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“An archive of things that never happened”. An in-character forum for fanfiction and roleplaying. Beware - spoilers abound!

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Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

1/14/2019


The finest purveyor of artistic integrity in the Neath!

With weekly editions, we offer refuge for writers, poets, artists, underappreciated scholars, and even the occasional gossiper.

No article is too scandalous! No play too frivolous! No confession too saucy!

In each edition you can expect:
  • An authentic news story from the very heart of the Neath’s artistic community - the latest trends, wagons and bands, bold movements to look out for.
  • A poem or an anecdote from yours truly, the very head editor of the Goosey Gazette, R. J. Frogvarian
  • A selection (one or more) of written works from various artists of London
  • One interview with a prominent person in London, be it a rising star, a presence paramount, or a significant individual (hell, I’ll even interview myself!)
  • Questions - yes, your very questions - answered by our dear Mother Goose, a woman knowledgeable in all things romance, art, cooking, murder- ah, I could go on!

This is where you come in, delicious readers (and players)!

This is an ambitious project of mine in which I want the community to come together. Shall I find anyone willing, I would like to post the works of our playerbase in this artistic newspaper - for compensation of course!
If you would like to submit a work (be it a short poem, story, or anything) or be interviewed by yours truly, we should come to an agreement of an in-game boon from me, be it in a form of a gift from the Square of Lofty Words, a boxed cat shall I happen to stumble upon one, or perhaps some of my actions to aid you with your menaces or answer your social callings. The possibilities are- well, limited, somewhat.

Questions For Mother Goose are a different segment, where, of course, you submit your questions and Mother Goose answers them to the best of her abilities.

How to submit a work or ask for an interview:
Simply shoot me a message here on the forums! We shall come to an agreement of the work, the compensation, which edition your work shall be posted in, and whether you would like to remain anonymous or be credited by proudly linking to your character’s profile.

How to ask Mother Goose a question:
Write a Letter to R J Frogvarian, and start it with “Dear Mother Goose,”. Simple as that!

I expectantly await your glorious works, for the art of the Neath and for Neath in art, forever,



edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+5 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

1/19/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


What is art? What is art to you, fellow Londoners? A song, heard at the opera? A canvas, splattered with paint in a pattern recognisable to beings of sapience? A book, read under a duvet for fear of being discovered? All of those, and more - and most of all, art is nothing without those who consume it. Such as we would be nothing without you, dear readers. For what is more of an art than a community coming together to celebrate the works of its individuals, revel in their creativity, indulge in artistry.

I am, at last, proud to present to you The Goosey Gazette! The finest purveyor of artistic integrity in the Neath!
Kindly yours,
R.


------------------------------------Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters From The Surface, Part I
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I awoke, the morning after one of Mr Wines' revels. Thoughts soared through my head. Gant... Wells... Zee...

I heard a knocking at the door of my Orphanage/Townhouse. A letter? Addressed to: Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick, Orphanage at Fiacre's Foot. Well, it is for me, but my orphanage is on Childcake Street.

I opened the letter:

"Wensley,
You may not escape what you have done. I know where you are.
I know why you are there. I will meet you at the junction of
Takepenny Street and Bad Monkey Row, at Midnight.
We must discuss the plans you have. If you do not turn up, the
Constabulary will know everything you did on the surface.
x"

Oh. Him.

Watchful is increasing...
Shadowy is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
Nightmares is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" quality is now 1!



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Mycologenes - a rousing star or a fading affair?

The recent Blemmigan fad brought with itself more than just streets filled with beakless fungi. The Mycologenes, as these secretive poets have become known, are the admirers of the Blemmigan-inspired poetry known to be talked about only under one’s breath and recited only in the back rooms of the most scandalous establishments.
Reading through the works of the Blemmigan Poets, one finds themselves asking:
How long before the frail heart of London accepts these great works? (And, immediately after finishing a poem - where is the nearest pair of stockings?)
Well, dear readers, we of The Goosey Gazette believe in progress! We believe in openness! We believe that art, no matter its form, should never be hidden in the seedy backrooms of Mr Apples’ parlours! For this reason, for the first time ever, the next edition of our humble paper will include a poem penned by an anonymous Blemmigan Poet!


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
have you ever zailed? What do you say of the beauty of the zee?
K.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear K,
I have had many a journey on the zee in my time (and many a zailor). The vast beauty of the cruel waves. Stone, Storm, Salt. It is not a safe place, it is not always tranquil, but the zee is like love should be - unpredictable, lethal, oh so irresistible, and absolutely unconquerable.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

3/17/2019
-------------------------------------------- A rather important interview --------------------------------------------




Let us start from the humble beginnings. Canon - what let you to the Neath?

The finer details of my past are a mystery, even to me, but when I take off my irrigo robes off and take the time to dream of sunlight, I can only picture a self-imposed exile born of shame. When you are young, you believe that there are endless possibilities and that all one needed was the willingness to speak their mind and the courage to face the limitless unknown.
Soon, you would find many who share the same beliefs and attitudes, and together would find strength in each other to create a better tomorrow, a tomorrow where the light of reason and freedom never sets. However, as the years went on, you realize that the hierarchy of power never changes, only that the people who compose it do, and that what was once light only lies in darkness.
While there are some on the surface who still see me as a hero, my past actions only bring me grief for all those sacrificed for the empty lie called “liberty” that still haunts the commoners of the Neath to this very day.



Furthermore, what kept you in the Neath?

Originally, to forget, to constantly chase after frivolous pleasures so that one never has to reminiscence about the past. However, as time here is particularly treacherous in the Neath, the past will always catch up to you, so to speak. The same can be said for the Bazaar and the Masters who seek to postpone a reckoning, but I instead have chosen to accept and learn from my mistakes so as to never repeat them again. And unlike before, I plan to win on my terms.




Who do you favour most in ruling the Neath?

No one deserves to rule the Neath, as the Neath has existed far longer than any being here and shall outlast all of us until the day of our respective judgments. Do not take this as support for the Liberation crowd, however, as our current state of tyranny is still leagues better than the madness the Calendar Council wishes to enact upon the universe.

That being said, I favor those who deal in honesty rather than in falsehoods, absolutes, or unkept promises. The Fingerkings can only offer imaginary trinkets, but always demand everything that one possesses (which includes your bodily autonomy); the Masters and the Bazaar promise the world but can never fulfill those bargains well; and the Liberation as a movement do not create, but only destroy.
On the other hand, the determination of Seekers is admirable (if ultimately misguided), the sorrow spiders desire eyes and knowledge (but nothing further), and the Masters are honest about their intentions of running London like a business, whether for good or ill. Every group wants what’s best, but what constitutes as “best” and “for who” can differ even among those with the same loyalties. I suggest you choose carefully.




As a Midnighter, you are a rather important part of the Great Game. What do you think of the game itself?

The Great Game is Life itself, and just like how Life continues after one’s death, so too does the Game. The Game is eternal and encompasses all – the only differences between players are the roles they play and the moves they make. The loyalties they possess and the methods they practice matters little when alliances shift and information is at stake – what was once a bitter foe could be an irreplaceable partner the next day, while machinations planned for years could be overturned by one single betrayal.




Do you engage in more than just the role of rituals?

Those addressed as “Canon” take great care to follow the rituals outlined by St. Joshua by taking confessions, but I am more of an outlier in that I redistribute secrets rather than erase them. Many players of the Game have yet to understand the importance of their roles in the Bazaar’s schemes, and I simply wish to…enlighten them. While some of my colleagues may view this practice as heretical blasphemy, I merely see it as a way to keep the Game moving right on schedule, since games are meant to be played by people, not living tools without greater understanding.




How many have fell under your intrigues?

I do not care to keep count of those I’ve bested or entangled with even if I could remember through the irrigo, as I only look towards the future. All I am willing to say is that the city of London – and perhaps the entirety of the Neath – is my chessboard and all its inhabitants my pieces.




You are one of a few, a Paramount Presence. How does it feel, to sit atop the world?

First, your assumption that I am worthy of praise is incorrect, as I have only gotten as far as I have by following in the footsteps of true legends such as Mr. ____________, master of stories; Ms. _________, who sold her firkin of Hespiridean Cider to own the first Heptagoat in existence; ________, the first to have ventured NORTH.
Second, the world is but a small blip on the vast frontier known as the Far Wilderness, and it is only by conquering the four corners of the universe that one can claim to truly be at the center of things.




What do you see for your own future?

All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
B̨̻̰̤̬͎̘̹͈͘u̢҉̢̢̛̫̰̗̘̲̘͍̭̞̪̺̣̲͕̮͈͍t̸̛̲̰̝̘͇͈̼̼̹̻̬̕͡ ́͏̧̘̪̙̪̬̰̻͍̕͠ͅf̵̶̟̮͔̙͔̼̭̯͈͎͓̦̰o̷̢̪̳͔̣r̷̢͈̥̝̹̼̖͕̻̤̫̘̙̹̦͡ ͞͠͏͠͏̦̠̫̣͙̙̠̩̖̱̟̤̫͖͈͖͚w̷̡͙̜̫͕̬̘̮̘͖͓̳͇̱̹͕̜͞ḩ̵͙̭͔͓̗̬̩̬͔́̕͜o̴̲̺͕͉͚̹͢͢͝ ̶̹̥͙͔̗̩͈̞̦̕͝a͏̡̛̦̭͈̦̩̤̟̻̭̜̗̫̲ͅn̛͡͠҉̰̮͕͓d͝҉̛̣̦̰̞̠̰̞̗͔͙̭ ̸̫͍̮͚͕̰̯̕f̷͏̗͓̪̖͚̭͕̭͍̖̱͓͙̮͍̻̬̲́o̭̤̺̭̙͉̫͍͍͓̫̰̝̝͚̟̣͎͞ͅr̸̼͖̦̥̯̗͖͠ ̨͉̱̩̱̫͎͎̪̀͜w̰̥̪͖̰̲͚̳͍̙̺̙̫̦͘͝h̶͍̥͇̖̪̯̬͎̪̦̯̫̱͕͘͜͝a̵̡̛҉͚͕̜͔̺̱̮͇͉̫͉̰̱̘͎̰͍̦ͅt̶̵̡͕̭̤̭̟̫͍̱͉̠̤̣͇̪̞̬͜ ̘̻̯̲̘̘̯̦̖̘̥̺͖̖̠͞i̶̷̛̱̪͈̮͍̰̼̜̜͟͠ͅs̸̲̝̭̮̦̰̪̲̮̜͍͙̻̳̘̳̻͜͝ͅ ̺͉̙̙̪̠̯̼̲͚̹̦̻͢͜t̺͕̙̯̫̠̙̗̥̖̙̰͍͔̼̦͜͜h҉̟̼͚̼̘̪̝̝̣͇̯̝̜̞̟̹͝e̩͕̟͚̞̼̦͖̰̫͎͟͞ ̢̧̛͢͏̫͈͕̝͖̪̮̪̱͍̞̳̤͔͈̩t̡̛͙͎̺̬͙͈̻͙ͅŗ̸͓̞̭̪͓̮̣̝̭͙̖͘͡ų͏̰̜̟̖̦͎̥̩̟́e͞҉͓̥̟̰̝̘͈͔̼̬̫̜͝ ̛̯̰̙̙̫͚̝͓̠͚́͞͝q̴̧̨̟̺̯͖͎̤̳͕̲̜͡ͅu̸̢̦̠̪̘̺̹̬̩͔̮̙̥͞ͅe̡͉̙͈̙̫̜̻̦̗͘̕̕s̸̰̳̝̳̝͕͍͜͝t̴̶̡̧̖̺͈̫̬̼̯̟͔i̴̶͔̰̫̖̩̼̫͓͈̖͉͉̹͕̺o҉̸̢̻̟̙͖̥͜͟n̢͈̳̣̹̺͎̜͓̱̮̪͔̮͡ͅ.̴̶͕̦̦̬̙̹̘̠̭͙͢͜




A skilled player of the game yourself, you are used to use. How many of your acquaintances have you used for your own purposes?

How many souls do you think are traded daily in the Neath?




Have you ever fallen in love?

We should not talk of such matters here lest you draw the attention of certain meddlesome batty individuals and their crabby employer. Come, I know of a place deep inside the Forgotten Quarter that even they cannot venture…

To answer your question, yes, I am faithfully in love to my wife, for we are both share a mutual understanding to aid each other as equals in intellect, goals, and ability. Many in this city – and perhaps the universe as well – make the mistake of loving something that cannot be attainable, a love that cannot be reciprocated, and never have I ever witnessed it end well for either party.
On the other hand, love is a choice that we all must make in the end lest we lose it like the Rubberies, and I hope that I’ve made the right choice. It is fitting for a priest entrenched in secrets to form an everlasting union with an intriguing woman of faith, is it not? Should she betray me, then that is simply the results of my turn, and the Game continues on, but I love her all the same, keeps me in shape she does. Love is a part of the Game, and all games at some level must be challenging; therefore, there should be nothing more challenging yet adorable as my wife.

Does that answer your question?




Have you ever confessed to another midnighter?

I'd sooner grab the complete set of preserved internal organs on my mantelpiece (of which were ripped from my body personally by Mr Eaten) and hurl them from the highest rooftops of the Flit than ever consider visiting another Canon for confession.
The last time someone suggested I do that, I ripped off their mask and threatened to expose their folly for all of the Neath to see. If you forget your mistakes, you cannot learn; if you cannot learn, you cannot adapt; if you cannot adapt, then it is only a matter of time until you fall.
Midnighters are needed in the Great Game to help guilty agents absolve their sins with irrigo, but like what Mr Fires once told me, a truly strong person must own up to their mistakes and rise above them.




What have you found at the gate?

If you are expecting a cryptic or overly-convoluted tale of self-reflection, madness, and new horizons, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have only ventured to the Gate two times, and each time I have met with the same bleak scenery: the starry surface of the waters around the angels of Gant, the massive wreckage of ships, yachts, and zubs that have passed through, and the dark eyes of the exiled who still wait for the Empress's pardon.

On my first visit, a shipmate of mine known as the Jaunty Cannoneer decided to stay at the Avid Horizon to await judgment for a crime she cannot undo, just like myself. Though I wanted to, I could not stay if it meant condemning the rest of my crew to the frost, as we had camped on an unforgiving lifeberg for a week and rations were non-existent, but I swore that I would come back. And I did, with another traveller returning, a folded knock times 7, and the knowledge that this is the beginning of something better.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

5/19/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------
Some days can feel empty. There is not always an absence, but there can still be emptiness. The emptiness can be ever present. Persistent. Lasting. Days, weeks, months. It is a dreadful state to be in, truly, yet it is possible to overcome. The void is not eternal, and never has been. Fulfilment can be found in the most unexpected of places. This search, in itself, will last for as long as the emptiness remains.

Emptiness does not mean absence. There are wonders to be found within and despite the void. There is brightness within. It simply has to be dug out. This is hard, work, of course. It does not come easily. It does not come alone. Yet the start is lonely.

There is a certain emptiness within everyone. Do not give up until it is filled.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Legacy
by Reinol von Lorica

Captain Whitlock had passed.

I wasn’t as sad as I thought I would be. It was...surprising. I was there when she spoke her last. As much as I wanted to yell, to scream, to shout, to ask why she did what she did...I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make her smile one last time.

We made it back to New Winchester not long after. To this day, I wonder that if I had been a second faster, might had she been able to survive? The doctor said that there wasn’t a chance but still…

The Stationmaster’s visit certainly didn’t help. But his questions helped to clear my mind at least. Made me remember who I was.

I was a zailor once. Just like my mother. And my father, or at least, that’s what she told me about him. She showed me the ropes, taught me how to sail the Zee, manage a crew, hold my grog, and bed the engineer. Useful things at the time, and even more useful now.

I sought fame in the Skies. Just like my father. I know that’s what he did, because I see his name in every book in every library in every settlement that dared call itself a dominion of the Empire. It’s not that I want to be like him. Quite the contrary.

I wish only to surpass and eclipse his name. To carve my own name into history, just like he did. I like to call this payback for what he’s done. To me. To mother.

I’ve been summoned to attend to the matters of our late captain’s will. Other than her passing of the locomotive onto me, it seems she left much more. And for that, I am glad.

17th of May, 1905
Fabian von Lorica


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Art of Carnelian - Poetry of Khanate, Theater of Tigers

The works of the Carnelian Coast are, for many, exotic still, just like the Coast and the Elder Continent themselves. It is for your convenience that we bring you a short insight into the works of these places, but it is still for you to discover them for yourself. We picked the two most enjoyed forms of art at the Coast, one for each of the residing factions.

The Khaganians are fans of tea side poetry. In their tea shops you can often find a poet, sat among cushions, reciting words of love, joy, wonder, and of hatred, sorrow, loss. The poems are different from those of London. Rather than providing lyrical depth, the poets of Khanate recite epics, stories of heroes told throughout generations. None of these epics have ever been written down, and it is forbidden to do so by their ancient laws. Still, the poetry is beautiful. Truly, nothing matches the feeling of sitting with a cup of tea, listening to the heroics of times gone by, not only from the Neath, but also from the Surface.

The Tigers of the Coast bring another twist to a tried art form. Their main joy is theater, however the theater of tigers is lyrical. The actors play concepts rather than characters. They convey feelings through their performance. They relay what may be rather than what is. Truths are ever only hinted at. These performances, of course, are enjoyed with a hookah. A room filled with smoke, the performers covered in a thick mist of mystery. Their voices boom and echo throughout the hall as they reveal their secrets. This form of theater is truly otherworldly.

Do not be afraid to travel, London. There is much joy in the mystery to be found on the Carnelian Coast. We encourage you to seek art, always.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of fame?
Wodnerer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Wonderer,
Your whole self, and much more down the line. It is the ultimate price.
edited by Frogvarian on 5/19/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

5/26/2019
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lorine - or may I call you Reinol?


That's Professor von Lorica if you must know, but yes, you may call me that.




Of course, Professor.
You have made quite the reputation for yourself with your writings down here in London. What is your muse, your main source of inspiration that lead you to success?


My muse? Well, I suppose you simply have to look into my roots as a Celestial. The long forgotten memories of the world above, the lost sky, the distant seas, the verdant ever green pastures that are out of our reach- those are what inspired me to write. Though I truly found my muse in sleep. When I close my eyes, I dream. I see that which we lost. I envision the planes behind mirrors, the amber skies of the sleep, the false sun of the dream. When I sit down to write, all I do is close my eyes, and imagine these two worlds in my mind...and the stories that could've been made




It is dreams what inspires you then - are they ever only pure dreams? Artists are known to utilize Prisoner's Honey. Is this a technique you have adopted yourself?


Once in the past, I have relied on honey and wine to make art. Now however...I no longer need them to dream. After all, what is honey but a way to aid those who wish to dream? I have no need of such thing, not anymore.




A truly exquisite talent! Many would give much to be achieve this. Do you, however, consider this dangerous? It is a sweet apple to bite from, though offered by a snake.


It is only dangerous to those who bite more than what they could chew. The lords of the mirror can only do so much after all. Dangerous yes...but then again, isn't everything down here?




Truly, there is little safety in the Neath. It is said that even you began your life down here with a bit of danger. Tell me, if you wouldn't mind, a little more of your reasons for coming here, and reasons for staying.


Let us say I came here for a reason far more different than as to why I stayed. I came here in search of certain fellow who has escaped my grasp. I stayed to carve my name into history.




A noble goal, one many will consider successful. More to your work - it is cherished all over London. Do you have any regrets concerning your position?


That I'm afraid, implies that I hold remorse as to the methods of how I achieved this position. Which I do not, so no, I have none. Though, I suppose I do wish I had more free time on my hands. My work takes me not only to my writing desk, but to my office at my newspaper, the halls of Parliament, and the theatre-rooms of my rivals!




A man of many talents, of course, always suitably busy. I'm sure all of London is as familiar with your papers, London's Reflection, as they are with your other works. Your membership in the Parliament, however, might escape the less politically inclined. Would you mind elucidating your position there to our readers?


Ah, yes, I’m glad to see that my less artistic endeavours are known to the public indeed. As for what I do in Parliament...well, my role isn’t much you see. I merely got there through more simpler means rather than by decades of political experience that my fellows have. I suppose you can call me a simple advisor. I do nothing more that to provide advice and suggestions regarding the new laws that are to be pushed forward.




An advisory position, of course. Still, you must have your own opinions on the going-ons in London in the Neath. Not too get too political, or to stray much to far from the topic of art, I must ask, what are your thoughts on the Masters and the Bazaar?


Why yes indeed, I do have many opinions about the current state of London, but I shall spare you the boredom and simply answer your question, and besides, some things are best held close to your chest. I admit, the way the Masters run London is not something that I can whole heartily support. There are many things worthy of complaint, but I believe that with cooperation and negotiations, that can change. No need for riots and revolutions. Through more peaceful and diplomatic methods, our troubles can be easily resolved. While I can make no comment on the Echo Bazaar, I will say that it is a wonder for our Economy. Anyone, as long as they have the skill, can easily climb the ladder, as most of us have.




Well there's our bit of politics for today, thank you. Back to the art. Our own humble Gazette has been allowed to publish one of your very works. Would you care to tell us something about the work? How it came to be, your feelings towards it?


Ah, that one, yes. Well, let’s just say that’s it’s once again, something I thought of in a dream. I was having a particular fascination with the stars at a time, and so I dreamt of what was beyond. I admit, I do feel that it could be one of my personal favourites. It’s neither great nor classic, but I wrote it for someone else’s sake. And that’s all that matters.




That is what we value most of all; art for the sake of art. The emotion within the piece can be felt upon just a skimming.
What would you consider the best part of your art, Reinol?


The answer is simple. The meaning. The intent. The purpose. For every book I write, for every portrait I paint, for every story I regale, each one has meaning, regardless of the way they are produced. What is art but a way to express our unbidden thoughts and desires? Without meaning, our works are nothing but rubbish scribbled on parchment.



Wise words, so close to home they hit for artists.
Speaking of your various mediums, what is your favourite way to convey your art?


Without a doubt, it is through words and writings. It is how I started my path to notability, and it shall be that way until the end.




One last question - as parting words, what would be your advice for the artists of London, old and new, our dear readers of the Gazette?


Advice...well then. I know that many of London's artists struggle to make their name in this city. Some, because of a dying muse and the deprivation of inspiration, others because they lose themselves to the temptations of wine and honey. My one piece of advice is this: when you find your pen-hand struggling to fill those pages with blessed words, do not use the freedom of honey-dreams or bouts of drunken frenzy to set your muse alight. No. Do as I once did; close your eyes, and dream of something far more better. Walk out of your homes, look to Zee, and think of the shores so far and away, yet so wondrous and magnificent. Set your eyes upon the Roof and envision the forgotten skies. Gaze to the South and imagine the splendors of the Mountain. Look North, and wonder what lies beyond.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

2/9/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


Think about love, dear readers. Think about your loved ones. Think about not only the people, but also the things, activities. It is important to think on love. For what force is more powerful than love? None! The stars may think Law is the absolute, those opposing them may think lack of it is where strength lies - but all of them are wrong! The Bazaar itself knows this. The Masters know - though some may be losing hope - that it is true. It is the core truth etched with Correspondence into the heart of the Universe; vibrant! Intoxicating! All-consuming. Love is what makes us human, dear readers, and it is something no one could ever take away from us! From the Empress herself, to the stuffiest of bureaucrats, to the most soulful of artists, love is what makes us us! We have all wept over love lost, long or freshly, or never starting, over love unreciprocated, over love unwanted.
The Feast may be time for lovers and spouses, strangers and soft kisses, but I implore you! Think on all love in your life. Love fully! Love unrepentantly! Love to the very day Stone’s light fades from your sight!
For it is not a curse, dear readers, but a gift to us from the Earth itself.

Love!
R.


------------------------------------Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface, Part IV
Another Letter
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I walked back to my Townhouse, then down into a Third City Sub-Temple I resided at. I opened my letter.

"Wensleydale,
I have heard that you are significant in London. What happened?
One must think-if you are significant, how obscure are others? Do some want to be out of the picture?
Anyways, have a rose-petal."

A rose-petal? I suppose I can deal.

Watchful is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 4!
You now have 1*Surface Rose-Petal



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Feast of the Exceptional Rose has arrived - Love and poetry awakes in London!

Love(!) is in the air! Hearts alight with passion as lovers and strangers alike don masks and shower each other with affection, touches, gifts, secrets. The Feast is upon us, and Feast we shall - on each other, on small chocolate hearts, on the poetry of the heart.
This season, love is the main focus for the world of art, more so than usual. Buskers and lounge poets have begun penning their stories full off emotions, brushed off on their Shakespearean sonnets, and, undoubtedly, captured the hearts of many a Londoner. Indeed, this season is, as always, wonderful to capitalize on the secrets of the heart!

