The Clock Struck Ten

Prologue

The year was 1871 and the Queen was Victoria.

It was 1871 and few were suspecting that anything would be different about this year, bar the usual; a Dickensian prolix could have described the mood. Many babies were born and their talents were measured; many babies were found to have talent, and most of them, it was known, would be disappointingly short-changed.

In 1871, it was very, very vital that the new magicians have a measurable stock of the trade. For in that year, and the year before that, and the decade, century, millennia before that, two brothers were loose—not just on London, but the world—and they slaughtered, they maimed, they worked to earn their own profits through whatever unscrupulous means they could.

It was a well-known fact that they were French, born sometime in the early 1700s, into a country where the development of advanced economic and agricultural techniques were so stifled that a bushel of seed yielded only five bushels of wheat, to the English farmer’s till of a whole field. To be born poor was to generally stay poor—and to be poor was a condemnation to ill health, ill fortunes, and misery as butter for the (scarce) daily bread. In the future, France cursed its own history for having had created the brothers; the rest of the world concurred. Certainly, they didn’t know if it was their world that the brothers had been born in; did it matter? The foggy, weird otherness of the multi-world concept was hazy. As far as the people knew, they had only the mocking accounts of the two brothers as evidence (God only knows how reliable that is!) and in any event, their own France had had a very rough time of it in that era, and the revolution it led to was violent indeed. Even if the brothers had been born in another France, their own France would have bred the same results. A philosopher might argue that some good came out of this two-man reign of terror: by 1850, battling poverty was a key agenda of any country. It still existed, but by God, no one wanted to see a repeat of the brother magicians. Large funds went to humanitarian causes, and larger still was the hunt for any talented child who was born into poverty.

Never again, was the global chorus.

(Curiously, the general practice of magickry received more vilification than ever by 1871. It wasn’t quite the same as the witch-burnings and tortures of the dark ages, but public resentment was high).

But who were these brothers? And how, how on earth, could two long-dead men from almost two centuries ago exert such a terrific presence in the world of the 1870s?

Well, they weren’t dead; there’s the start of it. The younger brother was Thierry Henri Bordelon, highly visible in public records and history books because he cared to be. He was proud, arrogant, and a show-off; reputable sources also thought his company fair, at least until he showed his violent side. Thierry killed easily; provocation was only sometimes necessary. The older brother was smaller and slender, with a quiet, cautious manner. People didn’t like him so easily, but he was more practical and less rash. If Thierry was bold and vibrant, then the older brother, Jean-Léandre (a lion of a man), was all the more cunning and survivalist. The Bordelons were not immortal, despite their ageless historical and future presences.

In the world that these terrified citizens inhabited, magic was common but unpredictable, scarce, and weak. For the Bordelons, magic was easy to use. Thus, they were uniquely powerful. Thierry travelled through time and within the space of a world, whilst Léandre (it is said) could travel between other worlds. They cut a bloody trail of thievery, murder, and terror through the annals of history for no other purpose, it seems, than to avoid the poverty of their 1700s French peasantry. There came to be agencies for the regulation of magic, but if your enemies were two men who could leave the planet entirely or who could change history to suit their goals—what kind of idiot would be so stupidly bold as to challenge them? It was an exercise in impossibility. No, those agencies subsisted on petty policing of other magicians who were not so deadly, and on discovering new talent.

That is why we began this prologue at 1871. In that year, a baby boy was born with magic, just a little magic. By the time he was four, he could travel from Manchester to Scotland by force of will. By the time of his maturity—whole worlds were open to him. No more needs to be said on the matter, because this story is not centered on that boy (who could not, after all, stop both the Bordelons—with much help, he dispatched Thierry). Indeed, much of the world just described will be less than extraordinary in what shall happen. Rather, this is about the events around the boy and the companions of his who—really and truly—did end the reign of the last Bordelon brother.

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Specific details to come. A highly selective RP intended to be a private collaborative effort. Preferably, interested people will PM me and the co-writer(s) before posting here. Please be understanding if I decline; it isn't personal at all, but we're going to be quite persnickety since it's intended to be a closed affair.

