[RP Thread] The Journey to Skye

The light of burning London has just faded over the horizon to the south, as the convoy of airships makes its way to the Isle of Skye. The convey is made of a variety of ships - Abe Hellion’s Lusty is one of the few proper warships, and it’s only just caught up. The Deveraux’s Calais is looking a little worse for wear after it was swarmed on take-off. But there a many commandeered freighters, with refugees packed into the cargo bays.
Somewhere in this mess, Queen Victoria the Second is pacing her ship, checking on survivors and counting food supplies. She is followed closely by Captain Evelyn Demalynes.
Aboard the Calais, Sophia does her best to hold things together in front of the Union crew she’s just inherited command of. But the cracks are showing in her sunny facade, and it’s probably a good thing that the crew doesn’t need much direction.
The refugees aboard this convey have taken many paths to get here. But now they are united in their flight from the destruction of London. They can only hope that the Isle of Skye, when they get there, will provide sanctuary, and a new home for them.
Night is falling, and the shellshock is wearing off enough that some of the refugees are starting to talk to one another…

Jane hugs her mail bag tightly. She’s wearing a gas-mask so her face can’t be seen, but her posture is quite dejected.
“I hope Mr Smithton made it to of the other ships.”

By the closed hatch of a crowded cargo bay on some ship, he neither knows, nor cares, which one, a man in a black leather duster crouches amongst a pile of bodies, or parts thereof, cleansing the gore off an evil-looking two-handed sword.

Despite the over-crowding, the people in the bay leave a clear space around the man with the sword, preferring to tread on each others toes, over moving into the zone of blood surrounding him. Most of them are looking at him with at least trepidation, some are staring in outright fear. Some may never forget what they’ve seen in the last half hour or so, many will blank it out, refusing to believe it. Still others will awake screaming from reliving those memories in dreams, memories of loved ones lost, of suffering, fire, and death, and of the man with the sword standing in the bay door, silhouetted against the fire of a burning London, blade and body spinning to catch demon after demon, sometimes narrowly avoiding incoming refugees, and all the time with a feral grin, and a terribly joyous gleam in his eye, as if death was his lover, and he welcomed her embrace.

If any others had held the bay door with him he does not remember them. But he must have had help from someone. Surely no single man could have stood alone in that door and survived the demon assault? Someone must have closed the hatch once they were airborne, once the final flying creatures had been slain, but he was coming down from dancing the sword dance, and did not see who it was.

The closet of the refugees hear him whisper into his chest “Perhaps next time, my love.”

Then he looks up, and seems more human, there is a trace of sadness & fatigue around his eyes. his face streaked with soot & ichor.

“So…” he drawls in an obvious American accent, “Did anyone bring any whiskey?”

At a porthole on the rearmost ship a man in a black trench coat watches as his city burns. His hands hang down by his side, the straight sabre in his right still dripping with demon blood.

A woman, one of the refugees he’d aided to reach the ship, carefully strolls up to him to thank him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Even when she puts her hand on his shoulder it provokes no reaction. She turns to go when she notices the Van-Helsing pendant caught on his bandolier. As she reaches over to release it his left hand darts out and grabs her wrist.
He then turns to look down at her. For a brief moment recognition flashes across his face, only to be replaced by a sense of loss.
“Sorry, I fought ya were someone else for a second, wot did ya say?” She is so astonished by the heavy cockney inflection in his voice that it is a full minute before she manages to repeat her thanks.
“Daan’t fank me dove, London burns. I couldn’t save 'er, but by god I’ll make 'im pay” The man then sheathes his sabre and wanders off, a fire burning behind his eyes, leaving the woman standing by the porthole staring after him.

She finds it strange, but she would almost swear that the man hadn’t meant it was London he’d failed to save

The soldier sighs, and wipes the mud off his jacket. Thirty years, and every one of them spent waiting for this day. Now it’s here, and he doesn’t feel anything but a mild sense of irritation that he left most of his best kit behind. Any old soldier knows when he’s being watched, and he looks up to see a little girl watching him. No-at second glance she’s older. Lines around the eyes and across the forehead. But she’s small, and looks frail, as if she’s spent the last few years being underfed. Not pretty enough to be doll-like, but there’s a sense of brittleness to her that calls to mind their porcelain limbs and rigid joints. She looks like she’d shatter if you looked at her the wrong way.

