Jules is an individual of many titles and even more identities. First, she was the Partial Performer. Then, she found a little bit of joy as a Phantom of the Antimacassar. Now, she’s stuck and stagnant in her life as the Adventuring Aesthete. Eventually, when it’s all stripped bare, what’s left?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
All four chapters were posted at the same time, for ease of reading (and due to my general excitement). Heed the tags, and lose your minds reading about Jules' losing hers!
The Partial Performer Returns to the Stage in a Masked Tour-de-force!! [PLEBIAN EXCLUSIVE!]
(with thanks to @thedandy-detective for writing Jules's parts ;D)
Last night at Mahogany Hall, a daring masque graced the stage. A haunting score accompanied the cloaked players’ mesmerizing movements. The lead, especially, was magnetic; although they wore a simple black costume, all eyes drew their way. And at the curtain call, when they unmasked, it became clear why: this was none other than the Partial Performer, returned to the stage at last!
The Prodigal Plebian sat down with the Performer in their dressing-room for an exclusive interview. As charming offstage as on, their manner retained a smooth rehearsed air as we discussed craft, inspiration, and future plans. (This interview has been edited for length and clarity.)
PLEBIAN: You were gone for months. What were you doing all that while?
PERFORMER: I was not gone- I was studying the old masters of the craft. Actors, playwrights, crews. I had grown dissatisfied with my performances. I knew it was unsustainable, to be unworthy of the stage and yet command it, all the same.
What has motivated your sudden return?
I returned when I was ready—it’s as simple as that.
Did you write and direct the Masque we just witnessed, as well as inhabiting the starring role?
It was written by a blossoming playwright from Watchmaker’s Hill, whose name will be revealed at a party tonight if she so chooses. She was inspired by the soundless walks of the tigers of the Labyrinth. I shouldn't wish to take away credit where credit is justly due—besides, her troupe kept my secret under lock and key, no small feat.
Can we expect more works from you soon?
I am back, Ms. Salcedo, to acting!
...
Yes, the Performer is back, and the tastemakers of London know it! Already they’re snapping up tickets to anything featuring the Partial Performer. So unless you fancy bribing your way in with a wheelbarrow of weasels, the Plebian recommends that you hightail it to the box offices now. Don’t be deterred by rumors of a Phantom. Perhaps with the Performer back, the theatre’s luck will rise once more!
Jules' evolution in the Neath from the perspective of a random person outside the situation is so funny to me. Imagine you see an actress die on stage, then come back and do the same play AGAIN and die on stage, then quit the troupe after the third time to city-wide acclaim. You find out they’re American. Then, they renounce shock value and start doing more traditional roles. They have a bitter feud with their former director. A year later, the director gets charged and thrown in New Newgate for killing the actress. Then her cousin comes to the neath and lives a quiet life of obscurity.
You have a note to talk to one of the many individuals at Beatrice's tea room, but two faces glance in your direction from opposite sides of the room. Who more closely fits your colleague's description?
Look to the Dandy Detective
You've read about him in the papers, and he briefly had a statue after solving the Jack-Of-Smiles case- a statue he demanded be removed. His bright eyes look back at you, and he wears a jovial smile. He waves you over, setting down his newspaper.
Look to the Partial Performer
Critics and audiences alike barely believe a talent like the Performer exists, and is not a creation of the press. Commonly described as a shapeshifter, curiosity surrounding their career on the stage is only rivalled by curiosity around their past in America. They brush aside a stray lock of red hair, and offer a disarming smile.
(Click on the titles, and you'll be redirected to a short biography of whomever you choose to sit with! This is primarily for those who wish to know more about the basics of the characters or RP with them. Credit where credit is due to @sparingiscaring for allowing me to steal his oc introduction format hehe)
Think Of What We Could Have Been (I'd Rather Not)!
The Morbid Playwright has been tormented for months by the Phantom of the Antimacassar. But when an old flame requests a meeting in an out of season theatre, how can he refuse? For men like the Playwright, things always turned out in his favor.
Words: 2.2k
Warnings: references to people abusing positions of power, violence, off screen character death
It had been months of nothing but torment, and he didn't dare step in theatres, anymore. The fact that he was currently in one was enough to make his knees almost buckle.
