[IC] The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

[Eschatologist]

After nearly a day of travel, the HMS Fluke is deposited in the Unterzee. The Canal descended, through locks and gates and shadowed turns, from the sunlight of the Surface to the chill waters of the zee, and as soon as the small passenger liner touched the green-black waters the air shifted, morphing into a sense of foreboding and delicious newness. The passengers had been consigned below decks during the descent, the wild tides of the Canal too hungry for men and women without zee-legs to be within it's reach, but with the boat deposited in the Albertine Docks, the lacquered hard-wood floors of the foredeck were open to sightseeing.

The sight of the Neath is one completely alien to surface dwellers. There were stars, thousands of them, and if you looked closely occasionally one of them moved, fast or slow in straight lines or eccentric curves. There is no sun or moon, and the only light comes from the lights of the boat, and the illuminations of the docks, either blinding searchlights or dim street-lamps guiding the residents and workers too and fro on its far-off streets. The zee itself is strange, perhaps more alien than anything else yet. Earlier in the trip, zailors could be heard laughing about surface-dweller's reactions to the zee. Among the portended outcomes, words like "madness" "terror" and "squeal like a faber" made their appearances, and it is clear why. The waters are no color present on the surface, and seeing it for the first time causes an uncomfortable sensation of expansion in the murky corners of your psyche. 'Pelegin', you read. 'The Black of the Underzee', an torpid and deep hue of maddening shade, hinting at depths quite literally unfathomable. It uneases even the most hardy surfacers, and more than one passenger loses the contents of their stomach to the waves, the putrid waste mixing with and quickly disappearing into the passing wave-caps, the uniform blackness returning.

The trip from the Albertine Docks to London is relatively uneventful. The docks themselves are impressive fortifications of stone and concrete, evidently built to withstand attacks from not only nature, but from attacks [both from the canal and from without, if the dual-facing cannon are to be taken seriously]. There is little traffic on the slight waves, and fortunately for all involved no zee-beasts rear whatever they have instead of heads. A few small merchant vessels are passed, evidenced only by their lights, and near halfway through the journey a Royal Navy frigate comes much nearer, the contours of its hull visible from the reflected light of its beaming lamps. Eventually, the light-boats of London can be seen, and the Jewel of the Underzee's glowing halo comes into view, the city silhouetted by its own luminescence.

The Fluke pulls into the Wolfstack Docks, the scurrying dock-urchins tying all manner of ropes to anything sturdy looking, pulling the thick-hulled vessel within walkway range. The docks are a cacophony of sound and color, in stark contrast to the zee. The place is filled with the noise of the city: talking, carriages, gossip, song, engines, shouts and laughs all have their place in the throng. A Trinket Hawker tries to convince passersby that his wares are straight from the House of Mirrors, wherever that may be. A Besotted Poet recites near the gantry, a tawdry verse whose subject is likely unknown even to the poet himself. The uncomfortable counter-melody to the excited buzz of the docks is what comes from under it. Groans and lamentations of Drownies, ex-drowned citizens of the Neath, their minds weak and their flesh scarred and discolored to resemble rotten eggplant more than human skin. Their soft, pitiable bass is accompanied by haunting melodies, beautiful sad songs that stir a slight, but noticeable, desire to join them among the waves.

The sights are more incredible. London truly is the jewel of the Neath, its skyline more vast and magnificent than any other city on or beneath the world, surely, the cavalcade of buildings crowned by the massive spires of the Bazaar, snaking towards the ceiling almost plaintively. The men and women along the docks are a varied crowd; there are people of quality, their fine colors and fashionable suits eye-catching and wonderful. Urchins run about charmingly in their motley and drab, while the everyday citizen finds his or her homogenized way through the thronging crowd. Unfortunately, these charming staples are not the primary occupants of the dock: most atop its thick wood platforms are zailors. Hard men and women [mostly men], with hard stares of hard eyes speaking of hard, maddening times in the pitch black horror of the Neath. Around them a dead zone exists, where the better people dare not step, and it these channels that will no doubt eventually lead you to your destination, written in bright red ink on a note in your breast pocket.

"The Singing Mandrake"

[Malkin]

Travelling never sat well with Spencer, it put him in a foul mood a mood which the alien surroundings did little to pacify. Being cramped in a cabin on-board the HMS Fluke had frustrated him beyond reason so to be allowed on the upper decks was a great relief. He had met many sailors in his time, many of them considered hardened men by their peers but none of them intimidated him like those he saw around him. He was careful not to make eye contact with anyone, now would not be the time for confrontation.

He pulled his brown leather case to his chest and cursed his lack of forethought for not removing his gun from it and placing it in his pocket. He had spent most of his life away from home and visited many different places but nothing like this. Everything was alien to him, the smell, the light even the movement of the HMS Fluke on the water was strange, so different to anything, well, ever.

It wouldn't do to display cowardice, not in front of these people, he knew the slightest display of fear would be jumped upon and exploited, they would tear him apart like a pack of dogs.

Straightening his jacket and pulling back his shoulders he strode out onto the upper deck to take a better view of the docks

[Henwen]

'Give me a good old train any day,' Miles thought miserably as he heaved his guts out over the railing into the inky black of this bizarre sea- or zee rather, as they called it. He'd never had much of an opportunity to be on a boat like this before, a few ferries to quickly hop over rivers when bridges were inconvenient but never out in the wide open water like this. He'd actually been looking forward to the opportunity, until the sea-sickness set in.

He'd thought being confined to below-decks for the channel had been bad enough, huddled in a dark corner of his room with a bucket for company. But the Zee, now that brought an entirely new meaning to the world of sea-sickness. Zee-sickness was so much worse, he discovered as when they'd finally been allowed above deck the rolling of the ship had changed its peak- if a ship could roll backwards then that's what it felt like. So that's how he ended up in his current position, clinging to the ship rails like some oozing boneless slug and speaking deeply of his innards as he hung face first to the strangest waters he'd ever seen.

