Non Omnis Moriar

In the thickness of London's industrial fog, the only sense signaling the approach of a train was that of its screeching brakes. Huffing, puffing and hissing like that of a dragon, the train lurched to a stop at London Bridge station.

The platform only held a few porters, chimney-workers and a single lamplighter tending to the posts. After the hideous news in the week, London's citizens did not linger at the station -- not at this hour.

A woman stepped from the train car with deliberate footfalls, black skirts trailing behind her like spilled ink. She held a parasol to her shoulder, adorned with dark blue lace; unnecessary now that the sun had long since set. She held an expression rather unfazed for a woman, journeying alone at this time of night. Detached yet comfortable at the same time.

A boy, clad in the uniform of the station with a hat on his head, cleared his throat and approached her.
"Assistance, miss?" he asked, glancing up at her with no attempt to hide his curiosity. "Carriage to town, perhaps?"

"No." The woman spoke, eyes sliding over to appraise the boy. "But thank you."

She began her descent from the front steps of the station, before pausing on her heel to look once more at the station boy.

"Should someone come looking," she added, "I will be at the Langford. I'm called Ophelia Whitmore; and I do not expect to stay long."
With that, the woman fled from the station, into the fog where the outlines of the town waited to take her into their unforgiving grasp.

Wrapped in shadow and heavy fabric, Iris Quinn lingered at the edge of the platform. Gloves hid her hands, her hood drawn low. She watched in silence — just another ghost in the fog.

One woman stepped off the train with purpose, drawing curious eyes. Iris noted her, then looked away. She hadn’t come for people. She’d come for whispers.A false name, a forged post, and weeks of quiet watching had led her here, chasing rumors of black market hunters and a missing professor.

With too many thoughts and too little light, she slipped into the back alleys — heading home, or somewhere close enough to pretend.

Lonely men's lament, Church of the dead-oh's, Swizzler's bank - the Langford had many names. Some more imaginative than others, but all equally unflattering. The inn situated in the corner of the apartment block, its old brick walls leaning a tad inwards at the top after years of withstanding the elements.

The front facing windows were darkened by layers of soot, dirt and bad breath that had cultivated over the years to the point where the only source of light inside could be seen whenever patrons came and went through the door. The inn sign hung askew and effectively abandoned on top of the entrance, and most people had forgotten the place offered more than cheap liquor and watered down ale.

Inside, the lighting was dim, but the place offered warmth and the kind of comradery that one would expect in the battle field. However, suspicions of spies and wild theories of traitors were just as rampant if not more so than in the drenches. And in one particular table, two men were hunched over their pints and doing what they did best; discussing recent news and complaining about women..well, a woman.

"...pestering me every day this week. Like a cockroach that one is! No matter what you do, she just keeps coming back," the older, gruffier looking one grumbled, shaking his matted head.

"Don't tell me she's going on about those bloody skinnings still!"

"Aye," the old man nodded solemnly before he jugged his pint empty and continued, "I told her to mind her own business. Whoever is behind these killings is only doing us a favour. But she won't leave well enough alone, will she? No, sir, she won't."

"I bet she is digging evidence for the government so they can hang us all. She thinks herself so clever using her mother's maiden name," the younger one snorted into his beer, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the rippling reflection of his mustache in the piss colored liquid.

"Don't underestimate, Evelyn Woe, lad. Just keep her at a distance."

Tap, tap, tap.
From the shadows between the fireplace and a clearly unrepairable pianoforte, Ophelia stepped forward into the low lighting. Business such as hers was always spoken in hushed tones, conducted under the cloak of night. In the darkness, truths were less obligated to dress themselves in human niceties. It was something Ophelia had not been privy to herself, to have a gathering place where such topics were welcome. It was so very London.
Her gloves were still on, wielding her closed parasol like a cane that tapped rhythmically against the floorboards. The lace hem of her gown gathered dust and drips of spilled ale. She could not care less for it; hearing these two men speak openly about the recent news had her interest nicely piqued.
"Gentlemen. And I do use the term without evidence for such," she spoke, her voice low and smooth as she offered a nod to either drunkard. Their heads lifted in her direction, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Do you always speak so freely of things you do not understand? Or, is tonight a special privilege, perhaps?" Her gaze flickered between the two men as though taking their measurements, but neither passed the test.
The younger man cleared his throat, while the older simply blinked at her.
"Didn't realize we were being eavesdropped on by the bloody opera ghost," he muttered, earning a chuckle from his younger comrade.
The younger one spoke now. "Thought ladies like you had parlors to haunt and children to scold. Or are you here for the same reason as Miss Woe?" He scoffed. "Poking at things best left buried. Always women thinkin' they can be the man when there's murder in the streets."
Both of them seemed pleased by this wit, strengthened by the stale, warm drinks they had downed. Three pairs of empty mugs sat void on the table.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Tell us, miss. Do you hunt monsters? Or simply bed 'em?" the older one snorted, leaning back with a disgusting display of bravado. A bit more laughter came from tables nearby, having overheard the conversation.
Ophelia's lips crawled into a slow, terrible smile. One that meant that she hadn't even begun yet.
"Tell me, do either of you know how the flayed man felt before the skin was taken? And after?" She asked softly, stepping closer to the table so she could lower her voice in her detail. "The body accepts it long before the mind. It is like peeling fruit if you use the correct blade. You would be absolutely amazed at how loud a soul can scream when it is no longer wrapped in skin."
The younger man's jaw fell slack.
"An empty shell that still believes it is alive. Much like a house with no doors."
Ophelia's head tilted to the side as if in affection, though her eyes were darkened with a level of intensity as her smile grew.
"Is that sort of cruelty simply too familiar for you blokes? You call this Evelyn Woe a cockroach. Well... Vermin sees vermin, and we all take part in the rot." Her smile grew into a terrifyingly casual grin, and she tapped a finger on the table. "Now, where may I find this cockroach?"
A single finger pointing upwards was all that the witch needed.
If anyone passed Ophelia's suite in the Langford, they would first smell the perfumed air. Ashen herbs and metallic sweetness wafted in the corridor. The thunder rolled lazily outside like a soundtrack to Ophelia's precision.
It took hours of work and ingredient scavenging, but once the elixir was poured into the glass vial, it sparkled with a silvery sheen. Perfect.
A messenger knocked at Evelyn Woe's door in the morning. Receiving no answer, the offering was placed on the wooden floors in front of her door. The glass vial was inside a mahogany casing, adorned with a deep purple ribbon. A seal of blood-red wax was stamped onto the ribbon's knot, bearing the mark of the Trillium Moon. Parchment was attached to the end of the wax with a note scrawled in chaotically-placed handwriting.
Miss Evelyn Woe,
You ask dangerous questions that keep others too wary. Better to drink this before someone offers you something less kind.
-- O. W.