WHISPERING HUNTERS - Ch.1 - Pub
Friday
9 November
1488
Britannic Empire
"Capital of Machinary"
Linsfield
Outside, the night sky shimmered with a thousand pinpricks of cold starlight, piercing through the rolling black clouds of coal smoke that drifted between crooked rooftops. The gas lamps glowed in halos of yellow fog, reflecting off slick cobblestones wet from an earlier rain. The streets pulsed with life carriages rattled past, horses snorting steam into the frigid air, their hooves clacking sharp as gunshots.
A ragged chorus of street girls leaned into passing men with painted smiles and hollow eyes, whispering sweet filth for coins. Beer carts jostled through crowds of laborers stumbling out of factories and foundries, their shouts echoing like distant thunder.
Brass band music from a distant square clashed with the raucous songs of drunks stumbling between pubs. Everything smelled of sweat, soot, stale ale, and the tang of iron a city on the edge of greatness and rot. Smoke and fog wrapped the city in a hungry embrace, swallowing the stars bit by bit.
Inside the White Angel Pub, the air was thick as molasses. The warm light of oil lamps made the wooden walls glow like old amber, but it couldn't hide the layers of grime crusted into every surface. Workers filled the place shoulder to shoulder with men in dirt caked overalls and soot blackened shirts hunched over mugs of bitter ale, their faces lined with exhaustion.
A few read crumpled newspapers by candlelight, others argued over politics, wages, or women. The stale stench of sweat, tobacco, and cheap whiskey hung heavy enough to taste.
At the bar, a young looking man who was closer to his mid twenties sat slouched over a half finished pint. He wore a simple but well made white shirt, the collar slightly open. A black waistcoat hugged his torso, accentuating a lean frame, while dark trousers fell neatly into polished leather boots.
He looked cleaner than the rest, his hair slicked back without a strand out of place, a gentleman masquerading as a commoner. Notably, his hands were bare, fingers long and still, drumming quietly on the wooden counter.
Gregor raised the mug to his lips, grimacing as the warm bitterness hit his tongue.
"Ugh. I really hate the bitterness. How can anyone drink this like it's water? No wonder they have shit for brains," he muttered, sticking his tongue out like a spoiled child before forcing himself to take another cautious sip.
The heavy oak door slammed open behind him, letting a gust of cold air and street noise sweep into the room. Gregor paused mid sip, ears pricking as he overheard two burly dockworkers slurring their way through a conversation at a nearby table.
"Told ya, mate, a body's been found near Dorset Street, right inside a lodger's room."
"Tch. Again? That makes what, the fifth one now? This bloody mess has been going on for nearly two months."
"Let me guess another street girl, guts ripped clean out?"
"Aye. But this time, they're saying her body looked like it'd been torn apart by some monstrous beast."
"Ugh, don't say that now I'm halfway through my sausage. Gonna turn my stomach."
"But how'd you even hear of it? Thought you were workin' the whole day."
"Got a friend of a friend, don't I?" The man's words slurred slightly as he tipped the last of his beer down his throat.
He exhaled hard, breath smelling of stale hops. "God help us if it doesn't stop soon. The streets are bad enough without some devil tearing folk to bits."
"May the Light grant us tomorrow," he muttered, voice low and weary.
Both men pressed their rough fingers to their foreheads, tracing small, clockwise circles. Together, almost in unison, they echoed in hoarse voices.
"May the Light grant us tomorrow."
As an informant, Gregor had long since learned that the best way to sift truths from lies was to let men speak with drink in their bellies. Pubs were more than watering holes, they were theatres of whispered scandals and murmurs, each rumor worth a coin if carried to the right ears.
In these smoky, lamplit rooms, men who had no time for leisure spoke of everything they'd seen or heard between dawn and dusk. For the desperate and overworked, gossip was the only entertainment they could afford.
He usually made his rounds night after night, drifting from one pub to the next. The Black Swan. The Iron Spoon. The White Angel. Each reeked of sweat, ale, and secrets.