By the time they'd made landfall to the docks, Miles had rid himself of pretty much everything that wasn't attached to his insides and had recovered enough to pull himself into some semblance of decency. Feeling particularly less 'hardy' than usual, he picked up his coat from the ground where it had served as a pillow for his boney arse. Shaking it free of wrinkles he donned the rumpled trench like it was armor against the influences of the Zee. His hat similarly treated, the brim brushed of dirt and delicately placed on his head for fear of upsetting his already disturbed humors.

The moment the wornout soles of his shoes hit solid ground he felt instantly better, although his legs seemed convinced that 'solid' was a bit more mobile than it should be, heaving about much like the ship had. He shook off the feeling though, much more content that his stomach had decided to stay in one place. Taking in a deep cleansing breath he finally got a look around... and it was sorely a regret that his ailment had prevented him from taking in the view- it must have been spectacular.

However strange, these were city people. His people. The people who roamed docks and streets they lived and died on and walked a hundred thousand times, and apparently here they walk a hundred thousand more even after that. Miles sidestepped a particularly 'zombied' looking fellow, a muttered pardon and pointed lack of eye contact- it was only polite.

Fumbling his hand through his pockets he managed to find the note, crumpled and decidedly worse for wear during its stay on his person. The Singing Mandrake , shouldn't be too hard to find, although the directions could have been clearer, Detective Miles Hardy- having traveled miles by Zee and left less than hardy- would be up to the challenge...

Hopefully they'd have a drink or something when he got there.

[Eschatologist]

With Miles

The streets of London are not as orderly as one would like. None are named helpfully, and you are sure you saw more than three sings reading "Traitor's Lane", each for a different street in a completely different part of the city. According to the directions, the journey from Wolfstack to the Mandrake, apparently located in a neighborhood called "Veilgarden", is just a half an hour walk up what surfacers know as the Thames but Londoners universally call the "Stolen River". The directions did not mention, however, the massive theater that would be passed by. It looked a domed Colosseum, all paneled in dark wood and rich gold embroidery, lit up like a bonfire in the stark contrast of the permanently-black sky. The people which spilled from it and gathered around it looked much different from the average citizen of the fallen city, the soot-marked or torn clothes replaced by colorful dresses and black suits, looking suitably dashing from even such a distance.

As you round a corner and the crowd of wealth passes from your vision, you see a dapper looking man, tall and thin with a wiry mustache, clad in a slightly less rich suit than those around the massive hall. He sidles up to you quickly, matching your pace as you walk and standing at a distance he would no doubt call discrete, but would likely come off as 'presumptuous' or 'd----d close'. His voice is sultry and deep, a voice fit for the stage or public speaking, though hushed and subtle, in a casual tone despite the trickle of excitement you detect.

"Welcome to the Neath, surfacer. I hope you're enjoying London; even without the Empire she's the jewel of the world, you see. I would feel remiss as a Londoner if I did not offer you her most sublime and marvelous new commodity, the joy of artists and detectives the city over: Honey! Delicious and beautiful, and cheap at three spoons for an echo! A bargain for a newcomer to this wonderful city, you see."

The Precocious Peddler waits eagerly for your reply, his entire attention flatteringly invested in your next words.

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

With Spencer

After having been politely escorted from the boat by the zailors, eager to be done with their business, you find yourself in Wolfstack proper. Walking from the pier you find yourself at a wall of depots and shops, the waterside streets thronging with traffic. The quality of the crowd has improved, though not exceedingly, and though hard-looking zailors can still be spotted easily the crowd is more 'earnest blue-collar' than 'dangerous cut-throat'. For brief spells it is easy to forget that one is underground, the crowds of people still just everyday men and women trying to live their lives to the fullest. The rug is pulled from that illusion when Neathy peculiarities make themselves known; a man with a squid for a face and putrid green skin or some other nonsensical sight utterly alien to anyone but those who dwell in the darkness of this cavern beneath the world.

After having walked a few blocks, you hear a voice behind you. It is a small voice, from down near your waist, not two feet from you. It is a little girl's voice, marred by an accent at once both completely unfamiliar and absolutely indicative of destitute poverty. If you turn, you can see a small girl, fair skin and fair hair marred by soot and dirt, mismatched dirty faded clothes, each telling of the different radiant color that it used to be. She is short and thin, beady eyes and a scar on her left ear.

"'ear, guv, got a message for ya', real important he said". She holds a slightly crumpled piece of paper, dirtied by presumably her handprints, looking at it with an intense gaze, as though trying to commit the thing to perfect memory in just a short time.

[Malkin]

Spencer was attempting to get his thoughts in order, attempting to make sense of the sights his eyes were being assaulted with. He never imagined he would ever find himself in such a fantastical place, a man with a squid for a face?! This though triggered something deeper with in him, it had been a while since he had eaten a good meal and he was always been partial to calamari, he turned to see if he could find 'squid face' again.....

The little voice made him jump …. he cast his blue eyes onto the form of the girl, appraising her worth and value. He made his conclusion quickly. Seeing this level of poverty inflicted on a child always made him feel awkward and in turn, made his response more terse then he intended it to be.

“Well?” Said Spencer sharply.

Spencer took the letter from the girl being careful not to touch her hand, there are some terrible skin diseases out there you know …. Holding the letter by its least fouled corner Spencer made his way to a some tables and chairs belonging to a nearby café and placed the letter on a handkerchief he had removed from his pocket. Spencer did not wish to appear to keen to read the letter, any observers working for this 'Singing Mandrake' would surely report this back and he didn't want this person knowing they could influence him so with a meagre letter.

He pushed the letter to the edge of the table and beckoned the girl over to the table.

“Please, sit. Let me get you a drink to thank you for delivering such an important letter to me” this was not much offered as a request, more as a direction to join him ...

