August 15th 1869 Norton

August 15^th 1869

Vanessa had done it! According to the book she had found buried under the small churchyard in Baker Street, this was all she needed to speak to those who had already moved on. Reading the book had been almost as exciting as what it had told her to do. Small notes in the margin had directed her to a particular grave, where she had done her first ever digging session. Thankfully, the corpse that was located in this coffin was old, dry and a mere husk. The grave itself have been overgrown and at the back of the ancient cemetery, as though no one knew it was there. Perhaps they didn’t. The headstone was worn to almost nothing; all traces of the lettering had been washed away over the years by the steady onslaught of the elements.

Reaching in and taking the jawbone of the occupant had been easy, the bone had come away almost as soon as her gloved hand had gripped it. Carefully, she had wrapped the old thing in a cloth before replacing the rest of the corpse back into the grave, covering it once more with the earth it had been covered with before. A quick wave of her wand and it looked as it always had, abandoned and overgrown. 

Now that she was in the back, it hit her what she had done. Sitting down heavily, she let out a sigh and ran a hand over her face. There was grave earth stuck to the underside of her shoes and she shuddered. Pressing her lips together, she took a moment. She was a necromancer, it meant digging up bodies and dealing with the occasional body. If she couldn’t get a grip, she’d need to find a new livelihood! That wasn’t going to happen!

Taking a deep breath, she flicked through the book to the right page. A lot of the pages were mildewed and unreadable but this one particular spell was intact. It was the important one, the one that would allow her to speak with the owner of the jawbone, if she was correct; it was a necromancer by the name of Norton.

There was no real preamble to what she was about to do, no prep work that needed to be carried out. She placed the jawbone in the middle of the table and took a final look at the spell she needed to cast. A tremor ran through her before she began and she forced her hand to stop shaking. She could do this. Waving her slender wand in the desired pattern, she spoke the grand sounding words in a clear voice, “Sorchundo Dracerous.”

Nothing happened. 

She waited for a moment before glancing at the book once more. Odd, according to that she had followed the instructions properly and spoke true. She shivered. Pulling her shawl around her narrow shoulders a little tighter, she let out a sigh. Another check of the book said that she had performed the spell correctly, she had no idea what had gone wrong.

A loud bang snapped her attention back to the jawbone; a faint outline seemed to surround it and the temperature dropped further. A window flew open. She knew then that she was not alone anymore. The bone jumped into the air and she shot backwards, eyes wide, heart pounding.

“It’s about time!” snapped the dry husky voice of the owner. She got the impression that the spirit was looking around for a moment before she attracted its attention. “You’re not Miles!” it said with some surprise.

“No, I’m not,” she said shaking her head.

“What year is it?” the spirit asked.

“Eighteen sixty nine,” she replied.

“The double crossing little shit!” Vanessa’s eyes widened and she sank into one of the nearby chairs, utterly amazed at what she was hearing.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Norton, I had a first name once, I don’t remember it; maybe it was Norton.” She got the impression that the spirit was shrugging at her, “You get three questions, don’t ask me why, those are the rules and I didn’t write them. You did know that already didn’t you?” She shook her head, “Merlin’s left nutsack! What do they teach you in school these days?” he asked.

“Necromancy isn’t taught at all,” she said, trying to regain some of her composure.

“You found the book then,” Norton said. She could feel the spirit pacing around the room.

“I did,” she replied. “What happened to you?” she asked.

“I was murdered,” he replied. He offered no other explanation on that point; instead, he hovered over the book that was open on her desk. “I wrote those notes,” he said indicating the neat scrawl in the margin. “It’s seen better days though, I suppose the rot gets into everything eventually,” he said. She felt eyes on her once more and she couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her. “You taught yourself?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

If the spirit was impressed, she had no idea about it. “Go on then, ask your last question,” Norton said, there was a hint of a sigh in his voice and she took a moment to think about it. There were lots of different things she wanted to ask, what was it like being dead? Was there an afterlife? A whole lot of other existential questions shot through her, but there was one far more important than that, far more pertinent than any of them. She turned sharp blue eyes back to the place she assumed the spirit was and smiled.

“Will you teach me?” she asked.

There was a sound that was an awful lot like a snort, “No!”

With that, the temperature began to warm in the room, the window shut on its own accord and the room was suddenly still. She was alone once more. Vanessa’s eyes turned to the bone on the table and she smirked, if he thought he was going to get away that easily, he had better thing again. Picking it up she carefully wrapped the bone in a cloth and popped it on its own in her bottom draw, he had given her much to think about.

November 1899

November 1899

White light. A scream. Soft beneath frozen feet. Blue eyes twitched open. Roaming the room. Who was that? Dark eyes in a sombre face. Yank. No purchase. Arms bound then. No scratching those eyes. Damn.

“She’s awake.”

Back arching, no way to be free. A scream turned into a laugh. Dry raw throat. Another figure. All dressed in black this one. Firm posture. Kill, kill, kill. Wood flashed before eyes. Fear. Anything but that. Another scream. The priest leaned in. Spit in his face. Laughter, manic laughter. Chanting, endless chanting. Brilliant singing. White light burning flesh. The cross before her, always the cross. Always.

There was a snap. Her arm broke loose and she clawed her hand at father Brannan. His reflexes saved him. Before she could move again, her arm was seized by Alistair, who she clawed and hissed at like an angry cat. Slowly, her arm was secured once again. The chanting did not stop the entire time. The father’s mouth vouched for her good nature, her will to do the Lord’s work and how she did not deserve the fate that awaited her. 

Then he changed his tune and the exorcism began properly. Pain had her back arch up and this time, the scream she let out was all her. Thousands of tiny needles pricked her body, it was as though her head was being forced into three different directions at the same time. Water lashed her face, burning, as father Brannan continued to do the work he had been asked to complete.

The stench of piss filled the air, the strain on her body reaching a crescendo. Every muscle in her body tensed as she jerked against the chains holding her down. The cry she released this time was like nothing she had ever heard before, a deep, guttural sound borne of frustration and grief at a purpose not completed. She relaxed, eyes shut, breath even.

When her eyes opened again, she was herself once more. The first thing she was aware of, was the injuries on the face of the man she had come to love. There was a new fear in his eyes that she had hoped to never see. Something cracked then and she screwed her eyes shut, letting the wet tears flow from beneath the lashes. That was something she had hoped to never see from him, everyone else perhaps but not him. Father Brannan bade her a farewell then, though she barely noticed him leaving.

A glass of water was forced into her hands and she took a sip. Speaking was out of the question, her throat and voice were ruined from the effects of the spirit’s use. Her other hand and feet were unbound and she sighed, sitting up. She was tired, tired to the bone but there was no way she was going to sleep in a wet bed smelling as she did. Slowly, unaided, she got to her feet and placed the glass to the side; she needed a bath and some time to think about what she was going to do next, surely it was time for a change.

11pm 1st November 1899

It had taken Alistair far longer to return with Father Brannan than she had liked and even longer to convince him that doing this was a good idea. It was the same conversation they had every time and although it was usually needed, today it was just tedious. His warnings about things going wrong and messing about with the spirits of the dead being dangerous fell on deaf ears, so eager was she to get going. Besides, she had heard it all before and nothing had gone awry in the past. After he had rolled his eyes, they had gathered the things they needed and made their way to the place where the young man had been laid to rest.

By the time they reached the graveyard, it was eleven o clock at night and a waxing gibbous moon illuminated the stones. There was no other light, other than the small oil lamp they had brought with them. It took less than five minutes to locate the grave, which had a garland of fresh flowers laid on it. “Almost a shame to move them,” she said to her two companions as they looked over the grave.

“Let’s get this over with,” Brannan said with a small shake of his head.

“No matter how much you protest, you still come along,” she said. Alistair stood at her side, his expression masked by the gloom. His wand raised and the earth that covered their target was swiftly removed.

“The sooner this is done, the sooner we can go home,” Alistair said. She nodded, aware that he found this a little disconcerting too. The coffin was raised up and the lid removed swiftly

Vanessa let out a breath, cleared her mind and looked down at the corpse. Pulling out her gloves, she put them on and took another glance at the body. He was still pretty fresh, so this was going to take a bit more than a casual yank. Leaning down, she opened the mouth of Nathaniel and gripped the lower jaw tightly. “Look away,” she said, warning her other two companions. With a great heavy, she pulled down and out. She felt it give but this one was being stubborn. Another yank and the lower jaw flew free, sending some bits of decaying flesh into the air. The stink of death followed and she heard Alistair gag.

He spat and straightened up again, “Never get used to that sound,” he said, shuddering as he spoke. Her blue eyes met his much darker ones and he nodded, “Let’s get this done,” he said before pulling out his wand. He wasn’t her apprentice, she had not agreed to train him and he’d not have taken her up on the offer is she did. What he was, was her friend. They’d known one another for a long time now and although he didn’t want training, he was always interested in tagging along. So much so that he now called on her daily and accompanied her on all her jobs. She was thinking about making him a partner in the business, he helped out often enough!

Dismissing the thought for the time being, she flicked the excess matter from the jaw and placed it on the ground. This was the worst part, the part where she had to ensure her defences were in place and that she was ready for whatever came with the voice. She was. She always was. She just hoped that it was enough. Aiming her wand at the bone, she took a glance at her two companions before beginning the spell that would solve the mystery of Nathaniel’s death once and for all.

It started immediately.

The screaming was like nothing she had ever heard before. It was as though the noise was coming from inside her mind. The drop in temperature hardly seemed present at all and the darkness seemed to thicken. Shadows cast by the headstones lengthened and began to twist. There was a sharp pain, intense but over as soon as it appeared, in the back of her neck; that was when it all went a bit wrong.

Her mouth opened, not at her bidding. The noise she heard herself making was like none she had ever heard before. Turning, she watched as she saw herself scanning the ground. Alistair was saying something, talking as though he never did. She couldn’t hear a word. This wasn’t right. No. The jerky movements of her body were not her own. She hadn’t told her hand to rise like that. Next thing she saw was running. The bounding, jerking movements were unnatural and she hated the way it made her stomach lurch.

She was launching at Alistair. His hands were down. It must have been a mere second or two after the summoning; he’d not had a chance to realise… She screamed, the noise echoing inside her head. Despite her willing herself not to, she watched as her nails dug into the side of his cheek. The feeling of being trapped, unable to prevent what happened flooded her; she screamed. No one heard. The look of fear on her friend’s face was something she would never forget. Nothing would ever be the same again, this was too much. Her other hand joined her first and they tumbled. The ground met them both and she watched, utterly helpless, powerless to stop herself as she clawed and scratched at him. Red began to cover her hands, his face and although she battered her will against a hate filled invader, she was powerless.

Whatever had gotten into her had not noticed there was a third party with them. It was only when a sharp blow to the back of her head caused it to look up that it realised its folly. Vanessa saw herself try to turn around, her movements sluggish. Another blow and she was staggering forward, lying over her blood soaked friend. Another one and she saw nothing but darkness.

1pm 1st November 1899

Alistair returned to the shop just after lunch, bringing his food with him. If anyone else had done so, it would have annoyed her but for him, she made the exception. The sandy haired man popped himself down at the table and unwrapped the brown paper that contained his lunch without saying anything. He was an oddly quiet man, keeping his words and only spending them grudgingly, as though they were a rare currency. Perhaps that was why they got along so well, there was no need to fill the silence with needless chatter.

This time however, there was something to speak about. Putting her book down, she crossed the shop floor and sat opposite her friend. A pot of tea was brought by the elf and she poured two mugs and slid one over to him. He took it and nodded a thank you without looking up. “We have work,” she said simply. She saw the slight pucker of his brow before he looked up and tilted his head a little.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We need to look into the death of Nathaniel Montague,” she said.

“Of the Bridge Street Montagues?” he asked. Vanessa nodded. All of the information that Malcolm had provided her with, she now repeated back to her companion.

“That’s right; his uncle appeared this morning requesting that we speak with him. He suspects there was much more to his ‘suicide’ than has been discovered,” she explained.

“Why?”

“He said that the note that was found didn’t ring true, there was a tone to it that suggested to him that there was foul play,” she said. Alistair’s eyes narrowed and he pondered her words as he slowly chewed on his bread. After swallowing, he shook his head.

“A dangerous one,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I’ll contact Father Brannan,” he said. She knew this was not a negotiable point, the task would be a tough one and the Father would be there just in case he was needed. They had both worked with him before and although he didn’t approve of what they did, he saw the necessity of it. He was also discreet, something which was essential in this line of work. Even within their world of magic, theirs was still considered to be black.

“Thank you,” she said after a pause. “I want to get this done as soon as we can, we’re being paid well and I don’t want to leave this.”

Alistair nodded as she picked up a mug of tea, his soft brown eyes giving away none of his thoughts; they rarely did. The moment her friend had finished his lunch, he got to his feet and replaced his hat. He would be going to deal with their business immediately, he rarely dawdled when it came to this sort of thing, “Can I have the letter?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, handing it up to him. He took it with another firm nod and headed for the door.

“Give me an hour,” he said before striding from the shop. Vanessa let out a small sigh and watched her friend leave before picking up her book once more.

Biography and Role Play details.

A bio of sorts:

Date of Birth: 15th March 1845
Location: Knockturn Alley
Occupation: Necromancer
Family: No direct family living. Distant cousins.

Vanessa attended Hogwarts in the late 1850's. She was an apt student, however her fascination with the art of the Necromancer bloomed at an early age. Choosing to pursue the subject, despite the will of her family, she found her niche. She quickly learned to manipulate the essences that run through all that was and is alive, enabling her to prolong her life without too much cost to others. 
Her research and thirst for knowledge on the subject of the dead has led her to travel into far off places.
Currently, she runs a little shop in Knockturn Alley offering her services as a Necromancer.

Personality.
Being brought up in the Victorian era has left its impression on her. She is polite well mannered and strives to be agreeable as much as she can. She is well dressed, immaculate in her appearance and formal.
Don't let appearances deceive you, there really is more to her than meets the eye!

// I really do suck at writing these things you know!
here's the writer's details - the ones i'm giving away at least

I've been writing for years.
I hate using the word literate as it implies others are not... I can write well and I have a good command of the English language.
I am descriptive but there is no real pressure for others to be - that said, reply with a couple of words and I'm going to get bored very quickly.
I'm not big on plotting - prefer to just see how it goes.
This is an SV account. I will have multiple stories (I hope) but it will be within one story line!
A sense of humour is essential...

11am 1st November 1899

Vanessa would come to rue the day that Malcolm Montague walked through her door. It was her one massive regret; that she ever listened and agreed to working for him. That came much later however, when he walked in for the first time, he appeared to be the epitome of respectability. His hat was perched perfectly on his head, his coat immaculate and the moustache neatly trimmed. She looked up from the book she had been reading and offered the gentleman a smile, “Good Morning,” she said warmly.

“Good Morning,” he replied before touching his hat. The manners and accent of the man were those of good breeding, though she had never met the man before.

“Can I help?” she asked as she placed the book aside and sat up.

“I hope so, I am looking for a Ms Carrow.” He said, eyeing the odd things that adorned the walls of the little shop.

“That’s myself, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“You are the Necromancer?” she nodded, sitting up a little straighter. “Then perhaps we can talk.” The man removed his hat and she waved her wand at the door, shutting it and flipping the sign to closed.

“Please,” she said, “How can I help you?” she asked, keeping her tone kind. He crossed over and took one of the seats at her table and she joined him.

“It’s my nephew,” he said. She watched as the man placed his hands on the table, tried to still them, couldn’t. Snapping her fingers, she ordered tea for them both from the elf, hoping that would put him at ease. It didn’t do much but it did stop the fidgeting of his fingers.

“What about your nephew?” she asked before taking a sip of the tea.

“He died recently and I don’t think it was of what they said it was,” he said. “My name is Malcom and I’d like this looking into further,” he said.

“I’m going to need some details from you then,” she said, seeing how hard he had trying to keep his emotions in check, “Take as long as you need.” The man said no more on the matter, just reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a scroll.

