The man looks perplexed.

"Course I've got a knife." He waves it around. "I- you don't have anything? Kind of bloody luck I've got, you wouldn't... Bah."

He puts the knife away and walks off, muttering to himself.

"Take heart, stranger. At least you have a knife." Well, that's one Londoner met. Now, for the rest.

Mahogany Hall. This sounds like a place that would be easy to find even in vast Fallen London. The figure waits a polite length to let the would-be thief escape, and lurches out of the alleyway. Eyes are kept out for: aspen trees, additional assailants, and anyone who might need a new friend.

There are no trees of any kind. Additional assailants do not materialize. Many people need friends, but none of them initiate conversation with the tall stranger. Mahogany Hall is indeed not difficult to find.

There are, however, guards out front.

Quite.

The lack of trees is disappointing. If people live down here, so too should trees. This is an outrage. The guards are more commensurate with expectations. The figure observes, and then melts away. There is stealth involved; a willowy shadow is still a shadow, after all. But it's surprising how unsuspicious people can be if you dress like you expected their attention. They will notice you, of course. But suspect you? Why, you have a stuffed animal and absolutely no guile. Harmless. After around a half hour of skulking, one emerges with some idea of the operations of the Hall and its employees.

One is also, dimly, hungry, and ought to begin looking for food, shelter, and other material needs.

There's an aging woman with vibrantly red hair and pearls around her neck looking at them with some concern.

"I hope I'm not being rude, but are you new, dear? You look... out-of-place."

Aren't we all aging women?

"You're just being accurate! I'll let you know when you begin to be rude."

There's a drawing-up of height, and the taxiderm hare goes under a poncho.

"I am..." Which name? "Oakley. Oakley Banishbur. I'm pleased to acquaint myself with you."

The woman looks shocked for a moment. "Oh, you are new! Your Christian name's an awfully intimate thing to be giving out to anyone you meet. They call me the Softhearted Widow - I'm sure you'll get something to call yourself eventually, or I could try to come up with something."

Oh, how lovely! Oakley enjoys a good custom. (And the name they gave, like all of them, isn't Christian at all, so no harm done!)

"Let me see if I have the format down? Could I be called the Pliable Stranger, for example?"

"Well, that's the kind of name you'd end up changing, isn't it? Unless you want to be a stranger to everyone, and a stranger forever."

"Oh, that was simply an example. my Soft-Heart. A very apt example, but completely imaginary. I think I ought to let others name me, as I've always done."

They hold aloft the stuffed snowshoe hare, freed again. "This, however, is Voda. I had to work very hard for her name, so I'd like to keep it established." Dust has gathered on eyes that otherwise look liquid, cold, and dead. The stranger wipes at them with a damp fingertip, with a practiced air.

The Widow nods. "Well, it's lovely to meet her too, I'm sure. So what brought you to London, dear?"

The wind, the water, and the hope that they like me better than they like my competition.

"Oh, I'm a permanent tourist. And all things tend to travel downriver over time. And I hear the art in London is something worth seeing." Oakley looks around, like the art might be over there, or there, behind that urchin.

"Oh, the art's lovely - you'd want to go to the Veilgarden for that, though, not Mahogany Hall. All Mahogany Hall's got is singing and dancing and lots of girls wearing not much at all. And Veilgarden's got all that too, but they've also got art."

"I'm in your debt for the advice, Widow. Thank you ever-so-sweetly."

Voda the hare's fur ripples in a breeze that is, somehow, stagnant.

"And where would I want to go, if I took the notion into my head to lay my head down?" The stranger may need to lie diagonally in any bed they find, given their stature.

"Well, there's flophouses all 'round the city, but I'm sure you wouldn't want those, they'll rob you blind... don't have any family in the city, do you?"

"Oh, that's not problem at all, I've already been quite blindly robbed." The stranger turns out several of their more obvious pockets. "And no family, no. No."

The Widow looks shocked. "None at all? And you've been robbed? Oh, dearie, you should've said something - why don't I give you my address, and when you've a mind to sleep I'll let you stay in my spare bedroom? My latest lodger took a sudden visit to the tomb-colonies, so the bed's free - it might be, um, a bit short for you, but you'll probably be fine if you curl up a bit."

Pure delight, like that a child or a very elderly person.

"The last few robbers were quite sorely disappointed in me as a selection. If only they had known the fortune that would be coming to me! Thanks dearly, my dear."

Oakley takes the address warmly, though their thankful hand on the Softhearted Widow's shoulder is quite cold. They saunter towards Veilgarden for appearances' sakes, looking for a cool, clean drink of water or perhaps a game of chance to observe. They have the rest of the day to kill.

Veilgarden contains few sources of pure water, but there is a bar called the Singing Mandrake which has extremely weak wine, for only two pence a bottle.

Alas, penceless. Is it, perhaps, entirely possible to vanish an open bottle or two into a poncho pocket? If it seems obvious its attendant has given up on it? Because such a possible thing deserves to be tried, if indeed it is.

If they're patient, they can indeed snaffle a couple of half-full bottles of Greyfields 1879. Not the finest vintage, even for mushroom wine, but beggars really can't be choosers.

Ah, multitasking. It is so blessedly efficient to be begging, borrowing, and stealing, all at once. And how lucky that they aren't full!

To someone watching closely from a vantage within Oakley's pockets, something odd would seem to be happening to either bottle. As a glad-handing Oakley strikes up conversations with bargoers, the wine bottles, cold though they are, begin to bubble minutely, as if the mushroom wines were boiling. As Oakley gives insightful romantic advice to a barmaid, one bottle frosts and freezes slushily, nearly overfilled, while the other, much reduced and darkened, is cold, but subtle about it.

After about a half-hour, one pocket holds a bottle full of pure, clean water (or ice, rather) and the other holds a bitter (but quite compellingly strong) mushroom brandy. As the stranger said to the barmaid, sometimes a couple is more compelling when kept apart.

Are there flyers handy? Or perhaps newsprint.

There are many handy flyers, advertising various poetry readings, brothels, and whatever a "honey-den" is.

Oakley finds a nice minimalist flyer, and pockets it next to the one for Euterpe's Virtuosa Performance. Intrigue loves company, and a tourist ought to have a broader itinerary if examined. A handy cork corks the brandy bottle.

Oakley will attend a poetry reading, and attempt to woo a quill from its current partner. Ink, as well.

An Effervescent Poet is willing to part with a quill and inkpot, in exchange for a kiss on the cheek.