“Good evening, Sargeant.”

She must have good eyes to spot his stripes under all the mud.

“Evening, Miss.”

She smiles.

“Mrs, actually.” She pauses, chewing her lip. “You haven’t seen my husband, have you? He’s a Sargeant. Peter Fletcher.”

For the first time the solider notices the others that she’s sitting with. A slender, well dressed young man who is studying him intently and a blonde woman with a burning glare. The solider averts his eyes. Everything about the blonde woman screams Van Helsing, from her clutter of occult objects to her heavy tome, which she holds close to her chest. Mostly it’s the eyes, though. They say: I have seen things which you can’t even imagine. The old soldier doesn’t want to, so he turns his gaze back to the other young woman. He notices that she’s wearing dirty, white clothing. An invalid perhaps? There are rope burns around her skinny wrists and her feet are bare.

“No, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry.”

“That’s quite all right.”

He wanders off to find who else survived. It’s only when he finds the rest of his regiment that he realises that he’s heard of Peter Fletcher. And the young woman said he was her husband. Later the others will ask what she was like. He shrugs. You wouldn’t have known by looking at her.

A short while later, the Van Helsing scholar travelling in the company of Mrs. Fletcher makes her way back to her companion after moving carefully across the crowded ship to greet an acquaintance she’s spotted amongst the crowd.

(A quick hug, then: “I’m so glad you’re safe.” “And you- What of-?” a questioning look, raised eyebrows. “You were with him tonight, yes?” She bites her lip and looks at the ground and her friend responds with, “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Perhaps he made it onto another ship?” A shrug. “His safety’s not mine to be concerned with. Nor is mine his. He’s made that clear enough. I wish him well, but I’ve other things to worry about.” She looks back at her travelling companion. “I can’t talk any longer right now, I’m afraid, but it’s a relief to find you here. Later?” A confused look, then, “Of course. Take care, Esther.”

As she nears Mrs. Fletcher, her expression gradually changes from mere tension to one of all-engrossing revulsion. She reaches under her coat and pulls out the pendant hanging around her neck -a brass pocket watch with the cardinal directions of a compass adorning its cover- and clutches it. It’s a well-practiced gesture that she performs unconsciously, and it seems to give her some small amount of comfort, for by the time Esther has returned to Mrs. Fletcher and assured herself of her well being (as well as that of her demonology tome- Having the gargantuan thing in her arms once more seems to bring her additional relief) she has managed to train her expression back to one of carefully maintained neutrality.

After a short wait, during which his eyes flick from one person to another across the crowd, measuring them, judging them, deciding whether he’ll need to kill any of them as well, or whether they can be ignored as just part of the herd, he drawls

“Ah guess not. 'Spose I’ll have some of my own then.”

He pulls a small metal flask from within his coat, pulls the stopper, & takes a swig. Half way thru the second swig, out of the corner of his eye, he realizes they’re all still watching him. He stops, and carefully puts the flask away.

“Aw, c’mon, talk to me, why don’tcha? There’s gotta be someone in here with a bit of backbone. One of you folks must have closed the hatch, at least?”

Jane’s head lifts and turns towards him. “I don’t have any whiskey. I have some tea though, If you would like that, but it really doesn’t have the same invigorating effect.”

“Thank you kindly. ma’am” he says, touching the brim of his hat. “Ah guess gettin’ drunk 'bout now wouldn’t be a good idea, but I sure got a powerful thirst.”

He gets up and moves toward her, sliding the large sword over his shoulder to rest on his back without any conscious thought. Bowing ever so slightly in front of her. he says

“They call me Jack, ma’am, Jack Gaunt.”

Elsewhere, for the third time in twenty minutes, Esther interrupts her own silent meditation as she opens her eyes, straightens her posture, and turns to her companion to enquire: “Are you sure you’re quite comfortable, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Jane O Flowers” she replies and begins rummaging through her bag to find the tea. “Nice to meet you.” She’s wearing the bright red official uniform of the Royal Mail, a customised gas mask, and possibly the most ridiculous and overlarge woolen hat to ever thoughtlessly combine over five colours. She pulls out her canteen and begins looking around for something to serve tea in. “Do you have a cup?”

A man, dressed in roughed up finery sits not far from the man calling himself Jack Gaunt and watches. He has the look of a man on edge, who has seen too much and regretted every part of it.

