voicetest | Canon: Charm of Magpies series

Entry tags:

Canon: Charm of Magpies series

SETTING ONE: Prose or Brackets

Ah, Victorian London. The Thames, the clock tower, the palace. The crowded dirty cobblestone streets, the ever-present pall of coal smoke belched from trains and factories and steamers, the curling fog around the lamplights in the darkness. There are handsome gardens and lush concert halls waiting for the wealthy and privileged, private rail carriages and cut crystal on white tablecloths, but for the poor and the working class there are crowded boarding houses, dark alleyways, and the echoing footsteps of someone following you in the roughest parts of town where they'll never find your body.

Perhaps this is your first time here, and you're staring about in awe or disgust. Or perhaps this is all old news to you. Perhaps you, like everyone else, are about your daily business hailing a hansom cab or perusing shops or solving mysteries. Perhaps you don't even notice the whip slender, shabbily dressed little man until you've bumped into him, or until he's come alongside you trying to pass by, or has accidentally started for your cab. In a city of first appearances he's not much to look at: sickly pale like someone recently ill, five foot, and so thin as to look almost a youth, unfashionably short cropped red hair and patches on his jacket.

The edge of a cheap cotton glove pokes awkwardly from a pocket. He's wearing the other one, cradling his left forearm close to his body to obscure the sight of it for the same reason the glove had been hastily stuffed away - both are entirely covered in blood, his left arm soaked to the elbow.

Whether it's his blood or someone else's is anyone's guess.

Perhaps this meeting is in the dead of night, when no legitimate person has any business on the streets, in which case another detail might make itself alarmingly known to you as he materializes out of the fog. The man's unnaturally dilated pupils are ringed in gold, and faintly glowing.

~

SETTING TWO: Brackets, Text, Video or Voice

[ Oh my stars and garters, it's a jamjar. Is it a space station? A magic castle? An island governed by capricious gods demanding sexual sacrifice? Whatever it is, it's bloody irritating, and justiciars aren't allowed vacations. ]

Excuse me.

[ The voice that raps out is lit with annoyance, the owner clearly clinging to a veneer of courtesy by his teeth, which are clenched tight beneath pressed lips. ]

I don't have time for this. I'm expected - and I will be missed, if I don't turn up. I won't be kept here, understand.

~

SETTING THREE: choose ur own adventure!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Booker has his own business to attend to, just like anyone else in the city - and London gives off more of a keep to yourself vibe than any city other than New York.

But he's not blind, and not so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he fails to notice the young man hurrying along, eyes lowered, or the red of the blood still creeping up his jacket from the soaked arm.

He moves without thinking, blocking the man's - the boy's? - way with his body. Even he's not sure what he intends to do, but he can't just let him pass by. ]

Hey!

[ The man, thank you, Stephen is coming up twenty-eight even if he's routinely mistaken for much younger. He glances up sharply at his passage being blocked, but it's not alarm that crosses his face even at the sight of a much larger, broadly built figure halting him. Instead it's annoyance, briefly, and then a professional determination. As much as he dislikes flagrant use of power, especially for personal concerns, it's a card he's willing to play.

He hesitates, feigning intimidation, and then darts to the side with the experienced skill of a small-statured lowborn boy obliged to weave through London crowds to escape pursuers. There's an alley not far ahead that he can duck down, if the man follows and it comes to a confrontation. ]

[ He stalls for a split second as the redhead takes off, but there's nothing better for capturing Booker's interest than someone who clearly doesn't want to be caught. Booker takes after him, cursing as the smaller man disappears into the crowd. It's not as easy for someone Booker's size to dart between people - but after all, he has experience with this sort of thing, and a certain dogged determination.

He's just in time to catch sight of the man disappearing down an alley, and he follows hot on his heels, slowing only when he reaches the mouth of an alley. It's a dead end - he can afford to ease up, now that his quarry is cornered. ]

Hey. I'm not trying to hurt you - I just wanna talk.

[ He speaks into the darkness, squinting around as his eyes adjust, trying to seek out where the man's hiding.

[ Not hiding, just far enough down into the alley that no one passing by might notice an unexpected flash of light, if it comes to that. Stephen is waiting with arms crossed over his skinny chest and feet set in a wide, defiant stance like someone bracing to be rushed. One never knew with Americans.

challenging, ]

Did we have something to discuss?

Edited 2015-02-02 06:51 (UTC)

Should we start with why your first instinct is to run away?

[ Booker holds his hands up, placating, and takes a step forward, careful not to get too close.

He nods towards the man's arm, the blood now drying. ]

Or with the fact that hiding your injury is apparently more important than getting it treated?

Perhaps I ran because you accosted me on a public street and I've no idea who you are.

[ from the way he's not budging as Booker edges closer, that's not the case at all. and, despite the apparent light civility of his words, his tone and his entire demeanor declare a man who doesn't expect to be believed and is setting himself for a fight. ]

I'm not injured, thank you. Merely got my arm in something a bit nasty, and I'm headed home to shift clothes. This shirt's had it, I think.

Last I checked, blood meant injury, whether someone meant for you to get hurt or not.

[ He stays where he is, hands still raised slightly. ]

I'm Booker. Private investigator.

[ well shit. a private investigator is never good news, although he can't think any of his enemies would be so unsubtle as to send a foreign agent after him. he goes very still suddenly, and knows himself given away for the blankness of expression tamping down any flinch or alarm. ]

I'm fine, [he repeats calmly, if somewhat woodenly.]

Oh? I must be keeping you from important work, then.

I'm between jobs, at the moment.

[ Booker's voice is rough, dry, but not threatening. He pauses, noting the way the man suddenly goes still, and takes a moment to just look at him, studying him curiously. ]

Which means nobody sent me. I've got no angle here, if that's what you're thinking. Just trying to help.

You'll have to forgive me if I don't take your word at face value.

[ but neither does he want to cause an incident in public. he takes a breath, steadying himself. ]

If I let you see my arm to assure yourself that I'm not horribly injured, will that do?

[ Fair enough. He's done nothing to earn this man's trust, and Booker can hardly blame him for being wary. For a moment he wonders why he's doing this at all - it's not as though the man's about to bleed out, and even if he were, that's his own business.

Still, he's pursued him this far; might as well see it through. He gives a nod, a small murmur of acquiescence, and steps forward, lowering his hands. ]

[ Stephen extends his left, eyes downcast in faux meekness. There's no wound to be found on his skin, although the blood does seem concentrated around his fingers as though he'd had his hands up to the wrist in someone's innards. Before that can be commented upon, however, he grabs for Booker's hand like a striking snake, capturing it. The touch of Stephen's bare skin will feel like the jolt of prickling electricity, as if a live wire ran just beneath his flesh. His eyes fasten on Booker's and they are not meek now, glowing gold and intent as he pushes persuasion on his thoughts. ]

Listen to me. You never saw a man with a bloody hand today. You didn't chase after anyone, you went about your business and you're very eager to get back to doing so. Nothing at all interesting happened here. You're going to be on your way--

[ he chokes on the last word as exhaustion from a long night and a longer case rises up, cutting off his casting. He'd been warned against using too much energy too quickly but he'd thought himself stronger than this, and he has to let go of Booker to put a hand over his mouth, eyes suddenly wide with pain and coughing out a spatter of blood, and the arcane lines cut into his arm that he'd only just healed reopen with a vengeance, bleeding heavily.

Any chance of attempting fluence again flies out the window. Booker might have felt Stephen's will pushing at his, sliding into his thoughts, but it's gone now. ]

[ Just like that, any concern for the man's injuries is gone. He'd felt himself slipping, dreamlike, into obedience - letting the man go, forgetting everything that had happened here and walking away, was the most natural thing in the world. Of course. He'd even lowered his hands, turning to walk once more out of the alley -

But just as quickly the hold had broken, his mind was is own again, and before he so much as notices the way Stephen falters and coughs, Booker is retaliating, moving forward and pushing him roughly against the wall, eyes hard and voice acerbic. ]

Out of salts?

[ Possession. First time he's been on the other side of that particular vigor, and it's not pleasant. But there's no mistaking it. He presses the smaller man against the rough brick, demanding - angry and defensive now. ]

Enough tricks. Who sent you? What do you want?

[ salts? he hasn't the faintest idea what the man means, but that's the least of his concerns as he's shoved ungently against the alley wall, struggling ineffectually. a touch of power behind his shove would have him free in no time, but it refuses to come, burning dry in his senses. ]

Sent me? You're the one that chased me down here-- let go.

You're not fooling me, pal.

[ Booker's always been a violent man, and his time in Columbia had done nothing to change that. He shoves again, scraping Stephen's back against the wall, glaring. ]

We can make this real easy. Just tell me the truth. Who sent you? Fink? Comstock?

[ They're both dead - at least, they were the last time he checked. But he wouldn't put it past Comstock to come back, just to make his life that much harder. ]

[something is very wrong. he knows this the moment he wakes up somewhere that is cold--cold but not ice and not permeating. he wonders if this is just another nightmare or trancelike state that overcomes him during the long, hourless periods of time he is kept in the dark. it's been at least thirty-six hours since he awoke in this place and there are no signs of his handlers, the strike team, or a safe house. the communicator he has kept diligently in his ear is nothing but static, crackling occasionally but never with the voices that steer him in the way he is used to.

he's growing more and more erratic--restless with no sign of his target or what he is required to return to. and the people here? it's as if they are suspended in time, their technology so far behind what he is used to over the decades of ever-changing items that he is not certain this is even present time. even more evidence that this isn't real--

but the sudden smell of blood that hits him in a rush--that's very real. the small figure that accompanies it is also real, and for one impossibly slow moment there is something that practically assaults him in realization. punches through the simmering surface of half-thoughts and broken bits of...things that he cannot connect. they hold meaning to someone, but they make little sense to him. this though--this sudden vision of a cold day in a cramped apartment with creaking floorboards floods him so fiercely he stops dead in his tracks.