Name: Rekha Isabelle Gunnerkind
Capable of channeling and polishing all types of sparks (known, incorrectly, as ‘magic’ by Thomas and his crew). Neither she nor any other spark user is capable of retaining sparks; doing so yields physical symptoms that rapidly progress from moderately uncomfortable to fatal.

Appearance: Approximately 4’10”, though she tries to insist she’s 4’11.5”. She typically wears platform boots and/or boots with heels in an attempt to not appear so vertically challenged. Rekha takes after her mother's side of the family (her father is part German, part Hindi) and has intense wine red hair that naturally forms corkscrew curls, which she finds to be a problem. She has dark green eyes and small, pixie-ish features.

Short background: Due to her ability to channel all spark types, Rekha is behind the curve as compared with the rest of her peers. Most spark users like her require, on average, five to seven years of additional schooling in order to fully control their directing and gathering abilities. Rekha, after being held back for the fourth year in a row, decided to take a break from it all and enter the workforce for a brief apprenticeship. While she cannot get a higher-ranking job, she is capable of getting a lower job involving more menial work. This isn’t an uncommon decision, and academies will provide letters of recommendation for these kinds of students clearly delineating what the individuals can and cannot safely do. Upon taking this job, Rekha adopted the pseudonym Rebecca Callie Sandford; her grandfather and now her father own a successful trade company, as well as a few airship construction yards, and she doesn’t want her surname to be recognized by anyone. Her logic, then, was that she might as well change her entire name while she was at it.

Name: Francis Cheverell, the Right-Hand man
Age: 28 yrs old, but he definitely looks a fair bit older-- he has the misfortune of premature wrinkling enchanced by almost comically tense expressions

Telepathic capabilities (mind-linking, thought sharing and image conveyance; no other features such as mind-control, mind-wiping, etc.) in World 2 and World 10.

He probably has a small weapon underneath that vest. Stiletto knife? Smoke bomb? Powdered mace? Sizzling abs?

Appearance: 5'7" or so, medium-light frame without striking muscle tone, small hands and a weather-worn, quietly stressed cast to his features. Skin with the colour of a fading tan, light blue eyes, mousy brown-blonde hair-- on the whole, not the sort of man who at first glance would seem to enjoy the James Bond lifestyle.

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A little history-- this is how Cheverell was introduced to Roberts:

“That’s him?”

“Hm.”

“Are you sure?” A calloused hand pointed discreetly in the direction of a slight, mousey-blond gentleman. “I’m talking about him. That one. That’s him?”

“Yes!” Thomas snapped in an undertone, swatting Roberts’s hand back to his side. “Yes, Jonathan, that’s Francis Cheverell, but he’ll notice us if you keep staring at him that way.”

‘That way’ being an expression of puzzlement and slight concern, mingled with improbable reservations, that caused Jonathan Roberts’s brick-red eyebrows to meet in a badly-groomed V and his mouth to twist uncomfortably to the side. Unbeknownst to Thomas, his own features were beginning to mirror his partner’s as they watched the oblivious young man bustling about the typewriters and scribbling notes to himself. He looked like a secretary, but as an officer of Homeland Defense, he did a little more besides.

“He seems a bit twee,” Jonathan whispered uncertainly.

“He is a bit twee,” Thomas replied softly, “his house is covered in cats and trinkets.”

“…Does he have a wife?” Jonathan stepped back as a temp scurried past, struggling to manage his load of files.

“I should help him,” Thomas murmured half-heartedly (he was a tall man with long limbs and the temp was an average man with stubby limbs), but the will wasn’t in it. Roberts’s repulsed fascination with their soon-to-be partner had provided an unexpected, entertaining drama.

“What in the name of the devil’s cat made you think he’d be a good replacement for Edward, eh?” Roberts growled, elbowing Thomas.

“Forrester.” Thomas sheepishly admitted. “Cheverell wasn’t my pick at all, he's not even a magician. But word has it he’s an excellent second-story man.”

