literature

Victorian England Teaser

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The skies were an overcast grey, as they often were in Victorian England. They sun could occasionally be seen as a hazy yellow blotch behind the clouds and this was often the only real indication that it was day time. The landscape was a sea of grey and brown buildings, half of which were incomplete or falling apart, those that stood were decently tall, magnificent structures. All of which were overshadowed by a large, white mansion, which had roads all around it, with no nearby buildings except for one on one of the sides. Approximately 2 blocks away from this mansion was a pub, The 'Loch and Key'.

A fair establishment with vast oak structuring's and support beams in the roof arches. The sign above the door moved gently in the wind as a swift violin tune could be heard that was blended well with a hint of flute. Suddenly a man flew through one of the closed windows, shattering glass onto the cobblestone streets, the lines between stone usually filled with water. Inside the bar things were getting out of hand. Well by 'getting out of hand'; it was actually less of a fight than usual. Tables were overturned, stools smashed and shattered and people were strewn across the floor with bruises just about everywhere.

In the centre of the ground floor bar were two young men. One was blonde with emerald eyes and thick eyebrows, wearing a white shirt with black tailcoat and black trousers and the other was a ginger, with a beard and moustache that merged brilliantly and the lips with faint scars around his face and his blue eyes. This pair was not alone in this fight, they had another ally, who was cowering behind the bar timidly waving a bottle at anything that walked too close to him. He wore a purple or dark blue vest and a sort of mauve pantaloons. His hair was long and blonde. His face had stubble that just made him more attractive. His name was Francis Bonnefoy, legendary Frenchman and lady-killer extraordinaire. This made the Englishman and the Irishman in the middle of the bar Arthur Kirkland; Super thief and 'gentleman', who had a knack with the ladies, but did not really care for it too much and Aidan, his brother; Irish part time thief and Brawler professional. Aidan could always handle himself in a fight, which happened to be more often than not, with Francis constantly flirting with women (and sometimes men) and Shaun's occasional fiery temper the three did not pass a week without a good fight.

Arthur and Aidan stood back to back in the middle of the room, a table overturned on their left, and two stools two bottles standing on them to their right. Arthur grabbed both the bottles and threw one over his shoulder, to be caught by Aidan. The Englishman opened his and took a large swig from it. "Blaaagh, could be a little colder, what about yours brother?" he asked.
The Irishman weaved out of the way of a punch and smashed the bottle over the head of the stocky man who had tried to punch him, sending glass and liquid all over the floor and knocking him unconscious. "Wouldn't know. Sorry about the fight Arty, but he insulted me Mother, ME MOTHER! What else was I supposed to do?"
"Well, aside from starting a fight, not much else, still keeps you on your toes though doesn't it?" Arthur noted laughing.
"Yes, but we end up knocking out have the people who can serve us drinks, that doesn't always help, by the way, where's Francis?" he asked, looking around the bar for the head of the somewhat elusive Frenchman.
Arthur looked about the bar in an impressive twirl, doing a barrel roll over the back of a bent over drunkard, flicking his heel up once he was straightened up and knocked him out. "He's over by the bar counter Aidan, bit of a coward tonight, didn't even flirt once!"
Francis had almost magically heard that conversation, although they were almost shouting it was almost impossible to hear anything over the brawl and the music. "I heard that!" shouted the Frenchman, springing straight up and began walking towards Arthur. He had made about halfway when a group of about three men ran past, knocking him to the floor, only for them to get incapacitated by Arthur, two of them fell straight on top of poor Francis. The third man was almost unfazed by Arthur's roundhouse kicks and sharp jabs and in a mix of adrenaline and lack of mental capacity, picked a bottle and continued fighting for about thirty seconds, after which time he merely fell asleep, on top of a lovely duo of unconscious men… And one heavily swearing Frenchman.

"Well, Arty, I guess we might as well wrap things up, we got work tomorrow and I know how much you love your line of work." Aidan said blinking wearily, upon rubbing his eyes to regain some amount of impairing vision he received a rather unwelcome fist to the jaw from one of about four other patrons still standing from the fight; "RIGHT! Imma put my foot so far up yer ass; you won't be able teh sit down for a week!" he roared.