The Morbid Playwright was not superstitious enough to believe in ghosts. And yet... lately, he always found himself looking over his shoulder. He was a man of underground prestige, and a man with his own privileges in his own way. When he entered a Bohemian space, it went unsaid that he could do what he pleased. The theatre was his home and his playground, and it always had been.
Now, ever since Hallowmas, it had turned into someone else's.
He'd first heard about the Phantom of the Antimacassar when he was a child, decades after the fall. By then, music halls had found their way back, and so had the rumors surrounding them. There were natural pairs in the Neath- constable's had their badges, the bohemian's their honey, and old building's their ghosts. A ghostly chill might be all the 'proof' the chorus girls needed for a spectral presence in the halls, but the Morbid Playwright has always been one for more... earthly things. It was a reliable cycle. The Phantom would sweep across the audience, then disappear. A ghostly wail would be heard, then forgotten. The press always took it to heart, and their spikes in sales had always mystified the Playwright- it was simply a man, a man with some rope and some cleverly selected bribes.
This Phantom was peculiar. There had been the stolen items, before, even a few exiles, but this was different. The new spectre, it seemed, had targets.
Monsieur L____ had fled to the tomb colonies. Manager D___ turned himself into the constabulary's office for protection. The Morbid Playwright himself had directed his troupe from other buildings, not daring to step foot in nary a music hall. He had been on the slowboat far more times in the past few months than he had his entire life. The papers reported on the phenomena while the actors and dancers rejoiced in the loss of their disliked directors. The Morbid Playwright was a class of these same sort of men; the class of man that was not often told 'no' to his creative endeavors, or to his other whims. He supposed that maybe he had used the privilege too often in his personal affairs, but he didn't know how some supposed phantom would know about it.
Besides, what sort of ghost cared about those things? He stopped in his tracks, suddenly remembering why he was here, and looked at the note in his hand.
"It's high time we had a talk," it read, written in immaculate lettering. "I think it best we meet alone. Meet me at Box 8. -Your Old ‘Romeo’ ". He put it back in his pocket, and looked around. It was a quiet night, and only the staff were there, doing some cleaning. He quickly slipped past them, and made it to the private boxes. He counted them until he reached the eighth box, and opened the door. He saw a glimpse of red hair and dark patterned trousers, and softened.
"Performer," he said. The Partial Performer kept staring straight ahead, gaze stuck on the empty stage.
"Playwright," came the curt response. He took a seat next to her, even as she didn't bother to look at who was beside her. She held out her hand, and the Playwright reached to hold it. When the Performer realized what he was doing, she wrenched her hand back.
"No," she said, holding it back out, "the letter."
"Oh.” He reached into his pocket, and placed the letter instructing him to come into her hand. The Performer took it, and slowly ripped it up into indistinguishable pieces. When she was done, she put all the pieces into her breast pocket, and finally looked at the Morbid Playwright.
“Well? Why are you here?” She asked.
“Because you requested it.” The Performer made an ‘ah’ sound, and laughed- it was a perfect laugh, as always. It sounded like wind chimes.
“Truthfully, I thought that ghost story would keep you away,” she said, “Reading the papers… it’s been keeping me quite entertained.” The Playwright narrowed his brows, and turned to more properly face the Performer.
“Is that what you called me here for? To insult me? Even after everything I gave you?” He snapped. The Performer narrowed her eyes in turn.
“You’ve given me nothing but strife.”
“I gave you so many chances- a chance on the stage, a chance at a life, a chance of a happy union, and you took one but not the others!” He snarled. The Performer looked uncertain, and that enraged him. “Twice, I proposed, and twice, you declined. How is that ungracious? I’ve yet to see any ‘strife’ in your career, despite your best efforts to sabotage it.”
“Sabotage it?” The Performer quietly asked. The Playwright ground his teeth.
“You have rebuked me in private and public, while I have sat idly by and let you. I have played the part of the fool, because I care for you, ever so. If I had the notion you wouldn’t rebuke me a third time, I would have gotten down on my knee once more!” He said. Incensed, he stood, beginning to berate the Performer. Her eyes widened as he continued. “You are nothing but a fruit of my ingenuity and brilliance, nothing more! You have forgotten yourself, and you’ve ruined all the plans we could have made! All the futures we could have held!”
“You said I was your inspiration,” she replied, tears pricking at her eyes, “not your product.”