[Henwen]

The theater, while unexpected on his route, was a welcome sight to see all lit up with the gilt and gaudy trappings of the opulently wealthy. And the said opulently wealthy mingling and rubbing elbows with noses held high was even better... although it did make him rather acutely aware of his rather poor and shabby self. Folks like that had so much that they didn't mind gambling some away- so there was bound to be a casino of some sorts nearby. He quickly shook off the urge however, if he ran off to find a parlor now he'd prolly never find his way back- What did they even use for cash here anyways?

As if the thought summoned him from the shadows, a precocious peddler sidled up to him- or rather The Precocious Peddler, because the fellow seemed to embody all the characteristics of those panhandling folks surface wise. From the chummy lack of personal space to the sleazy snake oil salesman charm, there could be no mistaking this man for anything but what he was. It was a little disconcerting, but still the sheer familiarity of such a character put a smile on his face.

"Say mac," Miles said upping the ante and throwing his arm over the man's shoulders, "You seem a right sort of fellow. I've heard about this honey of yours, said to be so good if you put a drop or two on your forehead your tongue'll beat your brains out trying to get at it.

"And at such bargain is mighty kind of you, but i'm a bit strapped for Echo's at the moment," He continued with a what-can-you-do grin. When in doubt it's best to assume he's not good for it. It had been so long since he'd had anything of value this reaction was a well ingrained habit by now. "I'm actually on my way to The Singing Mandrake to see a dame about a thing- if you could point me in the right direction I'd be much obliged, and when I get back in the black i'll definitely look you up about that taste of Honeyed Bliss. What do you say, pal?"

[Eschatologist]

With Spencer

The Adorable Streetrat does not follow you to your table. She looks at you, her face marred with surprise and frustration in equal measure. As you look at her after sitting down, you notice another pair of urchins has materialized, two older boys in a similar state of apparent poverty. Neither looks older than 13. They share the look of irritation and surprise, and begin to walk off with a confident, speedy pace, melting into the crowd without issue.

The girl stays a moment longer. "Yer not gonna las' long 'ere, guv, wiv that friendly lark. Word o' advice, is all, it won't work ou' fer ya most o' the time". Having apparently spoken her part, she leaves at a much faster pace, running through the crowd, sewing back and forth like a needle, and disappearing on a route presumably to a nearby alley leading into the city. A few moments later, a silhouette flashing across one of the buildings abutting the back street.

The piece of paper, once opened, is likely not what was expected either. A crudely drawn face, looking like it was scribbled by a child, covers most of the faded sheet, with the words 'Comizerations from the Lamp-Street Urchins', the misspelling accompanied by terrible handwriting and uneven letter size. Your wallet still sits in your pocket, jostled slightly but otherwise unmolested.

With Miles

The Precocious Peddler's face shifts as you speak, belying his familiarity with the excuse. Regardless, the smile persists, and disengaging from your embrace brushes his attire down and speaks in the same smooth voice he employed before. "You're accent's strange, my sunny friend. We don't get many of whatever type you are down here, that's a fact. Do you even know what an Echo is? I expect not: well, I figure it's my civic duty to give you the tour of pecuniary affairs down here. Echoes're minted by the Bazaar, reputable sorts like myself trade in them. Not everyone's as straight laced, you see, and so there's a fair number of currencies round here. Anarchists'll tell you Echoes are for Bats, and some scoundrels believe them. Glim, purple crystals'll get you places. Rings of Rostygold'll buy dangerous favors, Jade'll get you others. Secrets and pieces of information're as good as real gold down here, 'specially to the right listener. There's Brass too, but I'd never recommend dealing with them red-eyes, last of all to a surfacer. Anystreet, the Mandrake's not too hard to find."

The man details directions quickly and clearly, and you find yourself remembering them easier than you thought you would. You're apparently only a half an hour at most from the Mandrake, if the Peddler is to be believed. He hands you a business card with an address, 'Widow's Tea Parlor, basement, back room, knock five times', and leaves with a wave, making a beeline for a more Neathy-looking couple. While he leaves he turns his head to speak. "Good luck there, new friend: Mandrake's an odd place, full of valued customers. I'd stay away from anyone looking to poetic, and try not to talk to a Bohemian, if you want my advice". He waves, and is gone.

[Henwen]

Miles took the man's brushoff with no hard feelings, besides it had served its purpose of getting the man to step back to a more comfortable distance- unworried that the man might pinch his pockets, he'd only get coat lint if he did. Besides, a contact had been made, and like the man said information was as good as gold. Especially when that information was about what ran as gold down here- money sure would be a bit more exciting to handle down here, no more crumpled bills or jingling change. Although he still wasn't too sure what an echo actually was, or what it was worth... and some of the information the man dropped reeked of subtle hints and clues he didn't quite understand yet...

Information though, that was vital. Now he even had the Peddler's card, and that could prove to be something very useful in the future, to go with his somewhat improved directions to the Singing Mandrake.

He gave the peddler a jaunty wink and a click in response to the man's farewell before continuing on his way, hunching down in his coat with his hat dipped down, he could almost pass undistinguished through the crowd. He used to be so practiced at disappearing like this, becoming just another one of the faceless masses, but this place ran to a peculiar tempo- like jazz played in a cathedral, offbeat and ringing oddly with solum, forbidding echos. He didn't quite have the trick of it yet, maybe he never would- maybe he would- and would be forever changed for it.

[Malkin]

Spencer watched the girl go and offered her back a slight shrug.

“Suit yourself” he thought

He smoothed the note out with the back of his hand and read it, then read it again. Even on the third reading he could make no sense from the letter which he left on the table. Lifting his bag from the floor he unclipped it and reached inside,

“A poor attempt at lifting his wallet” he decided and resolved to be keep his distance from these delinquents next time.

He was frustrated at what he perceived to have been a missed opportunity and was contemplating the girls words when his hand brushed his gun and, for a brief second he placed his palm against the varnished grip, intending to slip it into his suit pocket. Instead he reached for his cigarette case and his pen. He clipped up his bag and slipped a cigarette out of the ornate silver case which he lit with a flourish.