Everyone in the bar heard that (well, those who were still conscious) and ran for their lives, all except the bartender, who was busy cleaning the few unshattered glasses at the bar bench.  "Same time next month gents?" he chuckled.
Arthur blinked a few times and turned to face the red bearded man in front of him. "Maybe John, maybe." And with that he leaned over and attempted to drag off the lumbering man of a mountain off the three beneath him.

Francis had already given up swearing his head off and had just about passed out from lack of oxygen when suddenly a tremendous burden came off his chest, although it took the bartender John, Arthur AND Aidan just to move the first guy, the other two were a breeze and in about 30 seconds Francis Bonnefoy could breathe once more. "Zut alors! Never in all my time I have been with you two have I been so shamed, why on earth did I agree to come to this 'abattoir' (slaughterhouse) with you Arthur?! I know we are the best of friends but I question your judgement sometimes." He turned around in a huff and then carefully weaved his way through the sea of unconscious people on his way to the door. He put his hand on the large, oak beauty of an entrance and turned his head to face the sleepy Irishman and his beloved friend "Come on then guys, allons-y."

The trio briskly walked across cluttered streets, filled with people at almost all hours of the day, wearing everything, from tattered rags that had seen and been through than many would want to, to people wearing fine garments, petticoats, top hats and splendid dresses that were less than a week old could always be spotted in amongst the riff-raff. Of course this fashion statement had a distinct disadvantage; it made you a target for pickpockets and other thieves. The motley group walked across a cobblestone road, mere seconds before a carriage sped past and almost hit them, Francis stopped and swore, but Arthur and his brother new better, this was London, you were either going somewhere are you were going nowhere and weren't worth noticing if you got hit with a carriage, unless the horse was hurt, then if you were alive you could be sued for all you were worth which for most of the people was not much. As they reached the other side Arthur blended seamlessly with the crowd, effectively vanishing in front of Francis and Aidan, who just stood there gobsmacked.

Arthur was not wasting anytime, he was in a pickpocketing mood and wouldn't stop unless caught or his pockets were full.  He swiftly walked and as a man in a black coat with a tall top hat walked past him he swiftly dipped his hands gently into his pocket and pulled out a silver fobwatch and a locket. Then as another man, wearing a suede jacket and a brown bowtie shuffled his way past the 'Riff-Raff' of the streets Arthur skilfully slipped his hands into the man's leather briefcase and took out a wallet, most likely filled with cash or important documents which he placed in his pockets. Arthur's black trousers were often cleaner than most people on the streets, but he always managed to get them dirty or, in some dire cases, almost destroyed on just about every adventurous outing. Meanwhile, Francis was always spotless, despite the 'harsh' conditions of Victorian London the Frenchman always kept spotless not matter what they did. For example, for one particular theft, the group had to navigate a small section of sewer in order to gain access to a particular location. Francis had refused to get dirty, so that meant that someone had to carry him. Poor Aidan had to wade through knee-high sewage with a complaining Frenchman on his back while Arthur clung to the celling pipes like a sort of monkey, albeit one carrying several sticks of dynamite, a large amount of rope across his chest like a sash and a knife and several lock picks between his teeth.