“Then why can’t you see that we are incomplete without the other? All great artists have had their muses, and I…” He sighed, and fell back into his chair. He took the Performer’s hand, and she did not pull it away.
“I miss you, and I miss your place in my company. Your place by my side.”
The Performer’s expression changed, as if the fight had left them. Tears began to spill, and she covered her eyes with her free hand. The Playwright squeezed, and let them cry. He supposed that he should have felt pity, but all he could feel was the relief that the Performer had seen her error. They sat there, for a few minutes, until the Performer could control themselves again.
“You have an apology to make,” he finally said, and the Performer nodded, sniffling. There wasn’t much more to say on the subject- the Playwright left a happy man, and with tickets to the Performer’s next show. Even more pleasing, he had been invited to the dressing room afterwards. The Performer promised to make everything right, and to withdraw her opinions from the papers. They hadn’t quite agreed to marriage, yet, but the Playwright knew she would. She was his, after all.
And so happy was he, he didn’t even mind going into the theatre.
. . .
The Performer was a tour de force on the stage, as usual. The acts passed by without event, other than her performance. Sure, some of the other actors were passable, but not comparable to his Performer. He clapped at curtain call, and shouted a brava from the crowd. To think, she would be back in his company, performing for all of London and for him. He could barely stand to think of the reviews, lest he get too excitable. He quickly made his way out of his seat, and to her dressing room. There was the Performer, brushing out her hair.
“I’ll be ready in a little while,” she said, and the Playwright let out a good natured laugh, knowing how long she took with her appearance, closing the door. Soon enough, all the others had left, and to his surprise, the Performer stood behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. He started, and took a second to stare, making sure it was really her.
“By jove! How did you get back out here?” He asked, and she giggled.
“Stage magic- I’ve got to say goodbye to a critic or two, but do make yourself comfortable.” She opened the door, bowing, and he bowed back, taking a seat in her chair. She closed the door, and winked at him. A few minutes passed, then twenty. He checked his watch, but the lights went out.
“Dearest?” He asked, and got up to turn on a lamp, but then a blinding burst of light was behind him, and he turned. He tried to scream, but his voice didn’t let him, and as he scrambled for the door, all he could think was- it had found him!
The Phantom of the Antimacassar glided toward him, the light still leaving the room, and then it did something it never had- it laughed a perfect laugh, a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. The Playwright stopped in his tracks, and shook his head as that laugh began to become more harsh, almost barking, and as the figure removed its mourning veil and hood to reveal its face. As it set the veil on the table, the last of the light died out, and the Playwright's eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness around them.
“A trick!” He gasped, and the Partial Performer, in all their cloaks, only kept laughing.
“It was,” they finally admitted, “a cheap performance. At first, I was worried you wouldn’t be taken in by a pretty, crying face- but I should have known. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Think of what you’re throwing away!” He cried. The Performer laughed.
“A life with a man who doesn’t even know my name?”
“Your name is the Partial Performer. It’s who you are,” he said. Although he could barely see, he heard a ruffle of fabrics as the Performer flung back their layers of cloak, rising to their full height.
“An American sideshow, that’s what I am!” They snarled. “A commodity, a product of your infinitesimal genius, the actor that brings in tickets and press!” The Playwright looked to the Performer before them, then saw a glint of silver shine in their hand. He bolted, but was not quick enough, and the Performer (or was it the Phantom?) grabbed him by the shoulder. He tried to back away, hurriedly, the Phantom still gripping him.
“You’re indebted to me,” he shakily reminded them.
“I owe no debt to anyone. Not anymore.”
“You’re a half without a whole, without me!” He tried. They only hissed, and raised the glinting dagger above their head.
“I loved you!” He cried.
“You thought you owned me!” They screeched, and brought down the dagger. He gasped at the pain, and they raised it again. “You told me I could return to the surface, and when I found otherwise? After the performance? Oh, oh you surely remember what you did then!”
“Please!” He struggled to catch his breath, and there was another pain added to his chest. They pushed it in, deeper, and crowded him against the wall.
“You told me that it didn’t matter. Because you were here, and not there.”
A third pain, and he choked on nothing at all.
