#vxctorx

The Scotsman's blue gaze flickers momentarily to the now discarded letter. One didn't have to be a genius to predict what the catalyst had been to create such a shattered state. What content was potent enough to cause such pain? Nevertheless, the gardener bit back his yawning curiosity. Vic. That's what mattered right now.

The scorching reach of the sun may have changed per island, but if there was one abiding commodity that never altered, it was the soirees. It didn't matter whether the admiral found himself within the tropical air of Port Royal or amidst the brisk lands of Scotland, they were always the same. An embellished event hosted by another stakeholder or royal general in an attempt to flaunt their excess to those within their social standing. Still, it wasn't all bad. Throughout the hundreds of functions he had attended, James did find his own quiet amusement. Never in the dancing, of course, but more so in the music and the occasional, foreign delicacy being served. However, all in all, he found such events to be rather pointless. Trifling, at times, especially when other matters rested upon his plate.

“Once perhaps.” The words fall hoarse from the homunculi’s tongue.  His hand raised, elbow resting against the wooden bench, gently, rocking the glass of whiskey that he had no intention of finishing, back and forth between his fingers. Watching the amber liquid run back and forth, catching the light. A foreign voice in England. Ah, there were many now, and this was London after all, but it was an old voice, although it is not necessarily because of the maturity of the individual, of the one Malachi had taken it from but because it was archaic. The way the accent held the vowels, the trans-atlantic, mid-atlantic voice defined behind the now rarely used vocal chords. It was pleasant at the very least. 

“I worked for a family – in Bristol.” There was a further pause from the man as he dipped his head from the glow of the hanging overhead globe which stung his undamaged eye. “They would travel to London often.” What pilgrimage of madness had ever brought him back here to face the ghosts of his past. A heavy look took over his half-mauled features partially obscured by the half blacked out aviator frames and gauze that covered the deep damage above his right cheekbone.

❛ it’s very rude to stare. ❜ [ for Lorcan! ]

It was happening again. Lor hadn't even realized he'd been staring. He'd mostly been looking at, well, nothing at all. Movement caught his eye, but he'd not completely registered it had been a person, just a shape to follow.

"Hm??" He shook his head as he's finally snapped back into reality by the voice of said shape that was now forming into a very real person. "Oh! Sorry, didn' mean to..."

"You know," Harry said with a small puff of a chuckle. "My father would have a fit if he knew I was talking with you." He shifted in his chair and took a sip from his teacup. "He always had great respect for your father; the black sheep of the family, however? I'm sure you get my meaning."

"Honey, I'm hooome."

A small while after his last sojourn to London, a note made its way into Mr Trevor the younger's hands. It was postmarked out the East End borough of Whitechapel, having been posted on its sender's most recent crack-of-dawn walk to the markets held in that once blood-soaked corner of the city.