voicetest | 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

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. ]

Canon: Charm of Magpies series

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