It is 1897, the twenty-sixth of May. My name is Brialla Wren, and I know things about the world. Things that would leave the ordinary gentleman or lady afaint, things that would land me in Bedlam were I to merely speak of them aloud.
Certainly, there are already rumors of the beasts that hunt the night - legends of the bestial loup-garou, whispers of the vampyre, tall tales of strange monsters that stalk the forests when they are most dark. Most people dismiss those legends as stories, too frightening to believe. They prefer to believe that they are safe, that they are alone in the world, dominant as the greatest hunters. They're wrong.
Because vampyres, werewolves, ghosts, monsters - they are real, as real as I am, as real as you are, and while they may be dangerous, it is exactly that danger, that darkness, that hunger and rage, that will save us. That will save all of us. Because another danger lurks. Something far worse, far darker, far more ravening and unfeeling. It lies hidden beneath us, for how long I don't yet know. Beneath us, cracks begin to open. Rifts. They grow wider, they grow more frequent. Things are coming out.
And it's going to take people like me, and people like those creatures you so fear and revile, to stop them.
This is why I find myself on this accursed carriage to Blackmere Manor, bumps and rocks shaking it to and fro, coaxing my stomach to simply surrender and purge itself of any nourishment. Drowning out the sounds of my bumpy ascent along that winding, harrowing mountain pass is the thundering sound of rain, pouring down around me through the night sky, blurring the towering darkness of the trees lining either side of the treacherous pass. So many times I consider turning back. So many times I choose to press on.
Sleep attempts to find me as the rain pours down and the bumps grow more rhythmic. It fails - I'm too excited, too much anticipation and dread of the things I'm soon to see. The creatures of the night are things I know for a fact to be real, and I myself have savored the taste of sorcery, enough of it to lend my skills to the hunter's allegiance of Blackmere... but I have yet to see one in person. This will be new, fascinating. A terrifying discovery. A confirmation of both the world's terrors, and the severity of the situation that would cause us to ally.
The carriage slows to a crawl, then finally stops. I blink, shifting the long, central skirt of my robes to a more ladylike arrangement and popping open the side door, hopping out onto the wet gravel. "We've arrived," comes the raspy, half-dead voice of my driver, a pale man with white hair matted under a tall tophat.
I nod towards him, breathing in deeply and looking upward to the clifftop, cast against the light of the waxing, gibbous moon. Blackmere Manor is enormous in size and shape, visibly Victorian in design, though flirting between the distinctions of a mansion and a genuine castle. My eye struggles to make out the color of it, but between the dark sky and driving rain that proves impossible quickly. "Should I wait?" the driver said, leaning over his reins to look down at me.
I straighten my hat in place to keep the rain away, looking up at him and shaking my head. "There won't be a need, sir. I won't be returning to London for some time, I feel."
"Have it as you will," he growls, adjusting the reins and starting to attempt to turn the horses on the uneven, narrow road. I watch as he eventually succeeds, turning and making his way back to civilization - leaving me at Blackmere, alone in the rain, preparing myself to tackle what's next for me. I need to meet the allegiance of hunters. The Blackmere Society.
Making my way under the balcony frees me from the rain, but not the chill. I approach the massive double-doors, of a form of hardwood I'm not entirely familiar with. Inhaling, I steady myself and knock. It opens halfway into the second rap of my knuckles against the portal, revealing the silhouette of what appears to be a young woman, her curves merely a shadow against the pale light coming from within the manor. The only detail I can make out against the darkness is the simmering red glint of her pupils.
"My my," a velvet, achingly smooth voice slithers out from that shadow, coiling around me, making me feel weak - at once chilling my spine and warming my flesh. "Our visitor has finally arrived. You must be Miss Wren."
"Yes," I say softly, glancing behind me, then back towards the silhouette.
She steps forward just slightly, tilting her body so the light from within can cast its pale embrace across her figure. Her skin is milk-white, hair worn long and black as ink, her eyes two burning coals of malice and thirst. Her black, graceful cocktail gown worships her every curve, clinging to it, every inch of fabric like a cultist devoted to her form. It takes a moment before I realize that her hand is extended towards me. "Come inside. You may call me Anathema."
I reach out, lightly touching my fingers to hers before they close firmly around mine, clasping my hand and guiding me in. Her skin is cold but soft. "I'm Brialla. But you knew that," I say as she leads me into the manor, a lofty, dimly-lit place with high, haunting arches and innumerable shadowy nooks and corners. While I see no eyes leering from any of them, I can't help but feel like I'm being watched.
