In the murky gloom of London’s fog-shrouded streets, where gas lamps flickered like the dimmest of beacons in the encroaching darkness, the mob began to disband into smaller factions, each determined and grim. These groups, bristling with newfound fervor, seized upon an array of poles, stones, and other makeshift weaponry. Their collective goal: to lay siege to the forbidding mansion of Sir Ferdinand Lazarus, a brooding edifice shrouded in malevolent shadows.

The various factions, each led by one of the scouts who had ventured into the night, took their appointed positions. The attack was as sudden as it was brutal; the servants within the mansion, caught unawares, scrambled to barricade the doors, their frantic efforts proving futile against the mob’s overwhelming force.

The assault commenced with the thunderous impact of timber against wood. The mob, wielding heavy beams like battering rams, smashed against the mansion's stout doors. With a final, resonant crash, the barriers gave way under the relentless onslaught, and the rioters surged forward, their momentum propelling them into the grand, shadow-laden hall.

Within, chaos erupted. The servants, though initially stunned, swiftly regrouped and launched a counterattack with whatever weapons they could muster. The scene transformed into a grim tableau of violence and desperation, with blunderbusses discharging their deadly payloads into the roiling mass of attackers.

“Now we have them!” shouted a servant, his voice tinged with both defiance and grim satisfaction. He swung a heavy cudgel with fierce resolve, but the sheer number of the mob rendered his efforts increasingly desperate.

The rioters, undeterred by the violence, roared their defiance. “Hurrah!” they cried, their voices reverberating through the darkened halls. “The house shall be ours!”

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“Not yet,” came the gruff retort from a servant, his face etched with a steely resolve. “We shall drive you back.”

The clash intensified. Blows were exchanged with a brutal fervor, the servants’ weapons—polearms and cudgels—meeting the mob’s crude implements of destruction. The air was thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder and the screams of the wounded.

Amidst the frenzy, a blunderbuss barked out its deathly cry, sending several rioters reeling, their bodies sprawling on the cold, marble floor. This momentary victory, however, was fleeting. The mob, galvanized by their comrades’ cries, pressed forward with renewed vigor, their spirits bolstered by the chaotic energy of the fray.

Suddenly, a tumultuous cheer rose from the far end of the mansion. The mob’s attention was diverted as word spread of an unexpected breakthrough in another part of the house. The servants, now besieged from two fronts, struggled to maintain their position. Their retreat was tactical, as they fell back to the grand staircase, a last bastion of resistance.

Here, on the grand steps of the mansion, the servants made their stand. Armed with long poles and quarter-staves, they fought with a grim, methodical precision. The struggle was fierce and unyielding; the servants, despite their superior armament, found themselves hard-pressed by the relentless onslaught of the rioters.

“Fire, again!” a voice barked from among the beleaguered servants, desperation seeping into his command.

The rioters, undeterred, continued their relentless advance. A deafening report echoed through the mansion, the smoke swirling ominously around the combatants. Groans of pain and cries of rage mingled in the oppressive atmosphere.

“Down with the vampyre!” the mob roared, their voices a cacophony of rage and vengeance. “Pull down the house—destroy it! Burn it all!”

The frenzied cry was followed by a new wave of assault, the rioters pressing forward with grim determination. Just as the conflict seemed to reach its apex, a piercing shout from above seized the attention of both combatants. The fighting momentarily ceased as both sides turned their gaze upwards, the cause of the interruption remaining shrouded in the oppressive gloom of the mansion.

The ominous stillness that followed the shout was thick with anticipation, as if the very air was holding its breath.