So show us your poems and your songs, dear London. For what is more wonderful than love?


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Will you attend the Feast this year?

Masked

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Masked
Look for feathers touched by moonlight.


Dear Mother Goose,
I have kissed another during the feast. I fear for what my beloved may think. What should I do?

Kind regards,
Confused

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Confused
Do not fret over such smallties. Love is love, and love it shall remain. The balls are masked for a reason. You may very well have been kissing your beloved - in a very clever disguise! No matter. Simply give your soul and mind a rest. Drink a cup of tea. Kiss your beloved with more passion than ever before.
All shall be well.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

1/27/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


If there is one thing we strive for here at the Gazette, it is consistency. It is integrity. We want our readers to know they can rely on us, trust us. We do not want to be just another pawn of the Ministry, or a fading nub on the metaphorical Rubbery of the journalism industry. We want to make our mark on the world by bringing the artists of the Neath together.
For this reason, no artist shall be excluded, and for this reason, as promised last week, we are bringing to you a poem from a Blemmigan-inspired poet. For this reason as well, this edition took a day longer to publish, as the poet insisted on utmost secrecy - and, let me tell you, dear readers, blindfolded meetings at a musty basement of a Spite brothel are the peak of secrecy.
However, I ask you not to panic, dear readers! As the word spreads and the community becomes tighter, the Ministry shall not pursue us anymore! The Society shall not hound us anymore! There will. Be. Freedom. For the Arts!

Kindly yours,
R.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters From The Surface, Part II
More Postage
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

That night, I trudged over to the junction of Bad Monkey and Takepenny. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, so I watched spies running like maniacs, under orders of players.

The mailman saw me, again, and brought me a second letter. I would read it once I got back to my Townhouse.

I waited. And waited. A hunger broke, but I waited still. A silhouette approached myself, and I felt a fear.

"Come on, you know I bite less than you."

Shadowy is increasing...
Austere is increasing...
Steadfast is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" Quality is now 2!



Again
by an Anonymous Blemmigan-inspired Poet

Streets lit by candles, together
We tread, breath laced with wine
But drunk from each other,
Your bed we soon find.

Our thighs so plump with want,
Arms yearningly entwined,
Lustily I drink your taste part
of you now in me inscribed.

“Oh, lover, ah,” your name on my lips, a moan,
We are a spectacle for the audience of us,
In a private performance our bodies we join.

Secret wish, can these moments never pass?
An eruption, Aphrodite rising from foam,
Our breaths still together as we draw our last,

And prepare for the second act.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Tristam Bagley’s unfinished masterpiece - a brief review of The Bell and the Candle

Not too long ago, one of our reporters was present at the Empress’ Court during the premier of one Tristam Bagley’s forgotten opera, The Bell and the Candle, revitalized years since cancellation. Our reporter has at last recovered from the experience; they gained back the control of their left eye and the spontaneous fires on and around their body have ceased. Another of our reporters has interviewed them and compiled their thoughts on the play into this brief review.

The Bell and the Candle is unlike any other piece previously seen, at least within the Earthly sphere. Incredibly tantalizing, joyfully titillating, and infinitely erotic, the play is sure to provoke deep thoughts as well as metaphorical (and literal) fires in your heart.
Reportedly, the metaphorical fires are rekindled with unforeseen passion; our own reporter has found themselves among no less than six barely-clad aristocrats with red cheeks (and not only).
The music truly shakes your whole being. Despite the peculiar choice of instruments, mostly glass and bone, the sounds of strings and drums echo within your being for days after. The two leads, titular Bell and Candle, performed magnificently. Their voices were strong and sure, and, despite the serious blood loss, they have performed to the very last tone.

The seven hundred and seventy seven members of the orchestra, as well as the cast, are making swift recoveries, hopefully returning to their homes by the end of the next year.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I am gazing into eyes I shouldn’t gaze into. Eyes behind cosmogone glasses. They may not be strictly forbidden, but I know there will be a painful end. What should I do?
Please, answer.
F
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear F,
Life is to be enjoyed, and love doubly so. Don’t run away from happiness now only because it may not be there later. In the long run, the happiness will outweigh its lack. Follow your heart, whatever path it may lead you down to. However, beware of the secrets these eyes may know. Secrets behind mirrors are dangerous ones, and those eyes may be the lights of guidance or of misleading.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

2/17/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


Ode to your Bosom
By R. J. Frogvarian

As you hold me close
To the source of your love
That evokes in me prose
Unknown, before, in woe.

Those precious mountains!
My tongue encircles the peaks,
Your breath slightly falters,
Smiles across our cheeks.

Now we lay together bare of clothing,
bare of restraints on the soul,
the mind, the shame, nothing,
nothing stopping two halves wanting to be whole.

And nevermind those only looking down on our love,
And on those who, as we, dare love.


------------------------------------Art of London ------------------------------------
The Sixth City
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Paris, 1908.
A cloaked figure approaches the Monarch.
The Monarch asks what the figure's business is.
The figure speaks.
It says it wishes to buy the city.
The Monarch gives off a hearty laugh.
The Monarch, once again, asks the figure's business.
The figure introduces itself as Mr Wines.
Mr Wines repeats its statement.
The Monarch appears confused.
Mr Wines offers the Monarch anything they want.
The Monarch considers.
A man appears, scarred from a fight.
He holds a gun.
Mr Wines is unfazed.
The man shoots.
It is a direct hit.
The Monarch looks to be angered.
The man puts on a cloak himself, then offers the same bargain.
Five days later, on February 14, Paris falls underground, coating London in so-called snow.
A Sixth City has come.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Duchess - a victim of love?

Mystery surrounds this lady of cats. Who is she, really? What secrets can one so close to cats learn? What lurks in the basements of the palace? However! One question, more than the others, and true of all those in the Neath - why here?
We, dear readers, are convinced we have an answer to this mystery! We believe - it is for love!
Our sources speak of a man in the Duchess’ past. One she was willing to sacrifice much for, though, in the end, ended up having to sacrifice much more than planned. As it is with many rulers, of course. This decision cost them both much, and brought forth a great evil. Still, she remains faithful and committed.
Our own Empress is said to have made a deal. And, truly, who is to blame one for love?


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What is a good way to make friends?

Aeo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Aeo
It never hurts to have honey on yourself. Dreams are the way to go! Mind not the vulgar Ministry that forbids our precious dreaming. It is a time without darkness, and the Marches are welcoming to small picnics with those you love and admire.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

3/16/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Remember the past. Learn from it and grow from your mistakes as well as successes.
It is often difficult to face your past. Like meeting a long estranged lover, now merely a probable acquaintance. You recall the times together and try not to talk about the end. You may end up as friends once again. The past is just that. Now is now, times constantly a-changing. Do not be afraid of the past. We all have to deal with our demons, one way or another. Embrace the past. Grow from it. You are better now than you were.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

The next day the boy awoke, packed his book of stories, and ventured back to the clearing. In front of the crow he placed his latest catch, a salmon from the forest river. The crow seemed so small now, its beak was in the height of the boy’s nose.
“I hope you’re not getting weaker because of me,” the boy murmured. He checked the support on the crow’s wing. “It’s healing well,” he said.
The crow ate. The boy sat besides her. He opened his book. The crow’s eyes sparkled at the sight of colourful pictures and beautiful cursive. The boy started to read. He read the crow fables, faerietales, legends and myths of their world. He read of mighty kings and cunning jesters, of humble farmers and brilliant inventors. He read of magic and of the mundane. He read into the evening. As the sun set, he and the crow were huddled together. He read into the night.
As it was time to sleep, the boy turned to the crow.
“I shall stay here. I promise,” the boy said. And it was true.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

A rather special interview - Canon

Dear readers, we are proud to present to you a rather special news piece. A certain midnighter, who shall remain anonymous, has offered to answer some questions for us. It is a thrilling time for the Gazette. Without further ado, you are welcome to read - you can find the full interview below.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I have made unwise decisions. How does one survive from nothing? I fear I owe far too much.
Indebted
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Indebted,
Such is the nature of business. When you owe to dangerous people, the solution is to be more dangerous than them. It is but a minor setback. Do not be afraid to speak their names. Arrangements can be made.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

5/26/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Sins spread through generations. The sins of our forefathers haunt us to this day. The sins of our offspring bring shame to our graves. What was it all for when the children forsake their parents? What is it for when the parents neglect their children? Hate breeds hate, even through time. Pain brings only more pain. There must be care for the world. Firstmost, care for your kin, as often your kin is the closest of the world. Have respect for those who are dead, care for those who are alive.

