Post by Killian King on Sept 23, 2017 23:00:27 GMT -5
UGWC By Gaslight
London, England...
Not the booming metropolis of the modern world, but a London still very much cast in the shadows of what could be. A world paved in cobblestone streets, mystery, and lurking dangers behind a veil of darkness chased away by gas light.
“Constable...” he begins.
The man in the dark and dapper suit, under the matching black velvet frock coat. His hair slicked back, neatly groomed. A friendly mutton chops styled beard already hiding the smirk that plays across the lips of the man seated behind a large mahogany table.
“Enough!!!” outcries the growled voice of the aged and portly molded man sitting across the table. His one good eye glaring harshly, the brow above twitching with spasms of anger and innate hatred toward his guest. A bit of froth foaming at the corner of his stout trembling lips, his chest heaving in and out in manner of displayed rage the likes not reserved for any ordinary criminal. “I have half a mind to...” he begins again, his buxom fingers wringing tightly around the hilt of his billy club.
“On that we can agree...” sites the gentleman in question. His eyes filled flush to the brim with an idle look of boredom as they fall lazily upon his present company.
A loud and splintering crack explodes forth as the ample sized, one eyed and withered 'Ol Bobbie' jumps to his feet, his wooden chair sent sailing backwards and his billy club brought down across the edge of the table, its leather strap still wrapped tightly around his wrist.
“You're wasting your time... and more importantly you're wasting my time.” the well dressed man softly states. His voice a crisp and well spoken English accent, evident of a proper upbringing and high society lifestyle. But his demeanor most noteworthy, calm and poise a sense of grit to his unconcerned attitude.
“You're not going anywhere..” rings a voice from the corner of the room, a lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly looking who had been studying the scene unfold from behind. The man equally as placid steps across the floor, as if to come between the two affray forces.
“Well then... if you're not going to let me get back to my work, perhaps a cup of tea before all the screaming and dying starts, Inspector Lestrade?” requests the chipper sounding man dressed in his debonair fashion. His gloved hands drumming his fingers along the table top.
“Sherlock Holmes is dead, Moriarty... and you expect us to believe that you had nothing to do with it?” enquirers the inspector. His face scowling in disbelieving. The look not going unnoticed by their visitant guest. The smirk growing larger across the nearly bearded jaw line of the professor.
“I know... and I'm just as disappointed as anyone.” The first visible sign of any emotion softly washing over the face of one Professor James Moriarty, known to some as the criminal mastermind that kept safe and orchestrated the entire criminal underworld of England like a conductor would the finest symphony. In his face there was an honest and most sincere look of regret and heartbreak, in that he was physically moved by the sentiment that Sherlock did not perish at his hands or his mind at the very least.
A gentile sight softly exhales as Lestrade places both hands onto the surface of the table and leans in. “Well... why not tell us what you do know.” Moriarty's eyes slipping toward him. A flash of romance and intrigue caresses over his hues. The curl of his lip as if midst a gesture of flirtation, Moriarty whispers.
“I know that Mycroft Holmes is behind that wall...” he tilts his head toward the wall to his right. “...and that he's watching through a peep hole and listening through that very vent to everything I say. I also know that he doesn't believe that I played any part in the death of his brother, because he blames himself wholeheartedly... and you know what?” Moriarty leans in, causing Lestrade to half to meet him half way leaning in to hear his next whispered words. How unfortunate for the inspector the man known as Sherlock's greatest foe has other ideas and yells into his ear.
“He absolutely should!”
Lestrade falling back and gripping his ear. A coy smile playing across the face of Moriarty as he relaxes once again.
“I know that you sent your brother to investigate the presence looming over all of London, the fog that hovers over the harbors night and day. The rash of lunacy slowly spreading through the cobble stone streets... there's a darkness settling in gentleman, and its calling to them...”
A loud knock against the wall, followed by the same thud twice more signal the attention of everyone in the room save for Moriarty who looks hauntingly satisfied with the reaction. Lestrade growing weary as he focuses on the professor once more.
“Calls to whom... who are they!?!?” Inspector Lestrade grimacing his rat like features as he demands an answer.
“Them...” James Moriarty mocks, rolling his eyes about as if gesturing to the heavens. “The things that dwell in the shadows and the ones that slither behind you while you strut about your every day life... The things that Sherlock couldn't explain with science until they drained him dry...”
