William Carlson was, for all the strangeness that went along with saying it, bored with being bored. As a noble, his early life was punctuated by long periods of boredom, and he was accustomed to such boredom, to an extent at the very least. But his life since joining the Freemasons had been a whirlwind of excitement, a series of travels around England and its newer cousin that finally gave his life the sense of purpose he felt he lacked from childhood. At last his skills, once only useful in formalities, now came in handy in the field. He ran down cultists on horseback and ran investigations that taxed his body and mind; he gave back, helped people, was able to be charitable without some sort of ulterior motive.
And here he was, sitting in a Lodge in a town that made Boston look like London and London look like some sort of metropolis that had not yet existed. He had arrived nearly two weeks ago and had been asked to, in many respects, take control of the leadership of the local Lodge.
In short, he was bored because he was stuck behind a desk ordering around a few men who were unfortunate or stupid enough to stick around New Orleans.
The local Lodge--which hadn't even been officially inspected or inducted--was home to maybe fifteen local men, though Carlson had heard that some more belonged to the Masons but didn't hang around the Lodge (which he completely understood). It was an odd assortment of low-ranking government officials, poor men seeking brotherhood, and two freedmen who had bought their way out of slavery. Slavery in the Americas puzzled Carlson greatly; England lacked the huge and numerous plantations of the American South and the institution was more important overall.
It was in this great stupor boredom that the Englishman decided to get out of the Lodge for a bit to do some further investigation of the city. The case he'd been--vague and unhelpful as it was--seemed to be important, and he had heard that some rather... Unsavory groups had been looking into it as well.
"Smith, Müller," his voice ventured, calling forth two of the men that he'd been working with. The two of them appeared hastily. "Gentlemen," Carlson stated in a perhaps-too-grandiose way. "Gentlemen, I believe it is time we take to the streets in order to finally ascertain what, perhaps, is causing our contemporaries in this town such trouble."
The three men threw on cloaks and went out of the well-kept wooden building, closing the door behind them, walking away from the symbol carved into the wall that signified that the prestigious and old organization had taken up residence in a building that looked better-suited to being a boarding house than a Masonic Lodge.