Is it wrong to, in kindness, bring pain? To aid in folly? Self-destruction? Mayhaps. Is it folly in itself to cajole one out of harm's way? Or to join?

Be wary of your actions. Do not bring unnecessary pain. Strive to do good.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XIV
Vital Information
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

It was two weeks after that, when something new happened. I had been accustomed to prison life at this point, but I learned that one of the Cheery Man's goons was in prison. Figures.

We met at mid-day to trade information. When I mentioned my adversary, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

"What happened?"

"I am trying to steal a diamond. He thought this was out of spi-"

"THE diamond?"

"Yes."

"Guess you should be glad you aren't on Mr Fires' bad side."

"How do you know that?"

"If you were, you'd be dead. The Orphanage burned down two days ago."

Watchful is increasing...
Shadowy has increased to 150- Shrouded in Shadows!
An Occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" Quality is now 14!
An Occurrence! Your "Remembering the Orphanage" Quality is now 1-Haunted by Flames!
Your "Counting the Days" Quality has gone!



Starless
by Rowley Ruskin

In this place that is two places, the sea embraces the sky. Beyond the gate you see the infinite night and feel the cold wind of the High Wilderness upon your face. The sky has opened to you.

You allow the Flukes to enter first. That is their right. Their tendrils are restless as they rise. The water crackles with heat. There is a song in the air. A song that threatens to burn. HOME. They sing their wordless chorus. HOME. Their voice shines brighter than the stars. HOME. And then, in a tone that can almost be described as gentle: OUR GRATITUDE.

You watch them disappear into the night. The Neath grows darker in their absence. Your crew breathes a collective sigh of relief as the energies of the Correspondence quiet. Their anxiety disappears with the Flukes. They do not understand.

"Captain." Your navigator remains restless. "Consider the price."

You look to the impossible vastness of the heavens, threatening to consume you whole. "A small price, all things considered."

You give the signal. The sound of the engines is impossibly quiet after the Flukes' song. Together, you take to the sky and claim your place among the starless nights.



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

An interview with a celebrated artist

It is my pleasure, dear readers, to present you with a wonderful and rare opportunity. It is so that our own humble Gazette was a guest of a great contemporary artist of London, one who has already written classics. We were blessed by their presence not only last week, as they have presented us with a story, but also today, as they agreed to a rare interview.

Without further ado, on the centre-page spread, Professor Reinol von Lorica.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I would love to meet again.
Rayn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Rayn,
Meet me in the depths.
edited by Frogvarian on 5/26/2019
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

23 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Home is a nebulous thing. It resides only within the mind, one could argue, even if we connect the word to a place as we so often do. Yet home can stretch to horizons of various sizes. A home can be a town. A home is often a room within a house - or the house itself. A home can be as vast as a country. A home can be the Neath, if one ventures to the surface for a while.

Is a home the place of our origin? The one at which we live now? How many homes can a person truly have?

The qualities of home:
Safety
A warm meal
A lockbox full of secrets.

The romantically inclined so often ascribe the qualities of home to people. I myself am prone to agree; home is where the heart is, as they say.

It is everyone’s hope to have a home, one day. It is my hope that it is what everyone shall have.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

We present to you works of contemporary modern art from two readers of our Gazette.


A bold piece by Plurnes.
“The L________n of N___t”



A work by an anonymous artist, with a critical analysis of the very Johnattan Hoppskotch.
"SHEEP"



The work “SHEEP” is a deep and meaningful satirical statistical parody on the current state of art, politics, and agriculture.
On the surface level a obvious parodic analogy emerges, the darkness surrounding the sheep represents the darkness of the Neath while the almost brightness of the sheep represents the light of art and journalism; I believe this is why the artist chose a sheep and not a cow or a pig - cows would be hard to draw in the background of the piece and pigs are considered to be a criticism of authority because more wealthy people tend to eat pigs more.
However when the work is studied and carefully observed deeper truths emerge, the style is very similar to that of what First City art is speculated to look like according to my academic associates, and the darkness surrounding it represents the lack of civilization at those times. This leaves us with an even deeper question. What does the sheep represent? I intended to ask the artist only to learn that he is apparently in prison, the Tomb Colonies, dead, and might have not legally existed in the first place.
So in my opinion the piece is meant to be interpreted by the observer as they see fit. Do tell me what you think of its meanings and send monetary incentives to 34 Takepenny Street.
- Johnattan Hoppskotch


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Art of Devils - Baroque, Indulgence, Needlework

The devils, an enigmatic presence not liked by all, yet now such an integral part of life down in London. They keep their gates locked to those not at least tolerant of their presence, though, naturally, we have seized an opportunity to explore their artwork in-depth.

Devilish art is as one would expect; it is a thing of grandiose, artwork with make and content of epic proportions. Devils do love their visual art, covering whole walls with them, or even ceilings. The anti-church has to be complimented - their love for such art matches in scale even the grand temples of worship of the Christian church.

An interesting factor of the devilish art are, however, their intriguing tapestries. Woven of the finest sorrow-spider silk, sewn with the most minute of needles, sharp enough to pierce a hair. This art does not lack in grandiosity, though it’s breathtaking factor is in the craftsmanship itself. One’s mind is sure to be enamoured, bewildered, boggled.

We do recommend admiring a devil’s tapestry with a spoon of honey.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What is work if not hell?
Questioning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Questioning,
Joy.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

15 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is easy to be overwhelmed. By the good, by the bad, by the bland. Overabundance is the true poison; just like not even cyanide can kill in minute doses, and honey will bring a slow death if consumed by the gallons. It is never good to ride a tide so long - one is bound to fall.

The mind, of course, if unused to a sensation. has a harder time processing and accepting it. That much may be ruinous, in a way, to begin the process of change. Yet it is always upon us to find balance, to bring an equivalence to our life. The aforementioned process, after all, has a benefit to it. Once the tides change, the impact is all the sweeter, more bitter, blander. It is the impact of the flavour that brings true feeling.

Do not be afraid of what is to come. Embrace it, with your whole heart, and let the future bring forth more courses.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part I
by Tuesday Next

They were halfway through their second set when Eli saw Martin in the crowd. It was a miracle he could see that much of the crowd at all--the stage lights in the inner-city club were less blinding than usual, although they were still hot enough that he felt like his makeup should be melting off. Lights like that were a side effect of doing a secret show, he figured--and not that long ago that it seemed like all their shows had been secret. Now crowds of people showed up to see them, singing along, wearing their T-shirts and painting their faces in an attempt to match the band’s elaborate makeup. The House of Troubles was just over the edge of success. They weren’t one of the big names (yet, some would say), but they opened for them enough times to be recognizable.
Eli strode across the stage, half-singing, half-yelling the well-practiced lyrics into the microphone as the crowd whooped. This wasn’t exactly planned—normally he and Doug would yell into each others’ faces during the tag of this particular song—but he had to get a better look at the crowd, make sure the face he saw was really who he thought it was. Besides, the crowd, at least, would forgive him a little change in behavior. He was supposed to be the Madgod, right? And how could he claim that name, that persona, if he didn’t break the rules once in a while? Never mind the fact that he was starting to have to hold back flinches when fans called him that. He could still use the persona as an excuse if he wanted to.
It was him. The lighting was bad, and they hadn’t seen each other in years, but Eli could never forget Martin’s face. He’d seen it often enough, first in second grade, then almost daily until high school graduation. Of course, he usually associated that face with his sister’s, as the three of them had been practically inseparable for most of their young lives, but mercifully, he only saw Martin, not Marina. At that point, Eli made up his mind. He had to track Martin down after the concert, just to talk to him. Maybe meeting with someone who knew him before the Madgod and the House of Troubles would help with how he’d been feeling recently. At that moment, Martin looked up, not yelling, not singing, just looking. Their eyes met, and someone looking close enough may have been able to see past the butterfly wings painted on Eli’s face and realize just how tired the Madgod looked.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------


Ravemeo and Doviette – The First All-Bird Play Takes The Mahogany Stage


A new production of the Bard’s immortal “Romeo and Juliette” has just appeared at Mahogany Hall, having already premiered earlier this week. This production is curious, however, for its unusual casting – all the actors are rather well-trained birds.
In the role of Ravemeo is, of course, a raven. This bird fit the character simply perfectly, the rash and violent nature of the main character combined with the black brooding of love.
Doviette, played by a bleeding-heart dove, was another wonderful role. The gentleness of the young maiden, as well as slight rebellion of her actions, and, of course, the final death have all been beautifully portrayed. The origin of this actress is, despite our best efforts, still unknown.
The rest of the cast was suitable, though largely unremarkable, consisting of the common crows, ravens, and surface parrots of the Neath. For birds, however, the acting was exquisite. The ravens’ and the parrots’ mimicry of sound came in handy, and Doviette’s lines were, even if not in human language, frankly tear-inducing in their delivery.