“Beautiful, a monkey,” the other magician scoffed in response. “Damn your eyes, Tom, but magic’s a flighty enough thing without it being Forrester’s, his intuition will be wrong some day.”

“Hopefully not today,” Thomas whispered. The mouse-blond gentleman had noticed them lurking in the corner and smiled quickly at the taller of the two, handed off his work to a young woman who was a secretary, and strolled his way over to them.

“Agent Blackmore,” he said politely.

“Mr. Cheverell,” Thomas genially replied. “I hope you are not too indisposed at the moment; I brought my left-hand man, Agent Jonathan Roberts, to finish acquainting our small group.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Cheverell half-laughed, taking Roberts’s hand in a firm shake. “Your man has quite a shock of hair, I must say, and Agent, it’s difficult to not notice a pair of gentlemen walking about in 1905 with pantaloons and green doublets.”

Name: Jonathan Roberts, the Left-Hand man
Age 43 yrs old
Spontaneous or controlled combustion-- pyrokinesis

Occupation: Father, magician, and occasionally St. Nicholas during Christmas at the town square. He has four little rugrats-- the youngest, Galahad, is almost three. The oldest, Arthur Anthony Roberts, is thirteen; Marion Parzival Roberts is eleven, and Elaine Lillian (Ellie) is eight years old. He's married to Mary Helena Roberts (nee Carpenter).

Appearance: Brick-red, thick, wavy hair is his most defining feature, and his range of sarcastic or laughing expressions is the next. As a father, he's the sort who expresses his affection through actions, not words: he might forget to say "I love you" regularly, but he makes a rule of making free time family time and if he's in Italy 5 (for example) with Francis and Tom, he'll pick flowers along the way and stick them in his coat pocket to sprinkle on his daughter when he gets home, or he'll go for a midnight walk with the dog and his oldest son rather than sleep. Jonathan has a lovely wife in Mary and in his day and age, there are two defining characteristics of the Unattractive Man:
1) He is a magician
2) His hair is red
Roberts has both of these, so dumb luck must have landed him with such a perfectly matched woman; dumb luck, and perhaps a warm and life-loving personality than exonerates him in the eyes of non-magicians and non-gingers alike.


Titled Daddy Used to do Magic Before Bedtime

Name: Thomas Mason Blackmore
Age 35 yrs old, born 21 March, 1871
Travels between parallel worlds and can, to a limited degree, bring people and objects along with him. Because his ability is scarce in that regard, though, he prefers to keep two close partners working with him, and no one else; these men, he refers to as his Right and his Left (right-hand man, left-hand man).

Married to Sarah Arabella Blackmore (nee Woodthorpe), a woman peerless in patience just for sticking by such a sweet, loving, but overall terrible husband.



Excerpt:



Thomas seemed, to the common eye, to be a perfectly normal English gentleman. At six and a half feet, he was usually the tallest figure in a room, but his mother had been strict with her rod and as such, her offspring had never developed that slight slouch of the shoulder that other tall men generally exhibited. When not occupied with his work, he was a sportsman and a fireside scholar. There was a certain spark of the north to his visage, which was perhaps a bit drawn and milky fair, the sort of fairness that would only burn in the sun. Black hair trimmed in a longer, dandyish fashion was combed neatly back, and the clothes he wore were of excellent quality, if simple in their cut. Thanks to Sarah’s peerless ability as a wife and manager of the household, Thomas’s disregard for tidiness and the state of his wardrobe rarely was apparent, bar the study.

However, the sheer ordinariness of his manner belied the truth of his work. England had many magicians, and most of them were useless. Those that were not useless generally found their magic useless, as it could not earn them their daily bread and butter. Thomas Blackmore was neither of these. Talent had been measured in him from birth and by the time he was four, the young Blackmore took his first step into another world. It had been harrowing to find himself transported from his family’s well-manicured, smooth lawn with their good-natured border collie, to a dark forest somewhere in Scotland. After he’d managed to get back home, however, and had had several days of bawling into his mother’s skirts, he found that the talent was not so bad. Thus it was that the King and Parliament heard of a strange little boy who could skip from his home in Manchester to the mountains of Alsace in a heartbeat.