Spencer doodled idly on the note the girl had left him, he gave the face devil horns and corrected the poor spelling. He was still hungry and decided that his mood could only be elevated by a hot meal. Taking a long drag, he stubbed his cigarette out and sets off in search of an eatery.

[Eschatologist]

With Miles

The rest of the journey is uneventful, the directions given by the Peddler proving accurate, if the route chosen slightly circuitous. You notice wryly that a sharp detour is made around what looks like a Constabulary. The buildings seem to shrink as you progress towards the Mandrake, the roofs dropping from near a dozen stories on average to a mean of no more than five. What the edifices lack in height, however, they make up for in adornment. The crowds seem to grow much more fashionable as you make your way to the tavern: the gristle of criminals and laborers replaced by the elegant, powdered sophistication of the middle class. Never reaching the opulence of the concert hall, but certainly a welcome change of pace. The styles are also much more varied, on all genders equally. It appears countercultural, and with a keen eye one can detect warped and perverted modifications to the finery of the upper class, the streaks and drabs of poorer clothes, all bedecked in a cavalcade of bright colors. One particular woman, with hair of onyx and a peach-like complexion wears a gown striped with another of those Not-Colors, bright Almost-Yellow faintly streaking the mottled grey cloth, bringing dim memories of the surface welling up like a geyser. Fellow pedestrians have rather polarized views, and careful observation can see an almost even split between enraptured attention and spiteful disdain.

A short while later and you are at the doors of the Mandrake. It is a building too large to be a pub but to small and square to be anything else; it lies in the middle of an uncanny gulf, no doubt favored by bohemian sensibilities. The large doors are unguarded, sitting ajar slightly. A sign depicting the titular mandrake hangs above the door in wrought-iron, the title of the establishment hanging below it in the same rusty hue. There is a small garden in front of the building proper, a well-maintained cluster of topiary and flowers standing in resolute contrast to the tall buildings flanking the venue.

If one ventures inside the establishment, it is host to a bizarre menagerie of characters. Every person is different from every other, as though every man and woman fighting for the limelight in their own way, a sort of fashion arms race apparent. A pair in the corner stands out, dressed in business finery in subdued black and charcoal, clearly receiving immense attention from nearly half the pub's occupants. The denizens are different not only in fashion but natural appearance: there are young and old, men and women, fat and skinny all every shade of hair or skin under the sun. There are clear groups, aside from the cluster around the outsiders, cliques clearly sorted by any number of things: a trio of citizens all with matching hats. Three fat men playing cards. A pentagon on elderly men and women, all of whom look frustrated at their present company. The place is full of noise, also. You hear no less than three voices reciting poetry, all clustered around the two suited gentlemen, all of dubious quality, though none lacking in enthusiasm or self-satisfaction. A violin croons from one corner of the room, and a man sings in another, though none compare in earned attention nor quality to the pianist upon the single stage, several feet above the crowd and illuminated by bright lights.

The woman seated at the piano is breathtaking. Her fingers dance over the keys with a practiced air, gliding along with the calm, haunting waltz, a beautiful melody floating above adoring and eager bass notes. She plays alone, yet has enraptured most of the gathered peculiars who do not currently fruitlessly compete for attention with her. The two suited gentlemen watch as though bewitched. She is outstanding in most every way, clearly in a class of her own. Curly brown hair tops her well-endowed, lithe form, and her artistry is matched only by her general beauty, a class above the rest here. She shows no signs of finishing her piece anytime soon, and after a few moments of standing in the bar quizzical eyes turn to you, scanning you over and trying to decipher why you are here. The bartender motions you over, presumably wanting to take your order, and several empty tables sit ready to be occupied.

With Spencer

If the Mandrake is not the eatery one is looking for, then there are plenty of food shops around Wolfstack, though most representing the poor economic status of the neighborhood. 'Peculiar Zee-Cheeses', 'Gracious Gnawings', 'Dark-Drop Coffeehouse' and a hundred more sub-standard restaurants and cafes line the commercial streets of inner wolfstock, the ever-present smell of cooked and raw fish [if what comes from the zee can truly be called such] is noxious and unfamiliar, and more than once street hawkers proposition their particular foods and beverages as being superior, or 'good enough for the Traitor Empress' [a reminder that London here is no longer part of the nearly-dead empire of the surface that still holds the title of 'Britain'] or other such obviously false boasts.

There are, in addition, an astounding number of pubs, liquor stores and brothels, all much larger and grander than any of the reputable business, obviously doing incredible business off the zailors, who one would assume would come off the Zee terrified and homesick, ready to drown their fears and sorrows in cheap, possibly diseased, debauchery.

The most appealing restaurant, though not a difficult title to hold, is the Speared Whale, an upscale diner, fairly busy with a more median class crowd, a pleasant smell cutting through the waft of desiccated fish entrails. Surprisingly, if you decide to sit at one of its tables, a man immediately presents you with a plate of steaming hot food and a tall glass of ice-cold water, not having waited more than a minute. A whole fish lies in front of you, garnished with a sauce packed with mushrooms of all shapes and sizes, tasting bittersweet and salty all at once.

[Malkin]

Spencer walked round as many of the restaurants as he dare and getting more and more downhearted each new place he visited. After his second visit he finally settled on the Speared Whale, due mainly to the clientèle that appeared to frequent it, hoping that their attire belayed at least some form of class in an otherwise poor choice of establishment.

Spencer found himself a table close to a group of some of the better dressed men in the bar area in an attempt at overhearing some of their conversation. All he needed was lead, anything really, a name, a street anything to at least get him started. He had dismissed asking outright about the The Singing Mandrake, for all he knew he could be a criminal, he'd had quite enough of those types of scandals to last him a lifetime.

It was maybe the words that the girl offered him or, more likely his mothers advice, that spurred him to be friendly and polite to the barman whilst ordering his food. His mother always warned him about being rude to those who cooked and served your food especially when you could not see into the kitchen....