His last words hauntingly ghastly as he looked deep into his audience's eyes, even 'Ol Bobbie's one good one.
“On a bright side... I suppose I'm free now since Sherlock went and got himself killed. I suppose once the heroes are dead I'll have to save the day.” A look as if he had to force himself to get the last words out before gagging on the sentiment.
Another knock against the wall, thrice.
“Oh do stop being so shy, Mycroft. Come in here, sit down and have a cup of tea... we can mourn together.” Moriarty taunts. “I'm just as upset but you have one brother left, would you mind terribly If I killed that one instead?”
Lestrade slams his hands down before Moriarty, onto the table. A sly smile coursing Moriarty's face.
“How does a man of science like you or Sherlock fall for ghost stories and superstitions?”
The smile slowly fading from the professor's expression.
“Because... I'm as devout to science and reason as my dearly departed friend, but I'm a lover of chaos and the possibility of the unknown. You live such boring lives... simple, pointless...dull.” His words trailing off in display of boredom. “When you operate in the shadows long enough, it's only matter of time before you stumble over the things that go bump in the night.”
“We don't have time for more bogeyman tales or penny dreadfuls, Moriarty.” Lestrade demands growing vividly more cross by the second.
“That's a shame... because you're in the middle of one now.” Moriarty smirks.
“I know that London has fallen victim to several vile and evil occurrences. Sightings of ungodly creatures are flooding your desk with reports along with rumors of monsters skittering about in the fog, and that the dead are waking from their graves and walking among the living. All of England is in a panic. I know that The Americans sent an aged John Carter, and a drunk and withered Pecos Bill to investigate and they are currently laying on slabs right next to Sherlock Holmes. I know that you found Sherlock's drained and lifeless body at 221B Baker St with the door smashed to splinters going out, instead of coming in... and no one has stopped to ponder the whereabouts of one Mrs. Hudson...”
Moriarty looking around once more as if expecting her to be crawling across the ceiling. The others in the room momentarily caught up in looking up as well.
“I bet she's positively parched by now...” His words thick with anticipation, so much so that everyone in attendance could feel the hair on the back of their neck stand on end. “So... how about that cup of tea, hmm?”
Silence... the sounds of silence like a wake filled the room. A mournful awaken of dread and hopelessness settled in as if warming before the hearth. Lestrade is the first to breath.
“So... what it is that they want? What on Earth would call the damned to London like a beacon?”
Disturbingly relaxed, James Moriarty laughs softly.
“Why did the angels rebel against God their father? Why was Lucifer cast from the paradise of Heaven? Because... you simple minded chuckle monkeys... there can be only one who sits upon the throne and calls himself a King. As for what they are here for... it's known to some as The Novel of the Black Seal, ancient civilizations called it The Book of the Dead... but it's forgotten name is The Necronomicon. As for the whom... it is the possession of a man known as Aleister Crowley. The rest are the things of nightmares come to place a bid for his title... but you Mycroft already knows this, being as he beat me to his brother's apartment and retrieved John Watson's journal.”
Those confided with in the room all slowly look to one another and then turn their attention to a minute viewing glass embedded in the wall and disguised by the face of a clock.
….........................................................