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS

Name: Jean L. Bordelon
He needs no introduction. But we'll give him one anyway.

Description (drawing is not exact): Expression alternately empty or sly, youthful features inspired by Bjorn Andresen; he's biologically perhaps 42-44 years old, physically he appears to be around 17. He's older than Thierry by seven years.



I looked in his eyes and knew death as it was, and death is all I see in that empty, youthful face. He is a hollow man, a straw man; if fire burned him there'd only be scattered ashes swirling about an empty form. And this is Death: For who but Death could have thought he was giving me life when he wrenched me from his brother, not to be slaughtered (only because I was a boy!) but instead, to watch-- horrified-- as they carried on with the senseless, brutal murder of my siblings.

-Recorded statement from Edward A. Belgrave, during an interview early in 1902

Name: Thierry H. Bordelon
He will kill you.
Or he would if he weren't dead. Details.



Name: John David Forester, D.Phil , Directorate of Thaumaturgical Intelligence (DTI)-- address as "Dr. Forester" or "Chief Inspector"
Appearance: a noticeable girth now that he's spent years at a desk job, fiery red hair toned down with the grey of age, a rose-cheeked grandfatherly face that disguises his ruthlessly keen mind and a result-oriented agency of thought. Close to 70 years of age.
Magic: An uncanny gut sense

Name: Sir Henry Pole, Deputy Directorate-- address as "Inspector"
Magic: None-- but there must be some talent, as he can remember the differences in history before and after the Bordelons changed it, which is a knowledge credited only to magicians thus far.

Name: Israel Tyson, Executive DTI (ranks behind Deputy, ranks above Deputy Executive)-- address as "Inspector"
Appearance: Tall, lanky, steel-haired, clean-shaven bar a pencil mustache, and tan-skinned-- with a fine, leathery look to it. He's 58 years old but looks closer to 65. He cuts an athletic image akin to that of a runner or javelin-thrower, and his faculty with expression tends towards discomforting to accusational. Spent time in the military not seeing any action while posted to Herat. Noteworthy simply for being one of the most officious and stringent figures in the agency, and often viewed informally as being a step above Sir Pole, despite his lower office.
Magic: Psychometry

Name: Mahyar Peyvand, former Right (Jan. 1899-Feb. 1901)
Appearance: Largely revealed in-text; sandy blond hair, tan skin, light amber eyes. He is a man from Tajikistan, so he can hide his Persian heritage-- which he does-- by masquerading as an Englishman with the name Matthew Payman. He largely rejects verbal/social acknowledgement of his ancestry, but accepts it as a private, personal aspect of his self-identity. See boy on the bus for an image of Matt's colouring: http://www.firouzanfilms.com/images/TheFirouzanFifty/TheSilence/TheSilence_009.jpg
Magic: Levitation (of the self)

Name: Isadora Mancuso, former Left (May 1902- June 1904)
Appearance: Irrelevant
Magic: Anthropomorphic shape-shifting; she can disguise herself as any kind of human and although she can't change her gender, she can make herself appear as a man pretty easily enough.

Name: Killian Carthy, temporary Left (April 1906)
Appearance: Average height, black Irish, hailing from Gweedore. Brings out the Scotsman in Thomas.
Magic: Unknown category; he may strike a person blind, take away their ability to taste, or render them deaf, or deprive them of their sense of smell and touch-- not all the senses at once,and as flighty a magical skill as that of any other magician. Unreliable magic at best.

Name: Richard Goldfein, temporary Right (April 1906)
Appearance: Brown hair, brown eyes, a long nose and crow's feet around his eyes. Complexion is fine now but has some marks left from a less than flattering youth; appears to be early middle-age.
Magic: Weak psychometry with metal objects.

Name: Charles (Charlie) Irwin Hershing
Magic: He makes thaumatogauges.
Appearance: