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A cinematic, low-angle shot inside a flooded, ancient brick sewer tunnel that looks like a mix of Roman catacombs and Victorian industrial plumbing. The water is dark and murky, reflecting the light of a flickering lantern.

In the center of the frame, floating precariously, is a bright yellow, cheap inflatable dinghy.

Inside the dinghy are two men:

1. Spirius: An elderly man with a nervous expression, wearing a high-vis vest over ancient saintly robes. He is clutching an antique musket that is clearly too heavy for him. A faint, golden neon halo flickers erratically behind his head like a faulty streetlamp.

2. Boothroyd: A grumpy, weather-beaten gardener in a tweed cap. He looks completely resigned to his fate, lazily paddling with a plastic oar in one hand and holding a sharp garden spear in the other.

Action: The dinghy squeaks as it bumps against the wet brick walls. Spirius jumps at a drip of water falling from the ceiling. Something large ripples the water in the foreground—a menacing shadow moving beneath the surface.

Atmosphere:

• Lighting: Chiaroscuro—deep shadows and warm lantern light, contrasting with the synthetic yellow of the boat.

• Mood: Tense but ridiculous. High-stakes fantasy meets low-budget reality.

Movement:

• The camera tracks slowly backward as the boat drifts forward.

• The water ripples ominously.

• Spirius’s halo buzzes and dims when he gets scared.

As soon as Boothroyd had gone, Laddie Bentry, the under gardener, emerged from behind the Dicksonia squarrosa that was planted in a rare French Majolica Onnaing dragon eagle pot.  The pot, and in particular the tree fern residing within it, were Laddie’s favourite specimen, reminding him of his homeland far away.

Keeping a cautious eye on the the door leading into the house, Laddie hurried over to the cast iron planter and retrieved the Liz Tattler novel hidden underneath.  Quickly he tucked in into the inside pocket of his shabby tweed jacket and hastened to the door leading to the garden. Holding on to his cap, for the wind was cold and gusty, he ran to the old stable and darted inside.  Laddie reckoned he had an hour or two free without Boothroyd hovering over him, and he settled himself on a heap of old sacks.

The Vampire Hoarders of Varna.  It wasn’t the first time Laddie had seen Boothroyd surreptitiously reading Helier’s books, and it had piqued his curiosity.  What was it the old fart found so interesting about Helier’s novels? The library was full of books, if he wanted to read. Not bothering to read the preface, and not having time to start on page one, Laddie Bentry flicked through the book, pausing to read random passages.

….the carriage rattled and lurched headlong through the valley, jostling the three occupants unmercifully. “I’ll have the guts of that coachman for garters! The devil take him!” Galfrey exclaimed, after bouncing his head off the door frame of the compartment. 

“Is it bleeding?” asked Triviella, inadvertently licking her lips and she inspected his forehead. 

“The devil take you too, for your impertinence,” Galfrey scowled and shook her off, his irritation enhanced by his alarm at the situation they found themselves in.

Ignoring his uncharacteristic bad humour, Triviella snuggled close and and stroked his manly thigh, clad in crimson silk breeches.  “Just think about the banquet later,” she purred. 

Jacobino, austere and taciturn, on the opposite seat, who had thus far been studiously ignoring both of them, heard the mention of the banquet and smiled for the first time since…

Laddie opened the book to another passage.

“……1631, just before the siege of Gloucester, and what a feast it was!  It was hard to imagine a time when we’d feasted so well. Such rich and easy pickings and such a delightful cocktail.  One can never really predict a perfect cocktail of blood types at a party, and centuries pass between particularly memorable ones. Another is long overdue, and one would hate to miss it,” Jacobino explained to the innocent and trusting young dairy maid, who was in awe that the handsome young gentleman was talking to her at all, yet understood very little of his dialogue.

“Which is why,” Jacobino implored, taking hold of her small calloused hands, “You must come with me to the banquet tonight.” 

Little did she know that her soft rosy throat was on the menu…..

Floviana sunk her yellowed fangs into the milky white throat of the village wench and slurped the revitalising iron rich nectar, relishing the immediate surge of strength.  The buxom peasant girl swooned, faint with shock and loss of vital fluids, and Floviana struggled to hold her upright as she drank her fill. Sated at last, Floviana unceremoniously dropped the girl on the leaf covered mulch of the forest floor, carelessly leaving her body in a shameful disarray with her coarse woollen stockings and plump white thighs exposed.

Boothroyd grunted with pleasure as he imagined the scene and then quickly snapped Helier’s book closed when he heard the door to the conservatory open.  Dropping the book and kicking it under a cast iron jardiniere, he rose as Spirius entered the room.

“Ah, there you are Boothroyd. If you’re not too busy,” Spirius cast his eyes around in a fruitless manner attempting to discover what exactly the gardener had been busy with, “I’d like you to accompany me down the cellar.  Bring some weapons.”

“Weapons, sire?” Boothroyd scratched his head.

“Yes, Yes, weapons! Are you deaf? A long spear and perhaps a musket.  And a small inflatable dinghy.”

“A dinghy, sire?”

Spirius sighed. “Yes, a dinghy. And a big net. Meet me at the top of the cellar steps in an hour.  I’ll go and get the bottles.”

Boothroyd sighed and glanced wistfully at the cast iron planter, haunted by the vision of plump white thighs.

It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.

Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair  (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on.  She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.

Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses.  She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.

It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public.  Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers.  Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track,  of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.

It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started.  Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.

Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.

Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building.  There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.

Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.

“In the name of god amen I Auftreberthe saint of wafhing and water of the parifh of Gloucefter in the county of Gloucefterfhire being weak of body but of sound and perfect mind and memory do hereby commit my soul to the almighty and hereby do make thif my laft will and teftament in manner and form af followeth…”

And so began the reading of Austreberthe’s will to the small gathering assembled in the library of the emporium. Bartholomew Gosnold, the aged barrister, stood behind the large oak desk, clearing his throat frequently and pausing to peer over his spectacles.  The library was atwinkle with lamps of a variety of styles and ages, but was otherwise dark and vast in the areas outside of the pools of light.  Heavy brocade curtains covered the windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth, for it was winter, the last day of the year, and darkness came early and freshly fallen snow blanketed the town in frigid holy silence.

Despite the fire, it was chilly in the library which was rarely heated, and Cerenise wound her ancient Kashmiri shawl aound her neck and shoulders, pausing to finger the cloth appreciatively. It was an exquisite Kani shawl, woven with intricate floral motifs in warm shades of red and plum, soft as a rabbit. She inched her wicker bath chair closer to the fire, accidentally tipping over a small table and sending the contents of a green glazed Tamegroute bowl skittering across the floor.

Yvoise tutted loudly as she rose from her chair to collect all the buttons and stand the little table back up. Luckily the bowl had landed on the Tabriz rug and hadn’t broken.

Bartholomew Gosnold paused until Yvoise had finished, and then resumed his reading of the will, after first clearing his throat again.

Some ideas for the background thread and character profiles for “The Hoards of Emporium 26.”

The Setting: Emporium 26

They live in Gloucester (ancient Glevum), a city built on Roman bones where the layout of the streets still follows the legions’ sandals. They inhabit a sprawling, shared Georgian townhouse complex that has been knocked through into one labyrinthine dwelling—Number 26.

To the outside world, it looks like a dilapidated heritage site. Inside, it is The Emporium: a geological stratification of history, where layers of Roman pottery are mixed with 1990s Beanie Babies and medieval reliquaries.

The Background Thread: “The Weight of Eternity”

Why do they hoard? Because when you live forever, “letting go” feels like losing a piece of the timeline. Hoarding objects is for them an accumulation of evidence of existence.

• The Curse: They cannot die naturally, but they can fade if they are forgotten. The “stuff” anchors them to the physical plane.
• The “Halo” Effect: Occasionally, when they are arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes, or when they find a lost treasure, the stained-glass light of their old divinity flickers behind their heads—a neon halo of forgotten holiness.