Monday, May 1st
Sherlock,
If you are reading this then I know that I, John Watson are no longer amongst the living and I can hope after the atrocities that I have witnessed that I stay that way. Death is a lasting reprieve from what I have seen since this adventure began. I find myself in the wilds of Canada, still on the trail of Moriarty and his partner in crime, the mysterious Dorian Gray. Sadly here I though you were perhaps the most vain individual I had ever known... until him. I do not know what part they play in all of this, but in this case I swear it's as if they fight on the side of angels at least for tonight. The word behind them is they are hunting a man known as Dr. Moreau and some sort creature that accompanies him. As I watched them topple the group known as The Hellfire Club and send it's members scattering to the four winds only a few shorts months ago, I can only hope that it stays the last I see of them, yet somehow I doubt it. In particular the man known as Aleister Crowley seems hellbent on his rise to power. In all this, how I long for the comforts of home my friend. Mary's sweet embrace, and Mrs. Hudson preparing a proper cup of tea seem like only dreams now, my only familiarity comes at the smell of Professor Moriarty's pipe tobacco and watching across the room as he sips his scotch. Occasionally they are joined on parties by a weathered Dutch soldier by the name of Abraham VanHelsing... I could not fathom what battles he found himself, but I know the look of a seasoned warrior, a veteran of war knows a veteran of war, and his face reads like a road map. I can overhear them talking... speaking of vampires, and as crazy as it sounds... I believe them. I don't known if I yet believe in magic, but I've seen science and reason perverted to it's fullest extent so far. Perhaps they are one in the same, magic and science.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, June 5th
Boston Harbor, I know now that the devil does indeed exist and not just in the hearts and souls of men made from flesh and blood. The stories are true... vampires exist. James Moriarty and Dorian Grey have defeated their quarry, However bitter sweet, Dr. Moreau was able to escape though his creature fell in battle, and they received word that the veteran VanHelsing had fallen, at the hands of what I can only imagine to be a demon. I dare not speak the name Elizabeth Bathory aloud here from the look of fear on some of these hardened stone faces. I'll watch from afar as per usual but I think I feel like mourning with them tonight. The world isn't what we were lead to believe...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, July 7th
I've lost track of Moriarty and Dorian Grey, for now at least. But rumors amidst the cults and the paranormal circles are running rampant. News spreads like wildfire that Aleister Crowley has returned with something called The Necronomicon. A book of unspeakable power. I don't know what the book is capable of, but in his hands I can only assume the worst.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, July 9th
I found James Moriarty once more or rather he found me in New Orleans. He's known for some time that I had been following him. The city seems to welcome him like no other, he does well here, but knowing who this man is and what he's done back in England, it makes for an uneasy and yet familiar drink. It would appear he and Dorian Gray have parted ways but he seems even more focused on the rumors that Crowley has defeated Bathory. Something is changing, I can see it in the contoured lines of his face as he ponders, something is coming and it doesn't bode well for any of us.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, August 21st
Sherlock
My dear friend and oldest ally. Though it pains me to admit such, at this moment of writing this I have been back in England for months. Months spent following James Moriarty's each and every footstep. I can not explain the things I have seen... nor will I try. This much I can say, the devils are ascending on London, and the armies of darkness are gathering. I want to show you the things I have seen my friend, but you will both think me a nutter or be driven mad yourself. You and him are actually very much similar... save the fact that he is rude, opinionated, arrogant, and no... no you two are exactly alike. Once a member of the Hellfire Club Aleister Crowley has returned to London, Mina Harker, a vampire and the estranged wife of the vampire Lord Vlad Dracula. Though they seem like equals I can't help but wonder what role the book he carries everywhere with him plays in her loyalty. Upon their arrival they were greeted by a man of apparent wealth judging from his clothes, yet something about him seems off. I wasn't shocked, though perhaps I should have been when James informed that he was in fact Gentleman Jack, or Jack the Ripper. This book... this man, he draws evil in I swear it. I can feel it. Not long after watching them set up ship in a mansion on the fire side of town, the group is joined by another woman. I'm informed that she is yet another vampire, by the name of Carmella, perhaps even older then Dracula himself. Her appearance is memorizing though I can no get passed the feeling of that in return is watching me, watch her... cold and still. Like watching an adder ready to strike.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, August 28th
Crowley's servants walk the streets, they watch the harbors, and the train stations... so it will only be a matter of time I'm sure of it, before he knows of albino woman, in the alabaster and ivory dress. I'm told she is in fact a witch, a particularly nasty one and though her beauty would have me believe her in her early twenty's, I'm told that her looks are deceiving, and she may even perhaps be the deadliest of the lot, as well as the oldest. James refers to her as Circe, and the daughter of Hecate. I know from my few weeks in New Orleans the mulatto woman who accompanies her is Marie Leveau, a goddess on Earth and a queen in New Orleans. I add that I almost feel guilty for watching but they seem fond of one another as well... right then. The plot thickens however with the appearance of a man and one time colleague of James's he calls Dr. Faust. Faust strikes me as odd yet unpredictable... I'm assured he's dangerous, when he wants to be, but no one knows when he'll be. The particular shock came in the form of a ghost... perhaps, at least in a manner or speaking. Abraham VanHelsing joins the frey, his hair longer, his smile gone... he seems broken, but hellbent on destruction. Though I admit, I know not who's, be it his own, or everyone around him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday September 18th
If it pains you to know now, that I returned without telling you, then it will only pale in comparison to knowing that I reported my findings to Mycroft yesterday. This unsettling fog is only the least of my concerns, though it seems to constantly linger over the harbor. I think it to be supernatural, I'm just not sure who's yet. I read in the papers this morning that the asylum had an escape... and I can't help but wonder what part they will play in all this. I recall the ghoulish headlines of the madman R. M. Renfield, and worry more now that he's perhaps joined by serial killer Mary Ann Cotton who escaped with him. Even more unsettling that Moriarty informed me that The Fear of Fleet Street, Sweeny Todd was amid their ranks. I believe I'll sleep with the lamp burning for the time being.
