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Walking through the dark streets is far from the typical evening for Alvin Fennel, but then what is university, if not a chance to get out of your comfort zone? Even so, the shifting shadows put the student on edge, and he quickens his pace. And yet his intended destination is no more familiar to Alvin. The inevitable opulence that Wilde Hall promises is a far cry from what Alvin is accustomed to, and the idea of crowds of strangers does little to settle his nerves. But then, that is not the only thing about the invitation clutched in his hand that puts him on edge. Trying to push the thoughts from his head, Alvin pushes onwards.

Turning the last corner, Alvin can make out the black carriage that sits at the edge of the Wilde Woods. Two figures are already standing by it, but by the looks of the coachman, they won't be waiting there for much longer. If he picks up his pace, he could probably reach them before they set off, or perhaps it would be better to wait. After all, Alvin has never been one to turn his nose up at the prospect of having time to think. Besides, other guests should be arriving soon, and they may look less intimidating than the hulking silhouette of Drachen, the other man's frame making Rosanna look like a doll beside him. Pick up the pace to join the unusual pair, or take his time, and wait for the next ride?

Drachen's eyes had lazily wandered during his walk through the dark streets, small globes of light from the lamps that were quick to dim the further out the light went. During his lumbering, and lazy, stride he took note of the people. He wasn't famous per-se, but he was a rarity. A rarity that had no issues leaving a mugger broken in an alley. Leaving behind the mumbled shushed voices he approached the edge of town that bordered the Wilde Wood. A carriage, black and expensive looking, was there with a singular coachman. He didn't care about the mans attire, but that shotgun let him know things weren't peaceful in the woods. Most likely for coyotes.

An exchange of invitation and glances was all there were. Neither man had any words for the other. With the invitation back in hand he tucked it into the inner chest pocket of his enormous coat. He was dressed decent, but he wasn't a materialistic man. Not to mention his size made it so everything he had was custom made, which jacked up the prices of clothing and footwear. He did move off to the side, lingering near the rear of the carriage instead of getting into it. Staying in such a small thing for a long time would destroy his knees.

A brief wait and a well dressed woman came up the street. A different set of hushed murmurs and voices trailing after her. If he had been a vagrant he would have labeled her as the perfect target to hit for immediate money. Still she approached and handed the driver her own invitation before it was returned to her. The driver spoke, saying they were early. Well it was better to be early than to be late, right? The pair were left waiting in silence for any others to show. But the big man wasn't too fond of silences. "Evenin', miss..." He rumbled out. His voice matching that frame easily, like deep rolling thunder. If he owned a hat he might have tipped it, but he wasn't really fond of head gear. They looked silly and not to mention it made his wild mane sit funny when worn for too long.

The Woods grow around the walls of the House, but as any student of history knows, the House has no walls. The short phrase bounced around the woman's mind as she moved through the trees and along the path. This was not the Woods, and the Wilde Estate was not the House either... Although it did appear to have some mysteries of its own. The horsehair whiskers of her feline-styled masquerade mask quivered in the gentle breeze as she analysed the footpath. Muddy. Dirty. Leading off into the woods. Intruiging. Were she out for a normal stroll this was certainly something she would investigate, but tonight was not the usual night.

Tonight she was properly dressed and, most importantly, was going to an event. This meant that one, her clothes found dirt and mud most disagreeeable, and two, them becoming muddy could quite easily become something of a scene. Adjusting her mask and hat a little, she turned away from the path and back towards the gaslit path ahead of her. Onwards to the party then. This curious little path would not be followed today.

Alvin reached into his coat and clutched the small leather-bound notebook in his breast-pocket. Inside the journal lay his invitation to Wilde Hall, and perhaps answers that he had been seeking. In the distance, he saw the carriage that would ferry him to the party, and two figures ready to enter the carriage. Would they wait for him or leave him behind? Was this the only carriage going to the party? The thoughts raced Alvin's mind as his heartbeat began to increase, the ever-looming anxiety of the unknown already pounding his thoughts like the beat of a soldier's drum. Should he force himself to be sociable? Perhaps they would have more information on this soiree, perhaps they would turn their knows at the pale, skinny man attempting to rub shoulders with the elite. He definitely did not look the part of a well-to-do man around Arkham. His black coat seemed a size too large for his thin frame, and his dark mask, with a product, corvid-like beak, gave him the image of a thin, giant dying bird than that of a man.