Everything was beginning to grow hazy, and the Playwright kept gasping for air. The Phantom released them, and he crumpled to the floor. His fingers scrabbled at the floorboards of the dressing room, and he could only see a cloak in the corner of his vision. A lamp was lit, and he looked up towards it. She looked down at him for a moment, simply looking. The Phantom slowly pulled their hood back up, and took their mourning veil off the table. They neatly pinned it back on, obscuring their face, but it was a strange mixture of the Phantom and the Performer who spoke as they did so.
“Your day of judgment has not yet come upon you, Playwright. Leave, and never return, lest you face your imminent end,” the Phantom said, but it was a drawling voice that said the next: “This is your last chance.”
. . .
When the Morbid Playwright finally came back from the slowboat, the first thing he did was book a ticket to the tomb colonies. The papers commented on the suddenness of his departure, and so did his troupe- but, with a pang of disbelief, he wondered if either really cared? As he walked up the ramp to the ship, he looked behind him at London, his city and home. Perhaps, one day, he’d come back. Once the Performer ceased to be in the papers, he’d come back. They’d forget about him, and he would try to forget about her.
His hopes were dashed when he caught a glimpse of red hair in the crowd seeing the boat off. Their eyes didn’t meet, but the Performer had someone else with her- a member of his troupe. He recognized them all too well. They must have been discussing something pleasant, because the Performer threw her head back and laughed.
The Performer finishes sipping their tea and gestures to your seat and a steaming teacup- filled with your favorite brew. How the devil did they know?
"A good guess, I suppose," they smile. "Let's start with hello- or did you expect me to say 'howdy'?" They chuckle at their own joke, and you admit that you didn't know what to expect. Even their fellow actors don't claim to know the Performer personally, and those that do have conflicting stories- that's why you're here.
"Ah, to set the record straight, then," they say. They lean forward, charming as ever, and give you a wink: "Good luck."
A Brief Guide to The Partial Performer, Jules! updated 01/24/25
The Partial Performer (and only that, as no one in the Neath knows their real name) has been in the Neath for a year and a half, and did not arrive quietly. Their claim to fame was under the Morbid Playwright, temporarily dying on the stage in a production of Romeo and Juliet, but after a 'professional' schism, the Performer no longer relies on reactionary performances. Their renown has only grown with the more performances they've been in, outshining the Playwright's, in addition to the curiosity about their upbringing in America.
The Performer is an actor by trade, but enjoys a good game of cards or a hunt. They prefer hunting on horseback, but their time in the West has taught them nothing if not how to adapt. This has led to them becoming a Stalker in-game, adapting to the Neath's many creatures, monsters, and bounties along the way. The greatest (and secret) bounty they are after is the Vake's. The 'partial' in their name comes from the fact they habitually spend two thirds of the year on stage or in rehearsals, while the other third is devoted to hunting and anything the Performer might desire to do.
On the topic of secrets, they have many. Their most hidden one, besides their past, is that of their... extracurricular activities. The Performer still finds time to terrorize playwrights that have wronged them and other actresses as the Phantom of the Antimacassar. In particular, they have targeted the Morbid Playwright- and he recently was forced to leave for the tomb colonies, or else finally face his end. While Jules' didn't intend to become a sort of vigilante for their fellow actors, it's no coincidence that the directors, playwrights, and managers that they terrorize are universally disliked by the people working under them. Jules helps the workers, and in turn they accept the gifts (or bribes) the Phantom leaves for them.
The Performer lies, and makes a game out of it. If you find yourself believing the first thing they say, there’s a chance they’re joking with you- but just as much of a chance they’re being genuine. They are an actor, on and off the stage, and you will have to be very perceptive to find the truth. Sometimes, they even forget. The Performer always has their suitcase packed, both literally and metaphorically. They have no close friends, and most of their social calendar is devoted to parties they do not care to be at.
Perhaps this year things will change, but it's just as likely they won't. Eventually, the Performer will have to make a choice between their persona- or to just be Jules. The thought terrifies them.
Fun facts:
Jules is a sleight of hand expert, which they use in order to cheat at cards
The Performer can play the piano fairly well
They delight in playing with their gender presentation, and are just as comfortable in a day dress as they are trousers
they love changing their hair's style, and employs a part time hair dresser
Closest to: Tomb-Colonists, though most assume they're closest to the Bohemians or Society
Jules' in their Hallowmas Best for the @neathyfashioncoalition !! This season, they're sure to make heads turn- and (when they get their hands on the morbid playwright) roll...
