He was one Pleasant: one Pleasant pressed up against the door jamb as the downpour missed this one Pleasant by inches, which was distinctively unpleasant. It was known as the Marauder's Inn, but Pleasant Gill did not feel like a marauder. He missed his old Fine Fern, with its earth tones and constant shushing by the tottering Mrs. Wilkins. It was said that in the early days, there were lines outside the door for a chance to sit at the bar and pretend she was your wife. There were no more lines and no more pretenders, but it was all the same to Pleasant. He had his peaceful corner, and as long as it was there, he was happy.

Thus, it was Pleasant who was most shocked by his own decision. Yes, Broderick had nudged and encouraged, but ultimately, it was Pleasant who had chosen to take the coach. For Broderick, he would give this a try. After all, there must be something to this "Stock" business, however minor or insignificant. Shaking off his parasol, he slipped quietly into the smoke-filled room, anxious but curious.

The Marquis didn't enjoy travel. You had to sit still and concentrate on driving instead of talking and thinking. It didn't help that his driver was a bore. He never did get the hang of multi-tasking. He mentally noted to learn how before the end of the year as his driver slipped the carriage into a parking spot. "Always good to learn something new." He spoke to no one in particular and followed it with a deep chuckle. His hand went to open the door and he stepped out into the rain. His black umbrella pulled itself from his duster and he flicked it open, breathing in the fresh rain smell as he walked. "Oh, singing in the rain, singing in the rain, oh ho ho ho." The rain managed to reach his shoes and wet the soles but his umbrella was wide enough to protect him from the majority of it.

He creaked the door of the inn open and surveyed the opium and cigar smoke filled room. He took a deep breath in and started inside the room, giving handshakes and laughing at secret jokes as he waded deeper into the inn. "Get me something sweet, not too strong though."He asked the bartender once he'd waded through the crowd of bodies. "Can't make a fool of myself tonight."

Henry bent over the sheet of paper, his nose inches from the page. His ink pen, which glinted oily in the lantern light, scratched away furiously, his handwriting long and flowing. As his hand drew to the bottom of the sheet, his other hand reached in and whipped it away with practiced expertise, leaving his writing hand to dart its away over a fresh sheet. After repeating this process several times, he drew to a halt. Leaning back in his chair he gave a weary sigh, the promise of a comfortable bed making him feel almost euphoric. Placing the pen down beside the ink pot, he picked up the sheets of paper with a lazy eye and scanned over his letter:

Dear Father,
I am glad to hear that you are well, and that the family affairs run as smoothly as ever. I am also comforted to hear that you have summoned the Dr Heringold at last, it may well do some good. Make sure my brother takes his medicine- you know how he loves to rebel against any notion of healthy living. As for affairs down here, city life is busy and rather polluted, and my heart longs to be out on the open field again, riding across the pastures. However, I cannot spare the time to return home as of yet. The courts keep me busy, not to mention the the theatre invites that seem to shoot through my letterbox by the dozen every week. Perhaps in the summer. As of now, I have just concluded the Walters family case, and am thrilled to report that they shall receive valid compensation for their mistreatment in the workhouses. Although I am happy to see this result, my heart cannot help but darken when I think of all the other families in the same situation who I cannot aid. Alas, law is fickle. As of now, I shall take some time to enjoy the culture of the capital a little more, and perhaps pursue a currently non-existing social life. The thickness of courtroom atmosphere dims one's spirits somewhat. Thankyou, once again, for the money you sent, I assure it shall be well-invested.

Henry squinted at the letter a little longer, making sure he had included everything he could think of. Then, satisfied with his work, he dipped the pen in its ink and whipped out a signature, before packing the paper into an envelope and sealing it. Sticking a stamp to the upper right corner, he scratched in the address of his home, Chettlesbirk House, the region it is in and the nearest village. And finally his father's name.

Leaving the sealed envelope on the table, he dragged himself out of his study and into the bedroom, undressing lazily, flinging his clothes to one side before falling onto the bed sheets. He needed some time out.

Agnes possessed a preternatural ability to sleep. He considered this one of his more sterling attributes. The shaking and jostling incurred during the long carriage ride failed to even rouse him. Only a sudden, sharp gust of the bitter September air successfully awoke him. He - unlike most others - had arrived at the crack of damn.

Breakfast and lunch passed. An afternoon break followed - Al Albiadan culture had its perks. As evening came and the front room filled, he mingled and imbibed substantial quantities of alcohol with fellow Stockholders. His sobriety waltzed out as the night came.

Agnes sipped his absinthe and waited. Where was his friend? Dreadful thoughts flashed across his mind, had he been delayed, maimed, killed? No, he was here. A stout brick column stood between him and the Marquis until this second.

"Marquis! Marquis! Fetch your drink and sit down." He bellowed with a tone that carried intense, forcible braggadocio, yet his face retained an astute expression that signaled all was not well.

The sound of an old friend brought a jolly grin to the Marquis's rather rosy face. He'd declined the first few drinks offered but eventually relented and sipped a few glasses of rum. Then a few more, and maybe one or two after that. "AGNES, " he boomed across the room, dropping a few Wead into the tip jar and ordering a pair Al Albiadan's best lagers for him and his friend before moving his considerable girth across the room and into the tight chair. "My friend, you must have much to talk about, it's been far too long since our last visit. " He drained the last bit left in his mug and dropped it to the table.