It wasn't that he lacked friends; it was that his usual group of friends all shared something in common: University Life. Alvin had spent many nights in the local bars with his college fellows, enjoying a glass of beer and stark discussion of their studies with one another. Alvin was studying linguistics at Miskatonic and specialized in strange languages that were offshoots of ancient tounges. He'd assisted Dr. Armitage as part of studies in translating strange books of the occult, something that more unnerved him than fascinated him. Professor Wilmarth, with who he'd done multiple classes, had him focused on differentiating the local Indian languages in their folklore of the area, trying to trace the stores back to some ur-narrative. That had been unproductive, but at the very least, interesting to Alvin. The professors at Miskatonic were by and far men of rationality and many had sought to instill their students with the understanding that all things in the world could be easily explained with sufficient evidence and understanding.

Alvin wished dearly that this was true.

He had made his decision. He stepped his pace to a faster procession, hoping to catch the carriage before it left. After all, this night was still young, and he had many questions that needed rational answers.

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The moonlight shines onto Rosanna Liang like she is a canary on broadway, her golden dress even shines like it was made of real gold. Even though she been through alot of parties ever since she became a student of Miskatonic University, this party was different however, instead of going there for a good time, enjoying some giggle juice, Rosie is going to Wilde Hall for a different reason, she is going to find some secrets in the halls of the Wilde residence. As she walks in the apple of Arkham, Rosanna can't help to feel everyone is looking at her and not in "You look so beautiful" way, more like the creepy way, it makes Rosie wish she would bring a knife with her instead of her makeup.

There was somewhat mysterious ambience as Rosanna steps into woods, she looks at the tall, plenty rugged man while standing right next to him, makes Rosie a little small but doesn't bother her, not one bit. A black carriage that stands in front her and the tall gentleman makes Rosie feel uneasy but not too much, even if the coachman size almost makes her falter. Rosanna hands the driver her invitation and telling her and tall gentleman that they are early "Mhmm, my mother always say that my past life was a bird cause I get up so early in the morning. Get it? Early bird?" Rosie say with a giggle but then went quiet afterwords since nobody was laughing.

As Rosanna and Tall man wait for other guests to arrived, a other man join the two and right off the bat, she recognize the young man as Alvin Fennel, she thinks that his name. The two shared the same class together and often she looks at his paper for some answers for quizs and tests. As the three wait for more guests to arrived once again, the tall gentleman finally spoke, his crooner voice makes Rosie jump a bit but at least there’ll be no silence in the woods “Evening, good sir.” Rosanna say to the tall man “Are you invited to the Wilde hall too?”

@Kazemitsu

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Arkham has a dark reputation, and Wilde Hall is no different. Perhaps it is that dark reputation that draws Morgan Eisenhorn to the house, like a moth is drawn to a flame. The invitation in his pocket is more than just a slip of paper, it is a promise. A promise of something, something that Morgan is not yet entirely sure of, but that he cannot resist. And so, the private investigator finds himself walking the streets of Arkham alone, as the evening stretches into the night. Or at least, he thought he was alone.

He had written it off as a coincidence at first, just another pair of footsteps among those few that sill braved the streets of Arkham after dark, another figure moving through the shadows, but with each turn that Morgan makes, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up a little bit more. The streets are quieter now, as he moves away from the heart of the city, and out towards the edge of the Wilde Woods, but still, he can hear the footsteps behind him. Whenever he glances over his shoulder, the footsteps pause, and a few times Morgan has caught sight of a figure stepping into the shadows. And when he starts walking again, the footsteps resume. Morgan is still some distance from the meeting point designated on his invitation, and with each passing moment, the streets grow a little darker, and a little quieter. Perhaps it is just a coincidence, his paranoia creating a phantom, or perhaps Arkham is keen to prove that it's dark reputation is a fitting one...

