Thread: The Visions of Destruction [Thaedael & JellyFish]

The Whispering Tavern, no establishment along Southwark Street was as fitting to the name as this building. It stood unassuming, on a major artery, within a major borough, which coincidentally, was the namesake of the street. The street was the brainchild of the St. Saviour's District Board, a street which was intended to fill the role as a direct means of passage from the South Eastern Railway terminus at London Bridge station to the West End. Yet it was more than this, for the Metropolitan Board of Works bestowed upon the street a vision of the future, an advancement yet to be seen in it's time. For under the cobbled stones of the street ran utilities gas, water, and drainage pipes, together with telegraph wires for communication. With the street's position south of the the great river Thames, and along such a heavily traveled path, in conjunction with the infrastructure in place, it was no such wonder that the passageway prospered in the decade to come. Large store fronts were built along the street, bustling with activities and the latest trends in fashion. To the north, on Bridge Road, a road that ran perpendicular to Southwark Street, was the great Hop Exchange facilities. It was along an alleyway that flirted the western edge of this building that the Whispering Tavern found it's home, nestled between buildings of more imposing statures. Like it's name sake, there was little sound to be heard from the building, especially not above the bustling sounds of the street from which it found itself on. Despite it's location midst the towering store fronts of it's opulent neighbors, the building itself held much it's own. The building was of three story height, each floor no larger than four meters tall, a large building for it's use. It was on a corner lot, and took full advantage of this, sharing two parting walls with it's neighboring buildings, the facade of the building following the right angle of the crossroads upon which it was situated. The facade was of exquisite decor, as complex a construction method as possible, and one that spared little expense. For it had a stone foundation, large slabs of granite cut smooth upon which the weight of the building rested. The builders had no qualms in expressing the architectural language of the building, for atop of this ran wooden moldings that ran the full length of the building's facade, transitioning a stone foundation towards a wooden tavern front. Upon this wooden molding rose windows, each in triplicate, each of the finest craftsmanship. Wooden frame works crisscrossed the larger wooden frames of the windows, upon which were set multiple panes of large glass. Each was then capped with semi-circle pieces of gold-gilded glass that gave the illusion that the glass formed an archway. Between each set of three glasses rose large pillars that were made of stone, once more an expression of the builders, once more connecting stone with stone. For above the windows ran one last small expression of stone work, finely carved lintels and sills of large windows, before giving way to the red masonry. It was then all capped with a flat roof, the new laws to prevent fire preventing large wooden mansard roofs like times of old. It was into this building that Darla Johnson wandered, having walked past the large double glass doors in favor of the more subdued wooden door along the furthest side from the main street. The man looked at the cards in hand, the heavy stock of the paper resting tightly between index finger and thumb. He suppressed all emotions upon his face, nothing but an indifferent, apathetic composure that did little to betray the smug confidence he held in his hand. Black bangs of short cropped hair hung from his forehead, from under which his amber eyes looked out across the table. Across from him sat the man who dared challenge this hand of his, a man who unlike himself, was very easy to read. His challenger hesitated, a hand running along a small ivory playing piece, a simple rectangular sliver of bone that denoted a preset sum. In his other hand, the cards upon which his eyes trained, the expression in his eyes plain to see. A moment's more of hesitation, before he finally tossed the cards face down into the center of the table. Excellent. He too placed his cards face down in the middle of the table, a smile finally breaking out from behind his neutral composure. The man that had challenged him reached for the cards of the winner, before the winner himself slapped his hand down to the table, pinning it in place. You will find gentleman, that there is very little you need to know about me, or my actions. He slowly eased up the pressure of his hand upon that of his challenger, allowing him to withdraw the hand out from under his own, all the while without letting him take the cards once more. The winner took the cards, before once more delicately placing them in a pile atop one another, then he placed the stack before the man to his right, intending for him to shuffle them once more. His hand now free, he pulled into his palm a tumbler that had sat on the lip of the octagonal table that he and his seven guest sat around. With fine crystal tumbler in hand, he drew upon a fine liqueur, the warming sensation of the drink soothing his throat with a gentle caress. I like to know who I am getting in bed with Vincent Gallagher. You cannot expect me to bid in good faith, can you? the loser had said. Vincent Gallagher smiled, one put on mostly for show, a master manipulator and charming gentleman that got what he want through hard work and webs of intrigue. This was such a web, and all of them were mere prey now that they were tangled in his world. But I can. he said, taking pleasure at the sentiments of the man who questioned his motives. You see, John Stone... He paused once more to take a sip of his drink, before allowing the heavy tumbler to sound against the wooden lip of his poker table with the ring of a crystal glass. One does not simply find me. If you wish to bid , you must do so in good faith. Another man to the side of John Stone spoke, This is no game for the feint of heart. It is not too late for you to back out if the stakes are too high for you. The other five regulars that gathered for such a game chuckled, knowing full well that the man could no longer back out. John Stone hesitated, and this brought pleasure to Vincent Gallagher. Already was John Stone implicated in this act of illegal gambling, but to have succeeded in seeking out Vincent, now that was the real leverage that was now at the disposal of the scheming man. I will do good on my words John Stone managed, before finally backing down off the topic. The other six gentlemen straightened up in their high-back chairs, getting ready for what was to come. Vincent, content to have set the mood, pulled the remaining ivory chips from the center of the table, leaving the hard wooden leather surface clear once more. Gentlemen, we all know why you are here. As if on cue, the man to his right tossed four cards down onto the table, each a queen of the different suits. The buy in is a mere one hundred pounds. A fair price to arrange all this, don't you think? he asked rhetorically. It was an exuberant price, but one that the gathered guests would each have to pay for the mere privilege of bidding on the next hand . Again, the four queens were pulled back into the deck of cards, and the cards shuffled once more. With all the buy-ins already placed in the center, cards were dealt, but the intent of such an action was merely a token gesture. Not a single soul looked at each pair of cards, before John Stone, the newest member of this circle, tossed in the first of his chips, starting the bid. The man to his left immediately raised the bid, tossing in more chips to the center of the table. Too rich for my tastes said the man next in line, tossing his cards to the center of the table. Vincent a voice came from behind all of them. Through the doorway spoke an employee of his, one that stood in the now open archway that lead from the private smoking room towards the main service hallway of the tavern. You have a visitor he said, before nodding and backing out from under the door-frame. Annoyed, Vincent let out a long sigh through pursed lips, before standing up. Excuse me gentlemen. Apparently I have business to attend to. He looked to the man to his left, nodding as he spoke, Try and keep them honest will you? He had changed from his smoking jacket, and had washed the smell of cigars from his lips with a stiff drink of alcohol. All in the name of etiquette, he supposed, for he knew not the gender of his unannounced guest. Checking himself once more in the mirror of the drawing room off the side of the smoking room, he was content to look once more the part he played in society. Looking back at the full length mirror was his form, a lithe man clad in the finest of attires. Simple brown hair drawn carefully in a traditional side part. He wore a stiff collared shirt that was buttoned down over a dapper bow tie of crimson fabric. Over this a simple double breasted coat, both columns of brass buttons pulled through the black fabric carefully. Peaking out from under the length of his coat were the pin stripe patterns of his black pants. Content, he walked towards the back entrance of the establishment, already sweat beading upon his brow from the muggy warmth of the kitchen and brewery to one side. He walked towards the guest who stood waiting with the doorman, a man of effeminate proportions. Good evening he said. What business have you here?