By eleven, London had loosened its collar.
The theatres emptied.
Music slipped through basement doors.
Cabs stopped where respectable people preferred not to be noticed.
And somewhere behind an ordinary façade—
half the city seemed to be having a better time than it was willing to admit.
—
ELJARA:
“You like this place.”
—
SEAN:
“I like anywhere people stop pretending for five minutes.”
—
ELJARA:
“That sounds dangerously sincere.”
—
SEAN:
“Give it time.”
—
Inside:
music.
Drink.
Cards.
Dancing.
A boxing room.
A corridor of discreet doors.
—
ELJARA:
“One building?”
—
SEAN:
“Efficient.”
—
ELJARA:
“Degenerate.”
—
Sean looked at her.
—
ELJARA:
“I was quoting the newspapers.”
—
SEAN:
“Then the newspapers ought to get out more.”
—
A fiddle struck up.
A clerk danced with a seamstress.
A lieutenant drank with a dockworker.
A woman in pearls laughed loudly enough to forget she was supposed to be dignified.
—
ELJARA:
“Tomorrow half these people won’t acknowledge one another.”
—
SEAN:
“Night has poorer eyesight.”
—
ELJARA:
“Or better.”
—
Behind another door, the crowd roared.
Two men fought inside a ring.
Rules.
Rounds.
A referee.
Money changing hands.
—
ELJARA:
“I thought gentlemen settled their differences with words.”
—
SEAN:
“They do.”
—
A punch landed.
—
SEAN:
“Apparently this one ran out.”
—
The bout ended.
The men shook hands.
Then went for drinks together.
—
ELJARA:
“That’s almost disappointingly civilised.”
—
SEAN:
“That’s the point.”
—
ELJARA:
“Violence didn’t disappear.”
—
SEAN:
“It got rules.”
—
They returned to the hall.
At the edge of the crowd stood Sir Malcolm Wetherby.
Banker.
Churchwarden.
Public champion of moral reform.
Tonight—
drunk.
Singing.
Badly.
—
ELJARA:
“Oh, this is beautiful.”
—
SEAN:
“Don’t.”
—
Wetherby noticed them.
The song stopped.
The gentleman returned.
—
WETHERBY:
“I trust this remains between us.”
—
ELJARA:
“Why?”
—
WETHERBY:
“One has a reputation.”
—
ELJARA:
“So do the people you condemn in public.”
—
His face hardened.
—
WETHERBY:
“That is quite different.”
—
Sean sighed.
—
SEAN:
“There it is.”
—
WETHERBY:
“What?”
—
SEAN:
“The magic phrase.”
—
ELJARA:
“Your indulgence is recreation.”
—
She looked around the room.
—
ELJARA:
“Theirs is vice.”
—
Wetherby said nothing.
—
Later, Sean and Eljara watched the dancers.
People laughed.
Shouted.
Flirted.
Lost money.
Won money.
Forgot themselves.
Perhaps found themselves.
—
ELJARA:
“Do people need places like this?”
—
SEAN:
“Yes.”
—
ELJARA:
“That certain?”
—
SEAN:
“Aye.”
—
He paused.
—
SEAN:
“Not necessarily this place.”
—
“But somewhere.”
—
“Somewhere you don’t have to be useful.”
—
“Or respectable.”
—
“Or somebody’s officer.”
—
“Somebody’s wife.”
—
“Somebody’s son.”
—
“Somebody’s bloody example.”
—
Eljara watched him.
—
ELJARA:
“Somewhere you can just be Sean.”
—
SEAN:
“Careful.”
—
ELJARA:
“Why?”
—
SEAN:
“That sounded kind.”
—
She accepted a drink.
—
SEAN:
“Oh?”
—
ELJARA:
“Research.”
—
SEAN:
“Obviously.”
—
For a while—
they stopped analysing.
They listened.
They laughed.
Sean sang.
Badly.
Eljara informed him of this.
Repeatedly.
—
Then she looked across the room.
—
ELJARA:
“Maybe that’s the part we keep forgetting.”
—
SEAN:
“What?”
—
ELJARA:
“Fire needs air.”
—
Sean glanced at her.
—
ELJARA:
“Seal it completely…”
—
“…and it dies.”
—
SEAN:
“Or blows the boiler apart.”
—
ELJARA:
“Exactly.”
—
Across the hall, a narrow door opened.
Only for a moment.
Beyond it stood several men and women holding small black invitations.
No drink.
No music.
No laughter.
They entered.
The door closed.
—
ELJARA:
“What’s in there?”
—
Sean watched the door.
—
SEAN:
“No idea.”
—
ELJARA:
“Curious?”
—
Sean looked back towards the music.
—
SEAN:
“Tomorrow.”
—
For once—
he chose the party.
—
## THE INNER FIRE — SEX, DRUGS & FOLK MUSIC
Respectable society demanded restraint.
So it built places where restraint could bend.
The ring gave violence rules.
The card table gave greed etiquette.
The bar gave intoxication company.
The dance floor gave the body permission to move.
Perhaps these places were not civilisation’s opposite.
Perhaps they were part of what kept civilisation running.
The hypocrisy begins when one person’s release is called recreation—
and another person’s is called vice.
## QUESTION FOR YOU
**Where do you think healthy release ends — and self-deception begins?**
Is the problem what we do to let go…
or the stories we tell ourselves about why our own version is somehow more respectable?
## CTA
At Mythveil Chronicles, history is not polished clean.
Its contradictions, hypocrisies and very human needs become part of the world at the table.
Enter the campaigns:
https://startplaying.games/gm/dunchan
Go deeper into the research, philosophy and living worlds behind Mythveil Chronicles:
https://www.patreon.com/c/mythveilchronicles_bydunchanhuntergames