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While many of the guests to Wilde Hall this evening may be awed by the opulence of the grand old house, Opportunity Knox is likely to feel almost at home. After all, the Knox family has a history that is as impressive and storied as the Wildes, and Opportunity is no stranger to impressive estates. Despite this, Arkham doesn't exactly excite the young dilettante. Too quiet, and altogether too slow. And yet, she has her reasons for making the journey to this corner of Massachusetts, and the words of her family still ringing in her ears.

Just because Opportunity needs to reach Wilde Hall at some point, does not mean she is in any great rush. After all, the old house has stood for generations, it's not going anywhere. The Excelsior Hotel is an impressively grand lodging, and it is naturally the place that has drawn the adventuress. Not only does the bar offer a welcome distraction for the bleakness of the city, but it also allows Opportunity to rub shoulders with the Americans that she has such a fondness for. The British are too stuffy, but the Americans understand the rush of speed, the freedom of the air. Her evening is a whirl of conversation and drink, until that conversation suddenly subsides, and Opportunity turns to find a dark-clothed figure standing in the doorway. The man stands at around six feet, broad shouldered and stern-faced. She notices the crest of the Wildes on his chest at the same moment that he speaks, his voice booming.

"Lady Dalrymple. Your carriage is waiting."

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She heard the footsteps behind her before she turned to see who they belonged to. For a moment, concern gripped her that she might be accosted by a footpad or vagabond, but when she did move to see the figure, she was pleasantly relieved. Another partygoer. One a little more rough around the edges than her. Not exactly a difficult feat though- she prided herself on how her edges had been smoothed down. Frowning a little, she made the barest gesture of a curtsey towards the man. "Madamoiselle Noire, a pleasure to meet you." Her voice was slightly terse and significantly accented, and the way she moved her head caused the whiskers of her mask to quiver slightly. "Mais oui, I was hoping to attend the festivities" she continued, continuing to walk slowly as she did so.

Aside from the mask she wore, the rest of her clothing had been carefully and deliberately picked out. A woman's jacket, warm to fend away the evening chill and a wide brimmed hat, from beneath which the amber eyes of her mask peered out and in the shadows of which the true eye-holes of the mask were difficult to discern. Underneath were the usual assortments of petticoats, garters and other accoutrements required for a lady to look her best. "I suppose we ought to be going. Wolves there may not be, but there is no reason to dawdle."

@psych0pomp

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Morgan glanced behind him once more before taking a deep breath 'I can't shake the feeling something is very, very wrong here,' he thought to himself, straightening his collar as he exhaled and much to his chagrin nothing changed 'I can't appear distraught, I'll just have to make haste to the meeting place without delay.' Morgan sighed as he dipped his hands into his suit pockets, he felt odd about the circumstances that may have brought him to the mysterious town of Arkham but one such as he was not the kind of gentleman to pass up an invitation, even if it had been a long journey to arrive in town.

Adjusting the mask to his face, bearing that of a fox's sly face the man picked up his pace and briskly walked up the pathway while doing his best to ignore the echo of footsteps behind him.

It would simply not do, to be fashionably late or early no he was to be exactly on time and not to be distracted by further figments or phantoms that his mind tried to create, no it would not do at all.

Opportunity sighed and stubbed out her cigarette. There were many things to love about America, a sense of immensity and wide open space that took her back to her childhood in Ceylon and India before her father had retired to England with its claustophobic stone walls and stifling regimental neatness. Unfortunately, at least here in the aptly named New England, people seemed to view the mother country as something to emulate rather than escape. Natives would blather on about how their families came up from Salem in sixtenwhogaveadamn and could trace their decendants back to wherever. Texas, Chicago, California, now those were places for a modern soul, not this rustic Arkam. Still there was work to be done here, and she had even found the excelsior convenient, chatting with a young professor about the possibility of searching for ship wrecks by air, perhaps when she was done with her other business it might even come to something.

Dressed in a gown of green silk with a daring slash up the thigh, Opportunity certainly looked more like she was on her way to the theatre in Chicago rather than to a stuffy dinner in Arkam, but she didn't see any reason to bend herself too far out of shape for the Wildes. She picked her handbag up from where it had sat and pulled her cloche hat down over her dark slightly curled hair.