No bird-related accidents were present during the play, either, and a pack of swift and silent Rattus Faber cleaners were employed to rid the stage of any potential white spots, a job which they had done with welcome expertise.

Overall, the production was a success, and we at the Gazette are looking forward to further adaptations (or original works) by this troupe.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I do not want to let her go. I do not know if she wants to let me go. I feel afraid
Cornered

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Cornered,
It is not up to us to choose. Everyone is their own beast.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

9 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is important to enjoy the little things. Listen to the wind’s whistle, observe the snail slowly slime, caress a flower’s gentle petals.
It can be a dreary world in the Neath. You might wish for the sunlight of the surface. Or you might enjoy the darkness. There are stances to be had, of course, but also a reality to face. It is dark, damp, cold, bitter. Yet it is ours.

Look at the glimmering side of life, London. The one showing you treasures, wonders, niceties, and joy. Hold the hand of those you love. Smile from ear to ear. Emotions fuel our art, and happiness creates the most beautiful art of all.

Do not be afraid to dream. Do not be afraid to be happy. Damned be all those who shun us for our joy, for they themselves lack it. Do not be afraid.

There is art everywhere in the world around us.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part II
by Tuesday Next

The club was crowded, loud, and already full of the smell of alcohol and sweat. Eli had been in what felt like hundreds of places like this over the past few years, but this one was different. It wasn’t anything to do with the music or the decor and everything to do with who was there. He’d been watching the door as much as he could after the concert, and as far as he could tell, Martin had yet to leave. All he had to do now was find one man in a crowd of people, most if not all of them his fans. Easy, right?
Eli pushed through the crowd, straining to see if he could find that familiar face, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, hoping, only to be met with a young woman, bright red hair hanging about her face.
“Hey,” she shouted over the music, “You’re him! You’re the Madgod, right?” She took his silent half-nod as confirmation--he supposed his face was that recognizable, especially with the butterfly--and continued, “Man, I’m, like, your biggest fan. ‘Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know’ totally changed my life. Can I get a selfie with you?” It was all Eli could do to keep from sighing. Yes, he’d wanted this life once, but now, after so many late nights and hearing the same fannish statements over and over again, it was getting stale. Eli put on his ‘smiling for the fans’ face and positioned himself next to the young woman long enough for her to pull out her phone. However, just as she was about to snap the picture, Eli finally saw Martin walking by.
“Sorry!” he said to the woman, “I have to go. There’s someone I’m supposed to meet…” It was only halfway a lie. He dashed off, leaving the fan with a blurred image of her idol, and chased after the familiar man. This time it was Eli’s turn to put a hand on someone else’s shoulder.
“Martin?” he asked, “That is you, right?” For a split second, he had a sudden doubt. What if he had been wrong? What if this was just someone who looked like his old friend? But his fears were abated as soon as the other man turned around, smiling. It was definitely him.
“Eli Bereth,” Martin said with a smile, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Why’re you here?” Eli asked. He vaguely remembered a conversation where Martin mentioned that he lived in this area, but that didn’t explain how he’d heard about the concert. The only advertising had been on the band’s social media, and far as Eli knew, The House of Troubles wasn’t exactly the sort of music that his friend usually listened to.
“One of my coworkers is a fan of yours,” Martin answered, “he told me about this show when I mentioned I knew you, and I thought I’d try to catch up.” Right at that moment, someone backed into Martin, almost sending him smack into Eli.
“Sorry!” the person yelled, then they looked at Eli, recognition dawning on their face. Eli called, “C’mon,” to Martin and walked away, to a different area of the club. The fans were inescapable, it seemed.
“This isn’t the best place for talking, is it?” Martin commented, “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else. I can’t hear myself think in places like this.” Eli, who was used to not being able to hear himself think, nodded. It was an impulsive decision, sure, and really he should’ve stayed at the club, but what was life without adventure? God knows he needed a moment of escape.
“Go ahead,” he told Martin, “I’m gonna get this shit off my face.” It would take a moment, but it’d be infinitely more convenient to go out without the butterfly. Besides, for the rest of the night, he was going to be Eli, not the Madgod.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------
Mayoral Elections Are Upon Us – Candidates Revealed! Vote For Change!
The Mayoral Elections are here once again, dear London! We now know all of our candidates; the business woman, Mrs Plenty; the deviless scholar, Virginia; the famed medium, Madame Shoshana. We at the Gazette are excited beyond belief to report on the on goings of the election. While we do plan on staying apolitical, we also believe that engaging in your local government is one of the most important a citizen can attend to. Vote for change you want to see, London! Vote for what you think is best.
From our point of view, all the candidates are known lovers of art, thus the choice indeed boils down to policies. Let us see what sorts of campaigns they will lead!
As the elections are only starting, we at the Gazette are running a popularity poll. Vote for your favoured candidate! The results shall be published with the next edition!

Please, vote!


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I feel as if in a web I have spun for myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Cornered,
We catch ourselves in the strangest things. It is then up to us to create a way out. As slow as it may be.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

2/25/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a boy at the edge of a forest. He lived in a small, single-room house with a small bed, a pot to cook with, and a book of stories. He fed himself with what he found in the forest, fruits, fungi, furry creatures he hunted, always taking only what was necessary for his survival.
One day, as he ventured into the forest, he heard a cry of great pain. Then again. Again. Cautiously he followed the sound. Very soon he came upon a clearing. In the middle of it was a fallen tree and under it, a great crow twice his size. The crow shrieked and cried and shook, trying to free itself from under the tree. The boy watched with awe. Then, slowly, he approached. The crow’s eyes darted towards the boy. It watched as he walked towards the tree and pushed. He pushed and pushed and pushed, until the great bird was free. It shook once more and let out another shriek. The boy could see its wing was broken, and though the crow was calm, he could see pain in its eyes. He took a few branches from the tree and bound them with vines, making a support for the wing. However, it was getting dark, and the boy could not linger. He placed a rabbit, the result of today’s hunt, in front of the crow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise,” he said. And it was true.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters From the Surface, Part V
A Letter for Someone Else
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One of the orphans ran down the stairs. He said, "A letter."
The letter was addressed to a one Mr. Netae. I recognized the name. Mr. Netae was one of my acquaintances, who once poisoned me unprovoked. I considered the dilemma carefully.

I walked to a smoky flophouse, the address of my acquaintance. ... They had been scandalized! Off to the tomb colonies! Five minutes too late. My adversary began to snigger.

Later that night, I couldn't remember what had been done for the scandals.

Steadfast is increasing...
Shadowy is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Irrigo" quality is now 7!
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" quality is now 5!



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Lady in Lilac, artist drenched in Irrigo

It is a wonder that this Lady can even be remembered.
The Feast is behind us, dear readers, and with it has gone the Lady in Lilac. There are few - and possibly none - who can match her skill with the needle, and a few with a brush, perhaps. She is, undoubtedly, one of London’s most wonderful artists. Not only for her skill, but also for the nature of her craft - making all of London your canvas, after all, is a worthy stunt - and, much more so, her existence. Bathed to the core with Irrigo, she easily evades memory. For this reason, we have tried to procure a photograph of the Lady; alas, it seems that not even cameras are willing to remember this Lady’s image. See you in a year, Lilac!

We do hope you yourself have gotten one of her tattoos, dear readers.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I escape?
Yearning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Yearning,
patience is the greatest of virtues. Work hard.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

3/2/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------
We do not always succeed. We do not always get what we want. We do not always end at a place we expect, or would like. In situations like these, it is important to keep your goal in sight. Do not falter, not for even a second.

In times like these the world may seem hopeless, the end much to far away. It is as if you’re grasping at straws, drowning and unable to save yourself. It might be maddening. It might hurt. Preserve.

