Horrors Of The Past -London d20-

Game Master Kwen

Whitechapel district, London England year of 1752:
Whitechapel's heart is Whitechapel High Street, extending further east as Whitechapel Road, named after a small chapel of ease dedicated to St Mary. The church's earliest known rector was Hugh de Fulbourne in 1329.
Around 1338, it became the parish church of Whitechapel, called, for unknown reasons, St Mary Matfelon. Whitechapel High Street and Whitechapel Road are now part of the A11 road, anciently the initial part of the Roman road between the City of London and Colchester, exiting the city at Aldgate.
In later times, travelers to and from London on this route were accommodated at the many coaching inns which lined Whitechapel High Street. By the late 16th century, the suburb of Whitechapel and the surrounding area had started becoming 'the other half' of London. Located east of Aldgate, outside the City Walls and beyond official controls, it attracted the less fragrant activities of the city, particularly tanneries, breweries, foundries (including the Whitechapel Bell Foundry which later cast Philadelphia's Liberty Bell and London's Big Ben) and slaughterhouses
In 1680, the Rector of Whitechapel, the Rev. Ralph Davenant, of the parish of St. Mary Matfellon, bequeathed a legacy for the education of forty boys and thirty girls of the parish

Background information
In England and Wales, the legal year 1751 was a short year of 282 days, running from 25 March to 31 December. 1752 began on 1 January. To align the calendar in use in England to that on the continent, the Gregorian calendar was adopted: and the calendar was advanced by 11 days: Wednesday 2 September 1752 was followed by Thursday 14 September 1752.
The summer is noted as being cool and damp, a much milder summer then many had lived through in a number of years. This year will provide a harsh winter, as many residents have noted, still something seems to be stirring in the heart of Whitechapel; something that most sane people would do their best to avoid.
In Ireland, the Fey court had given a treaty with the court of England, they would exist as their own ruling court; and the Wild Fey wouldn’t come into Great Britain for their once a year “Hunt”. If one of the Wild Fey, did go into London and committed a crime a Wergild would be paid to the family of the victim ( Wergild meaning blood money).

Brother Assisi, after spending many months on the road and time waiting for the ship to arrive to London, you find your self seeing the London as city without beauty. Still holding the joys of Rome in your heart, you find yourself glad to be off the cramped ship. It is midday and the middle of summer, flagging a carriage you give the driver the address of a lords manner. Having hope to getting the done completely and quickly, so that you may return to Rome which, oddly enough there was no orders to return to the monastery after this assignment.
The smell of London takes time to get used too as you get closer into the city, the smell of the docks lessens and you are taken to a much nicer part of the city, as lower income houses give way to shops, taverns, and finally you see what you guess are soldiers in red uniforms, as well as men in full blue uniforms with a small club.

Watching a passing bobbie, Jack took a bite from the hard biscuit he had grabbed for his breakfast. The big Scot's grey eyes slithered back to the building he was watching. The address matched the one he was given by the man "Walker." A small part of his mind had wanted to pass on the offer, money seeming a bit too good to be true. Not to mention the timing of the offer just seemed too perfect.

'Not that I can really pass on the money,' Jack thinks with a quite chuckle. 'We're going to need better food.' He thinks, glancing at the offensive biscuit. The big Scot leaned against the cold stone of the building across the street from the apartment. He was just a bit in the alleyway, far enough to not really be noticed, especially if he kept still.

Jack's grey eyes look about once more, looking for the one that fits the description of his charge. Not that he was going to be hard to miss from the sounds of it.

Assisi looks at the odd addresses scrawled on the piece of parchment, and then up at the huge city. One is for his apartments, and is accompanied by a key, and one is for the residence of this Lord Baelstrad. He hopes the Lord is not overly formal, as Assisi does not know all the niceties of high society, especially here in England.

When finally the gate opens, and he is free of the cramped ship, he holds onto his small bag and proceeds down the ramp. He would go find this Lord Baelstrad first, and get the book, and thus be able to get to work immediately. Certainly, after a good start on it, he would eventually tire, and only then would be begin exploring the huge city, bit by bit.

Nobody he had talked to aboard ship knew where that address was, in London, so he goes down and looks for a policeman or other authority to ask. His English was a little rusty, but for him, growing up in the orphanage with so many English nuns, it was his first tongue. Still, all the talking around him, as he winds his way through the throngs, has him confused. What language are they speaking? Ah, yes, now he remembers. A dialect called Cockney. But he's surprised that he really cannot comprehend much of anything. Only when he passes a gentleman speaking to his children does he hear, with relief, that he can understand the words easily. He avoids staring at them, and continues on to look for someone to whom he can ask directions.

