The skies were an overcast grey, as they often were in Victorian England. They sun could occasionally be seen as a hazy yellow blotch behind the clouds and this was often the only real indication that it was day time. The landscape was a sea of grey and brown buildings, half of which were incomplete or falling apart, those that stood were decently tall, magnificent structures. All of which were overshadowed by a large, white mansion, which had roads all around it, with no nearby buildings except for one on one of the sides. Approximately 2 blocks away from this mansion was a pub, The 'Loch and Key'. A fair establishment with vast oak structuring's and support beams in the roof arches. The sign above the door moved gently in the wind as a swift violin tune could be heard that was blended well with a hint of flute. Suddenly a man flew through one of the closed windows, shattering glass onto the cobblestone streets, the lines between stone usually filled with water. Inside the bar things were getting out of hand. Well by 'getting out of hand'; it was actually less of a fight than usual. Tables were overturned, stools smashed and shattered and people were strewn across the floor with bruises just about everywhere. In the centre of the ground floor bar were two young men. One was blonde with emerald eyes and thick eyebrows, wearing a white shirt with black tailcoat and black trousers and the other was a ginger, with a beard and moustache that merged brilliantly and the lips with faint scars around his face and his blue eyes. This pair was not alone in this fight, they had another ally, who was cowering behind the bar timidly waving a bottle at anything that walked too close to him. He wore a purple or dark blue vest and a sort of mauve pantaloons. His hair was long and blonde. His face had stubble that just made him more attractive. His name was Francis Bonnefoy, legendary Frenchman and lady-killer extraordinaire. This made the Englishman and the Irishman in the middle of the bar Arthur Kirkland; Super thief and 'gentleman', who had a knack with the ladies, but did not really care for it too much and Shaun Brigard; Irish part time thief and Brawler professional. Shaun could always handle himself in a fight, which happened to be more often than not, with Francis constantly flirting with women (and sometimes men) and Shaun's occasional fiery temper the three did not pass a week without a good old bar fight.
Arthur and Shaun stood back to back in the middle of the room, a table overturned on their left, and two stools two bottles standing on them to their right. Arthur grabbed both the bottles and threw one over his shoulder, to be caught by Shaun. The Englishman opened his and took a large swig from it. "Blaaagh, could be a little colder, what about yours Shaun?" he asked.
The Irishman weaved out of the way of a punch and smashed the bottle over the head of the stocky man who had tried to punch him, sending glass and liquid all over the floor and knocking him unconscious. "Wouldn't know. Sorry about the fight Arty, but he insulted me Mother, ME MOTHER! What else was I supposed to do?"
"Well, aside from starting a fight, not much else, still keeps you on your toes though doesn't it?" Arthur noted laughing.
"Yes, but we end up knocking out have the people who can serve us drinks, that doesn't always help, by the way, where's Francis?" he asked, looking around the bar for the head of the somewhat elusive Frenchman.
Kirkland looked about the bar in an impressive twirl, doing a barrel roll over the back of a bent over drunkard, flicking his heel up once he was straightened up and knocked him out. "He's over by the bar counter Shaun, bit of a coward tonight, didn't even flirt once!"
Francis had almost magically heard that conversation, although they were almost shouting it was almost impossible to hear anything over the brawl and the music. "I heard that!" shouted the Frenchman, springing straight up and began walking towards Arthur. He had made about halfway when a group of about three men ran past, knocking him to the floor, only for them to get incapacitated by Arthur, two of them fell straight on top of poor Francis. The third man was almost unfazed by Arthur's roundhouse kicks and sharp jabs and in a mix of adrenaline and lack of mental capacity, picked a bottle and continued fighting for about thirty seconds, after which time he merely fell asleep, on top of a lovely duo of unconscious men… And one heavily swearing Frenchman.
"Well, Arty, I guess we might as well wrap things up, we got work tomorrow and I know how much you love your line of work." Shaun said blinking wearily, upon rubbing his eyes to regain some amount of impairing vision he received a rather unwelcome fist to the jaw from one of about four other patrons still standing from the fight; "RIGHT! Imma put my foot so far up yer ass; you won't be able teh sit down for a week!" he roared.
Everyone in the bar heard that (well, those who were still conscious) and ran for their lives, all except the bartender, who was busy cleaning the few unshattered glasses at the bar bench. "Same time next month gents?" he chuckled.
Arthur blinked a few times and turned to face the red bearded man in front of him. "Maybe John, maybe." And with that he leaned over and attempted to drag off the lumbering man of a mountain off the three beneath him.