"you're gonna catch your death like that, jesus christ [---], c'mon into bed, sit up just like that for me, yeah--" sit up to clear the air passages. keep him warm. keep him breathing.

who was he? he can't remember a name, was it the very same as this man?

it's the only thing resembling a lead that he has and he's into pursuit before his mind can catch up, quietly tracking behind him through the sudden fog. if this is an erroneous pursuit punishment will come. but the pain he is used to. the uncertainty? no. he has to know.

what was his name--yours?]

Edited 2015-02-03 06:38 (UTC)

[ the man in question allows this for several streets, perhaps checking that the set of footsteps echoing behind him in the fog are indeed following his exact path. he doesn't change his pace, but at the next dim alley mouth he hesitates a moment and then turns in, quickly swallowed up by shadow. it's a dead end, full of stacked boxes, and any windows are high above and shuttered tightly. there won't be anyone coming to look in on them.

he turns to face the mouth of the alley and his pursuer, scuffed shoes braced wide apart and hands loose at his sides in readiness. blood drips from the still wet fingers of his bare left hand. ]

Vanessa is out alone; she shouldn't be, of course. There are dark things that want her--always, lurking, wanting to make her something she has no desire to be. Others are drawn to her, always, the darkness in the hearts of men that curl and reach out to her, beckoning them closer.

She should be with Sembene. She should have that protection, at least, if she has not chosen to bother Mr. Chandler or Sir Malcolm with this.

But she is not.

She is alone, and walking through the streets of Whitechapel, glove-less fingers brushing along things here and there, seeking out whatever has drawn her out. She has felt the thrall, the call of something in the Demimonde...

...so when she sees the pale young man, looking like an injured bird, she can't help but step a bit closer.

"Some predators like to appear wounded to their prey...it draws them in, so they can strike more easily."

She can see the gold, the glowing.

"Are you truly injured? Or are you meaning on drawing people in."

Most of East End is no place for a woman walking alone at night, much less a lady in fine clothes. Stephen had felt her before he'd seen anything, an inexplicably violent roil in the ether like a heavy shape passing through the fog, or the whirlpools and eddies left in the wake of a deep water monster. His hands ache with it. He has been told that he has this sort of effect on others when caught in the grip of fury, or in the line of duty when he'd been forced to pull in all his considerable power to strike down an enemy, but he's so rarely felt it himself. The sense of something stronger. Something old.

Profiling is not his forte. He stops short, cradling his arm and eyeing her warily, noting the fabric she's wearing and the cut of her dress. No woman of her social class would speak to a man like him under ordinary circumstances. No woman of her social class would be here in the first place, and he looks hard at her, trying to see past the woman, but his best work is done with his hands. He'd have to touch her bare skin to get anything useful.

"I might ask you the same question, my lady. Are you lost?"

"If I were lost, would I be speaking to you?" She questions him back, pale eyes watching him carefully. She can feel the similar tug in the ether coming from him, curling and whispering to the creature within her. He has darkness, just as she does. And while she may dress like any woman of her station, her hands are bare--no gloves to be seen.

Which is far from conventional; but she is not one for convention.

And like many things with her, she needs to reach out and touch things, feel true contact. For better or worse.

"And I am no lady. Miss will do." She has no title; nor is she ever likely to have one.

"To answer your question, no, I am not lost. Though I suppose the answer to my question is somewhere in between the answers I suspect of you."

"Miss, then." He nods to her in lieu of a hat to tip, albeit warily. Were she anyone else, a civilian, this would be his cue to spin a lie about the blood, but he's not sure she would tolerate it and this night has been draining enough on its own

"It wasn't my intention to draw anyone innocent in," he says carefully, choosing his words. "But if the sight of blood or an injured man is an attractant, it would be my duty to deal with that situation."

Let her think him a plain clothes officer, or some other hunter. It's close enough to the truth.

Vanessa tilts her head, taking a step in closer. She wonders, truly if he means what she thinks he might--Vampires, or some other creature of the demimonde. But to speak that plainly would be too much, right now.

So instead, she watches him, and gives a slight nod of her head. "To hunt, you wish to appear hunted, then."

[It is definitely a magic castle of some denomination. Sure, it's pretty and shiny and it does its purpose - to serve as an utter distraction for the fact that they've been kidnapped here against their will.

Gladys has tried (unsuccessfully) to rally against the powers that be. Protests? Petitions? All the usual things, but nothing has worked to her satisfaction. Now she's simply mad, and getting madder. She should be knee-deep in the mud of the War by now, so she understands and is more than sympathetic to someone being separated from their purpose.

She waits until he's finished with his message, and then finishes rounding the corner she'd been obliged to hide behind so as not to startle him while he was recording it.]

I'm terribly sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Has no one been able to explain this place to you yet?

[She's dressed as any lady would be, elegant clothing and jewelry, perfectly coiffed hair and make-up but her hands are calloused and rough and she extends a hand as if she were speaking quite unabashedly to an equal.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Canon: Charm of Magpies series

1

SCREECHES

Re: SCREECHES

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

SETTING TWO idk idk?