"Wonderful," she told the footman, in her oddly cosmopolitan accent, "then lets go visit our American cousins shall we?"

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This close to the figure, Simon Hart could see the wildness in the eyes, and smell the unmistakable scent of alcohol on his breath, but there was an intensity in the figure's stare that he couldn't ignore. The stranger was a few inches shorter than Simon, but he was broad, and despite the smile on his face, Simon couldn't help but feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Whether the figure noticed Simon's feigned ignorance or not, the wildness in the eyes did not fade. Frantically glancing around at the shadows all around them, the stranger took a step closer to Simon, the words seeming to pour forth from his mouth.

"The Wilde Woods... I can smell the burning. They tried to get me, I got away. But the others... The burning... I know they're coming for me. I hear him whispering... Always whispering..."

Before Simon could react, the figure lunged forwards, hands grabbing Simon's lapels. His words were little more than a hiss now, barely audible even though they were practically whispered into Simon's ear. This close, the stench of alcohol was almost unbearable, as well as the thick scent of sweat.

"You need to burn them. Burn them all. Like rats."

With that, the grip on Simon released, and the figure turned away, feet pounding as the stranger ran down the alleyway. Simon was briefly in a state of shock, and by the time he came back to his senses, the figure was almost lost in the shadows. Was the stranger a half-crazed drunk, spouting nonsense to anyone who would listen, or did they know something about Wilde Woods, something that they hadn't told Simon all of? Perhaps he could catch the man, force the answers out of him? But every passing instant put more ground between the two of them, and the party at Wilde Hall was still calling.

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The coachman turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and watched Alvin Fennel as he reached the carriage, his face still stern and unflinching. Holding out a gloved hand towards the newcomer, he glanced at Drachen Steinboden and Rosanna Liang as they started to make introductions, his voice a low grumble.

"From here on out, you keep your masks on, and you go by the names on your invitations. Orders of Lady Wildes. So that makes you Mister Red, Lady Gold and..."

The black-clad man paused as he took the invitation from Alvin's outstretched hand, and read it, holding it closer to the carriage's lantern for a moment.

"And Mister Cobalt. Now if you don't mind, I'd rather we were on our way."

With that, the coachman handed the invitation back to Alvin, and reached back to open the carriage's door, gesturing towards it before turning back to adjust the reins, the two dark horses seeming to sense the anticipation and beginning to strain against their bits, hooves stamping against the cobblestones of the street. It was clear that the coachman's patience was running thin, and it may well be for the best that the unusual trio climb into the carriage. After all, one glance at the twisting shadows of the Wilde Woods is more than enough to dissuade anyone from trying to walk to Wilde Hall, and the flickering lantern and shotgun slung beside the coachman offers some illusion of protection, if nothing else.

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In an office that has seen far better days, Benjamin Zebrowski jolted awake. He whirled around, trying to get his bearings, before he remembered where he was, and his shoulders slumped. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Benjamin glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, and swore under his breath. He had already forgotten what nightmare had jolted him from his sleep, but there were plenty that it could have been. After all, what he had seen during the war, he wasn't likely to forget any time soon. Trying to shake the last clinging shadows from his head, Benjamin pushed himself to his feet, doing what he could to straighten his clothes, and make himself presentable. After all, he had a party to go to.

He was still adjusting his collar, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. An envelope, slipped under his door. Instantly at high alert, Benjamin closed the short space to the doorway, and threw the door open, but the corridor was already empty. And yet, whoever the mysterious messenger was, they can't have gotten far. He didn't know how many people knew that he was working from this office, but he had hardly been keeping it a secret. Was this stranger a friend, or a foe? He could do his best to catch them, and find out for sure, or he could assume they didn't want to be caught, and inspect the envelope still lying on the floor at his feet.

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With the cursory introductions made, the figures of Renee Bellerose and Moses Reaves made for an unlikely pair. They were both bound for Wilde Hall, and they had both decided to take the quieter path, but that is as far as the similarities stretched. The narrow track into the trees behind them, the pair set off, tracing the edge of the Wilde Woods as they headed towards the point designated on their invitations. They had only made it a short distance before a voice called out behind them.