Aidan and Francis had managed to find Arthur an hour later and the sun had disappeared entirely and night had flooded the streets, the few amounts of illumination came from the windows, from which the light heat of fireplaces and an orange glow and the streetlights, throwing a circle of yellow light around the post from which the lamp was atop. Arthur was outside Hotel Terminus, a mighty structure many stories tall and was the height of luxury short of Buckingham palace and the mansion a few blocks east. The Englishman was leaning against a lamppost, the yellow light highlighting his short, blonde hair and the rest of his body except for the face, giving him a rather shady and mean look. Then his trademark troublemaker smile played upon his lips and he stood up to face his comrades. "Shall we check in gents?" he asked, turning to face the glass and gold double doors of the entrance. Of course they would have a room in one of the swankiest places in London, even though they had safehouses all over London in various locations but Francis didn't like them and generally Arthur wanted his groups ill-gotten gains to be put to good use, so the plan was formulated to get a room in Hotel Terminus. There were other advantages for the room, besides the service, the room had a balcony that had various ropes extending to other buildings nearby, a perfect view of many safehouses and of course, the mansion near the 'Loch and key'. There was also one of Arthur's best information sources, Birdman. Birdman was an old man who owned multiple pigeon coops and other bird houses on the roof of the hotel and was the most expensive informant in London. His reputation was well deserved as any information given, of which there was plenty, on anything you needed provided you had the cash or materials. The interior of the hotel was lined with pillars in the corners and in the walls of grand oak mahogany and dark green walls. There was a spilt staircase near the back of the room that lead up to the dining hall on the second floor and in between that staircase was the gold and black iron elevator that could go from anywhere from the maintenance basement all the way up the penthouse on the 22nd floor.  From there it is a simple task to take the fire escape ladder to the roof with the large, red neon sign of the hotel, in the shape of the word TERMINUS, aptly the name of the hotel. Behind the sign was a small hut, made out of ramshackle amounts of wood planks and corrugated tin roof, littered all around and on the roof were bird droppings of any sort, a mere side effect of living with so many birds, particularly pigeons, the most reliable form of information transport.
The trio stepped out on to the roof top and into the hazy mixture of cloud and smoke that lay approximately 50 feet above them among the vents and the chimneys the group easily spotted Birdman's coop. Arthur stepped inside and was followed by his brother but as Francis was about to enter he was stopped by an old man. The man in question was old and wore ragged clothes that were once a fine nobleman's outfit but had deteriorated to that of a bums. Atop his head of long and unchecked grey hair sat a top hat, in better condition than his clothes, but still damaged, it had a rather ghastly look to it and had a name in gold lining along the band just above the rim, Gibus.
"You must stay out! Pompous, fancypants Frenchie has no stomach for this sort of thing! You will scare my birds!" he protested waving his frail fist at the young French man. Francis did a bird call and held his hand to the air, to which a pigeon landed upon it and gently cooed as he held it closer to his face.
"Non ser Birdman, this Frenchman likes birds, they are everywhere in Paris`, including the 'umble Eiffel Tower, especially the ever handsome Pigeon.
Birdman attempted to run a hand through his matted hair but without success and instead simply rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. "I am terribly sorry, my sincerest apologies." He stuttered out in his old, gravelled tones.
Arthur walked between them, "Look, never mind that, I require your services." He walked back into the coop house and was followed by Francis and Birdman.
"And what might the occasion be good sir?" questioned the old man, dusting off his shoulders.
Arthur Kirkland turned and smiled, his trademark troublemaker look playing upon his lips, the women of London had given a nickname: The Little Devil of London. And for good reason, whenever Arthur Kirkland had a mischievous smile of that magnitude on his face, you knew something was going to, was about to or was happening that would be thrilling and dangerous, or at least that is how he described it. "I would like to know about Lord Alexander Blackthorn and his wonderful mansion."
As it happened, Lord Blackthorn was not in a good mood, then again, he rarely was. One of his new employees at the mansion was slightly defiant, something he could not stand, his shares in America were down and his spies in the Vatican had been wormed out, courtesy of a one Lovino Vargas. An Italian 'Swashbuckling Debonair' BAH! Nothing but a young trouble maker with connections to 'Il Vaticano' thought Blackthorn.  Lord Alexander Blackthorn was one of the richest men in London, and the most ruthless, nothing stood between him and a goal, his most sought after goal; Money.
He was an older man, a few wisps of grey sneaking into the smooth, combed black hair. He always wore a jet black top hat to hide them, but every now and then, a solitary strand of grey would manage to find its way into view. Everything he wore was just about jet black, from his shoes to his coat. His name even had the word black in it and it would not take much to guess what kind of heart his was. He had his hands in just about every business in England, on both sides of the law. To many he was an aspiring businessman with a ruthless plan of attack and always had a sneaky exit clause and to others he was an 'anonymous benefactor' to various crime groups and illegal organizations for about 20 years, crime, at least to him, certainly payed. And now Lord Alexander William Blackthorn aged about 65 was sitting on an accumulating pile of wealth inside his mansion, just asking, almost begging for the hands of a certain master thief to 'liberate' it from him.