"Oi Guvner! Lost in the city? Where yah' bleeding going." One of the men dressed in blue asks you. Having taken note that Assisi looked lost; while this man's dialect is a bit easier to understand he does happen to have a seedy air of authority about him. He has a badge attached to his hat, the badge has lettering that says " Officer Haversin" You also notice a rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear.
The man's hair looks well kept, as does the rest of his uniform, although it does little to complement his pasty skin, as if he spends most of his shifts at night.

Synxol: A knock at your bedchamber door jerks you from the slumber of a man who had indulged himself a bit too hardly the evening before. With a curse on your lips; the door opens up and a well dressed elf walks in, carrying a covered tray and says "Terribly sorry to disturb you sir perhaps sir would consider waking and breaking your fast?"

Jack: You notice that a man of African dissent being talked to by officer Haversin; the bobbie that had walked past you not to long ago. You know that Haversin supplement's his income in other districts and that he looks the other way when you need him too and for a third of the price. Usually he works the night shift, so he must be covering for another officer or had managed to piss someone off higher on the food chain.
With a bit of a start you realize that the man who looks lost; is also the person that you were supposed to watch over. It seems that he walked into your area from the docks, trying to find his way around London of course; looking the way that he does; some chaps could make trouble.

From 'neath the shelter of his pillows his liquour-soaked words are a mixture of muffled groans, semi-lucid ramblings, and pleading for a stay of execution from the judgemental gaze of the sun. He had retired in the smallest of hours, suggestive that any waking is nothing more than sadism incarnate. Tobacco-stained fingers fight to draw black enough of the mass of tangled locks to possibly locate his firearm to relieve his valet of his life.

Despite the marring an eye blackened by a fiance's balled fist he is irrefutably handsome. Cerulean orbs complete a lazy scan of his surroundings, locating his clothing, money strewn everywhere, a key he cannot immediately place (perhaps a forgotten liaison?), and other belongings haphazardly strewn about the expanse of the room. Folded bedclothes, of expensive fabrics and even more expensive cut, had been ignored.

Instead of committing valet-icide he slides into a sitting position while speeding the death of a hand-rolled cigarette with a well-contained conflagration. The cherry of his cigarette reflect off of contrails of the slowly-exhaled smoke giving the young lord a hint of menace. He tiredly nods his appreciation of the tray and contentedly enjoys the warmth of the bed, the burn of the alcohol, the smoke tickling his innards, and the company of Jennsen.

Synxol picks at his breakfast, not overly interested in food, no matter how skillfully it might have been prepared.

Assisi nods at the policeman named Haversin and shows him the address scrawled on the paper. "It is the address of one Lord Baelstrad, I understand, sir. If you could point me in the right direction I will surely be able to find it." He smiles at the man kindly.

"A bath if you would Jennsen."

Moving to the leaded window, Synxol sips his tea and glances at the passers by on the street, while turning a cold shoulder to his breakfast.

Brother Assisi, the name seemed familiar, but he could not place it...

Jack's gaze floats down the street to the sight of the bobbie speaking with the dark skinned, scholarly looking man. The sight was odd enough to distract the Scot from realizing that the African was the man he had been hired to protect.

'That's a bit darker than dusky skinned, Walker old mate,' Jack thinks to himself as he puts the bit of hard biscuit in a pocket. Reaching down, the big Scot retrieves his walking "stick." His cane looked to be a deep dark wood walking stick at first glance. A closer look shows that it is little more than a metal bar that has a black ball on the end.

Leaving the alley, Jack saunters towards the two conversing men, his cane accenting his footfalls with a heavy "thunk." The big Scot can feel the eyes of the daytime folk upon him as he goes about. Something he was rather used to, seeing as the big man does stand out in a crowd. His long legs made quick work of the distance that separated Jack from the two talking men. He returns the nods that he gets from a few that recgonize who the Scot is.

Closing in on the officer, Jack smiles slightly as he sees who the bobbie is. He knew Haversin, he was a good bloke, not greedy, down right friendly compared to some of the corrupt police he had dealt with in his time. Getting closer, Jack spots the end of a cigarette behind his ear. The Scot reaches into his pocket, selecting a match.

"Oie, bobbie, looks like ya be needing a light," Jack says, his deep baritone voice easily cutting through the morning din. "Haversin, me old mate, who the bloody 'ell you piss off to get stuck with the daylight crowd?" the big Scot asks with a deep chuckle. His grey eyes move to the African scholar that the bobbie had been speaking with. Jack nods to the man. Seeing as how he was being paid a large sum to keep the man safe, there was no reason to start off on the wrong foot.

