London rain was far different from that on the Surface. For one, it couldn’t really be considered “rain” in the first place, given the fact that it was the leaking of the cavern roof and not the skies. It was rarely ever more than a gentle, steady pattering, and it smelled strongly of the earth and strange metals that Madison couldn’t quite place. Regardless, it was still rain enough for the citizens of the Neath, and most street-goers at this time were in a scramble for shelter or an umbrella. 

Madison had been on his way to the local bakery when the false-rains hit, and, like others, had been left stranded without an umbrella (seeing as how there were no clouds down in the depths to read the weather by). He enjoyed a good storm, really. Even when he lived back on the Surface, there was something magical about the quiet drum of droplets against the roof. However, given how incredibly cold underground downfall was, it wasn’t long before Madison found himself rushing to his nearest hangout, bag hoisted above his head in an attempt to ward off the worst of it. 

He found himself now in one of the plush loveseats of The Singing Mandrake. It was quiet, now, quieter than it usually was in the evening, but there was still a passionate young man waxing poetic about his lover on-stage. Still a crowd that hooted appreciatively, or laughed and hurled their drunken commentary. Madison himself was content to just listen and applaud, playing a round of solitaire and taking long, leisurely swigs from a mug of oyster tea (while spiced wine was being offered on menu, it was still rather early in the day, and there was research to be done). It was good and warm and mild, and the air was sweet with camaraderie.

All in all, with the chill of the damp air sealed outside, it was shaping out to be a good day indeed.

[hr]

The fog was particularly heavy this morning.

London always seemed to have a wall of fog thick enough to cut, but the cool rain against the cobblestone left anyone trying to navigate the city streets almost dead-blind. From what Dawn had heard throughout the years, London had been prone to seas of mist even before the Fall. The main difference now was that the eternal night made it even more difficult to tell just where you were before you walked face-first into a lamp pole. Or off a pier. Many things, really. 

Dawn clicked her way down the damp streets, one hand gripped around an umbrella, the other keeping a firm grip on the oil lantern held out in front of her. It did little to break through the fog, of course, but it helped enough that she was loathe to go out without it. Her hat was tilted upwards, almost jovially compared to her usual angle, and wisps of fog curled about the folds of her dress like the ghost of a cat. If the ghosts of cats were almost a sickly shade of greenish-grey and occasionally twitched and writhed and shuddered, that is. 

She had no cases, currently, so had decided to take a bit of time for herself to unwind. However, Caligula’s Coffee, her usual haunt, had been crowded to the point of unpleasantness due to the rain. So, she found herself roaming in search of the next best tea-serving, leak-proof place she could think of that wasn’t too far off.

Dawn stepped into The Singing Mandrake, folding up her umbrella and tying it in two short, deft movements. It was a bit busy here, too, but not in the case of Caligula’s, where you couldn’t take a step before bumping into some other weary occupant. She quietly bought herself a mushroom tea and sat down in one of the few empty booths, savoring the warmth with both hands as the poet on stage rambled about Tomb Colonists and the secrets you could find under their bandages (“if,” the man said, “you can charm the folks outta them quick enough.” A lecherous wink.). 

The rumble of the crowd was calming, and Dawn settled in her chair to listen, sipping idly at her tea. Could never know what you might pick up here and there.