Spence ate quickly, he had no idea what he had just consumed, the name it was given on the menu gave him no clue to its ingredients, but it was hot and tasted nutritious. Placing his cutlery carefully on his plate he picked up his drink and eyed the other patrons of the Speared Whale and contemplated his next move.

[Henwen]

While the walk was a touch longer than he'd of liked, it had done him good to stretch his legs and he felt much more sound than when he first slogged his way onto the harbor. The obvious detour around the 'law' also caused him to chuckle and shake his head, so he continued with good humor as he contemplated the common failings of peddlers- both above and Neeth. His contact would prove to be a good one for the shadier side of things it seems.

As the curious construction shrank in size and grew in splendor the detective found himself growing increasingly uncomfortable. He had nothing against high class folk really, they paid their bills and tipped well when properly motivated or thankful. But people with money tend to look down on those who don't, and as the glitz and glamor increased Miles found it harder and harder to ignore the fact that he did not.

The odd taste in fashion, though not his forte beyond his usual work, was a bit disconcerting all said and done. And he wasn't sure he liked the sentiment behind it- rich folk donning the rags of the poor and calling it high class sat kinda sour in his stomach. Although he couldn't deny that some of them pulled it off rather fetchingly as his eyes followed Miss Peach and Onyx with her drab and yellow stripes. Something about her reminded him of someone- he'd dated some pretty dames before but she was certainly a looker... although he couldn't tell which one it was that she looked like, the memory slipping from his grasp like so much wet sand.

Finally he came upon what could only be the Mandrake, if the signs were to be believed. Frankly the place set him a little on edge, too big and clean for his kind of pub- and certainly too many flowers out in the front. The bougainvillea's looked particularly vicious despite their well pruned state. He gave them a wide berth as he slipped inside.

While the gaudy wealth about the place does not diminish, the busy noise and eclectic nature of the establishment's patrons does give him a small sense of relief- with such variety of sights and sounds he could easily slink his way to some corner stool and play the invisible wallflower for a while, just until he scoped out his target.

The multiple orators of the poetical kind was a bit of a new sound to get used to in the midst of the muddle- but he mentally sorted it away with the sound of conversation- just one with persistent rhymes. The violin wasn't too bad, although we was no musical aficionado to be able to tell such things, it didn't hold a candle to whom ever was tickling the ivories at the moment.

Before he could get a good look however, he heard the siren call of his favorite vice- the sound of cards being shuffled and dealt audible to his ears even in the din of a fully crowded room. Three healthy sized gents sat off to the side, not far from where he stood, their hands in motion showing tantalizing glimpses of the royal family and friends.

Miles licked his lips and dug his fingers into his palms, the itch back with the force of a hunger. He was at the Mandrake now wasn't he, surely he could spare time for a game or two- what would be the harm... might even win some cash-er echos, which he was desperately short on.

His wandering eyes soon found something else to fixate on however, as his attention was solely captured by the musician on center stage. If Miss Peaches and Onyx had him rubbernecking then this woman gave him whiplash. A tall drink of water if there ever was one, from the concentrated ease in which she played to her generous everything, she was like staring into the sun and Miles found it difficult to look away.

He managed though, dame's like that were nothing but trouble- and much too good for the likes of him. He'd be lucky if she noticed him long enough to shine her shoes. But he wasn't here to be chasing skirts- Miles was here for a job, and he was gonna keep it that way (like he believed any of that tomfoolery about Hearts Desire, nothing like that came free- so a job it was, and a case by the sound of it if he was lucky).

He'd lingered too long however and now was starting to get the attention he'd hoped to avoid. He gratefully ducked away at the bartender's wave.

"Nice place you got here Barkeep," Miles said as he sidled up to the bar, "Don't need to worry about my order though, I'm actually here to meet somebody..." His eyes strayed once more to the Table of Cards, and he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, "Think they'd mind a fourth at their table while I wait? I could really go for a game and who knows how long it'll take The-"

With a sinking feeling realization dawned, and Miles' stomach dropped, "That gal on stage, she's The Debonair Pianist ain't she."

[Eschatologist]

With Spencer

The barman is happy to have some more respectable, polite company, and talks between tasks about affairs in the Neath. According to him, the Neddy Men [the strong arm of the Masters of the Bazaar] have had more than a few run-ins with the Constabulary, a mostly over fugitives of justice wanted by both factions. A brawl between the two enforcement groups started a day ago just down the road, over some small-time anarchist, who, during the confusion, managed to not only escape but to seriously wound several people with homemade bombs. He continues to regale you with stories and news, pinning you as a surfacer almost immediately. He talks about some love affair in the Shuttered Palace, informs you about the insane and jovial Jack-of-Smiles, whose murder-spree has gone unchecked for months. He offhandedly mentions some new sensation in Veilgarden, a pianist who has the whole bohemian lot singing high praises. Apparently, in their excitement at their new celebrity the unwashed lot of them have been spreading out, and he's had more poets and sculptors in his establishment than he'd like.

Other than the Bar-Keeping Raconteur's ministrations, little happens as Time passes. People come and go, mood shifts and money changes hands, as though these people were not living dozens of miles beneath the surface. What was evidently the lunch rush departs, and you are eventually left almost alone at the eatery, the staff retreating to the kitchen to prepare for the next surge of people. A few stalwarts remain, joined by those whose schedules preclude normal eating hours, but otherwise quiet drifts through the fashionable, if drab, room.

With Miles

The Amiable Taverner is quick to respond, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag as he does so. His voice is soft, yet cuts through the commotion with a practiced ease, a skill one must pick up when surrounded by such cacophony every "day".

"Aye, that's her. Rare beauty, she is. Spends a good deal of time here, and I've no idea why. Those carding gentlemen likely wouldn't mind. The stakes are low here, not like Mahogany Hall or Doubt street. I figure you're a surfacer, aye? Something to remember: besides those two right there" he points to the suited men "and our pianist, the clientele by and large don't have two pennies to rub together. They may look fine enough, but no-one comes to the Mandrake who already has status or patrons. If you're looking to join those gentlemen though, you will need some money. Here, take this." he reaches into a gratuities jar and removes a crumpled sheet of paper, 'One Echo' written finely on it in flowing caligraphy, surrounded by notes and legal matters in much smaller print. "Pay me back when you can. I figure since London gives a poor welcome, I might as well give a good one".