Francis had already given up swearing his head off and had just about passed out from lack of oxygen when suddenly a tremendous burden came off his chest, although it took the bartender John, Arthur AND Shaun just to move the first guy, the other two were a breeze and in about 30 seconds Francis Bonnefoy could breathe once more. "Zut alors! Never in all my time I have been with you two have I been so shamed, why on earth did I agree to come to this 'abattoir' (slaughterhouse) with you Arthur?! I know we are the best of friends but I question your judgement sometimes." He turned around in a huff and then carefully weaved his way through the sea of unconscious people on his way to the door. He put his hand on the large, oak beauty of an entrance and turned his head to face the sleepy Irishman and his beloved friend "Come on then guys, allons-y."
The trio briskly walked across cluttered streets, filled with people at almost all hours of the day, wearing everything, from tattered rags that had seen and been through than many would want to, to people wearing fine garments, petticoats, top hats and splendid dresses that were less than a week old could always be spotted in amongst the riff-raff. Of course this fashion statement had a distinct disadvantage; it made you a target for pickpockets and other thieves. The motley group walked across a cobblestone road, mere seconds before a carriage sped past and almost hit them, Francis stopped and swore, but Arthur and Shaun new better, this was London, you were either going somewhere are you were going nowhere and weren't worth noticing if you got hit with a carriage, unless the horse was hurt, then if you were alive you could be sued for all you were worth which for most of the people was not much.
As they reached the other side Arthur blended seamlessly with the crowd, effectively vanishing in front of Francis and Shaun, who just stood there gobsmacked. Arthur was not wasting anytime, he was in a pickpocketing mood and wouldn't stop unless caught or his pockets were full. He swiftly walked and as a man in a black coat with a tall top hat walked past him he swiftly dipped his hands gently into his pocket and pulled out a silver fobwatch and a locket. Then as another man, wearing a suede jacket and a brown bowtie shuffled his way past the 'Riff-Raff' of the streets Arthur skilfully slipped his hands into the man's leather briefcase and took out a wallet, most likely filled with cash or important documents which he placed in his pockets. Arthur's black trousers were often cleaner than most people on the streets, but he always managed to get them dirty or, in some dire cases, almost destroyed on just about every adventurous outing. Meanwhile, Francis was always spotless, despite the 'harsh' conditions of Victorian London the Frenchman always kept spotless not matter what they did. For example, for one particular theft, the group had to navigate a small section of sewer in order to gain access to a particular location. Francis had refused to get dirty, so that meant that someone had to carry him. Poor Shaun had to wade through knee-high sewage with a complaining Frenchman on his back while Arthur clung to the celling pipes like a sort of monkey, albeit one carrying several sticks of dynamite, a large amount of rope across his chest like a sash and a knife and several lock picks between his teeth.
Shaun and Francis had managed to find Arthur an hour later and the sun had disappeared entirely and night had flooded the streets, the few amounts of illumination came from the windows, from which the light heat of fireplaces and an orange glow and the streetlights, throwing a circle of yellow light around the post from which the lamp was atop. Arthur was outside Hotel Terminus, a mighty structure many stories tall and was the height of luxury short of Buckingham palace and the mansion a few blocks east. The Englishman was leaning against a lamppost, the yellow light highlighting his short, blonde hair and the rest of his body except for the face, giving him a rather shady and mean look. Then his trademark troublemaker smile played upon his lips and he stood up to face his comrades. "Shall we check in gents?" he asked, turning to face the glass and gold double doors of the entrance. Of course they would have a room in one of the swankiest places in London, even though they had safehouses all over London in various locations but Francis didn't like them and generally Arthur wanted his groups ill-gotten gains to be put to good use, so the plan was formulated to get a room in Hotel Terminus. There were other advantages for the room, besides the service, the room had a balcony that had various ropes extending to other buildings nearby, a perfect view of many safehouses and of course, the mansion near the 'Loch and key'. There was also one of Arthur's best information sources, Birdman. Birdman was an old man who owned multiple pigeon coops and other bird houses on the roof of the hotel and was the most expensive informant in London. His reputation was well deserved as any information given, of which there was plenty, on anything you needed provided you had the cash or materials. The interior of the hotel was lined with pillars in the corners and in the walls of grand oak mahogany and dark green walls. There was a spilt staircase near the back of the room that lead up to the dining hall on the second floor and in between that staircase was the gold and black iron elevator that could go from anywhere from the maintenance basement all the way up the penthouse on the 22nd floor. From there it is a simple task to take the fire escape ladder to the roof with the large, red sign of the hotel, in the shape of the word TERMINUS, aptly the name of the hotel. Behind the sign was a small hut, made out of ramshackle amounts of wood planks and corrugated tin roof, littered all around and on the roof were bird droppings of any sort, a mere side effect of living with so many birds, particularly pigeons, the most reliable form of information transport.