yellowcrayon
Scooby
Laurence Pryce settled back in his chair and lit his pipe. Finally, after all the troubles surrounding London, he could actually relax and take a breather. Feet propped up on a footstool, fire roaring in the fireplace, and a quiet melody playing from the victrola... he was finally at peace. Well, mostly, at any rate. He glanced over the stack of journals beside him. It was still work, in a way, but at least it would be somewhat interesting, or so he hoped. It was better than running around London in the dark, in the rain, with a broken umbrella and trying to track down a hungry werewolf. Margaret was fast asleep on the settee across from him, and though the wind blew outside, the rain had finally stopped, and he could even see stars in the sky.
"And now to read," he said quietly, adjusting his spectacles and picking up the top journal. Laurence flipped it open to a random spot and began to read.
12th October 1903
My Most Beloved Esmeralda,
I have first and foremost decided to name you Esmeralda, after the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Just saying "Dear Diary" or "Beloved Journal" or some other such nonsense was rather trite and boring. Mr. Fisher is most determined that I say at least something every day, and so I shall take it upon myself to make interesting, should anyone decide to read. Can you imagine how absolutely and dreadfully boring it would be to read an entire journal that was written by someone as dry and dull as Mr. Fisher? I'm sure you cannot, Esmeralda, but I certainly can.
Laurence skipped a few pages and began reading again.
17th October 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Must abbreviate to keep it short. Mr. Fisher is insistent I don't take too long. All this rubbish about practicing. Oh, but shan't he be surprised when he sees me... He doesn't know it, but I talked Betsy (the scullery maid) into helping me cut off my hair. It barely touches my shoulders now... It goes better with the boys clothing, though. I forget the last time I wore a corset.
Rolling his eyes, Laurence turned a few more pages. There was a reason Watchers began writing the journals, he decided.
i29th October 1903
M.M.B.E.,
All Hallow's Eve is almost here. Mr. Fisher claims that I shan't have to worry about vampires and suchlike, but I have yet to believe him. He can turn out to be most awfully wrong a rather lot. It has been rather quiet though, even though he was sure I would see plenty of vampires and werewolves and creatures of the night. I say he has merely been reading too much Dracula. It did only come out 6 years ago, though he claims that Bram Stoker was exiled by the Watcher's Council for trying to get the outside world to know about us. Frankly, they'd either laugh at us, or write us off as madmen. I'm not sure which is more appropriate, myself. Though I would be very surprised if Mr. Fisher weren't quite mad.
Laurence shook his head. This was unbelievable. He wasn't here to read romantic frippery, what he wanted was some details as to the types of demons the earlier Watchers and Slayers faced.
12th November 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Raoul was prowling last night. We fought briefly, but then he managed to get away. I really cannot understand why he doesn't just stick out a fight, especially when he runs away even when he has the upper hand. I simply am at a loss for any sort of reason. I shall, in absence of understandable motive, ascribe it to his most inescapable Frenchness. He is such a fop. Mr. Fisher thinks I would do well to treat him with more respect and fear, but I cannot help but laugh. His styles are rather outdated and he has this thick French accent coating every bit of drivel that comes out of his mouth. I should very much hope that his escargot at least taste somewhat decent with the blood he drinks.
Laurence noticed there was quite a bit of description about this Raoul fellow. Counting as he turned the pages, he could not understand why she would write for 13 more paragraphs on this one vampire.
25th November 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Important things first. Mr. Fisher has promised that I shall have Christmas holiday. I do so desire to go somewhere away from the moor, but even the beach is rather dank this time of year. Regardless, I shall certainly keep him to his word, for I am rather tired of all this slaying business. I firmly believe that all demons of the night should go on holiday for Christmas, and me as well. I honestly don't care what Mr. Fisher does. If he wants to go on holiday, I should be very surprised, but by all means, I shan't have any reason to stop him. On to other matters now. You will recall, Esmerelda, that I was having random chance encounters with one foppish French vampire named Raoul. I do believe I described him at great length earlier this month. Last night, however, was our last meeting. I was able to predict his moves -- he tends to use the same ones you see, for he is so very French -- and successfully staked him. Even Mr. Fisher had to admit I did a lovely job. I am rather proud of myself. Do keep track, Esmerelda, for apparently the Council likes to think of these things. This marks 27 for total demons, and 19 for vampires. I look forward to 20, for then I shall celebrate with scones and tea and clotted cream. Mr. Fisher rather despises clotted cream, and I rather despise Mr. Fisher. Christmas holiday starts December 15!
Laurence skimmed some more, noticing that journal entries were slowly dwindling to a stop. He flipped to the last one, noticing the handwriting for this was a little different... much heavier and not as skittish.
14th December 1903
It is with heavy heart that I pen the following. Emily Anne Weatherby, aged 17, died at the hand of a vampire in the early hours of this morning. I was unable to get there in time to save her life, but I did stake the vampire. As far as numbers go, this vampire would have made 40 on the list of demons, and 20 on the list of vampires. Her time as a Slayer was 1 year, three months, four days. I pray her soul is at rest.
Sincerely,
Thomas E. Fisher, Watcher
Laurence swallowed and put down his pipe, taking a large sip of sherry. He glanced over at his sleeping charge and then back at the journal in front of him. As much as he felt that Emily ought to have been more respectful of her calling, he could not deny that when she wrote she was very real and full of life. Though he knew full well that Slayers were not expected to have long life expectancies, he could not help but feel rather sorrowful for this particular girl. God rest her soul, he thought to himself, before looking back over at Margaret. To his surprise, she had awakened, and was walking toward him. She reached out and brushed a tear from his eye with a shy smile before kissing his forehead.