He shifts away, taking an order, his gaze shooting back to the Pianist every minute or so like awed clockwork. The music continues to play, and though the recital lowers in abrasive volume slightly, it continues ever-present, flowing like marble-laced tar.

[Malkin]

Spencer listened to the Barman politely, making the right noises at the right times and encouraging him to speak, not that he needed much encouragement. To be fair to the Barman he could spin a fine yarn, but that's all they were, Spencer was sure, just fine tales that surely get more fantastical at each telling. No civilised place would allow a murderer to escape so easily. Although, he barely thought of this place as civilised, he used the term loosely.

Something nagged at him, he knew this feeling, it was a feeling he often felt, a strange tugging at his navel, a slight pause in his breathing as he attempted to focus his mind on what the barman had said, attempting to string his thoughts into a coherent stream...

“The pianist..” he whispered

Quickly unhooking his bag he pulled out the note he had received “The Singing Mandrake” wondering if the two could be connected he resolved to find out.

“Sir, as I am sure is clear I am neither poet a sculptor” Spencer said to the Barman with a smile.

“Nor am I local, but I do have some business to attend to in the city. Some business of a rather delicate nature, that takes a fair amount of discretion to be exercised by all those involved and of course being a man of business, much like yourself, first impressions in business are of the utmost importance” During all of this, Spencer was watching the Barman, identifying words, subtly adjusting tone and pitch until he could see what he was saying and how it was being said was resonating with the Barman.

“Now the problem is thus” he continued, leaning towards the Barman and lowering his voice “I have been informed that 'The Singing Mandrake', whether it is a place or person I do not know, is what I need to find, all I ask of you, a very simple request really, is some information about this place. I do not intend to conduct this business hamstrung... Of course this being business and both of us businessmen it will of course cost me your time” Spencer produced a fist full of money “A mere business expense, easily written off”

[Henwen]

Miles hangs his head at the confirmation of his suspicion, it was just his luck to be involved with the very kind of woman he'd vowed to avoid- even if it was in a professional manner, this was not going to end well for him.

For all his doom and gloom thoughts however, the barman's words did help to raise his spirits considerably. So it seemed the glitz and glamor was mostly a facade; less the 'wealthy glamorizing poverty' and more the 'I could afford a taste of finery' crowd. It was easy to mix up the two, but he was far more comfortable with the latter crowd. They were much less likely to kick him out for 'slumming' the place with his presence.

The nonchalant offer of the single crumpled Echo however caught him by surprise and near shocked him speechless. The barman moved away without a care as he left Miles standing dumb at the bar with numb fingers clamped around it, and trying not to look as touched as he was. Generosity like that was hard to come by, the Amiable Taverner just made it in his good books for life, and hopefully Miles wouldn't wreck this budding relationship by being a miserable mooch like he'd been with most of his surface bound friends.

"Thanks mac," the detective said a bit more weakly than he intended, and he gruffly cleared his throat before calling after him, stuffing the echo in his breast pocket, "A better welcome I've yet to have all day, Barkeep, I owe you one."

And with that he made a beeline to the nearby cardgame. A small voice in the back of his head yowled at him, sounding a lot like his most recent ex Darla, a pleading screech to save the dollar for a better investment and not fritter it away. He ignored the voice with practised ease, swamping it in the eager burn for that heady rush.

"Greetings my finely fed gentlemen," Miles swaggered over to their table, puffing up his ramshackle charm with practiced bravado, "What's the name of the game? You fellows up to turning this trio into a quartet and teaching a fresh-off-the-docks surfacer the ropes of Neethy Cards? I've come into some cash so I'm good for the stakes if you feel like letting me try my luck."

[Eschatologist]

With Miles

The three rotund gentlemen look up with universal annoyance, though after a brief whispered consultation motion to an empty edge of the table, to which a chair could be pulled up to. The center man, his colorful clothes up close evidently stained with spots of paint and moisture, his facial hair matching his clothing, poor quality material worn to its absolute best, is the first to speak in an audible register, disgust mingling with surprise in his voice.

"We play cat and spire; a neathy game of skilled luck; perhaps watch one game"

Another of the gentlemen speaks, this one sitting to the left of his companion and equipped with an uncharacteristically high voice, breaking slightly as though he were a pubescent lad as opposed to a middle aged bar-goer. "We card for money; an echo needed to play; do you have such funds?"

You notice they speak in a familiar scheme, and if you can remember your more esoteric scholastic learning you will place it as a haiku, some Japanese nonesense that has evidently found its way down into London. Provided you show your funds, they allow you to sit down and hand you a stack of multi-colored chips.

The game is immediately obvious after one watch. Hold 'em Poker, though with odd suits and more aggressive betting. Bats, Squids, Dragons and Flukes, though all with the same 13 card layout. They deal you in, and the game plays smoothly and without much conversation [though what little there is still is presented in rather poor haiku], the gentlemen, no longer united in their disgust of you, show themselves to not be particularly fond of present company. The bets are aggressive, the play retaliatory, and the gloating full of scorn and satisfied malice.

Their play, however, is not superb. Certainly, they might be fair card players, but with an observant eye and a mind for basic probability they are not difficult to overcome. You play their vendettas and coax them into rash behavior, and capitalize when lady luck decides to grace you [which is more often then you are used to]. Already on the path to defeat, the downfall of the three gentlemen is speeded when they start to sample a viscous yellow fluid, consumed on tiny spoons more suited to a laboratory than a public house. The liquid evidently starts to effect their mental sate, and not four hands after the gentlemen are in its dimming grasp nearly all the money sits in front of you, in several denominations the Peddler mentioned and several he did not. A few more hands and they are cleared out, their angry gazes softened by their intoxication and listlessness.