Synxol nods along as the valet's words spark some dull ember of a memory. 'Twas regarding that mysterious happenstance involving the parcels.

The young lord absently crams some charred swine into his maw as he considers the meeting.

A steaming hot bath awaited, then to be garbed as Jennsen fancied, followed by getting to the bottom of this intriguing riddle.

"Banished to the world of daylight, 'tis a cruel fate," Jack shakes his head sadly, then grinning broadly at the bobbie. The big Scot flicks the match head with his thumb, bringing the fire that it carried to life.

Offering Haversin a light, Jack nods, looking from Haversin and the scholar.

"Aye, that he is. Someone wants to make sure our mate here stays nice and safe," Jack says, as his grey eyes casually take in the surrounding view.

With a flick, Jack tosses the remains of the match into the street, to be crushed underfoot. The big Scot holds out his big hand to the scholarly man.

"Jack Halfmen at your service. Me and mine have been hired to make sure your hide stays in one piece," the big Scot says in way of an explanation, as he waits for the other to introduce himself. Not that Jack thought he had the wrong person, it seemed extremely unlikely that would be the case. Not too many others could fit the description.

"Aye, tis a bad one, cab should be here soon, otherwise he'll be walking around in worse locations than 'chapel." pausing long enough to take a drag, Haversin looks at Jack; then passes a few pound notes over saying " For the light, the cab, and for 'the wee ones'. Now get him out of 'ere before someone takes offense on the count of his skin, making my day even worse, the last thing I need to have is another mugging to look into."
Looking at Brother Assisi he says " Can't go wrong with the Scot, he'll getcha where you need to go." Haversin hands the paper back to Assisi, nods, and walks away just as a carriage pulls up to stand next to the two of you.

Having left protestations for another day, the freshly-shaved Synxol stands before the mirror adjusting his cuffs, and leaving Jennsen to his ministrations. By the time it is finished he is almost acceptable without the mass of blood grotesquely caking his eye.

"Please retrieve me when this Assisi fellow arrives. I will be at my desk."

Assisi nods and thanks the policeman as he walks off.

Then he turns to the one who called himself Jack. "You were sent for me? Jack Halfmen, nice to meet you kind sir." Assisi holds out a hand that is as dark as you've ever seen, on the back. The palm is a slightly light shade of brown. "My name is Brother Assisi Cappucino, but you do not have to call me Brother as that status is in lim- is somewhat uncertain at the moment."

He had watched the exchange between the two, and understood that they knew each other. But he had been surprised at what the tall man had said - that he had been hired to protect him.

"Is it necessary, the business of taking care of my 'hide?' I thought London to be one of the most civilised places on this good earth. And will you take me to see this ... Lord Synxol?"

Jack glances at the gift from Haversin before putting the folded notes in a pocket. The big Scot nods his thanks to the bobbie. The man's aid would not go unrewarded, and Jack knew just how to pay the favor back.

"When ya get back to working your normal graveyard hours, go see Maggie about some hot stew and cold beer," Jack says over his shoulder to Haversin. Maggie ran a good pub, you just had to know where it was located. The food was always just what a body needed, and beer almost a godsend.

Looking at the scholar, Jack chuckles at his comment of safety.

"Aye Brother, it does look safe. And depending on where your feet carry you, that safety can vanish in a heartbeat," Jack wears a good natured smile. Looking at the address, he tells the driver of the cab their destination. Holding the door open for Assisi, the big Scot glances around once more.

The cab shifts and groans a bit once Jack gets in and settles in his seat.

"Truth be told, you where most likely in a degree of trouble before I was hired," the Scot says with a shrug, his accent surprisingly understandable. "And if your dealing with Lords, then ya certainly be in trouble." Jack chuckles at the joke. "No fears, just do what we all do. Blame the English." The big Scot laughes heartly at that.

After a few blokes go by, Jack looks at the dark skinned Brother Assisi.

"We got a bit of travel time," the Scot informs the scholar. "What brings ya up to London?" Jack asks curiously.

Assisi considers telling his whole story, but thinks better of it. Instead, he just says, "I come from Rome to translate a text. I suppose it may be important to the Church. The Church of Roma, that is. I had planned on coming to London several years ago, but the ship I was traveling on had been pirated and I ended up in Roma. Sorry, Rome."

As he talks he looks out the window of the handsome cab. What a different place, so dark, so cold and dank. He wonders how so many people had ended up here. London was a city of the Romans. Londinium. Other Roman cities were nearby, too. Camulodunum, Verulamium. He hoped to eventually get to see them, too.

The people he sees on the street were so fair. Many with blond hair, fair skin, and some with red hair like Jack Halfmen here. It certainly is a different place than Roma.