"Don't worry," she said with a smile, "I won't tell a soul about the tear. Now get some sleep."
"And now to read," he said quietly, adjusting his spectacles and picking up the top journal. Laurence flipped it open to a random spot and began to read.
12th October 1903
My Most Beloved Esmeralda,
I have first and foremost decided to name you Esmeralda, after the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Just saying "Dear Diary" or "Beloved Journal" or some other such nonsense was rather trite and boring. Mr. Fisher is most determined that I say at least something every day, and so I shall take it upon myself to make interesting, should anyone decide to read. Can you imagine how absolutely and dreadfully boring it would be to read an entire journal that was written by someone as dry and dull as Mr. Fisher? I'm sure you cannot, Esmeralda, but I certainly can.
Laurence skipped a few pages and began reading again.
17th October 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Must abbreviate to keep it short. Mr. Fisher is insistent I don't take too long. All this rubbish about practicing. Oh, but shan't he be surprised when he sees me... He doesn't know it, but I talked Betsy (the scullery maid) into helping me cut off my hair. It barely touches my shoulders now... It goes better with the boys clothing, though. I forget the last time I wore a corset.
Rolling his eyes, Laurence turned a few more pages. There was a reason Watchers began writing the journals, he decided.
i29th October 1903
M.M.B.E.,
All Hallow's Eve is almost here. Mr. Fisher claims that I shan't have to worry about vampires and suchlike, but I have yet to believe him. He can turn out to be most awfully wrong a rather lot. It has been rather quiet though, even though he was sure I would see plenty of vampires and werewolves and creatures of the night. I say he has merely been reading too much Dracula. It did only come out 6 years ago, though he claims that Bram Stoker was exiled by the Watcher's Council for trying to get the outside world to know about us. Frankly, they'd either laugh at us, or write us off as madmen. I'm not sure which is more appropriate, myself. Though I would be very surprised if Mr. Fisher weren't quite mad.
Laurence shook his head. This was unbelievable. He wasn't here to read romantic frippery, what he wanted was some details as to the types of demons the earlier Watchers and Slayers faced.
12th November 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Raoul was prowling last night. We fought briefly, but then he managed to get away. I really cannot understand why he doesn't just stick out a fight, especially when he runs away even when he has the upper hand. I simply am at a loss for any sort of reason. I shall, in absence of understandable motive, ascribe it to his most inescapable Frenchness. He is such a fop. Mr. Fisher thinks I would do well to treat him with more respect and fear, but I cannot help but laugh. His styles are rather outdated and he has this thick French accent coating every bit of drivel that comes out of his mouth. I should very much hope that his escargot at least taste somewhat decent with the blood he drinks.
Laurence noticed there was quite a bit of description about this Raoul fellow. Counting as he turned the pages, he could not understand why she would write for 13 more paragraphs on this one vampire.
25th November 1903
M.M.B.E.,
Important things first. Mr. Fisher has promised that I shall have Christmas holiday. I do so desire to go somewhere away from the moor, but even the beach is rather dank this time of year. Regardless, I shall certainly keep him to his word, for I am rather tired of all this slaying business. I firmly believe that all demons of the night should go on holiday for Christmas, and me as well. I honestly don't care what Mr. Fisher does. If he wants to go on holiday, I should be very surprised, but by all means, I shan't have any reason to stop him. On to other matters now. You will recall, Esmerelda, that I was having random chance encounters with one foppish French vampire named Raoul. I do believe I described him at great length earlier this month. Last night, however, was our last meeting. I was able to predict his moves -- he tends to use the same ones you see, for he is so very French -- and successfully staked him. Even Mr. Fisher had to admit I did a lovely job. I am rather proud of myself. Do keep track, Esmerelda, for apparently the Council likes to think of these things. This marks 27 for total demons, and 19 for vampires. I look forward to 20, for then I shall celebrate with scones and tea and clotted cream. Mr. Fisher rather despises clotted cream, and I rather despise Mr. Fisher. Christmas holiday starts December 15!
Laurence skimmed some more, noticing that journal entries were slowly dwindling to a stop. He flipped to the last one, noticing the handwriting for this was a little different... much heavier and not as skittish.
14th December 1903
It is with heavy heart that I pen the following. Emily Anne Weatherby, aged 17, died at the hand of a vampire in the early hours of this morning. I was unable to get there in time to save her life, but I did stake the vampire. As far as numbers go, this vampire would have made 40 on the list of demons, and 20 on the list of vampires. Her time as a Slayer was 1 year, three months, four days. I pray her soul is at rest.
Sincerely,
Thomas E. Fisher, Watcher
Laurence swallowed and put down his pipe, taking a large sip of sherry. He glanced over at his sleeping charge and then back at the journal in front of him. As much as he felt that Emily ought to have been more respectful of her calling, he could not deny that when she wrote she was very real and full of life. Though he knew full well that Slayers were not expected to have long life expectancies, he could not help but feel rather sorrowful for this particular girl. God rest her soul, he thought to himself, before looking back over at Margaret. To his surprise, she had awakened, and was walking toward him. She reached out and brushed a tear from his eye with a shy smile before kissing his forehead.
"Don't worry," she said with a smile, "I won't tell a soul about the tear. Now get some sleep."