…. I thought this to be the dreadfulness of my day, till we just watched below in the harbor, a ship... a bloody metal ship, rise from the depth from under the water. Moriarty called the name of the man... a whispered and innate hatred in his voice that I thought he only reserved for you. Captain Nemo, and with him his old friend Dorian Gray, and Dr, Moreau. They summoned something in the darkness... a rider that set forth before them as if searching in the mist. A black steed with eyes like hot coals.. but I swear I saw no head. This is hell my friend.
-----------------------------------------------
Thursday, 21st
Elizabeth Bathory has arrived and with her once Hellfire Club member Grigori Rasputin, and perhaps the greatest big game hunter of all time Allan Quartermane. I suppose if one had to have a hired gun, that would be perhaps the one. The later of their group a woman by the name of Clara Crofton, I know not of, but if she has fell in with this lot she can be nothing good.
-----------------------------------------------
Mycroft sighs as he closes the book, his eyes growing heavy as he lets the leather bound journal simply fall to the desk below.
From with in the room Moriarty leans back in his chair, still calm and collective. The sounds of silence broken by the sounds of screaming.
“Ah... well then.” Moriarty states.
“What have you done?” Lestrade inquires.
“Simply chosen my players, like everyone else...”
The sounds of guns being fired rip through the hallways of Scotland Yard. The hired gun known as Deadwood Dick makes his way into the building. Behind him as if the shadows have given birth to his from the man known as Dracula emerges, along side of Dr. Frankenstein.
London, England...
Not the booming metropolis of the modern world, but a London still very much cast in the shadows of what could be. A world paved in cobblestone streets, mystery, and lurking dangers behind a veil of darkness chased away by gas light.
“Constable...” he begins.
The man in the dark and dapper suit, under the matching black velvet frock coat. His hair slicked back, neatly groomed. A friendly mutton chops styled beard already hiding the smirk that plays across the lips of the man seated behind a large mahogany table.
“Enough!!!” outcries the growled voice of the aged and portly molded man sitting across the table. His one good eye glaring harshly, the brow above twitching with spasms of anger and innate hatred toward his guest. A bit of froth foaming at the corner of his stout trembling lips, his chest heaving in and out in manner of displayed rage the likes not reserved for any ordinary criminal. “I have half a mind to...” he begins again, his buxom fingers wringing tightly around the hilt of his billy club.
“On that we can agree...” sites the gentleman in question. His eyes filled flush to the brim with an idle look of boredom as they fall lazily upon his present company.
A loud and splintering crack explodes forth as the ample sized, one eyed and withered 'Ol Bobbie' jumps to his feet, his wooden chair sent sailing backwards and his billy club brought down across the edge of the table, its leather strap still wrapped tightly around his wrist.
“You're wasting your time... and more importantly you're wasting my time.” the well dressed man softly states. His voice a crisp and well spoken English accent, evident of a proper upbringing and high society lifestyle. But his demeanor most noteworthy, calm and poise a sense of grit to his unconcerned attitude.
“You're not going anywhere..” rings a voice from the corner of the room, a lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly looking who had been studying the scene unfold from behind. The man equally as placid steps across the floor, as if to come between the two affray forces.
“Well then... if you're not going to let me get back to my work, perhaps a cup of tea before all the screaming and dying starts, Inspector Lestrade?” requests the chipper sounding man dressed in his debonair fashion. His gloved hands drumming his fingers along the table top.
“Sherlock Holmes is dead, Moriarty... and you expect us to believe that you had nothing to do with it?” enquirers the inspector. His face scowling in disbelieving. The look not going unnoticed by their visitant guest. The smirk growing larger across the nearly bearded jaw line of the professor.