"Pirates? That be sounding like it was an exciting day," Jack chuckles. He occasionally glances out the window, keeping track of their carriages journey to the address that the Brother was given.

"Bit odd sending ya to translate whatever it is," Jack muses scratching at the slight beard growth upon his face. As bright as his hair, the short whiskers were about the only color on his pale skinned face. "Seems like it would make more sense sending the whatever to you, or another scholar to be translated. Still, no complaints from me, I'm getting paid after all."

Silence fills the carriage for a short time while the big Scot looks out a window, mulling something over.

"I still be powerfully curious to know why a scholar needs to be guarded, just for translating something," Jack's fingers tap a beat upon the head of his cane while he ponders. "Seems a bit irregular, even for my line of work." The big Scot looks over to Brother Assisi.

"I don't suppose ya happen to know anything about this lord you are being sent to?" Jack ask as the carriages pulls them ever closer to the lords dwelling.

The carriage ride goes smoothly, as you leave the Whitechapel district, the squalor is replaced soon with better looking homes and shops. Soon both of you see where money has been spent on improving the look and feel of the London streets. Jack you know that underneath all the glammor, there is an undercurrent of crime, somewhere behind the facade. Assisi, you see why London is so civilized, it seems that the squalor is kept to a few districts while, the genteel is kept in other districts.

Synxol: While the suit is a dark crimson color, almost boarding on black, an hour passes while you are reading a few correspondences and invitions for a few parties. There is a book sitting on your desk, not sure if it had been sitting there after Jensen had cleaned off the desk, it seems to be calling you to read this it.

Subconscious itches demand satisfaction, and with that in mind Synxol approaches the book wielding his letter opener like a rapier.

Synxol: At first the words of the book seem to twist around, refusing to be read. You manage to read the first page, something revolving around 'Thaumaturgy' and theory of the forces beyond science, before a dull pounding in your head starts. The headache takes up residence behind your eyes.

Madness awaits within the tome, and though anyone with any sense would turn away, he delves further, for Synxol is apt to ignore the perils as he reaches for the stars. Polished-teeth flash as the headache beings, for it is a minor price to pay for the unlimited potential of what lies within.

"I assure you I am as unknowing as you as to why I need protection. I am an historian and a linguist, so perhaps those skills are required in this case." says Assisi.

He starts to get an uncomfortable feeling, as if alone on a boat, with the waves getting higher and higher as the wind picks up. Though he is not alone, not completely, he hopes.

"Suppose there is some knowledge in the tome. Something valuable to someone with less than honourable scruples? I myself have run across people like that."

As if on cue, the wind does pick up and gusts into the cab. Assisi is not used to the wet cold like this. He realizes he will have to purchase more clothing if he is going to stay here for a time.

"Does it ever rain snow here?"

"Oh, aye," Jack says with a grin. "Usually one or the other. It gets pretty miserable when both fall at the same time." He falls silent for a bit. "It's not bad right now, a little windy."

"Makes sense, what ya said about knowledge hidden in a book. Probably some ancestor of this lord slept around with the servants and wrote about in his journal, and he wants to keep the information quiet. Or some old blackmail that could be used in some plot." the big Scot grins as he glances out the window. "One never knows with the Lords," he adds with a chuckle. "I'd rather deal with a pit vipers than the nobles, but life doesn't give us a choice."

Synxol:

As the carriage comes to a halt in one of the middle class districts' and the wind seems to die down, you exit the carriage.
Looking at the house, taking note that it is well maintained, as there is servants moving quickly around, on errands for their masters.

Synxol draws deeper and deeper into the book, fully embracing the release of what darkness lies within.

Will Save vs. DC 12: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3

OOC: What is happening to Synxol is two hours before Jack and Assisi show up at his manor, I should have had a time stamp for the current time in the last few posts. Synxol you started reading the book at 9:00 a.m. Jack and Assisi will show up at 11:00 A.M.