He paced in his study, between a bookcase and his large handcrafted, oak desk, with a large amount of papers and files on the black leather surface that had been crafted perfectly with the dark brown wood. His face showed few signs of old age, a few wrinkles dotted his face but these were almost unnoticeable due to the fact that the man spent most of his time frowning or scowling. Legend had it, he gave a man a death stare and he fainted out of fear and did not wake for several days, during that time, the man had been fired and his home burnt to the ground, with his wife and three kids still inside. There were about three bookcases in the room; two were on opposite sides of the room to each other, one next to a magnificent grandfather clock and the other next to a rhino's head, mounted to a trophy plaque on the wall. The third bookcase was about 3 metres from his desk on the right side, behind the desk was a large window, that went from the floor to three quarters of the way up the wall and had large, crimson drapes either side, ready to be closed or drawn at a moment's notice. As he paced between the desk and the bookcase as he often did when he was thinking, or plotting. His current thoughts were to what to do about the particular that was giving him cheek. Girl thinks she is smart, correcting me, being impolite, sarcastic. BAH! Spoiled brat! The only reason I keep her here is because her father is one of my largest benefactors and my only connection to France! The girl herself isn't even from France! She's from that ex-French colony that was taking by the British however long ago, what was its name?... AH Seychelles! The little girl is from Seychelles… And he continued pacing, having concluded the matter for now he turned his mind to other things, like how much money could he get for burning down a useless building with insurance that he didn't own?
Michelle Gallaud was not in a good mood, first of all, she had to wake which was never a good thing since she wasn't home in the tropics where almost every day was a good day to be up and about. The second thing was that she had to work, don't take it the wrong way, she didn't mind working, it was her boss that made the work unpleasant, borderline infuriating. So, young Michelle (Or so she seemed) had vowed to do whatever she could to be fired and find a way back to the Seychelles islands. The problem was, no matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did, her employer simply took it out on something else, as if he did not wish to fire for some reason. It wasn't as if Lord Blackthorn had a code against being vile and disrespectful towards women, he had slapped, backhanded and unfairly punished most of his employees, regardless of age, gender or race.
Michelle was wearing her usual maid's uniform which was actually rather different to the other maids and other servants in the mansion. It had the look and feel of an English uniform, but was slightly more revealing and she hated it because of that. She not only got raised eyebrows and smirks from male visitors and business associates of Blackthorns, but from a few of her co-workers. When she inquired as to why it was different she was merely told 'It was custom made and shipped here from…' and 'Someone with a lot of power is making you wear that non regulation costume of a outfit' These were but a few of the scattered responses she got from her questioning. And when she finally questioned Lord Blackthorn about it (Most people would even give this idea a first thought, let alone a second) he merely responded with "One of my … wealthier clients requested you wear it." But there was something about the pause he gave her that made her not believe what he had said. Then again, Michelle didn't really take Alexander Blackthorn for the Old, drooling Lecher/Pervert type, he was far too focused on how to make others' lives miserable and make more money. Making others miserable, maybe he HAS picked up on the fact I don't like outfits like this and is making me wear it to annoy me… But how could have known that unless… She put the thought to rest for now and got ready for work, she would be juggling general maintenance in the hallways, involving cleaning busts and whatnot, and requests that flew her way while cleaning, which were few, but Blackthorn was holding a meeting today and it was most likely she wouldn't get many breaks.
Things were almost deathly silent in the hotel room. Francis had gone to sleep and Aidan was on the balcony, keeping an eye on specific things. The sun had just about set, and for once the clouds had parted and just below the constant haze of smoke and the unusually absent fog there was a splendid scene of orange, purple and red across the bottom of the sky, light being blocked by chimneys and casting shadows on the mostly tiled rooftops. The hotel room itself was rather large; a lounge and R&R room dominated the main area, boasting a spectacular fireplace, black with gold trim. There was plenty of hearty varnished wood, and the couch was a lovely red velvet and the chairs a smooth, brown leather. There was a single bookcase with neatly sorted books, many of which were the type of books that Arthur would just pickup and read for hours on end. Aidan didn't care too much reading, he didn't like the city much, aside from the pubs, where his party like mind could get into some hearty jigs and dance the night away. Arthur did not try to limit the drinking his brother did, the man had a cast iron liver and as his brother Angus would have put it "God gave the Irish liquor so they wouldn't take over the world." And every time the English lad thought about it he had a little chuckle. Also in the room hung a magnificent Rembrandt painting, of course it didn't belong to the hotel, nor did it belong to Arthur, well it technically did, seeing as the previous owner no longer had it.
Set in Victorian England, this tale follows the adventure of Arthur Kirkland, master thief extraordinare and his companions.
Bit of a teaser as I continue to write the bulk of the story, plaaning to have a bit of EngXSey somewhere in there but for now please enjoy.

DO NOT OWN COVERART :3
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