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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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The first patented espresso machine was in 1884 by Angelo Moriondo. — Fallin
They hadn't been thieves before, at least. Noble had not been a murderer before either. Now he was one. Did thieving make a difference, at this point?
but the system is done for

or you're dead on arrival
But I guess you dive in day to day or you’re dead on arrival
And dear you’ve got to find the difference between life and survival

14th September, 1893 — Somewhere in London
Please,” Jemima sobbed, “someone – please –”

Help, she meant, but she kept choking on the word. It was probably a little too late for help.

And she didn’t know what to do with the man’s mangled body* in her arms, but she couldn’t just leave him. So she was still kneeling there on the dirty cobbles of the street, clutching desperately at the corpse. Her hands were bloodied from trying to press down on the wounds soaking through his chest where he’d been gored. Her clothes were bloody from trying to catch him when he fell. Jemima had watched it happen. She’d watched it all happen and she couldn’t fight a dragon so – she hadn’t seen a way to save him. So she couldn’t leave him; but she couldn’t look at him either, particularly not his face – or what little remained of it now. It had been mostly clawed off.

Some of his flesh was hanging off in shreds, bits of skin flapping loosely in the breeze. She was going to be sick. Or the dragon was going to come back and find her before anyone else did.

*stay tuned to find out who~

It was bloody fucking hot. It was September and it felt as if the entire city had been drenched in fire. That was obviously because it had been. It was by sheer coincidence that Cal had taken a day off today and was within the vicinity enough that he heard the roars of the dragons echoing throughout the city. This meant that he was also in his muggle clothes instead of his healer robes when the memo from the hospital poked at his shoulder before zooming into his hand.

Tugging off his tie, he unbuttoned the top of his collar as the waves of heat rippled over the screaming crowd. Wincing at their pleas, Cal tried to ignore the screams for help along the way. Instinct was tough to fight, especially in this sort of situation (as if this was anything normal), but those that were crying for help were fully able bodied and running away from the river. There was little he could do except for work against the crowd and hope that they were able to escape in time. All he knew was that he needed to get closer to the site where the hospital workers would be deployed.

He finally worked his way through the crowd and managed to get where it was a bit more sparse and could break into a run. It was because of this that he almost missed a weak call for help, and he almost skidded to a halt. Instead of panicked and shrill like the rest of the cries he’d heard, this was broken; desperate. Trusting his instincts, Cal doubled back and eventually came upon a gruesome and pitiful sight. The young woman had clearly tried everything she could do to save the poor man. His body was broken and shredded to pieces and the horrible tang of blood hung heavily in the air. Already not liking the odds, Cal hurried over to the two figures on the ground, throwing his suit coat to the side and rolling up his sleeves. “How long ago did this happen?” He demanded, skipping pleasantries as he kneeled next to the body

How long ago? Left alone with him, it felt like time had turned to blood or treacle (congealing slowly around her). There was his blood under her fingernails where she’d tried in vain to keep his insides in. But it hadn’t been long, she thought. Hadn’t been long, and was already too late.

She looked up at the man who’d come to kneel beside them through her tears. “I d-don’t know,” Jemima stuttered, face crumpling as she pictured how it had happened all over again. “The dragon came down and it – it looked at me, and then he – and he tried to help, and it – it’s my fault,” she sobbed, because it had turned to him instead and attacked.

“I killed him. I killed Minister Urquart!” Well, as good as; and she meant the former Minister, technically – she wasn’t sure what anyone called Balthazar Urquart these days – but being entirely accurate about people’s professional titles wasn’t at the top of Jemima’s priorities for the moment, because he had once been Minister of Magic and also previously a father (and also sort of handsome in a middle-aged man sort of way, before... what had happened to his face here). And now he was dead.

Unless... unless this man could save him? But as soon as she looked at the body again, she realised how stupid that hope was. He was too pale, his hands already gone clammy and cold, and his last raspy few breaths had quieted some time ago. It had just been Jemima and her own sobs in the silence since.

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