Synxol: You feel yourself sinking further into the void, as images flash by too quickly for you to grasp, as you see further into the darkness; a large explosion happens. For a brief moment you see whole worlds start to form, the wonders of creation are real. Something pierces your legs clawing it's way up your body, looking down you see a creature formed from shadow is pulling you into a darker realm where fire and pain are awaiting you. A glowing form comes from above you; humanoid in appearance, although you the figure seems famlier to you.
The figure stretches a glowing hand and manages to grab the scruff of your collar saying " No, this is my ward, he has finally awakened, you shall not get your claws into him." The light from the figure consumes the claws and lifts you out of the void.
With a gasp, you realize that you are on the floor of your bedroom, the smell of gunpowder assaults your nostrils, along with the taste of blood on your lips. Jennsen says " Sir, I heard you shouting in Latin; before I entered the room, I heard your pistol go off. I feared the worse, and rushed in, I saw that you had shot the wall, let's get you off the floor and I'll fix a special tea, that should ease any pain that might be in."
Jennsen has a wet towel that has some of your blood on it, as you feel the cool water that had been used to scrub your face. Your head no longer hurts; as you look up at the desk, you see the book stabbed with your letter opener, along with a crushed ball of lead. The book looks no worse for wear, as you notice that the title of the book reads " Private theories in the essays of the occult." The inside of the cover reads " For Lord Synxol, a new grimore."
The book holds no more urges to be read, as if it had shown you the world behind the world. Jennsen has you quickly put in the parlor, with a large tea glass, the smell of honey and whiskey is the most prominent fragrance.

Still as a statue, Jack stood right where he had been after paying the cabbie. Paler than normal, the big Scot looks around, grey eyes boring into pedestrians, earning a few wary glances not to mention a few curses. Anger had filled the big man, dancing upon on the coattails of the daymare. A sense of fear touches at the back of mind, trailing the anger that had enveloped the big man.

Jack touches two fingertips to his nostrils, not surprised to see the little spots of blood. The spots almost glared back at the Scot, as if offended to be kicked out of his body.

Wiping the bit of blood off on his slacks, Jack growls and shakes his head. A distantly familiar pain flares into life. The headache began it's throbbing from what like felt was the exact center of his skull. It wasn't the first time he had headaches, but it was the first time he saw anything more than a flash of an unfamiliar face, or distant. Jack was not pleased, not in the least.

"Back to the old crone for some medicine," the big Scot mutters, mostly to himself. He looks back at Brother Assisi, a grin finding it's way across his pale face.

"Headaches," Jack says with a shrug. "Had 'em since I was a wee one." The Scot looks around once more. "Doesn't look like I was out of more than a few seconds." The big Scot's accent had thickened, and he sounds tired. With a snort, the big Scot hacks a ball of bloody phlegm into the street.

"Well, here we be, address looks spot on, so no cursing the carriage driver, Brother." the big Scot sounds and sounds dead serious, until a crooked smile lights his face.

Walking up to the door, he uses the ornate door knocker to give three mighty raps. Boom, Boom, Boom The mighty sound travels inward alerting anyone who might be asleep, or dead, that there was someone at the door.

Synxol laughs as layer upon layer of his psyche are flayed. The laughter abruptly cessates when his calf muscle is punctured by the first claw. Delving into forgotten corners of potential within one's own encephal-regions loses a bit of its luster when the threat of utter madness is nigh.

Wisps of pragmatism pushes aside the fool of his curiosity long enough to bring his pistol in line with the threat and jack back on the trigger. The bark of the weapon's discharge nothing more than the laugher of the shadow as his assault is as ineffectual as his attempt at staving off the attack with epithets in his native Latin.

Remaining on his hand and knees until Jennsen rights and centres him, Synxol categorizes ever single word, every image, and ever feeling of the strange experience with the scratch of his quill. Little explosions of corpuscles stain the parchment with darkening rust-hued blossoms intermingling with droplets of ink.

With tamed feathers tickling his chin, he momentarily ponders the letter opener hanging grotesquely off of the cover of the strange tome, having absolutely no memory of doing it. Perhaps it was another. Either way he notes it with a quick sketch, some notations, and then removes Excalibur from its resting place, fully expecting a burble of blood to rise up from the wound and perhaps necessitating the unexpected use of a field dressing.

Leaning back he absently sips from the tea, totally ignoring the ink stains on finger and face, having been so engrossed in immortalizing the incident than paying attention to cleanliness.

A wry smile plays across his features, "Fascinating!"

A look of concern crosses the face of Assisi as Jack almost loses his balance and his nose produces a trickle of blood.

"Headaches, you say? Are you sure you are all right, good sir?" he says as he follows Jack up to the door of the fine residence. "Surely I do not need protection from this Lord?" He looks in awe at how orderly everything is here, how straight all the lines are, even those of the plants which, in his mind, should be a little chaotic.

He holds his valise tightly, reminding himself that there are, within, a knife and a small club, mostly to scare off robbers should they threaten him. He convinces himself that once he is -- once they are -- inside, an English Lord will take care of them. At least for the time they are in the house. Suddenly, he has an urge to find his new flat and rest, perhaps with a glass of dry red wine. Later, that will be later, but possibly soon, he tells himself.