"We did indeed," Anathema purrs, letting go of my hand as I'm led to the central hall of the manor, the doors clicking shut behind me seemingly of their own accord. There's only one other person here, sitting at a desk in the corner and fidgeting with some sort of unearthly contraption, a strange thing made of brass and crystal and little gears. "We were uncertain about bringing another human into the society, you understand. We had to do some... research." A slow grin crosses her ruby lips, and I see the slightest glimpse of fangs. "You do look excellent in the tub, I must say."
"So I take it privacy isn't going to be much of a... concern?" I mumble, awkwardly folding my arms across my chest. Anathema's gaze is all at once piercing and predatory, making me feel naked at her mere glance.
"Should it be?" the woman says, her smile fading to a look of genuine curiosity and intimate interest. She draws a little nearer, wheeling on me and placing both cold, strong hands on my hips, her chest pressing tenderly against mine as she brings her lips close. My heart begins to race, and I can feel my breath grow a little heavier, a little warmer, but I feel no breath from her lips against mine.
"I, um... I came here to... fight against the..." I try to stammer, my eyes flickering from the nightstalker sensuously licking her ruby lips, up to those damning scarlet eyes. They grasp me, claim me, and I feel myself sinking, my will weakening against the tender hold of her loose fingers. My breath catches in my throat and my next words become a whimper. I feel her lips draw closer to mine, and then... and then those teeth, and-
"Were you planning to introduce me, Ana?"
I blink, and reality seems to coalesce around me again, a man's voice with a strong scottish accent jarring me from the sudden trance that Anathema was able to lock me in. I backpedal quickly, folding my arms in front of me again and glancing to the speaker, the man who'd been doing... whatever he'd been doing, with his strange devices in the corner. He's neither very tall nor very short, his hair a dusty brown and his somewhat long face sporting a pair of half-moon spectacles. He's far from the dark, glamorous visage of Anathema, dressed only in a simple brown suit and untied tie.
The vampyre - as I can only assume Anathema is such - lets out a low, catlike growl at being interrupted, before feigning a smile once more. "Yes, indeed. Miss Wren, this is Edgar. He serves as our..."
"Artificer," the man confirms.
"I was going to say 'useless tinker,' but..."
"Professor Edgar Commons, of Dumfriesshire," the man expands upon his own introduction, offering a curt nod in my direction. "I'm researching the underworld events and attempting to track them. I also organized the Blackmere Society in the first place, but..." he shoots an unkind glance towards Ana. "...Who cares about that?"
"A pleasure, Mr. Commons," I nod towards him. "I'm feeling rather weary, can I be shown to where I'll be staying?"
"Before all the introductions are through? Goodness, child, don't be rude. Mr. Grey and our incorporeal friend would be so distressed if they learned you'd gone to bed without meeting them."
Incorporeal? Goodness. I steady myself, still a little weak in the knees with the unexpectedly close encounter with Ana, and nod to my new hosts. "Let's meet them first, then. Where should they be?"
"Present," comes a rough voice from the east wing of the building, and I turn my ocean-blue eyes to the source of it. Two figures approach, one in front while the other drifts along behind. The one leading is the one speaking, a man of impressive size, sporting broad shoulders but a rather narrow waist. His hair is mostly white, with a glimpse of darkness at the roots, though it is clearly a sign of something other than age, for he appears to be quite young - perhaps in his late twenties. He's dressed simply in breeches and an open vest, a dense, dark stubble shadowing his hard, yet open features.
Behind him is a woman, her eyes at once vacant and predatorily focused. She is silent, both in movement and in speech, her form seeming to shift between different degrees of opacity. At one point she seems fully translucent, at other times of a natural hue, and others yet, fully invisible. She is another creature entirely, displaced in time as well as space - dark, barbaric braids and locks make up her wild array of hair, streaks of warpaint down her ghostly face. Her athletic body is barely clad, covered merely in scant strips of leather and more warpaint. Across her back is strapped a fur-lined hunting bow.
I bow my head, taking a slight curtsy downward to greet the two newcomers. From what I'd heard of the Blackmere Society, it currently only housed four members - this must be all of them. "A pleasure to meet you both. My name is Bria-"
"Brialla Wren, yes. The witch," the white-haired man interrupts, moving forward and extending his hand to me, shaking mine. His touch, unlike Anathema's, is quite warm... if a little too firm. "I'm Erasmus Grey, the resident... muscle."
"He's a lycanthrope," Ana scoffs, more than a hint of disgust in her voice.
"And... you, madam?" I say, turning away from Mr. Grey and looking at the woman behind him. She simply narrows her eyes at me, a tinny, buzzing sound escaping her despite her lips not moving.
"She's incapable of speech," Edgar says thoughtfully, peering over my shoulder. "Even if she could, I doubt we could understand her language. Just those strange sounds. I've been trying to decipher them, but with no luck."
"What do I call her, then?"