The Hoarders & Their Stashes

1. Helier ( The Hermit / The Dreamer)

• Saintly Origin: Based on St. Helier (Jersey/Normandy). He was an ascetic hermit who lived in a cave and was eventually beheaded.
• Modern Persona: A soft-spoken agoraphobe who hasn’t left the house since the invention of the internet. He wears oversized cardigans that smell like old library books.
• The Mania: Escapism & Communication.
• Because he spent centuries in silence on a rock, he is now obsessed with human stories and noise.

• The Hoard: ” The Media Mountain.”
• His wing of the house is a fire hazard of pulp fiction, towering stacks of National Geographic (dating back to the first issue), thousands of VHS tapes (he has no VCR), and tangled knots of ethernet cables that he refuses to throw away “in case they fit a port from 1998.”
• The Secret Stash: Beneath a pile of “The Hoarder Vampires” novels lies his true relic: The Stone Pillow. The actual rock he slept on in the 6th century. He still naps on it when his back hurts.

2. Spirius (The Bishop / The Container)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Exuperius (Bayeux). A driver-out of demons and a man of grand gestures.
• Modern Persona: A nervous, fidgety man who is convinced the world is leaking. He is the “fixer” of the group but usually makes things worse with duct tape.
• The Mania: Containment & Preservation.
• In the old days, he bottled demons. Now, he’s terrified of running out of space to put things.

• The Hoard: “The Vessel Void.”
• Spirius hoards anything that can hold something else. Empty jam jars (washed, mostly), Tupperware with no matching lids, biscuit tins, and thousands of plastic carrier bags stuffed inside other carrier bags (the “Bag of Bags”).
• The Secret Stash: In a locked pantry, he keeps a shelf of sealed mason jars labeled with dates like “1431” or “1789.” He claims they contain the “Sigh of a King” or “The smell of rain before the Plague.” It’s actually just dust, but the jars vibrate slightly.

3. Cerenise (The Weaver / The Mender)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Ceneri or St. Cerneuf. A saint of travelers, or perhaps needlework.
• Modern Persona: She is the “Wheelchair Girl’s” friend mentioned in the intro? Or perhaps she is in a wheelchair now—not because she can’t walk, but because she’s too tired from walking for 1,500 years. She is sharp-tongued and fashionable in a “crazy bag lady” sort of way.
• The Mania: Potential & Texture.
• She sees the soul in broken things. She cannot throw away anything that “could be fixed.”

• The Hoard: “The Fabric of Time.”
• Her rooms are draped in layers of textiles: velvet curtains from a 1920s cinema, moth-eaten tapestries depicting her own miracles (she thinks the nose is wrong), and buttons. Millions of buttons. She also hoards broken appliances—toasters, lamps, clocks—insisting she will repair them “next Tuesday.”
• The Secret Stash: A mannequin dressed in a perfectly preserved Roman stola, hidden under forty layers of polyester coats. It’s the outfit she wore when she performed her first miracle. She tries it on every New Year’s Eve.

4. Yvoise (The Advocate / The Bureaucrat)

• Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Yves (Patron of Lawyers/Brittany/Normandy). The arbiter of justice.
• Modern Persona: The “Manager” of Emporium 26. She wears power suits from the 80s and is always carrying a clipboard. She loves rules, even if she invents them.
• The Mania: Proof of Truth.
• She is terrified of being forgotten or cheated. She needs a receipt for everything.

• The Hoard: “The Archive of Nothing.”
• Yvoise hoards paper. Receipts from a coffee bought in 1952, bus tickets, expired warranties, junk mail, and legal disclaimers torn off mattresses. Her room looks like the inside of a shredder that exploded. She claims she is building “The Case for Humanity.”
• The Secret Stash: A filing cabinet labeled “Do Not Open.” Inside is not paper, but Seeds. Seeds from the trees of ancient Gaul. She is saving them for when the paper finally takes over the world and she needs to replant the forest she misses.