Emerging from the focus of play, you notice the music has stopped and the volume of the place has decreased considerably. Most of the regulars, and the suited gentlemen, have evidently left, and with their exit and the passing time the Mandrake is occupied by only a few customers, though these dregs the very lowest in manner and evident wealth, most slumped or asleep, no doubt in the hands of the same or similar intoxicants to your former card-mates. You do not see the Pianist anywhere, though before this realization cannot morph into any action or worry, the Taverner speaks to you clearly.

"Ah, you're done! She wanted me to tell you when you were done, to meet her in the private room. Down the hall, third door on the right." He gestures, and returns to his duties, humming a song you recognize from earlier in the evening. If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.

The Pianist sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. She does not rise, but her attention turns to you and she speaks, her voice like ringing bells.

"Ah, welcome Mr. Hardy. I take it the game went well? Please, have a seat."

With Spencer
The barman is happy to answer your question, and much more happy when he sees money, evidently more than happy to accept surface currency. With a smile he tells you what he knows.

“It’s the heart of Veilgarden, one of the worst places in the city. It’s no Flit or Spite, but it’s still full of low types and disreputable characters, poets and prostitutes more than cutthroats and turnkeys. It’s where the aspirant artistic masses go, and heaves with the sort, a tangled fight between the talentless many cursed with high aspirations. Every once in a while some good sort comes out of it, like this Pianist, or the Snapping Composer, but they’re the exception, not the rule. It’s not too far from here, out past Mahogany hall and near the House of Chimes”

He draws a map on a piece of paper, clearly listing directions in untidy handwriting. “If you’re going there, ignore what anyone says, don’t sleep with anything that spends more than a day in there, and whatever you do, do nothing with honey – it’s an awful substance, and it is a one way ticket to the Royal Beth if you’re unlucky. That’s most of what you need to know; the Taverner’s a good sort, he’ll do you right. Obviously, sir, this matter is entirely confidential. Oh, and you may want some spending money, though I wouldn’t let on you have it to any of the patrons”

He peels several pounds worth of notes off the stack, and hands deposits it in the cash box, handing you coins which claim to add up to seventy echo-pence. “Echoes are decimals down here, not like your surface coin, one hundred of them make an Echo. Good luck, and all that.” He turns away, evidently excited to be done with whatever business is so profitable.

If you indeed go to the Mandrake, the way is much less crowded than it was when you entered the eatery. Clocks read 2pm, past the lunch rush and before reputable businesses close. The empty streets are easy to navigate, and you reach the Mandrake by a direct route in good time. The place is nearly empty, those few who inhabit it are dressed in gaudy attire that was no doubt fine once, but has seen much better days. It is colorful and offensively different, even the few people still in the tavern clashing like vomitus cymbals. The Taverner is dressed much more soberly, and looks with interest at you, then down to a sheet of paper, then back to you with a smile on his face, his voice piercing the nearly-silent room.

“Ah, she’s waiting for you in the back: third door on your left down this hall.” If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.
An incredibly beautiful woman who you presume to be the Debonair Pianist, sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. Another chair is occupied by a poor looking man, starved and gaunt and plebian, but you find it difficult to pay much attention to him given the other occupant.

The Pianist speaks, her voice like the springtime winds. “Ah, just in time, Mr. Cole. I had hoped you would arrive, what I have to say applies to both of you. Please, take a seat. Mr. Miles Hardy, meet Mr. Spencer Cole.”

She waits patiently for you to be seated, not speaking or making any move until you are ready.

[Henwen]

Miles flashed the gentlemen his sorry crumpled echo and they dealt him in, and it quickly became clear that 'practised gamblers' these men were not. They were far more interested in sniping at each other between hands, digs and jibes to the rhythm of five-seven-five, and not at all aware of where the money changed hands. Miles quickly took advantage of his free-wheeling speech to play the peanut-gallery to this performance egging them on and spurring them to greater distraction. This kind of ploy wouldn't have worked, frankly it shouldn't have worked as well as it was. But before the three fat-cats could notice his gimmick ... one of the three decided to imbibe something a bit stronger than what was in their cups.

This is what could only possibly be Honey, and he was getting a front seat show as to its effects. The trio slumped and fumbled, wavering drunkenly even in their seated positions with glazed over eyes and ruddy faces... The first one out had bet the rest of his diminishing funds on an empty hand seeing double and thinking he'd had two pair when he had not. The second went down not too long after that, poorly trying to bluff his hand into something better than it was and getting so hung up on his syllables he folded in shame. The third simply collapsed, dropping his head to the table and letting out a mighty snore- and Miles suddenly found himself holding all the cards as the last man standing.

The detective raked in his winnings with a disbelieving air. Luck never shown on him like this before and he was innately suspicious of its tidings. The majority of the funds were stashed in various pockets about his person- it wouldn't do to put his 'eggs all in one basket' and have some enterprising thief lighten his load for him. He did however make a point to reclaim his original echo- gently pressing out its well worn creases and folding it up tight, tucked it snugly into the band of his hat. Good luck-charms like this was rare to come by and he could use whatever tokens she sent his way... you never know when it will run out.

Time suddenly reacquaints itself with him, and for a moment he's started by how much has passed without him noticing before the Taverner sets him at ease again. With a grateful murmur of thanks, Miles regains his feet- staggering a bit at how longs he'd been sitting- and it's with that sincere feeling of gratitude he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of echos to place in the man's gratuities jar. There, debt repaid with interest- how's that for improvement.

The private room was easy enough to find, being the only one with any sort of welcoming light to it and Miles entered with little ceremony. And was instantly reminded about all the suspicious dread he'd briefly forgotten.

The room was Red, deserving capital letters and putting in mind thoughts of hell-fire and brothels. And then there was the Woman. The Debonair Pianist, commanding the room in cool blue, all sumptuous long legs and charming grace with glasses he was almost positive she didn't need... What the hell did the likes of her want with the likes of him?