"Ahoy there!"

Turning at the sound, it quickly becomes clear that they are not the only ones to brave the path, or even the only guest of the Wildes. The man walking to join them stood a few inches shorter than Moses, and more slender, but he seemed to ooze confidence, and a wide smile was written across his handsome features. Sparkling green eyes looked out from behind a black and gold mask, and he was well-dressed. As he neared the pair, he nodded his head in greeting.

"I take it from your fetching get-ups that we are all bound for Wilde Hall? Mister Violet, at your service. I must say, this whole thing really is the cat's meow. All this mystery, I dare say we'll be bumping into a Mister Holmes at this joint. Absolute berries!"

The man had reached them by now, the smile unfaltering on his face. This close, both Moses and Renee would gauge his age to be in his late twenties, but he was boyish in his mannerisms. As he got closer, Renee's eyes caught on something. Despite the smartness of his attire, there was a distinct line of mud on his shoes. It was slight, and in this light, easy to miss, but the sharp-eyed Frenchwoman caught it all the same, a slight frown crossing her pale features for an instant. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Mister Violet continued.

"It's dandy to bump into the two of you, these woods don't half-give me the heebie-jeebies. Like I said, Mister Violet is the name. What titles have the two of you been given?"

Mr. Cobalt. More specific than red and far less regal than gold, Alvin assumed the moniker fit him well enough. He was too lost in his thoughts on his mission to take notice of the young Chinese woman joining him and the literal giant of a man. Had he been in a calmer mind, he would probably have recognized her from his own walks throughout the University on less-dreary days. Though the days of late had been exceedingly dreary, both in weather and in an emotional sense. The one thing he did focus his eye on as the coachman beckoned them to climb aboard was the shotgun, bathed in the shadows, but still noticeable with the lantern-light. Arkham was far from the safest town in America, of course, but what cause did a man need to carry a shotgun so openly? What exactly awaited them at Wilde Hall?

Alvin snapped his mind back to the real world and nodded to the young woman and large man. "I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not allow the young lady on the carriage first," he remarked to Rosanna. That was something of a bald-faced lie. He came from working-class Irish immigrants, and their only claim to "gentle" behavior was not starting fights at Sunday mass and keeping quiet when their father came home red-faced and drunk. He then turned to the hulking Drachen, "and since I was the last to arrive, it's only right to climb aboard last." He tried to not let the man's enormous visage worry him too much. If they had all worked they wait to receive invitations to this party, they were all probably good sorts, even if some looked beastly. He did wonder how comfortable sitting in a carriage would be for a man that large. Still, there was something comforting about having a companion as dangerous looking as this fellow; if he stayed on his good side, he doubted anyone would try and start trouble around him.

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Ah, now this gentleman was more her speed. "An absolute pleasure to meet you, Mister Violet. I am Madamoiselle Noire, and this gentleman has yet to introduce himself to me." Reaching up, the heiress would stroke the whiskers that jutted from the mask's nose, her black gloves almost invisible in the darkness of the night. "But yes, absolutely the..." She paused for a moment to make sure she had heard him right, before contining with a "cat's meow," the amusement in her voice highly evident. The joke would be finished with a quiet little "purr," and then the Frenchwoman would allow herself a small laugh. The man was odd, but she couldn't fault him for that. He was a bit of amusement and class, a welcome contrast to the one that had approached her previously.

Still, the mud on his shoes left her with one question. "Say then, where have you come from Mister Violet? Are you a local to Massachusetts or have you travelled some distance?" Her mind flicked back to the footsteps going into the woods she had ignored, and then the dirt on the mans shoes. She was no experienced tracker, and her memory was hardly photographic enough to remember the exact shape of the footprints in the dirt, but when the equation was 2+?=5 and you were being presented with something that looked an awful lot like a three, it wasn't too hard to piece things together.