“I know... and I'm just as disappointed as anyone.” The first visible sign of any emotion softly washing over the face of one Professor James Moriarty, known to some as the criminal mastermind that kept safe and orchestrated the entire criminal underworld of England like a conductor would the finest symphony. In his face there was an honest and most sincere look of regret and heartbreak, in that he was physically moved by the sentiment that Sherlock did not perish at his hands or his mind at the very least.
A gentile sight softly exhales as Lestrade places both hands onto the surface of the table and leans in. “Well... why not tell us what you do know.” Moriarty's eyes slipping toward him. A flash of romance and intrigue caresses over his hues. The curl of his lip as if midst a gesture of flirtation, Moriarty whispers.
“I know that Mycroft Holmes is behind that wall...” he tilts his head toward the wall to his right. “...and that he's watching through a peep hole and listening through that very vent to everything I say. I also know that he doesn't believe that I played any part in the death of his brother, because he blames himself wholeheartedly... and you know what?” Moriarty leans in, causing Lestrade to half to meet him half way leaning in to hear his next whispered words. How unfortunate for the inspector the man known as Sherlock's greatest foe has other ideas and yells into his ear.
“He absolutely should!”
Lestrade falling back and gripping his ear. A coy smile playing across the face of Moriarty as he relaxes once again.
“I know that you sent your brother to investigate the presence looming over all of London, the fog that hovers over the harbors night and day. The rash of lunacy slowly spreading through the cobble stone streets... there's a darkness settling in gentleman, and its calling to them...”
A loud knock against the wall, followed by the same thud twice more signal the attention of everyone in the room save for Moriarty who looks hauntingly satisfied with the reaction. Lestrade growing weary as he focuses on the professor once more.
“Calls to whom... who are they!?!?” Inspector Lestrade grimacing his rat like features as he demands an answer.
“Them...” James Moriarty mocks, rolling his eyes about as if gesturing to the heavens. “The things that dwell in the shadows and the ones that slither behind you while you strut about your every day life... The things that Sherlock couldn't explain with science until they drained him dry...”
His last words hauntingly ghastly as he looked deep into his audience's eyes, even 'Ol Bobbie's one good one.
“On a bright side... I suppose I'm free now since Sherlock went and got himself killed. I suppose once the heroes are dead I'll have to save the day.” A look as if he had to force himself to get the last words out before gagging on the sentiment.
Another knock against the wall, thrice.
“Oh do stop being so shy, Mycroft. Come in here, sit down and have a cup of tea... we can mourn together.” Moriarty taunts. “I'm just as upset but you have one brother left, would you mind terribly If I killed that one instead?”
Lestrade slams his hands down before Moriarty, onto the table. A sly smile coursing Moriarty's face.
“How does a man of science like you or Sherlock fall for ghost stories and superstitions?”
The smile slowly fading from the professor's expression.
“Because... I'm as devout to science and reason as my dearly departed friend, but I'm a lover of chaos and the possibility of the unknown. You live such boring lives... simple, pointless...dull.” His words trailing off in display of boredom. “When you operate in the shadows long enough, it's only matter of time before you stumble over the things that go bump in the night.”
“We don't have time for more bogeyman tales or penny dreadfuls, Moriarty.” Lestrade demands growing vividly more cross by the second.
“That's a shame... because you're in the middle of one now.” Moriarty smirks.
“I know that London has fallen victim to several vile and evil occurrences. Sightings of ungodly creatures are flooding your desk with reports along with rumors of monsters skittering about in the fog, and that the dead are waking from their graves and walking among the living. All of England is in a panic. I know that The Americans sent an aged John Carter, and a drunk and withered Pecos Bill to investigate and they are currently laying on slabs right next to Sherlock Holmes. I know that you found Sherlock's drained and lifeless body at 221B Baker St with the door smashed to splinters going out, instead of coming in... and no one has stopped to ponder the whereabouts of one Mrs. Hudson...”
Moriarty looking around once more as if expecting her to be crawling across the ceiling. The others in the room momentarily caught up in looking up as well.
“I bet she's positively parched by now...” His words thick with anticipation, so much so that everyone in attendance could feel the hair on the back of their neck stand on end. “So... how about that cup of tea, hmm?”