"I guess you could say that," Miles said in response to her question, his hand reaching up to brush the Echo in his hat, tucking it more firmly into it's place. He took the proffered seat and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt, "Mostly Luck i'm sure... and you know how fickle Lady Luck can be."

[Malkin]

Spencer offers the women a smile, a genuine one this time. For he believed that he had identified exactly what was about to occur ….

...many years before today Spencer had been assisting an Envoy in some far flung place in the West Indies, when, quite by chance, he met a Professional Gambler that had done business with one of his uncles when they were young men. The Gambler was now an old man with many stories to tell, of vast fortunes won and lost. Sensing this man had much to offer Spencer spent as much of his free time with this man. Now, to most decent people, this Gambler would be considered a rouge, not a man to be trusted, and to be sure he wasn't but, he was old and could see something of himself in Spencer, so proceeded to induct him into some of the trick of his trade. Now he didn't consider the use of these ploys 'cheating' as such, more like 'levelling the field'. One of his favourite ploys was to hire the prettiest prostitute he could find, scrub her up and put her in a dress and have her accompany him for the evening, not for his own ego, but as a glorious distraction to the others there …..

…..and this is what Spencer believed he was walking into now, not that he believed this lady was a prostitute but she was placed here as a distraction, a figure head, a focal point to keep his attention away from …. well what?....

Spencer offered no indication as to whether he was surprised by being referred to by name and clearly, she was a lady of class and occupying such a room, potentially of influence so could be put to good use as a useful ally.

“My dear lady” offered Spencer as he sat down “Enchanted to meet you, I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting, this place is so enchanting and find myself easily distracted” He met her eyes and he spoke softly and slowly, forming each work carefully and precisely and placed them in front of the beautiful women

Turning to Miles and speaking with the same soft tones and offered Miles his hand

“Good sir, a pleasure to meet you at last”

Spencer often did this, embellishing the truth slightly. He believed that by making people think he knew more than them it kept them on the back foot and gave him the edge.

[Henwen]

As the other man entered and addressed their hostess Miles took the opportunity to size up the man. Rich upperclass, pinched, pressed, and shined from the crease of his cuffs to the toe of his shoes. Outside these obvious trappings, the man was plain looking enough- but there was something about the glint in his eye that set the Detective in him on edge.

This man, Spencer Cole, had something sharp and hard in him- not junkyard dog mean that would rip and tear, but something colder... Miles wasn't sure he wanted to find out exactly what kind of mean Spencer was.

"Likewise I'm sure," he said in response to the man's greeting and taking the man's hand in a firm grip. Miles hadn't heard of this man before this moment- frankly he hadn't been aware that this was a 'group' enterprise in the first place. And while this cast some considerable doubt on exactly what kind of case this was, he was certain this other man was just as clueless as he was. Miles could tell a bluff when he saw one.

"And it's Detective, actually." He continued, casting a glance at the Pianist with a slight nod to show no hard feelings at the slight faux pas. He wasn't some vagabond off the street, however he might look like it- or how tenuous his employment may be, he wasn't going to let it go until they took the badge from his cold dead hand.

[Eschatologist]

With the Pianist

The Pianists reacts with a characteristically nubile smirk as she is complimented by the diplomat, and nods understandingly when reminded that her detective guest is as such. Speaking after a sip of whatever orange liquid she is drinking, her voice fills the room.

"I do indeed know how fickle luck is, detective. I have seen both sides of her plenty of times, as I'm sure you have too. Regardless, I'm sure you are curious about your situation. I will get to the point; I've never been one for dramatic speeches, the piano a sufficient pantomime for me, you see. This is the the state of things: I represent a certain interested and consummately well-connected Benefactor who chooses to remain anonymous. He, for reasons he has not seen fit to tell me, has chosen you two, and one other who should be here shortly" She checks a pocket watch, impatience visible only to the most perceptive of eyes for the brief second "are among the multitude he has offered the same deal. He promises your Heart's Desire, whatever that may be, upon the completion of a series of no more than 12 tasks, uniquely suited to men of particular importance and capability. There will be some choice in what tasks you will be assigned, seeing as you are but one cell in a rather large network of beneficiaries, but once the agreement is entered such choices cannot be guaranteed at all times. The minutia of the agreement can be read here, though it is dreadfully boring if you ask my opinion." she produces a piece of paper from somewhere, darker brown than usual and covered in minute print, headed by an embroidered signature of some "Baseborn and Fowlingpiece", presumably a legal institution.

"I must warn you that what law there is in London will not view all the tasks that may be assigned as entirely legal, though you will find such trifles mean a good deal less out of the sun. Needless to say, any of you have the right to refuse any task, though this does proclude you from being rewarded."

The pianist, all business through her speech, reclines slightly, getting more comfortable as an elegant smirk grows on her face. As she finds her new and consummately more appealing position, the door opens behind Miles and Spencer, and an offputtingly tan wiry man enters, about which the Pianist seems immensely pleased.

"Ah, you join us at last. I understand navigating London must be doubly difficult for a surfacer, please, sit! We were just covering your particular assignments". The Pianist's face once again hints at frustration so subtly as to almost seem imagined, and she goes over the details of the agreement in somewhat less detail. Once finished, she grabs the document and plants her thumb on one of four strange, looping symbols that seem to cause slight vertigo when looked at. They are swirls of shapes and lines, bordered with dots and spikes, and are uniform except for the one that has been thumbed, which is slightly larger and significantly more intricate.

"The Correspondence, for you who might be unaware, is a very real and very poorly understood sort of magic in the Neath. Place your thumb on the three uniform marks, if you please. Those simply guarantee that a breach in the contract by you results in immediate termination of said contract. Mine, as ordered by our Benefactor, guarantees my permenant death if I or the Benefactor break the contract without reason. A matter of security, and hopefully one that will give you some piece of mind that our Benefactor has only the best in store for all of us."

She slides the paper back over, and waits for either questions or descending thumbs with equal eagerness.