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The footsteps continued to trail him, seeming to match his own hastened pace, and as Morgan Eisenhorn turned onto a new street, his heart sank. The gas lamp that should be lighting the pavement in front of him has died away to a barely visible glow, plunging the street into deep, inky shadow. With the footsteps unrelenting behind him, the slight private investigator realised that he had no choice but to plunge into the darkness. Gritting his teeth, and picking up his pace even more, Morgan pushed himself onwards. And yet, as he moved further into the darkness, his own footsteps echoing against the buildings that loomed up all around him, the footsteps behind him seemed to grow closer and closer.

Nerve finally breaking, Morgan practically broke into a run, the vague promise of safety that the light of the next streetlamp offered calling to him, even as the footsteps behind him seemed to match his pace. It seemed as if he was running through treacle, but he finally reached the corner, the footsteps almost on top of him now, Morgan not daring to turn back to see the phantom that was surely about to lunge. He burst around the corner, and a dark shape loomed up to block his path. He had no time to stop, let alone avoid the shape, and he collided into the figure, sprawling to the hard ground with a painful thud, the figure staggering backwards.

The breath driven from his lungs by the fall, Morgan was still gasping for air when he felt strong hands grip his collar and pull him upright. He found himself looking into a stern face, pale brown eyes burning with annoyance, and a voice that was almost a growl.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

---

The coachman led Opportunity Knox through the foyer of The Excelsior Hotel, busy with the bustle of the evening, and out towards the street beyond. As he walked, the tall dark-clad figure glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the well-dressed dilettante was following, and the initial sternness of his face seemed to soften as they moved through the crowd. Opportunity couldn't help but notice that the other patrons of the hotel seemed to scatter before the coachman as he moved, although whether that was because of the man's formidable physique, or because of the Wildes crest that he bore on his chest, she couldn't be sure.

As they stepped out onto the street, Opportunity saw that a black carriage was waiting at the roadside, pulled by a single jet-black horse. Again, the Wildes crest was marked across the side. The coachman turned back towards Opportunity, nodding his head slightly towards her.

"Apologies for the interruption, ma'am, but Lady Wildes wanted me to make sure that you made it to Wilde Hall safely. Arkham can be a dangerous - "

A dark shape burst around the corner, slamming into the coachman before he could finish his sentence. The dark shape sprawled to the ground, and the coachman staggered backwards, before regaining his balance. Opportunity realised that the dark shape was a man, a few inches shorter than she was, and wearing a fox-like mask. Another guest, or something more sinister? Before she could open her mouth to ask, the coachman had strode over, and pulled the stranger back to his feet, growling out a question.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

@Romero

Benjamin Marcus Zebrowski

Ben was sitting in his chair, holding a glass of orange juice in a whiskey glass. Taking a couple of sips from the glass, the citrus burning his throat. His radio was playing some jazz music, the singer was wailing over the frantic tapping of the piano. Looking around the dark room, he was still hazy from the nightmare he had just woken up from. The nightmare was of himself trapped in a small room, the room itself was composed of fleshy walls and teeths on the ceiling. The walls were pulsating and throbbing as if it was breathing. The images of faces embedded into the wall were quite disturbing. The scene then seemed to change to him inside of the trenches, the deafening sound of gunfire and tanks firing their cannons.

He swore he could smell the dead bodies rotting in no man’s land. The image of his former Sergeant screaming in his face to go over the trenches and into the oncoming gun fire. When he jumped over the border of the trench, he was not met with German soldiers firing at him. Instead he could see over the horizon was twisted creatures made out of flesh and metal. The sound that came out of their mouths were a mixture of a groan and a sound being in consent pain. Ben fired a couple of shots from his rifle into them, but they seemed to ignore the fact that they had been shot. The creatures kept lumbering over towards his platoon. Ben took aim for the creature’s head, hoping to finish them off. But once again they seem almost immune to bullets.

By this point his whole body started to freeze up, he couldn’t even aim his gun at the creatures. The creature was close enough to him that he could smell it’s rancid breath. It was enough to make Ben vomit. But before the creature could attack him he woke up thankfully from his nightmare.

He looked around the room noticing a letter that was slid underneath his office door. Setting down his glass on the nearby table. He walked over towards the door picking up the letter. Opening up the letter and taking a quick read of the content of said letter.