The front door opens up and the man at the door is in fact and elf with hair that is a chestnut in color, completely tied back in a pony tail. His amber colored eyes judging you soul and all, finding you lacking in a quality that you didn't know that you were missing. Dressed smartly in a well made suit, wearing stainless white gloves, he says in Italian " Brother Assisi I presume, please come in and have a seat in the parlour." .
Looking at Jack he seems a bit taken back but in Gaelic he says " Scottish, well it has been a while since I've seen one who has made London his own. I assume that you are here with Assisi, please wait in the parlour, and someone will be along to take your coats, of course tea will be served." He finished in English.

Timestamp: 11:00 A.M. Jack knocking on the door
Synxol: You manage to not be startled by the the loud thumping at the door, you hear Jennsen's voice as he opens the door and greets whomever is making such a racket. After a minute or two he, Jennsen comes into the study carrying the wrapped package that Walker had left in your charge, for a brother Assisi saying " Sir, I believe that your guest has arrived, he has brought another fellow with him. I took the liberty of seeing both of them in the parlor, if you would care to join us. Also I have the deed that Walker brought for the apartment, or perhaps sir would like Assisi and guest to the study instead of the parlor?" Jennsen finishes.

"Aye, Brother, there nothing serious like the Falling Sickness. Just a ache and a bit o' fatigue," the big Scot says a few moments before the door swings open.

Jack looks at the elf whom answered the door, eye brows moving towards his hairline. He certainly hadn't expect to really see any elves in London. He'd heard about the Fey folk, almost everyone had. But they were about as rare as teeth from a hen.

Realizing that he was being spoken to in Gaelic, Jack's brain shakes it's surprise of the elf. With mental curse at himself for being almost completely stunned by the sight of an elf, Jack notes to the man.

"Have to keep the English on their toes somehow," Jack responds to the elf in Gaelic, a cheeky smirk lighting his face.

"I'm sure the Brother here wouldn't complain about a spot of tea. He looks like he could use something to warm to drink," the big Scot says with chuckle, glancing at the scholarly Assisi.

While they are waiting for the lord to make his appearance, Jack looks around the parlor. He was doing his best to speculate on how much money must be tied up in the house. He quickly gave up, knowing it was a great deal more money than he was going to see in his lifetime. Not that he was particularly bothered by that. He just needed enough to take the others.

'Which requires working with the lords,' Jack thinks a bit sourly to himself.

Assisi's English had been returning to him quickly. Of course, he had not forgotten it - it's just that he had spent several years in Roma with little chance to speak it, and Italian had moved to the forefront of his linguistic mind. Several people on the ship to London were speaking English, but many of them had not spoken to him at all, and most of those who had treated him like something less than human. Sadly, he was used to that, but it had jogged his English memory all the same, and now hearing Italian spoken makes this more clear, as an instant of confusion is resolved in his head.

Assisi nods when his name is spoken in fine if a bit old-fashioned Italian. "Yes, I am Assisi, and this is Mr. Halfmen, my... guide." he says in English so that Jack would feel comfortable. He was not sure what to call Mr. Halfmen, but 'guide' is likely the most appropriate and politic word for the moment.

He looks with interest around the parlour. Having been a slave in Roma, he was used to one particular look to the wealth about him, and this is different in so many ways. Still, he notes Italianate designs in some of the furniture and fixtures, and Latin on some of the books, and they make him feel a little more comfortable.

Once the unnamed servant (Butler? thinks Assisi) leaves the room, Assisi mentions to Jack, "So similar and yet so different from the house in which I worked in Rome. So, you are not English, then?" Assisi has always been a bit confused by the relationship between the English and the Scots. They seem very closely tied, yet distinct. Much like the Romans and the Milanoise, he supposes.

"Hmmm?" Jack looks over at Assisi. "Oh, aye, I be Scottish," letting the thick Scottish accent dance over his words, rendering them much more difficult to understand. He points at his thick red hair, kept a ponytail, that goes halfway down his back. "Aye, most of us gingers have the blood of the Scots roaring in our veins." Jack looks out a window for a few seconds, his face neutral.

"I never been to the homeland myself, I be a streetrat of Whitechapal. Truth be told, I've never really given an thought to going to the "homeland." Some Scots be consumed by the beating that they got by the English," Jack shakes his head, snorting in amusement. "Sounds bloody ridiculous, but I've talked with those who still curse the Roman's for finding the Green Isle in the first place." Although a self confessed street urchin, and the look of a somewhat well dressed thug, Jack seemed decently educated. Nothing even remotely close to the Brother's level of education, but he certain wasn't a drooling cretin.