Do not be afraid to show emotions, dear readers. They are but fuel for your art - and, truly, what is a better fuel for art than feeling? Burn with rage, glow with joy, radiate disgust and let your sorrow kill light. There is no shame in expression. It is what makes us human and it is something none shall ever take from us.

As the Bard said,
We are all actors and the world is but a stage.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters From the Surface, Part VI
A Foolish Mistake
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Eventually, Mr Netae returned to London. I went to their home, at the same time my opponent did.
I remembered a moment that they had deceived me, Mr Netae.
He had just arrived in London. I was badly wounded from a fight in the sparring rings of the hill. He offered help.
I accepted, only to be fatally poisoned.

Mr Netae walked out of their home, ready to go to the University. I stopped them. My opponent chuckled. It seemed that they knew each other, as they began arguing.
One of the Special Constables began to make the rounds. I had to end this.
I took my prison shiv, and shanked both of them. The Constable arrived. He accused me of treason against the Masters of the Bazaar, recognizing Mr Netae and associating us two.
I dismissed these claims, but remained on guard.

This is the intermission of the Letters storyline. This story will return later.

Shadowy is increasing...
Dangerous is increasing...
Heartless has increased to 2!
Steadfast is increasing...
Suspicion has increased to 7-A Desperate Fugitive!
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 6!



The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

That night, the boy worked tirelessly. He took his bed apart, the wood and the sheets becoming a much greater support. The next day again he ventured into the clearing. The crow was there, watching the boy with shining eyes. Strangely, he noticed, the bird seemed smaller than the day before. Shaking the thought away, he got to work. He removed the makeshift supports and tended to the wound, applying various ointments and herbal remedies. He affixed the new supports - they fit quite well. Once again, he placed his prey in front of the bird - this time a fox.
He sat in front of the bird, watching it intently.
“Why were you stuck?” the boy asked. “What had happened to you?”
The bird only cawed and pecked at the fox, still watching the boy. As the crow ate, dusk began again, and it was time to leave.
“I will be back again. I promise,” he said. And it was true.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

What can one learn from the art of the Tomb Colonies?

Shame, disgrace, death itself. There is much wonder to be found within (and on) the bandages of the Tomb Colonies. It is a place of sorrow, but also decadence. What could one learn from the art of such a place?

Well, dear readers, I am sure not few artists of the Neath have ventured into the Colonies before, thus you are no doubt familiar with some of its eccentricities.
The fashion, of course, incorporates bandages quite well, combining them with beige, grey, black, and the occasional white garments.
The poetry is full of melancholy never before seen - and, on the other side of that coin, of passion never forgotten.
From there, the variety diminishes. A few plays from those able of body, though they are rarely more than dry. Books, mostly memoirs.

Then, the Colonies prevail again, in the most early of art forms. The paintings of the Colonists are something beyond exquisite. A picture is worth a thousand words, and these paintings show thousand times more. Pain, sadness, yearning, and all with the simplest of paints - and, sometimes, a few droplets of blood.

Do not be afraid to show such emotion, London!


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Why does time seem to never pass in this wretched place?
- Desperate

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Desperate,
That is no way to talk of a home. Whether that home is wanted, or even chosen. A home it is. And its quirks it has. It is not up to us to pass Judgement, and it is not up to us to pass time. Time passes - we simply need to accommodate.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

3/10/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Spring is in the air! It would be, now, were this the surface. The days would grow longer, nights shorter, sun would tickle our skin as a lover emerging from under the white sheets. As it is, there is only darkness. Yet it is not to be feared! As the lacre melts fully, the perfumes of the Feast dissipate, as we return to our common lives, intrigues, loves, and heartbreaks, do not be stuck in longing. The surface was then, and this is now. Embrace the Neath, dear readers. Let the Neath embrace you. For all the mess and the Bazaar, it is still our home, and our new home.

Do not let your home be taken away.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

That night the boy gathered meats, vegetables, and water from a nearby stream. He set a small fire under his pot and started on a stew. In the morning, he grabbed the pot, a small wooden bowl, and some bread and ventured to the clearing once again. Once he arrived the crow’s head shot towards him, its eyes shining with expectancy. The boy set the pot in front of it and dipped his bowl in. He then sat in front of the crow again. Was it smaller again? But the support was still just the right size… Again he shook the thought away.
The crow waited and watched patiently. Once he was seated it dipped its beak into the pot and ate.
“Are you the queen of this forest?” the boy asked, “Or its protector?”
The crow said nothing.
“I hope you don’t mind me living here. I don’t take more than I need, I promise.”
The two ate together in silence, the boy dipping his bowl into the pot from time to time, until there was nothing left. Dusk had settled in, and it was time to go.
“I will be back again. I promise,” the boy said. And it was true.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

“Jack-of-Smiles” art exhibit shakes all Ladybones detectives to the core

While we can never be sure which Jack it was, we can be sure that the rather gruesome display yesterday at the centre of Ladybones road was very provocative and, yes, artistic. The Constabulary is busy with righteous rage and all the private eyes are turning towards uncovering this particular culprit - the case of Jack is hot now more than ever.

We at the Gazette, however, look at this display in a different light. Bloody and cruel, yes, it was still an exhibit of great artistic prowess, not to mention a rather profound understanding of the Correspondence. With the four bodies arranged as four symbols, there were clear spaces for other three letters. We dread not speculate on the implications. However, we are more than happy to point to the artistic importance of this Jack’s display.

Times are changing, London! A new wave of artists is coming - instead of pen and canvas, they use the world around them to shock and bewilder.

We are rather excited to see where this new artform leads the Neath.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
How does one enjoy life?
Restless
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Restless,
It pays to live fully. Maybe try zailing.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

2/2/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


I have been zailing lately. It is a noble and dangerous profession, to be a person of the waves. As noble and dangerous as the zee itself, and just as beautiful. Truly, there is no calm like the zailor’s calm, and no fury like the zailor’s fury. It is an awe-inspiring duality.

Just like zailors are as the zee, so the artists are as the art. We are hard to grasp and define, so varied yet so similar. Soulful, incorporeal when at our best. Celebrate your hard work, sires, madames, and all others; for it is not without blood and sweat that our work bears fruit, just as it is not without blood and sweat that the zee does not swallow the zailor.

R.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters From the Surface, Part III
Down from Above
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

"You bite less than me? Why do I not believe that?"

"Because you are arrogant. You think you can steal that diamond? It's the size of a bloody cow! Not to mention the fact that you do not know how to be silent. You are also doing it out of spite for us- me, the Constabulary, and all of your attempted victims."

"Ha! Right there! You say you bite less than I, but you just spat out insult after insult! I am capable- the Constables have me on their side! I am sought out for my knowledge of a secret alphabet!"

"Since when do you have a brain? Ambition clouds all thoughts! Especially your own ambition. You insufferable git!"

"Since when do you have a ______ heart? Or even a gut? You are a coward!"

Silence.

"At least I have capability, and know my limits."

"Get the hell out of here. If we meet again, I'm pinning a Sanguine Ribbon."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Steadfast is increasing...
Daring is increasing...
Subtle is increasing...
Heartless is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" Quality is now 3!
An occurrence! Your "An Argument at Midnight" Quality is now 1!



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Decadence and Mahogany - the newest exploits of the Mahogany Hall

Here at the Gazette, we celebrate arts of all shapes and sizes. That, of course, includes our good friends at Mahogany Hall. Magicians, comedians, tricksters, and, of course, actors.
However, in the newest development, a new act is joining the stage, or so the rumour has it. Dear readers, we have it on good word that, starting this very spring, rat fights shall take place at the Hall! You can be assured that all Rattus Faber present are consenting and eager to attend these mock fights, in some cases even willing to die for the glory!

You heard it here first - go and grab your tickets!


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose, have you ever been to the beautiful, beautiful NORTH?
Lion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Lion,
please do not seek me out. Consequences will follow.

Dear Mother Goose,
It's like we don't even know each other any more. What should I do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My dear,
sincere conversation is the best way to get things flowing. That, and good wine. A combination of both just to be sure. Open your heart and your wounds, and let them open theirs. There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing but loss, and loss is never an eternal void.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

2/17/2019
This week's edition shall be postponed by a day or two due to the Editor laying sick.

