Even in a rain-thickened crowd such as this one, the woman was hard to miss. Jewels woven and buried in her hair spoke of riches that most of her fellow patrons could only dream of tasting. A dress made of finely woven, Parabolian silk, glinting with the colors of dreams. However, what stood out to Dawn the most was simply the way she held herself. Like she had the reins of life wrapped tightly around her fist, leading it along as slowly or swifty as she desired. Perfectly and utterly in control.

Dawn gave her an amiable smile as she sat down, shaking her head and placing the mug onto the table with a faint “click”. “Not at all, madam,” she said. “I don’t mind the company.” Unlike Alex, Dawn was a wisp of a woman, voice soft and face weary. Her dress was well-fitted, but simple in design and colored a modest cloud-blue. Her hair was pinned back neatly, but without much flair. The only thing particularly fancy about her appearance was her hat, which bore the black feathers of Surface ravens. 

There was also her revolver, but that was concealed in the folds of her dress, neatly out of sight.

“And I’d have to agree with you, on that. There’s ah, less of a risk of slipping in regular London fog, I think. Although this place certainly seems to be benefiting from all the rain.” Dawn extended a darkly-gloved hand towards Alex, grey eyes meeting green.

“Dawn Memoli. It’s nice to meet you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn spotted a few more water-logged customers stumble in. A somewhat flustered looking soldier. A woman wearing the tattered remnants of a navy uniform. Curious, but Dawn kept her focus largely on the stranger before her, quietly respectful.

[hr]

It wasn’t uncommon for The Mandrake to be populated with particularly colorful sorts of people. It was a place where inspiration could frolic, where Clay Men and writers could get drunk on each other’s shoulders. It was rather heartwarming to watch, really. The stuff of dreamy poetry and wistfully-woven novels, although Madison was by no means a writer. There were the Rubbery Men, a small flock of devils casting speculative looks about the bar, a soldier, a rather lovely noblewoman, and…

Madison looked up from his deck of cards, just in time to see a woman in a battered down uniform stroll in and into one of the nearest empty booths. In her hands was the muted gleam of Bottled Oblivion. It was difficult to read her expression fully, seeing as how she bore shades despite being miles underground, but she seemed rather troubled. While Madison hated to pester someone who was likely just trying to seek out some reprieve from the rain, that bottle, the dishevelled look- it concerned him.

Polishing off the last of his tea, Madison rose, patted out the front of his dress, then weaved his way through the crowd and to the table the woman was seated at. He hesitated a moment, glancing the woman over, then put on his most disarming smile and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, “I hope that I’m not bothering you, but would it be alright for me to sit here? You seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

His eyes once again travelled downward, falling upon the sinister gleam of the Oblivion.