#c:lucian

[m0n0lithical]

I'm not playing HSY yet cause I'm waiting for...well, everything to be fixed, but I did make a few 'what they looked like as teens' for a few OCs. In order is: Lucian, Amie, Preda, and Marielle.

[m0n0lithical]

Lord mercy. Blog updated. Have a new banner and fixed links. I've still got to update my sims page but tbh I kinda wanna totally redo it anyway which will take some time.

[pollysheedy]

Closed Starter for : @lucianriviera Location : The Primrose Hill House  Timestamp : Late Morning, Tuesday, November 13th, 1888

Polly was having the most terrible dreams. 

In them, they were still in The Ripper’s grasp, still fighting to free themselves, the blade still cutting hot stripes out of their flesh. 

In them, there was nowhere to run. 

There were times when they weren’t dreaming, and those were better. When Polly wasn’t dreaming, it felt like they were floating on a cloud. They were safe and warm, the gentle heat of a warm lump of something beside them, enough to anchor them to .... wherever they were. Their eyelids were too heavy to open, and it still hurt. The pain in their neck was indescribable. But before it became too unbearable, someone would gently lift their head, and pour water past their parched lips, and the dreams would come again. 

They had no idea how long it had been since they had opened their eyes. It could have been hours, or it could have been years. They recalled a story they had heard years ago, of a strange little man who had fallen asleep in a mountain, and woken up to find themselves old and grey. Perhaps Polly, too, would find that their hair had turned white, their bones wizened and weak. Perhaps that’s why it was so hard to move. 

With all the strength they possessed, Polly opened their eyes.  There was another pair staring back. 

It took a moment for the world to come into focus, and in that time, Polly tried to cry out, but all that emerged from them was a choked sort of sound. Their brain seemed to be slower than normal, their vision hazy, and it took them a moment to realise that they were looking at a dog. It took another moment to realise that they knew the dog. She was Lucian’s, which meant he was near. 

It took another moment for the realisation to dawn on Polly that if they were here, it meant they weren’t dead. The recollection of their crawl through the gutter, in what had been so assuredly their final moments, and if they had the strength, they would raise a shaking hand to clap to their mouth in horror. They didn’t know how they had made it, but a million questions hit them at once, and there was only one man who could answer them. 

Polly tried to call out. Lucian. Their mind could form the words, but they couldn’t get them out. “Ahh...” Polly hissed. They couldn’t speak, seemed to have lost the ability to, and that made them frown. There was only one thing they could do. Their arm felt like lead, but they managed to free it from the warmth of the blankets, placing two fingers in their mouth and blowing with all of their might. They hadn’t been certian it would work, but if the high, shrill whistle they managed to produce didn’t bring Lucian running, the barks it instigated in Omari would. Good girl. Thought Polly, though she couldn’t say it. Keep barking.

[pollysheedy]

Closed Starter for : @lucianriviera​ Timestamp : Sunday, October 7th, 1888, afternoon Location: Saint Botolph’s Church

The church was always packed on Sundays. As a child, it had been Polly’s favourite day of all, with plenty of opportunity to to dip light fingers into deep pockets. Old habits die hard. They had hung around at the back of the church throughout the service, and when it was over, and the people lingered to talk to each other, to the vicar, Polly took their fill. Their on pockets now laden with a wallet, a pocket watch and a handkerchief, there was finally, finally, little they could do to distract themselves. It was time to descend to the depths below. It was time to see Lucian. 

There was no guarantee that he would be in, but somehow, Polly knew that he would have been waiting for them to come. That was the thing about Lucian - there was nobody quite so capable of being everywhere and nowhere at once, and whenever Polly wanted him, there he seemed to be, waiting to welcome them back to the halls of their childhood. 

As expected, the children were milling around, comparing their treasures for the day. Polly smiled fondly, remembering when they were one of them. In many ways, they still were. A little older, perhaps, but just as lost. They hoped that their lives would turn out better than Polly’s had. They hoped for more for them. 

Approaching a small wooden box where the spoils could be deposited, Polly surrendered the wallet and the watch, as they had many times before, handing over what they had to the collective. They were keeping the handkerchief, though. They’d sell it on later. 

They turned, and there was Lucian. As they expected. Always where they needed him to be. Polly nodded a hello, wringing their hands anxiously. Waiting for something, an invitation perhaps. 

“Decent turn out today,” they jerked their head upwards, to the churchyard above. “You’ll have done well.” 

[dayanitas]

Closed to @lucianriviera​ Continued from: x

The proposition was blurted out of the blue, a spur of the moment suggestion that Daya simply could not hold in any longer. The reasons for such an offer were twofold, both things she had carefully considered before, and now, it seemed to be the solution to her problems. Two birds, one stone. 