"Now, the elf, he be a surprise, that's for certain," the big Scot rubs his whiskered chin as he looks at the door that manservant had closed behind them. "I never thought I be seeing one of the Fey folk. Let alone in the belly of the Empire." Jack chuckles, looking around the room once more. He pauses for a moment. "I guess a good be why is the elf working for a lord? Unless his Lord be an elf." Jack muses out loud. "Perhaps I shouldn't have taken Walker up on this job." The big Scot grins suddenly at Assisi. "Still, could be worse. I've waited in much worse places."

"What kind of work did ya do in Rome? Teacher? Translator? Personal bedwarmer to the Matron of the house?" Jack grins roguishly at the Brother.

The bedazzled young lord takes a moment to orient himself, forcing Jennsen to repeat himself several times before the words start to make sense. His thoughts flow through molasses, and his eyelids are as lead.

A long pull of tea is chased by the sweet stench of cordite.

"Here is fine, give me a moment to reload, and then bring them in please Jennsen."

The package and deed find their way into a drawer, along with his ichor-stained notes, as he fumbles for ramrod, ball, wadding and other assorted paraphernalia.

Seating the reloaded weapon into its holster he moves to the door to offer his guests a warm greeting, leaving the pleasantries of names and titles, and offers of victuals and libations to his valet.

"How fare you both dear gentlemen?"

Prior to being led to another chamber, Assisi answers Jack's question. "After I was freed, I joined a monastery, The Order of Capuchin Friars Minor. As an offshoot of the Fransiscans, they welcomed me, since my given name is also the name of the town that is the birthplace of their St. Francis. I still work for the Holy Church, but truthfully I am no longer a brother..."

After being shown into the study, he smiles warmly at the lord. Unwittingly, his eyes spot a dark lock of hair that has escaped the lord's coiffure, and linger just a bit longer than he intends them to. "I am Assisi Cappucino, and this is Mr. Jack Halfmen, my guide. I must tell you I look forward to seeing the book." He nods and smiles again, unsure about just how a lord in this country will treat him, and how Mr. Halfmen will be treated too.

Assisi is dark-skinned, very African, with close cropped African hair. He wears a plain suit in the style of Italians, though not the most modern of styles; it is the color of coffee with milk, and it is supplemented by a short white cravat and, underneath, a slightly ruffled shirt. (A very middle-class suit, but in truth it is his best suit, and he has worn it few times before today.) His teeth are a bright white, made even more so by his dark face. His English is fine, if a bit old-fashioned, and his accent has a unique combination of tastes - West African mixed with some Italian, and a few of the requisite arm movements that accompany the latter.

Another servant enters the study, bringing a tray with another tea pot, three cups, and a small plate of tea biscuits, the elf gives a nod of dismissal to the servant who leaves the room. The study holds a number of shelves, many of them are stacked neatly, but no real order can be found in the stacks. The furniture is well crafted and will stand the test of time, a fire place has been cleaned recently.
Both candles and lamps can be seen, as this area has been well used at all times of the day. The valet speaks up " Lord Synxol, proper etiquette rules are going to the wayside today? If that is what sir wishes, then I shall abide by his judgement. Gentlemen may I present Lord Synxol, your host for this hour." Jennsen finishes, by filling each persons tea to their wishes, adding a small splash of liquid to Synxol tea. Presenting it to his master he whispers something to him " I added a small amount of Brandy, after what happened earlier, I thought that you wouldn't mind."

Matters of station are brushed aside with a dismissive sweep of his fingertips a moment before Synxol nods his thanks to Jennsen for the addendum of liquid courage.

As lords go he was hardly a beacon for etiquette, or even lordly mien. His family name was one of the most powerful on the planet, but he was an outcast, barely acknowledged, and only suffered because to do otherwise would be an embarrassment to the family. His parents had ordered him to behave, though even they did not believe that their words would mean anything. Truth be told, they prayed for the day when his hedonistic lifestyle would close his eyes, and still his heart.

"Mr. Cappucino, please tell me more of this strange situation."

His breath send waves crashing against his teacup.

Assisi's eyes open wide, and he struggles to maintain his composure at the difficult request.

"Good sir - my Lord, rather - I assure your Lordship that I know very little of any situation beyond what I have been told by my superiors, and that is that I am to --- Oh! Yes, yes, of course!!"

He pauses, and looks at Mr. Halfmen and the butler Jennsen with no small amount of embarrassment. You are sure he would be red right now, if his skin had leave to be such a colour. He clears his throat and then very carefully articulates the words, his left forefinger moving downward with each stressed syllable, "What Tomes do the Nightside bring? Assisi's words end with him looking at his brightly polished shoes. Then his two very white, very large (now) eyes turn slowly upward as he waits for something very specific from Lord Baelstrad.