Starter: The Reading of Austreberthe’s Will

The story kicks off because Austreberthe (The Saint of Washing/Water) has died. Her hoard was Soap and Water.

• The house is now flooding because her magical containment on the plumbing has broken.
• The remaining four must navigate her “Tsunami Wing”—a treacherous dungeon of accumulated bath bombs, stolen hotel towels, and aggressive washing machines—to find her Will.
• The Will is rumored to reveal the location of the “Golden Key,” an object that can legally terminate their lease on Emporium 26, which none of them want, but all of them crave.

“Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar.  “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”

Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character.  Maybe this is how character building works.

“I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.

“Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked.  Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog.  Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”

“We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories.  Are you with friends?”

“Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied.  Are the other new characters my friends?  “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.”  He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.

“Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”

“Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat  the cake?”

“Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”

“How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”

Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

“Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

“Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

“Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

“I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

“Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

“Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

“Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

Theme Song

Welcome to the Flying Fish Inn

[Verse]
Dusty inn of stories wide
Gum-leaf whispers where dreams abide
Mater’s laugh like the crackling fire
Dodo’s show lifts the spirits higher

[Chorus]
Out on the edge where memories spin
Bushland beats and legends begin
With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

[Verse 2]
Prune plays tricks by lantern’s gleam
Kookaburras join this timeless theme
Aunt Idle’s wink it holds a spark
Lighting tales in the outback dark

[Bridge]
Rusted signs swing slow with pride
Creaking porch where secrets hide
Every soul has a verse within
And every night’s a new tale to spin

[Chorus]
Out on the edge where memories spin
Bushland beats and legends begin
With clove and Corrie’s mischievous grin
Here lies the heart of a dusty inn

[Verse 3]
Old Bert hums with a pipe in hand
Echoes surf on the scorched red land
Shadows dance on the pub’s embrace
Laugh lines drawn on every face

The Cofficionados Theme Song “Dont Trust a Goat with a Plan”

[Verse]
Goat in a bow tie whispers
“Trust me
My dear”
A plan in its hooves but intentions unclear
Guard the coffee belt like a treasure map’s end
Four bandits are plotting to twist and upend

[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in

[Verse 2]
Carob in shadows
No cocoa in sight
Thiram with whispers that steal your midnight
Amy’s sweet smile hides beans of deceit
Chico grinds chaos
The bitter elite

[Bridge]
Sleep-parachute breaches
Reverse dreams collide
They’ve hijacked your pillow for the wildest ride
Beware the saboteurs that seep in deep
Between dripping espresso and REM sleep

[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in

[Verse 3]
Pour your resistance in a steaming haze
Shield the roast aroma from their forking ways
The bandits want dominion over your grind
But you’ll wake alert with their schemes left behind

Chico Ray

Chico Ray

Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

• Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

• Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

• Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

• Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

• Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

Inferred Traits:

• A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

• Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

• Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

• Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

What Remains Unclear:

• Precise age or background.

• His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

Amy & Carob

☕ Amy Kawanhouse

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Hair: Long, light brown

• Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

• Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

• Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

• Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

Inferred From Behavior:

• Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

• Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

• Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.

☕ Carob Latte

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

• Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

• General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

Inferred From Behavior:

• Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

• Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

• There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

Ricardo ducked lower behind the bush and tapped out a message:

spottd  lol bush comprmsed abort?

There was a long pause. Then a sharp buzz.

You had ONE job. One. You were meant to observe discreetly. I told you to be “subtle.” Clearly, that was wishful thinking. You are not to ABORT. What part of OBSERVATIONAL STEALTH did you misinterpret? Do I need to define the word STEALTH for you again? Honestly, must I supervise every leaf you crouch behind? You are a trained reporter-slash-agent, not a shrubbery enthusiast. Remain in the bush, maintain surveillance. I can overlook your appalling lack of punctuation and correct spelling but FOR GOODNESS SAKE STOP USING “LOL”.