R

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

5/19/2019
From now on, the Art of London section shall come before the News section, to give the various contributing artists more recognition.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

6/3/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Change is a part of our existence. We change, constantly. Every second, our very bodies change and rearrange. Time and space changes and bends and fluxes. Each moment, one’s whole life could turn over for good. In many moments, it will.
Sometimes, change is oddly subtle. A small shift in the paradigm. Barely noticeable yet so uncomfortable for its strangeness. Such change likes to travel in packs to completely turn a life around. Seemingly unrelated events can lead to an enormous change. One moment, there is status quo, the other, chaos. One moment there is the comfort of the routine, the other, the taste of adventure.

Welcome change into your life. It is what fills our life, drives it, gives us a reason to continue. The very promise of a better tomorrow. The very fear of a dark future.

It is what gives us life.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

A Lie and a Truth
by Chronic Dreamer

A farmer lived simple, his world right and tranquil
No one ‘ere did bother, none cared cause hassle
He tended to his land, few else could matter
Until came she, the witch of lies, wanderer Fos Tanther

Noble farmer ask she, her voice alluring and queer
Would you spare home, my body aches from tour
Bow does the farmer, in agreeance he leads her the way
Little to their knowledge, both hearts would be entwined

I must tell you this, for it is quite dire
How you appear here one day, unaided and without means
My door is ever open, no one shall I rebuff
But I have naught to offer, scant nourishment of muff

‘Tis fine for a roof, I needn’t much else
Could you be a dear, and tell me your wealth
Your farm is so lively, and your appearance quite fetching
‘Tis little to wonder, what spell you have to tie me here

Your flattery’s too kind, others think elsewise
Though you must be mistaken, neither farm nor I are lookers
A temptress I assume thee, despite I let stay
As I have said, I shall turn none away

His sight touched her heart, truth in tongue as well as thought
Her beguilement did not pass, enchantment held no sway
This man did yet keep her, honesty to fault
Her myriad of tricks yielded no fruit, her soul saut part

The night did roll in, a spark of passion then grew
These two became one, a lie coaxed in by truth
In tune with their clash, their hearts quite wavered
Neither could ever change, natures stout ‘ner tapered

In all of their difference, they managed to keep together
A farmer’s small home, Fos Tanther laid claim
None could trouble him, no one dare enter
A secret affair by two so stark, no one would think, not even those brought

Love is a string, binding even those who differ profound
Blind shan’t foresee who they might covet, they’re open to all
Let these words make lesson, to all who are willing
Yet whomst turn down, equal a villain


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------


The Interpreter Of Dreams Takes London By A Storm

We all have been plagued by dreams. Many an artist have taken inspiration from dreams, honey or subconscious. What to make of dreams, however? What meaning to infer from nightmares?
The famous Dr. Scholmo has studied dreams, psychology, Correspondence, and the Neath itself for a long time in pursuit of revealing the meaning of dreams. We at the Gazette have visited the Doctor several times. The interpretation ranges from enlightening to bladderdash, of course, however it always brings unique insight into one’s mind. The Doctor succeeds in striking a cord of the human soul, if absolutely by accident. His speeches are, naturally, easily described as art within the field of psychology. He has produced rather fantastic results with his patients, and even though his services are rather prestigious for the common Londoner, we recommend paying him a visit if your nights are plagued by unrest and strange visions.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
How to tell him? There is little I can do.
Concerned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Concerned,
It is not always up to you. Bite your tongue. Support. Let the responsible figure it out.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

6/9/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I was never one to forego a purpose. There is a meaning to life, after all - must be. So hard to find, of course. No matter, once found, it must be latched onto like a lifeboat. It is what I did, devoted myself to my meaning, my purpose.
Art is a purpose, in a way. News are a purpose. I am not going to pretend, however, that it is so ultimate and necessary to my life.

I have found a meaning in others, helping and reminding and guiding. It was my purpose from the day I was born, now I know. Though I may have signed away at a later age, I was always destined for, well, at least something like this. My happiness, I truly believe, comes from the happiness of others. It is only through my actions bringing the well-being of others that I can truly bring forth my purpose.

Meaning, of course, is not a one-time goal. It is not something you achieve easily and then die happily. It is eternal. It encompasses your life. It guides your every step. It follows you throughout, it is something you must adhere to, and something that you do adhere to, without even realizing it. It is the work of destiny that brings forth your decisions. We may be free to create our own, yes, but still we act towards this very purpose.

For one, I am very content with my purpose. I embrace it. I live and love for it.

For another, I am so terribly sorry, dear Rebeka.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XV
Casing the Remains
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Fires was a fool to leave me alive. Now I can wreck it's plans.
I remember what Vaughan said to me. Clarabelle was in love with the Orphanage, because of a Moon-Miser.
The moon-miser... Was my endgame- is my endgame.

I stroll through Spite, and see the remains of an old building. The Orphanage itself.
No one was left alive, but the Special Constables remain alert. Time to be one with the shadows.

A plan forms, in the back of my mind. But for ethics' sake, I must cash in favors.

The urchins are willing to spread my good name through the Flit. Now I can analyze the Orphanage from all angles, with the help of some escapees.
This opportunity is mine, and mine alone.

An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 15!
Casing shows your progress in the venture.
You've lost 1* Favors:Urchins(new total 0)
You now have 1*Favors:Criminals



------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

A Rubbery Lack of Artform

Through an anonymous, trustworthy source, news of the Rubberies living on Flute Street have reached the ears of our Gazette’s reporters. Most important for us, of course, was the art - though what we have found was surprising.

There are, of course, past experiences with Rubberies as artists, albeit under the supervision of a human. They are joyous and yearnful musicians, ecstatic to express themselves, yet in the depths under London, where Flute Street and its residents exist, there is an alarming lack of art.

Truly, despite the beauty of the amber streets, the Rubberies seem to not have any way of expression of their own. A few theories we have are, of course: oppression, lack of imagination, fear.

Further investigation is required, and shall be reported upon.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it right to feel this way? Is it not indulgence in itself?
Special

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Special,
Do not be afraid of your feelings. Examine them further. There is truth to be found among the grain. Indulgence need not be incorrect. Remember your calling.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
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Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 53

6/16/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Nothing lasts forever. Things come to an end. It is the natural way of things. Life, death. Creation, destruction. Beginning, end.
It has been an immense pleasure to publish Letters from the Surface, all the way until the story’s completion - today. We bid farewell to this tale, though, most hopefully, not to Sir Wensleydale, the author.

Though we are sad to see the story go, we are eager to work with Sir Wensleydale in further endeavours, new stories, open reaches. The story had truly been a beacon of light for the Gazette, and, hopefully, fun and an inspiration for our readers.

Without further ado, let us commence this week’s edition.

Still, you have been a beacon of light for this small paper. To many great stories to come, to inspiration, to art.


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XVI
Penning a Letter
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I wrote a letter, up to one of England's colonies. It went like this:

"To Anyone This Concerns-
London is a hub of intrigues. All scandals that you hear of are true. People go mad in pursuit of knowledge. The Empress has lost most legal power, and her replacements have plots against each other. Many speak of revolution, but said revolution is worse for the common man.
It is also an opportunity for wealth. My venture down here has become more of a permanent residence, and I have been in pursuit of a diamond that is not a diamond. Art is also flourishing.
Write to the papers! Tell them stories of the Fallen city of London, and it's predecessors! And yes, it has predecessors!

Professor Wensleydale of Hardwick"

Persuasive has not increased from 200.
Making Waves has increased to 25!
You've gained 10*Influence(new total 43)
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 50- Master of Communications!
An occurrence! Your "Spider in the Web" quality is now 1-Honest!
A Defender of Truth is increasing...
An occurrence! Suspicion is now 15- Imprisoned!
An occurrence! Scandal is now 15- UNTHINKABLE!


The papers devoured this letter. Constables from the surface began showing up. I'd seen this intrigue through.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

A Celebrated Artist of the Surface Arrives in London This October

In the latest piece of art news, we have a tasty treat for loves of music, especially violins. A celebrated violinist of the surface, certain V______ M__ shall arrive to our very London this mid-October to grace us with her wonderous music.

We know, of course, that the lady cannot stick around for long. Her all-round trip shall take only a day, a few hours of which will be dedicated to her performance. Do make sure to grab your tickets, London....

...but, of course, just that wouldn’t do for our Gazette! We are giving out tickets to front seats in a contest of sorts. The details can be found in the middle-page spread.

Besides seats, a stand-in area shall be open to the public - once again, courtesy of our very Gazette! We had to pull some strings to make it happen, London, we are sure you will appreciate.


---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What if I lose her?
Denial

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Denial,
Place your trust in the right place.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/16/2019

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link




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