When Jack stands and moves towards the woman, slinging his sword across his back, the man twitches.

Summoning his courage, he stands and purposefully strides to where the two sit

“Pardon Ma’am” He says to the lady with a tip of his bowler hat. “Please forgive me for the interuption.”

“You will forgive me sir…” he says to the one called Jack. The last word is strained, as in mockery.

“I think you will find that seat has already been taken” He says gesturing to the seat Jack is in.

Agnes smiles at her companion.

“As comfortable as can be expected, Miss North. If you have other errands to attend to, feel free to leave me here. I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

What a fine young woman, thinks Agnes. Church gossip had said she was a remarkable, and it was nice to see such promise in the flesh, as it were. Of course, there were likely to be many remarkable people on the ship, and on the island. Even the Queen herself! Dear Peter had often remarked that meeting new people was the way that one could undergo change for the better. Then he had patted her hand and laughed a little. He had never expected her to change, he’d said. She was what she was, and he loved her for it. Then he’d given her the hatchet…

Miss North was looking at her, her discomfort not quite hidden.

“Sorry, Miss North. Woolgathering. Terrible habit.” Agnes smiles, for convention’s sake. “Although I would like to get some new clothes. I feel somewhat conspicous.”

“Oh- Of course- How inconsiderate of me to not have thought of that. I’m so sorry, it was a rather rapid departure, wasn’t it? Such a shame you didn’t have time to claim any of your belongings. Here, take my coat, I’m quite warm enough as it is.”

As Esther removes her jacket, she grimaces and mutters to herself: “Let no one say I’m not dutiful.”

Jack goes completely still for a second. The air grows suddenly icy. Jack’s body shifts slightly, precisely. His duster falls open, revealing a be-jewelled high-calibre pistol in a fast draw Tombstone rig. Slowly he looks up at the person speaking to him. He grins.

“There weren’t no-one else sittin’ here when Ah sat down, and now Ah’m sittin’ here. You sure you wanna make somethin’ of this, boy?”

Jane’s head turns back and forth between the two. Her face can’t be seen very clearly behind the veil like gas mask, but the hand holding the canteen trembles slightly, not much, it could just be vibrations from the engines.She carefully puts down the canteen and pulls her mail bag protectively closer. “It would be a terrible idea to pull a gun in an airship” she notes in a calm, quiet voice.

A figure steps out of the shadows. A long black leather coat hangs comfortably off her and she looks at the scene with a slightly raised eyebrow. “The mail girl is right you know. I would hate to have survived this long to only die in a flaming ball caused by two men having a pissing contest.”

She looks at the pocket Jake had put his flask back into. “I’ll have some of that whisky though, seeing as you offered.” She settles down next to him, and leans in. A small smile graces her lips. “I’m Ivy.”

“Those nicities can wait Ma’am!” he half bellows as Ivy introduces herself

“Boy? You call me Boy?, You speak to Franklin Delaney Sir, Now Earl of Rutland!” He says standing up straight, chest puffed foraward.

“Don’t think for a minute that because you carry a sword and gun and have intent you are anything more than you are. Help. You have our thanks of course the brutality at which you wielded that… thing, but you sir are a tainted monstrosity.” He says looking at the wicked sword by his side.

“And plainly not fit for a ladies company.”

“I’m a Class A Post Lady! Not a ‘mail girl.’” Jane blurts out, then seems to be come aware that her comment little out of place compared to the tension of the two men. “Err. Sorry.” her voice sounds embarrassed “My name is Jane O Flowers.” She pulls on a braid dangling from her ridiculous hat, in a kind of nervous gesture. “We’re all kind of tense I think? I know I’ll feel better once we land, so I can report to Master Biffen.” Her other arm tightens around the mail bag protectively.

Huddled in the corner behind Ivy, Dr Arameus Dumont sits rocking back and forth on his heels. His attire - bowler hat, waistcoat, frock coat et al - seem to have miraculously avoided any dirt or soot and appear almost pristine. He glances around the airship, seemingly oblivious of the argument between Jack and Franklin, or the discussion between Ivy and Jane.

“[size=85]It’s not my fault, I didn’t do anything[/size]” he mutters under his breath.

Glancing up, he finally takes in his surroundings.

“Uh, merci Ivy for getting me out of that situation. It seems like we are constantly fleeing…”