Silence... the sounds of silence like a wake filled the room. A mournful awaken of dread and hopelessness settled in as if warming before the hearth. Lestrade is the first to breath.
“So... what it is that they want? What on Earth would call the damned to London like a beacon?”
Disturbingly relaxed, James Moriarty laughs softly.
“Why did the angels rebel against God their father? Why was Lucifer cast from the paradise of Heaven? Because... you simple minded chuckle monkeys... there can be only one who sits upon the throne and calls himself a King. As for what they are here for... it's known to some as The Novel of the Black Seal, ancient civilizations called it The Book of the Dead... but it's forgotten name is The Necronomicon. As for the whom... it is the possession of a man known as Aleister Crowley. The rest are the things of nightmares come to place a bid for his title... but you Mycroft already knows this, being as he beat me to his brother's apartment and retrieved John Watson's journal.”
Those confided with in the room all slowly look to one another and then turn their attention to a minute viewing glass embedded in the wall and disguised by the face of a clock.
….........................................................
Monday, May 1st
Sherlock,
If you are reading this then I know that I, John Watson are no longer amongst the living and I can hope after the atrocities that I have witnessed that I stay that way. Death is a lasting reprieve from what I have seen since this adventure began. I find myself in the wilds of Canada, still on the trail of Moriarty and his partner in crime, the mysterious Dorian Gray. Sadly here I though you were perhaps the most vain individual I had ever known... until him. I do not know what part they play in all of this, but in this case I swear it's as if they fight on the side of angels at least for tonight. The word behind them is they are hunting a man known as Dr. Moreau and some sort creature that accompanies him. As I watched them topple the group known as The Hellfire Club and send it's members scattering to the four winds only a few shorts months ago, I can only hope that it stays the last I see of them, yet somehow I doubt it. In particular the man known as Aleister Crowley seems hellbent on his rise to power. In all this, how I long for the comforts of home my friend. Mary's sweet embrace, and Mrs. Hudson preparing a proper cup of tea seem like only dreams now, my only familiarity comes at the smell of Professor Moriarty's pipe tobacco and watching across the room as he sips his scotch. Occasionally they are joined on parties by a weathered Dutch soldier by the name of Abraham VanHelsing... I could not fathom what battles he found himself, but I know the look of a seasoned warrior, a veteran of war knows a veteran of war, and his face reads like a road map. I can overhear them talking... speaking of vampires, and as crazy as it sounds... I believe them. I don't known if I yet believe in magic, but I've seen science and reason perverted to it's fullest extent so far. Perhaps they are one in the same, magic and science.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, June 5th
Boston Harbor, I know now that the devil does indeed exist and not just in the hearts and souls of men made from flesh and blood. The stories are true... vampires exist. James Moriarty and Dorian Grey have defeated their quarry, However bitter sweet, Dr. Moreau was able to escape though his creature fell in battle, and they received word that the veteran VanHelsing had fallen, at the hands of what I can only imagine to be a demon. I dare not speak the name Elizabeth Bathory aloud here from the look of fear on some of these hardened stone faces. I'll watch from afar as per usual but I think I feel like mourning with them tonight. The world isn't what we were lead to believe...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, July 7th
I've lost track of Moriarty and Dorian Grey, for now at least. But rumors amidst the cults and the paranormal circles are running rampant. News spreads like wildfire that Aleister Crowley has returned with something called The Necronomicon. A book of unspeakable power. I don't know what the book is capable of, but in his hands I can only assume the worst.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, July 9th
I found James Moriarty once more or rather he found me in New Orleans. He's known for some time that I had been following him. The city seems to welcome him like no other, he does well here, but knowing who this man is and what he's done back in England, it makes for an uneasy and yet familiar drink. It would appear he and Dorian Gray have parted ways but he seems even more focused on the rumors that Crowley has defeated Bathory. Something is changing, I can see it in the contoured lines of his face as he ponders, something is coming and it doesn't bode well for any of us.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, August 21st
Sherlock