“Everything you need to know is written here,” he said with a small nod. Vanessa took the paper and placed it onto the table. Sipping her tea, she studied the gentleman once more. His soft brown eyes showed the depths of what he was feeling and she knew then that this was a case she would definitely take. Of course, she would talk to her partner about it but there was little he would say against it, especially when she told him what she had seen.

“Thank you,” she said as she replaced her now empty mug of tea, “I have no doubt this is something we can assist with,” she added. His shoulders sagged a little with relief, she assumed, and his eyes met hers again.

“I do hope so,” he said, getting to his feet. The rest of the conversation was pleasantries as she showed him to the door. Her mind already thinking on what needed to be done, and what needed to be arranged before they could work on this request.

December - 1897

December - 1897

They had burst through the door of her little house at full pelt, it was a wonder the door hadn’t flown off in their wake. Slamming it, Vanessa cast a quick lock charm onto it and let out a sigh. Her breathing was far from easy, however the lock would hold out the very worst of what was out there. The noise was a different matter; however that could be ignored for the time being. Right now, the health of her companion was more of a concern.

Alistair had taken a deep wound to his left shoulder and a blow to the side of his head. The creatures that had dealt such an injury were now back where they belonged but the damage was already done. There was a small trail of blood leading from the door to the place he had sank onto the floor and his eyes had already taken on that glassy look of someone who wasn’t quite there anymore. Striding over, she cast the spell that would show his essence and he began to glow slowly. The dimmer parts were where his wounds were, obviously, but there was something else she saw that was troubling – the dark area around his lungs; that was something else. What it meant, she was unsure of and for the moment she pushed it from her mind.

Her cold hands fumbled at the fabric of his torn jacket. The moment the found the seam, she yanked the stitches and revealed the ugly, bleeding wound. “This is deep,” she said, feeling a rise of panic in the back of her mind. The dark haired man rolled his head to look at her with those dull eyes and tried to smile.

“Not your way,” he said. It felt as though he had slapped her. His aversion to her magic she knew well enough but in the face of such danger it always hurt more. She sighed.

“I could heal this wound easily,” she said, protesting despite already knowing the answer. He shook his head. She would not go against his wishes in this matter, or any matter it seemed. Rising, she headed to the cabinet and picked up what she needed to heal it in more conventional means. He winced when she began cleaning it.

“This way is better,” he said, his voice was a hoarse whisper, “This way, you don’t get hurt for my sake.”

She opened her mouth to protest when there was a huge thud against the door. A glance was exchanged between them before she placed his hand on the binding of his wound and got to her feet. What she found at the door was not what she expected. There was a squat man in a straight cut coat glaring up at her. “What do you want?” she asked, not in the mood for politeness. The man’s gaze narrowed somewhat and he shook his head.

“We all know what you do here,” he snorted, “The least you can do is do it quietly, not everyone wants to be disturbed by your actions!” His face was one of disgruntled anger and she was already too annoyed to bite back her own.

“And what actions are those sir?” she said, her back stiffening.

“Bringing men back here, this is a respectable neighbourhood.” She raised her wand behind her back and glowered at the idiot before her.

“Is that what you think this is? A cathouse?” her ire crept into her voice now and she knew it. The man stuttered a little at that, “Do you mistake me for some common whore, here to service the likes of you?” Before she knew what she was doing, she had her wand jammed into the man’s throat and she was forcing him back a step. “Take yourself away from my doorstep and never return,” she spat, “I am many things but a whore is not one of them.” Her pitch rose; after everything she had been through that day, this was the last thing she expected.

The man took a step back and she followed. “You’re lucky I don’t hex you for your tongue, get out of my sight!” she snapped. The man straightened up, gave her a derisive look before turning on his heels and striding off. She turned and slammed the door behind her, heading straight back to her now unconscious friend.

Another look at his vitality painted a grim picture. There was a bitter choice to be made now, she could try and use more conventional magic to save him, or she could resort to the methods she knew best. He would hate her for it, of that she was certain but he would be alive to do so. Closing her eyes, she uttered what she knew would be the final words to her friend, “I’m sorry,” she said, running a hand over his cheek before straightening and beginning the process of healing him.