The fog swirled in white tentacles up to the slick slates of the rooftops…a gibbous moon hung low on the horizon among clouds pregnant with malevolent possibility, bathing the scene with an insipid glow. A cat screeched. Somewhere - near or far - who could tell in the flat echoes of another pea-souper? - a rake laughed as he wandered home from some depraved Club….
From all points of the compass, small companies crept forward, searching among the tottering chimney stacks and rime-sodden bricks for a stolen parcel, stashed by a mysterious burglar before he fell to his death.
Lord Curr was there, immaculate in pressed collar and pin-stripes trousers, Singh a presence behind him as solid and permanent as the ancient bell-tower on nearby St Swithin’s-on-the-Hill.
Beneath that ominous spire, there crept forward among the decrepit tombstones the silk-clad Black Dragon Tong, her inscrutable Ladyship walking as if in the air: at once here, now there, the mist eddying away from every flicker of her sinister fan.
A short blast and sparks: a rocket backpack firing, clipped orders: HM Royal Marines Rocketeers deployed with naval precision across the treacherous tiles - one team moving, while another trained brass-barrelled carbines above the fog for any sign of movement.
Whistles, shouts, the distinctive fizz and crackle of an Arc-truncheon: the Met were having none of these shenanigans! A word had been had in the back corridors of Scotland Yard: something had been stolen and a Chief Inspector sent to this parish to get it back In the Name of Her Majesty!
******
Four companies fought it out among tiles and chimneys in IHMN. In this part of London the foggy streets form a labyrinth that slopes down toward the river. The tide of the ever-present pea-souper arises from the slopping greasy waters and washes up against the grassy hill upon which sits St Swithin’s, surrounded by a dank graveyard.
The Rocketeers deployed, checking off chimneys one by one. On their right flank, the stout bobbies of the Metropolitan Police scurried about, shouting at the Marines to stop, but getting no reaction from behind the impassive helmets. Out of nowhere the clouds had slid across the grimy skies, and a lightning bolt reached down to pluck two bobbies from this life, and blast a third (the chief inspector!) tumbling to the unyielding cobbles in the street below.
Meanwhile Lord Curr, Mohan Singh and Mad Mick McFarlane capered along from building to building, thrusting hands down chimney pots and peering into crack’d masonry for signs of the mysterious leather package.
From the cemetery the Back Dragon Tong, led by the Dragon Lady and Master Wu-jen, flitted across the churchyard. They leapt from the steep grassy abutment onto the roofs, their powers momentarily dimmed by the sacred soil upon which they stood. Wu-Jen disturbed a chittering nest of rats, but he had seen worse back in Limehouse. A Dragon Warrior ranged out ahead, running as if attached to wires, leaping onto the parapet surrounding the baroque domed roof of the Worshipful Guild of Legalists.
McFarlane examined one chimney stack and there was a cry of
“I say! Begone, ne’er-do-well!”, from a first floor window followed by the sharp report of a hunting rifle. The bullet knocked the red-head to the dark slates in a cloud of Scottish curses, but it was a mere graze that shattered his googles: no long term harm done.
A Marine leaned in to inspect a smoking stack as if checking the barrel of a naval cannon, and the tottering pile collapsed in an avalanche of crumbling masonry, but he leaped clear. A nearby comrade was not so lucky: another lightning bolt immolated him before he had time to cry out at the sudden stench of ozone and hairs standing up on his head.
The Dragon Lady appeared, apparently unhindered by the slippery terrain, as if walking her on path of shadows. Her Dragon Warrior sought to cross the street via the treetops an intercept Lord Curr and Company. But it was as if the wires had snapped, and he disappeared into the clutching rain-sodden branches of a stately London Plane tree which dragged him down and impaled him on the brutal justice of a wrought iron fence.
The was an audible grunt in Hindi as Singh broke his characteristic silence and declared to Lord Curr on and adjacent rooftop that he had found the leather-bound parcel. They set about escaping across the rooftops. McFarlane recovered his footing and leaped across to join them, but as he launched himself into the void, the copper cable connecting his humming power pack caught on a gargoyle and he lost balance, his fingertips missing the slimy stones on the opposite ledge and he crashed to the street with a last curse - the blast of his exploding arc-generator muffled by the choking blanket of fog into which he had disappeared.
Unfortunately for Singh his triumphant whisper had carried in the odd echoes of the damp acoustics across the whole table, and all the Companies gave up their dangerous search to bring him down.
Two bobbies leaped onto the tenement roof, demanding the damned Irish Lord stop
In the name of Her Majesty! The Dragon Lady confronted one copper, but, swaying back elegantly from a truncheon swung, tripped on her own silken hem and fell into the street, her inscrutable eyes still open in a deathly scowl when they found her the next morning.
As Curr and a pair of Tong member traded pistol shots, Wu-Jen appeared from nowhere behind a bobby as the latter swung his arc-truncheon at Singh. The martial arts master scythed his vicious blade and dispatched the officer who was knocked down, and then slid helplessly off the roof in a hail of loose slates. Wu-jen then stepped forth to cut a swathe through the middle of the giant manservant. The Marines set up a fire-base on the parapet of a nearby building, peppering away ineffectually with carbines at the fisticuffs below and along the street. Eventually Singh went down, but Curr stepped around a chimney stack and blasted Wu-jen with his Arc-rifle, ancient curses uttered as he died wreathed in lurid purple sparks
Curr scooped up the pouch from where Singh had dropped it and strode forward, leaping onto the roof of a long terrace building that lead to his escape route, but two Marines stepped across like solemn battlecruisers to block his path. There followed a long and vicious round of hand-to-hand combat, where Queensberry Rules were set aside in favour of ungentlemanly low blows, savage kicks, the crack of a bullwhip and the slash of a naval cutlass. One marine went down but his comrade stepped forward and struck down his Lordship, a bowler hat left on the roof even as the enigmatic aristocrat plunged down through the fog….
*****
Excellent game, many laughs and a good time had by all.
We revisited the London Rooftops table from 2015, adding in a hillock with the church and a much thicker blanket of fog. The 150 point companies had to search any one of 20 chimney stacks which could conceal a dangerous random event and or the treasure, or red herrings. Anyone with the treasure had to escape to the opposite side of the table form whence they arrived.
Some photos. Hope you enjoy!
1) The scene. With the fog-bound rooftops below, St Swithin's-on-the-hill sails like a majestic ship...
2) The view from the church spire looking down. The buildings are near sumberged on this night. Already, there are denizens of the dark creeping around:
3) In the distance, the Metropolitan Police arrive to sort out this trouble.
4) Snapped from a passing dirigible, the Black Dragon Tong can be seen descending on the hapless citizens the parish...while they sleep.
5) They disturb a nest of rats chittering above the slime-ridden chimney stacks...
6) While Mohan Singh wades through the dank mist, a constable moves in to effect an arrest:
7) Curr's last stand...for tonight: His Lordship engages in doomed fisticuffs with HM Royal Marines.
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April 26, 2024, 12:17:42 AM
June 27, 2010, 06:51:48 AM