My dear friend and oldest ally. Though it pains me to admit such, at this moment of writing this I have been back in England for months. Months spent following James Moriarty's each and every footstep. I can not explain the things I have seen... nor will I try. This much I can say, the devils are ascending on London, and the armies of darkness are gathering. I want to show you the things I have seen my friend, but you will both think me a nutter or be driven mad yourself. You and him are actually very much similar... save the fact that he is rude, opinionated, arrogant, and no... no you two are exactly alike. Once a member of the Hellfire Club Aleister Crowley has returned to London, Mina Harker, a vampire and the estranged wife of the vampire Lord Vlad Dracula. Though they seem like equals I can't help but wonder what role the book he carries everywhere with him plays in her loyalty. Upon their arrival they were greeted by a man of apparent wealth judging from his clothes, yet something about him seems off. I wasn't shocked, though perhaps I should have been when James informed that he was in fact Gentleman Jack, or Jack the Ripper. This book... this man, he draws evil in I swear it. I can feel it. Not long after watching them set up ship in a mansion on the fire side of town, the group is joined by another woman. I'm informed that she is yet another vampire, by the name of Carmella, perhaps even older then Dracula himself. Her appearance is memorizing though I can no get passed the feeling of that in return is watching me, watch her... cold and still. Like watching an adder ready to strike.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, August 28th
Crowley's servants walk the streets, they watch the harbors, and the train stations... so it will only be a matter of time I'm sure of it, before he knows of albino woman, in the alabaster and ivory dress. I'm told she is in fact a witch, a particularly nasty one and though her beauty would have me believe her in her early twenty's, I'm told that her looks are deceiving, and she may even perhaps be the deadliest of the lot, as well as the oldest. James refers to her as Circe, and the daughter of Hecate. I know from my few weeks in New Orleans the mulatto woman who accompanies her is Marie Leveau, a goddess on Earth and a queen in New Orleans. I add that I almost feel guilty for watching but they seem fond of one another as well... right then. The plot thickens however with the appearance of a man and one time colleague of James's he calls Dr. Faust. Faust strikes me as odd yet unpredictable... I'm assured he's dangerous, when he wants to be, but no one knows when he'll be. The particular shock came in the form of a ghost... perhaps, at least in a manner or speaking. Abraham VanHelsing joins the frey, his hair longer, his smile gone... he seems broken, but hellbent on destruction. Though I admit, I know not who's, be it his own, or everyone around him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday September 18th
If it pains you to know now, that I returned without telling you, then it will only pale in comparison to knowing that I reported my findings to Mycroft yesterday. This unsettling fog is only the least of my concerns, though it seems to constantly linger over the harbor. I think it to be supernatural, I'm just not sure who's yet. I read in the papers this morning that the asylum had an escape... and I can't help but wonder what part they will play in all this. I recall the ghoulish headlines of the madman R. M. Renfield, and worry more now that he's perhaps joined by serial killer Mary Ann Cotton who escaped with him. Even more unsettling that Moriarty informed me that The Fear of Fleet Street, Sweeny Todd was amid their ranks. I believe I'll sleep with the lamp burning for the time being.
…. I thought this to be the dreadfulness of my day, till we just watched below in the harbor, a ship... a bloody metal ship, rise from the depth from under the water. Moriarty called the name of the man... a whispered and innate hatred in his voice that I thought he only reserved for you. Captain Nemo, and with him his old friend Dorian Gray, and Dr, Moreau. They summoned something in the darkness... a rider that set forth before them as if searching in the mist. A black steed with eyes like hot coals.. but I swear I saw no head. This is hell my friend.
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Thursday, 21st
Elizabeth Bathory has arrived and with her once Hellfire Club member Grigori Rasputin, and perhaps the greatest big game hunter of all time Allan Quartermane. I suppose if one had to have a hired gun, that would be perhaps the one. The later of their group a woman by the name of Clara Crofton, I know not of, but if she has fell in with this lot she can be nothing good.
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Mycroft sighs as he closes the book, his eyes growing heavy as he lets the leather bound journal simply fall to the desk below.
From with in the room Moriarty leans back in his chair, still calm and collective. The sounds of silence broken by the sounds of screaming.
“Ah... well then.” Moriarty states.
“What have you done?” Lestrade inquires.
“Simply chosen my players, like everyone else...”
The sounds of guns being fired rip through the hallways of Scotland Yard. The hired gun known as Deadwood Dick makes his way into the building. Behind him as if the shadows have given birth to his from the man known as Dracula emerges, along side of Dr. Frankenstein.
