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Jun 03, 2020 5:38 PM
lucy is a different kind of eldritch
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There is only so much she can learn about her heritage, and her abilities, from her mother and through experimentation. 

The Elder Continent is, if not precisely off limits, not somewhere she even wants to try to go until she knows more. So: London, which is much closer anyway. She'd have to pass through to make it to the Continent anyway. 

The stalagmites thin, and she blinks as she steps out into the lights of Mrs. Plenty's Carnival. 

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The carnival barkers look at her curiously, but they don't stop her.

The opportunities of London lie before her. Where would she like to go?

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Well, she'll just wander, for a bit. Gosh, so many people. And none of them know the first thing about her. 

She does eavesdrop, though, seeing if she can pick up where good places are to get a bit of coin, a bite to eat, and a roof over one's head.

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A bite to eat can be found in any of the corners of the city; each district has its own specialty. A roof over one's head, similarly, can be rented for a reasonable price.

Coin is important to either goal, though. She could find work hauling in the Docks if she's strong, or spying in Ladybones Road if she's canny, or working as a courier in Spite or the Flit if she's quick on her feet.

While she's eavesdropping, she may hear something of particular interest. "-and she said, she honestly said, there was a diamond down here the size of a cow! She was probably honey-mazed, but wouldn't that be something?"

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Uh. 

What. 

"Who said that?" she asks smoothly, stepping into the conversation. 

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The man speaking jumps a little, then realizes who addressed him and tries to look cool. "Oh - old friend of mine, called the Fading Music-Hall Singer. I was just saying, you know, what a thing that would be. You know?"

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"Well, I don't know about the size of a cow, but diamonds are a lot more common down here." 

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"Oh, certainly. Even with Mr. Stones' taxes-"

His friend jabs him in the side with an elbow. "Not a topic for discussion with strange girls you just met."

The man rubs the back of his head guiltily. "Ah, yes."

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"Where could I find the Fading Music-Hall Singer, do you know? I've quite an interest in the geological myself." 

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"Heh. Er, she works Mahogany Hall these days, you could probably catch her after a show."

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"Okay. Thanks!" she says brightly, waving as she departs. 

Mahogany Hall...she's not sure where that is, so she eavesdrops some more until she runs into someone discussing going that way and then surreptitiously follows them. 

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Plenty of people go to Mahogany Hall, and plenty of them discuss it as they walk; she'll have no trouble finding her way there.

There are a couple of guards at each entrance.

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...Checking people for tickets?

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People have tickets! Usually they're in coat pockets or purses, but some people keep theirs in their trouser pockets.

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She watches the crowd carefully to see if anyone drops one. 

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It isn't too long before a ticket slips out of a gentleman's coat, fairly close to her.

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She walks over and casually scoops it up before walking away in a different enough direction that he'll be unlikely to correlate her position with his by the time he realizes his ticket is missing. 

Once she's made it far enough off she circles back around to present "her" ticket to the guards. 

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The guard accepts it without any trouble.

"Your theater's to the right," he says.

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She goes off to the right. 

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The theater is large and filled with reasonably comfortable chairs.

After she's been sitting for a little while, the gaslamps dim momentarily, indicating that the show will start in ten minutes.

Ten minutes later, the lights go down... and nothing happens. There's some muttering among the patrons. Five minutes after that, when the muttering has reached something of a crescendo, the curtains part slightly, revealing a mousey-looking man with a nervous tic.

"T-the F-fadiing M- sorry, sorry, I mean, the Eff-f-f-ulgent Evangeline, is unable to s-sing tonight. Your t-t-tickets will be ref-f-funded. Mahogany Hall apologizes for the inc-c- for the inconvenience."

A groan rises from the audience as the lights come back up.

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Lucy makes her way through the crowd towards the mousey-looking man. 

"Excuse me," she says, "is the Effulgent Evangeline alright?"

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"Sh-she didn't send an urchin, or anything," says the Stammering Manager. "We were h-h-holding out hope she'd get here in time, b-b-but." He shrugs. "D-damnably inconvenient."

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"Oh no. Is there anything I can do to help?"

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He looks appraisingly at her. "W-well, if you'd be willing to ch-check up on her, I wouldn't have to s-send an urchin - I'd pay you fair courier r-rates, ten moon-pearls. She lives at 56 Sedgwick W-w-way, in Flowerdene Rookery."

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"Deal." 

She cashes in "her" ticket on the way out, and heads for the named address. 

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The ticket gets her fifteen bits of glossy purple glim.

The named address is an only moderately squalid tenement, with a tiled roof and mushroom beds out front. It's also surrounded by Constables.

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