Synxol nods, excuses himself for a moment and retreats to retrieve three items from his desk drawer, two of which he sets down before Assisi.

"Of course Mr. Cappucino, only the Tales of which knowledge and bedlam lie.”

He motions to two of the items with a hand expertly wielding a tea biscuit, "Before you is a key and slip of parchment with the address of an apartment I own in Whitechapel. The apartment is at your disposal for the length of your stay. If you have any concerns, then please do not hesitate to contact my valet."

The other item, a parcel, is not mentioned, and remains on the young lord's lap. "I believe you have something for me." With this he sets down his biscuit, offers the parcel to Assisi, while awaiting the delivery of the sealed letter he was promised.

Assisi nods meaningfully. He's not used to this kind of secret handshake business, and it's obvious. Before reaching for the key, he reaches into his bag and produces the sealed letter for Lord Baelstrad. He immediately hands it over to the young Lord.

"Very good, your lordship. I wish I knew the reason for all this secrecy and counter-subterfuge. I feel as if I were a ten year old boy again, demanding from my chums secret names before they could pass."

Answers lie within.

"Excuse me."

Synxol works to maintain his composure, his face a mask of disinterest as he moves to his desk, and slits the throat of the letter, dumping its innards out before him.

Occasional glances are cast across the room in case this Cappucino-fellow opens the parcel.

So many mysteries.

Jack chuckles when he hears Assisi mention secrecy and his childhood chums. The big Scot was leaning against the wall of the study, still holding his saucer and cup of tea in one had. Jack had hardly moved once he had taken up residence against the wall. His grey eyes keep moving, keeping taps on the room. He had caught the faint scent of gunpowder a bit earlier, keeping him a bit on edge. There was no denying that the red headed man looked a little out of place in the Lord's study.

Even leaning against the wall the heavily muscled Jack stands at six feet and almost half of another foot (6'5"), and easily weighs over two hundred pounds (230lbs). His solidly built frame is wrapped in well made, not to mention well worn, attire. Jack kept his long bright red hair in a pony tail, running down the middle of his back. He wore a black longcoat, that hung to mid thigh, the inner lining looked to be a crushed red velvet. The coat looked like it might have been rather expensive, once upon a time. A pale shirt white was visible underneath the longcoat and burgundy vest. The silver glint of a pocket watch is visible when Jack moves and sets down his tea cup. He had left it untouched, a bit of a shame since it smelled very nice, but the scent of gunfire had him expecting the worst. Faded black pants kept the cold from attacking the big Scots long legs, and well worn, hob nailed black boots did the same against the wet.

A lop sided smile finds it way across Jack's slightly whiskered face.

"Because what ya be moving Brother is either illegal, or somebody wants as few to know about as possible," Jack chuckles, his deep baritone voice rumbling around the study, his Scottish accent very noticeable. An amused expression danced across the strong features of the big Scot. He taps a finger against the side of his nose as he thinks for a few moments. The tapping did draw some attention to the feature that lent him most of his hawkish features.

"Of course, if me and mine be hired to keep ya and yer work in one piece, I be leaning more towards illegal, Brother," Jack says with an amused laugh. "Sorry yer worship," the big Scot grin at the sitting Lord. "I dinna properly introduce myself. Jack the Scot, at yer service," says the criminal. He doubted that his "exploits" had reached the protected walls of the Lord's home. Jack didn't think that the Lord was one to go slumming in Whitechapel, at least until he mentioned having an apartment in his home turf. Perhaps the young Lord had a few vices that he could blackmailed with, something worth looking into at a later date.

Synxol: the letter is sealed with the wax seal of the Catholic Church. While it not the seal of the pope, it is a seal of authority.
To Lord Synxol, my name is archbishop Desmond Tutu the first, the church has a delicate matter that Brother Assisi is aware of translating a Tome of a list holy book. This however is not the case, we paid a rather large sum to a free lancer, who always delivers to get the world of Dr. Victor Frankenstein. Somehow the good doctor, is missing shortly after he tracked down something that he created.
He usually sends reports of his work to Cambridge where we learn what he has been doing. We want you and any others to learn of his location, we believe that since your grandfather had worked with us in the past, we were hoping that you would help us in the same matter.
Your grandfather studied the occult and I am sure that some of his books are in your collection. A sketch of the good doctor has been enclosed on the second page. The sum of 2500 pounds will be added to your bank by the time brother Assisi arrives.

Looking over the first page and the letter itself, it appears authentic, the second page reveals a man in is mid thirties, with wire frame glasses, dressed as a medical professer.
Straight black hair that if it were taken out of the pony tail, would go to the middle of his back. His hands are long, reminding you of a spider.