" You seem troubled my lad, and I expect that none of us are here simply to drink and be merry. " The marquis said, his jolly face straightening up. " So, what's the trouble? "

Raz Stern ambled down the hall from the restroom at the Marauder's Inn, a favorite haunting ground of his. He liked the inn for its familiarity; having grown up in the bustle and noise of the crowd, he could read its mood like a map. Sitting down at a table in the corner, he took in today's visitors and pulled out his favorite deck of cards. Flit-t-t, Flit-t-t; the deck silently whirred from hand to hand, shuffling in practiced boredom, below a steady murmur--rumblings from the great city of Portsview--that always managed to infiltrate the thick walls of a well-built bar; though tonight, a number of people had amassed in the spacious inn, as though to challenge the capital city itself with noise and clamor of their own.

Now, Raz wasn't one to keep tabs on politics, but he felt a certain admiration for the growing Stock party phenomenon. Good honest citizens, looking for their rightful cut in life... He could relate. Well, almost..., Raz thought with a shrug, as he scanned the room for a chance at harvesting enough wead for a meal from nearby laden pockets. But everyone has to make a living...

It's said that time is money. Thus, it stands to reason that the more money you possess, the more time you have. And with time comes the obligation to fill it with activity, because nothing grates the mind and pulls one toward insanity quite like empty, meaningless time. "The poor," she thought, "haven't the slightest idea how difficult it is to be rich." A blanket of boredom settled upon Heather and brought her closer to sleep with each passing minute as she lay upon the couch.

Her father was off at some bar at the capital... what had he said he was doing? Something to do with politics; all that "Stock" business. The boredom weighed more heavily upon her as she thought about it. A bunch of old men in a bar yammering on about God knows what. It seemed everyone was caught up in politics these days except for her. Parties, other social gatherings- the damned topic consumed all conversation, sometimes immediately, sometimes slowly, bite by bite, until before she knew it she'd been devoured by it.

Agitated and bored, Heather pulled the blanket around herself and went to sleep.

EDIT by Pseudosyne: Lurelle has chosen to leave the RP.

It was a quiet night in Portsview, another quiet night inside her father's photography shop. The heavy rain lightened its assault on the few citizens outside, and sprinkled peacefully down, no longer drowning out the solitary sweeping noise of the broom against the wooden floor. Elvira paused her work and gazed outside the window into the darkness as she noticed the pounding on the rooftops stop. Across the street a young blond boy, no more than 13, lit a street lamp and continued quickly onto the next, hoping to get his duties done and return home as soon as possible.
Usually Elvira had the samething in mind every night as the boy had. But this time her mind wandered to all the different possibilities that nightlife in the capitol provided. Repetitiveness was mind-numbing and tragically was what many people ended up falling in too. By no means did she think consistency was a bad thing, a consistent amount of variety in action and thought was necessary she believed to live a full life. But repetitiveness in routine and thought, she observed tended to stunt one's mental growth.
She stopped sweeping and put the broom back in the cleaning closet, then grabbed her petti-coat and small black umbrella and closed the shop up early. No one would notice she had closed up early or would care to come back in the dreary weather anyways. Once out of the shop, she walked in the opposite direction of her home and meandered down the walkway thinking of a destination as she went along.
To dampen her adventerous mood though came the rain again after just a few blocks. Despite her open umbrella, the bottom of her blue skirt became soaked and droplets whipped into her face from the wind. She took shelter underneather an awning to think temporarily where she might go and to fix her hair in a barely intact bun. As her eyes wandered over the street, she saw across the way a familiar Inn. It was an infamous inn, known for its not-so-secret opium trade and booze, as well as free-thinkers, activitists, and namely "The Stock". The sort of place she would go if she were only man enough. Which she wasn't a man. Presumably any woman who walked into an inn or bar by herself was in some sort of shady business. But taboos were meant to be broken, and she would put these free-thinkers to the test.
She finished tying her bun back up and marched over to the Inn, swinging open the door boldly with a wind following her in.

The Inn did not suit Pleasant, and neither did the crowd that had gathered for this meeting. The atmosphere was choking him; he took out his handkerchief and blew noisily into it in a vain attempt to rid himself of the tar that was slowly layering on the nostril wall.

A particularly sharp and familiar laugh from across the room caught his attention. Straining to see through the haze, he was able to make out the ruddy face of Peter Mastet among those seated. One of Gill's local patients, Mastet possessed an extraordinarily weak liver and an extraordinarily immense thirst, a combination that had brought him vomiting to doctor's doorstep on more than one occasion.

Pleasant jostled his way through the crowd and slid quickly into the open seat beside Mastet. The reaction was more positive than he had expected: a hearty slap on the back and a fresh pint in his hands.

"Oy, all of ye, this is Doc Gill! You here fer the meetin', Doc, or just ta piss the nigh' away? Meself, I 'aven't decided, we'll see how it goes!"

Before Pleasant could answer, the ambient roar suddenly dropped to a low murmur. The show was about to begin.

Lagers were good, especially Al Albiadan imports. Fuller bodied than the Heathton-upon-Burton-made pale ale of Agne's home. He gladly took the rich lager, and he downed the head and half the body in three enormous gulps. "Thanks.

"Now, sit down." Agnes gestured to an empty chair beside him.

"Marquis, these elections. I, due to other issues such as... I cannot return to office. Nevermind that. More importantly- the sure to win candidate this season is... how to say it, horrible. He'd take this lodge in the wrong direction. He'd ruin it."

Agnes went silent. The bastard walked past him, entirely oblivious to the conversation that had happened.

"Him." Said Agnes.