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Welcome to Charming, the year is now 1893. It’s time to join us and immerse yourself in scandal and drama interlaced with magic both light and dark.

Where will you fall?

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Discovered today that spotted dick is a pudding with raisins in it. But more importantly that "dick" was the victorian word for pudding. — Fallin
His sister and her group were not yet performing, however. Instead it was a plain looking young woman that he did not recognize. She seemed to believe she was singing.
My Idea of Fun

with long intervals of horrible sanity
5 March, 1893 — Your House*

Any sane man in his position would have spent yesterday at home in bed, recuperating from the past three nights spent wandering the Reach with the rest of the pack, but there were appearances to think of. Alasdair made a habit of being much more in society than the rest of his family and never turning down an invitation when he could help it, so yesterday had seen him relocating to yet another host's home and then engaging in an alcoholic bender that perhaps was better left to younger days. He woke too early, with a throbbing head and a spinning stomach — but rather than throw the pillow over his head and try to ignore both until he'd slept it off, Alasdair reluctantly pulled his clothes on. He couldn't miss such an easy opportunity to ingratiate himself to his hosts, who he knew must have been feeling about the same as he was this morning. A jaunt to the apothecary, squinting at the offensively bright sunlight, a quick purchase, and he was waltzing back into the dining room before breakfast had even been completed.

"I've come to save you all from yourselves," he announced to the breakfast-goers. He crossed to a pitcher of lemonade that had been set out to accompany the meal, produced the little round bottle from his coat pocket, and dumped the entire thing in with a flourish. "This ought to get us all back to our chipper, lively selves. You can thank me later," he said with a grin, as he retrieved a glass and began to pour the first cup.


*Open to someone who might be hosting Alasdair as of March 4th, with someone in the house he'd drink with (a played or NPC brother/uncle/whatever around his age, +/- 10 years, would suit). Subforum can move. If you're on the fence about whether your character/family fits here ping me and we'll chat <3

Enoch Elmer, an elderly acclaimed author with a paunch you could build a small village on, was hosting a party. Unbeknownst to the guests, among them was the man who actually wrote his books for him; his ghost writer, Jonathan Copper. Elmer had asked him to attend so he could glean writerly inspiration from his surroundings, but being of a very different social standing Natty had been relegated mostly to the kitchens. Fine. Natty often found many more interesting stories among workers than party guests anyway.

Towards the end of the night, some of the rowdier guests had (with Elmer's amused blessing) encouraged the kitchen staff to drink too. In the interest of remaining in everyone's good books Natty had rather reluctantly joined them, but it transpired his one glass of elf-made wine had much more alcohol in it than he'd been aware of. The rest was a blur.

Come morning, Natty was helping clear up in the dining room, trying to ignore the nauseating smell of breakfast food being served to remaining house guests. He was keen to head home and sleep off this mounting hangover, but was surprised to be offered an apparent remedy. The offerer was known showman Mr Greyback, a strikingly Celtic-looking gentleman apparently passing hangover cures to anyone who looked like they needed it. "Thank you..." Natty said uneasily, "but I worry if I try and eat or drink anything I might ruin Mr Elmer's floor."

It seemed Natty would need some persuading to take it. But not much. He was a modest person and knew better than to reject a courtesy more than once.

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Dare glanced at the polished wood floorboards beneath their feet, then offered a sardonic smile to the other man. "Unless you're part dragon, I doubt it," he joked as he pressed the glass towards his hand. "If the party last night was any indication I'm sure they've seen worse than anything you can do." Alasdair didn't recognize the man he was speaking to, at least not right away, but assumed he must have been at the party; he doubted very much that Mr. Elmer had been up early that morning sending out breakfast invitations to anyone who hadn't slept over from the night before. The wildness of the party had come as something of a surprise for Alasdair, but he'd gone along with the whims of the crowd it as any dutiful guest ought to do. Had he known that the aged author was having parties like this, perhaps he would have chosen a different residence for the first day back after a full moon. Then again, maybe not — beggars couldn't be choosers, and all that.

"Anyway, it'll settle your stomach," he continued as he poured another glass for himself. "Invigoration draught. Bottoms up."

There it was, the second invitation. Natty felt obliged to say yes, and so accepted the glass cautiously, giving it an uncertain look but at least resisting the temptation to give it a sniff. (Had he done so, he might have noticed it did not smell like an invigoration draught at all.)

Down it went, and he was immediately grateful that his queasy stomach didn't reject it as he'd anticipated. He didn't experience an instant lifting of the heavy fog that was hangover, but what he did feel after a few seconds was... alarm. He stared at Greyback, scarcely believing what he was now seeing.

"I have to get the dogs", he stated in a murmur, and left the dining room out into the hallway leading to the kitchen, looking left and right for some much-needed hounds. "Here Tommy, here Bagpipe", he said as he searched for them.

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Alasdair downed the drink and started to pour another for the next breakfast guest, but stopped midway through when he saw the strange look that came over the first man's eyes. It was enough of a distraction for him to hand off the pitcher to the nearest person, abdicating his responsibilities to pass drinks around. Then the man said something about dogs, and all at once the hilarity of the situation caught up to Dare. He laughed, loudly and almost manically, as he followed the bloke towards the hallway. He had almost gotten a hold of himself when he heard the other man call out to Bagpipe, which sent him into fits of reckless laughter once again.

"Bagpipe," he chirped, then drew his wand and conjured an illusion that had sprung to mind of a bagpipe flouncing down the hallway, letting out sharply out-of-tune notes every time it bounced against the ground.

Natty had always been one to keep his cool, but right now he felt his heart jackhammering his chest — not a pleasant sensation when paired with a terrible hangover, but he had other things on his mind than that right now.

See, Greyback had turned into a grouse, along with all the other gentlemen at breakfast. There must been something in that potion; but Natty had not turned into a grouse yet. Perhaps it will happen soon, he thought as he strode down the corridor still searching for the dogs, there is certainly something wrong in my head. For as he called Bagpipe's name he saw some bizarre image of an actual set of bagpipes, heralded by maniacal laughter.

He rose his hand and whistled for the dogs. There was a a beat, then a great clacking of paws from the other room and in they came, two of Elmer's hunting spaniels. "Fetch it, girls", he commanded the dogs, turning and pointing at the Greyback-grouse.

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Dare had been quite preoccupied watching the conjured bagpipe traverse the hall to pay much mind to anything else. His laughter continued, spiking at each of the bagpipe's unceremonious, discordant flounces, but had generally died off from manic to uncontrollable giggling. In any case, he was quite preoccupied, and did not notice the dogs until they were almost upon him.

Was it a full moon? No, these beasts were too small, and their shapes all wrong — droopy ears and jowls, short fur. They weren't wolves, and moreover he was not a wolf — at least, not that he had noticed. No, his hands were decidedly still hands, because he was still holding his wand which oughtn't to have been possible in the midst of a full moon. Perhaps these dogs were the hounds of hell, here to claim his immortal soul. He didn't know much about souls, except what the occasional host who was more devout than he was mentioned in their evening prayers which he sometimes overheard, but he supposed if the hounds were here to claim his soul perhaps that meant he must have sold it at some point; this was the sort of thing that came up in folktales from time to time. And he did not recall ever having been paid.

"Worth at least five galleons more," he protested, shoving his hands out rudely towards the dogs' faces. "Plenty of use in it still, I reckon — and you shan't have it for less than it's worth."

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