The first was the enigma that Mister Riviera was himself. Dayanita had been working with him for some time now, and would continue to do so. He brought steady work her way, was easy enough to work with, and didn’t speak down to her like some of her other clients did. On the surface of it, there was nothing wrong with the man - but Daya’s gut was telling her something wasn’t right, and her gut was rarely wrong. He was a little too slick, a little too ... much. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and honestly, wouldn’t care, but for the fact she was bored. The request was a test, of sorts - how much can you actually do? And how far will you go?

The second was her husband. The esteemed ambassador was hiding something, that much Daya knew, and the answer was within the cabinet. She was sure of it. Still, until she got inside, there was no way of proving it. 

“You look strong,” Daya shrugged. “I’m sure if you boot at the lock with enough force, it will give way.” Would he do it? Or would he take the easier, quieter route of picking the lock (if he could. Daya wasn’t sure of that, or if he would offer that information if he could). “What reason does any wife have to look at her husband’s private things? He’s hiding something. I want to know what.” 

[pollysheedyarchived]

Closed Starter for @lucianriviera​ Location: The Docklands Time Stamp: After Baba Yaga’s séance, late night

It was plain to anybody who was in the tent with Polly how badly the words from the other side had effected them. Whatever spirit that had come to speak to them, it hadn’t dug as deep as the others, hadn’t raked them over the coals in quite the same way, but that didn’t make their words any more disturbing. The danger that it had spoken of was a very real terror, one Polly had been wilfully pretending didn’t effect them. After tonight, there was no denying it. 

They were restless, too wound up to return to Commercial Street, and too distracted to try and work in any other way. Neither did they want to stay close to Whitechapel’s centre, where danger seemed to lurk almost everywhere these days. They had let their feet lead them, and ended up here, perched on the banks of the Thames with their feet dangling over the inky black river. It made a certain sense, they supposed. There was rarely a moment where it was truly quiet here, and even at night, ships came and went, gliding over the water. There was a peace to it, and a comfort in knowing that it was busy enough here that they were relatively safe. 

They clutched a bottle of gin to their chest, given to them by a kindly older sailor with a thick accent and a whiskered face. They supposed the sight of a crying slip of a thing hanging over the river edge was startling, and they couldn’t blame any of the late-night dockers for approaching, for trying to talk to them and enquire upon their mental state. Especially not when they came with gin. Polly unscrewed the lid, raising the bottle to their lips and drinking deeply, allowing the burn to warm them from the inside out. 

A shadow fell over them, blocking the light of the lamps they kept the docks alight. Polly wiped their mouth on their sleeve, and shook their head a little. “If you’re here to ask if I am all right, I can assure you that I am,” they spoke before the latest concerned party could, thought their hand jumped quickly to the neck of their gin bottle, ready to use as a weapon if required. “I am perfectly safe, and my father knows I’m here.” A lie. Even if they did have a father, nobody knew where Polly had come tonight. 

[pollysheedyarchived]

“What did you find out?”

Polly recoiled a little, Lucian’s question clearly stirring something in them they didn’t want to discuss. Their face had paled a little in the early morning light, but they cleared their throat regardless, stammering over their words as they spoke. 

“It’s Annie Chapman. Older girl, lives up on Dorset Street,” their speech was quick. The faster they spoke, the quicker they could get it over with. “Opened up, she was. Insides thrown over her shoulders. I got as close as I could to Hanbury Street, but the police are all over the place turning people back.” Their hand idly went to their own neck, tracing the skin there with shaking fingers. “There’s a few who saw it, though. Tried to cut through Finch Street and up Spelman, and there’s a younger copper there telling anybody who’ll listen about it. Reckons her throat was slashed too, like the last one.” 

They only glanced up at him as they finished speaking, and it became very clear that Polly was trying not to cry. Whitechapel had never been the safest place to live, and certainly not a haven for those like them, but this was all far too close to home. They had laughed with Annie Chapman only a week before in The Britannia, and watched as she got into a scrap over a bar of soap or something similar. The whispers that followed them everywhere these days had been fervent since even before the news had broken, and they couldn’t shake the feeling that they were warning them of some sort of impending doom, a fate they couldn’t escape from. 

“I’m afraid,” they admitted, voice little more than a whisper. 

[pollysheedyarchived]

Closed Starter for: @lucianriviera​​ Location: The Britannia Pub Time Stamp: Early Evening, Saturday, September 7th, 1888

There were few people in Polly’s life that they would put their trust in, wholeheartedly, and ask for nothing in return. Lucian was one of them. He had already given them so much, and the only thing they had in which she could repay him was loyalty. Hard won, but unwavering. They had never stopped for a moment to think about the irony of it - that they, who was suspicious of most, who was always looking at what others wanted from them, did not regard him with the same caution.

“How long can they keep us here for?” They mused. Their fingers drummed at the wooden table, anticipation and anxiety all at once. They’d never done very well when they were cooped up in one place. Their stomach let out a low growl, and they flushed a little in their embarrassment. “Do you think there’s any food going spare?” They’d been hoping to grab something before night fell, but there seemed to be little chance of that at the moment.