Tonight was no different. The White Angel buzzed with talk about recent murders of bodies found butchered in dark places and even idle gossip of a factory boss caught with a seamstress in the office by his wife.
Gregor took it all in, ears sharp, eyes flicking, weighing each word.
That was his trade to sell the truth, or something close enough, to the gang that ruled this part of the district. The riskier the rumor, the fatter the purse.
He finished the last bitter pint, swallowing hard as the rough ale burned down his throat. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grimacing as the conversation behind him sank in.
"That's the fifth one, huh…" he muttered under his breath, voice low and hollow.
He set the empty mug back on the sticky counter with a dull thud, eyes narrowed on the flickering lamplight reflected in the dark puddles of spilled beer.
Gregor pulled his shirt tight around his shoulders. It wasn't the cold that made him shiver, it was the thought of something out there tearing people apart, something he couldn't yet name.
He cast a sidelong glance at the dockworkers who had resumed their drinking for their hard days of full work.
A gust of freezing night air swept through the White Angel Pub as the heavy door creaked open, the hinges groaning like a dying man. Some of the conversation faltered, the drunken eyes turned.
There, framed in flickering lamplight, stood a tall figure in a dark green frock coat, black trousers sharp as a razor's edge. A crimson tie gleamed against his white shirt, and a dark fedora sat low on his brow. Strands of black hair streaked with white slipped from beneath his hat, falling past his shoulders.
Even behind his red tinted spectacles, his slitted green eyes seemed to glint with mockery and delight. His lips curled around a smile. From time to time, a long, sinuous tongue darted out, tasting the smoky air like a serpent.
His arm was draped over the shoulders of a young woman in a pale, faded dress cinched tight at the waist with a battered corset. Her olive cloak fell in ragged layers around her legs, and a deep red scarf wound about her neck.
Stray strands of dark blue hair framed a face both sharp and heartbreakingly beautiful, though her eyes were dulled by exhaustion. She moved gracefully, but each step betrayed a lifetime of waryness.
Around the pub, rough men in soot stained coats and patched breeches elbowed one another, laughter rising like crows taking flight.
"God's teeth, look at 'er," one slurred, eyes gleaming greedily.
"A pretty thing like that with a snake of a man bet he's payin' double," another sniggered.
"Bah, she's a street girl. Get a tumble, get a fever, end up pissing blood by week's end!" cackled a third, spittle flying from cracked lips.
Gregor's breath caught like a hook in his chest. His eyes locked with the women across the smoke hazed room, disbelief and fear flashing between them like lightning.
Amelia.
His sister is older by five years, his only family left.
The tall gentleman with the wicked grin noticed the sudden tension. His eyes flicked from Amelia to Gregor, head tilting like a curious hound.
"What's this, my lovely?" he purred, voice silken and mocking. "You know that poor creature by the bar?"
Amelia's face froze a heartbeat before she forced a brittle smile.
"It's nothing," she lied, voice too smooth, eyes too wide. "Just a face that looks familiar."
He looks at Gregor, he just smirks and licks his lips.
Gregor's grip tightened around his empty pint so hard the cup almost creaked. His knuckles gleamed bone white in the lamplight.
He wanted to scream.
To stand.
To tear the man's arm from Amelia, his sister's shoulders.
And kill everyone in this pub who mock her.
But before he could rise, Amelia's hand squeezed the man's coat sleeve, steering him forward. He smirked at the gawking drunkards around them, his chin slightly up as if he owned the room.
As they passed Gregor, time seemed to slow the drunks' jeers and the clink of mugs fading into a dull roar.
Amelia's lips barely moved.
"Calm down," she breathed, words no louder despite the loud pub tonight. "Don't get involved."
She pulled the man along, his tongue flicking out in amusement as they slipped into a booth at the far end of the pub, shadows swallowing them whole.
Gregor's face darkened, his eyes narrowing. His legs trembled beneath him. He had planned to leave, to slip into the night and report what he'd learned. But now he stayed, rooted to his stool, eyes locked on the pair.
He would not leave her alone.