A Place in the Country

It is a wonder that a Person of Some Importance in the city would not also have a place in the country. What mad new stories could arise, were one to rusticate in the hinterlands …

I already have a place in the country: It’s a lair in the marshes. London falling down to the Neath has meant there’s a lack of country to be had. We have mushrooms, swamps, and rock. That’s about it.

I would adore a country home, where I could be named Jack! Either a villa on Polythreme, or a cottage on Hunters Keep, or perhaps a ramshackle house on the moor-like Prickfinger Wastes! A country home is where one doesn’t need good taste, and is free to be onesself!

We may not have a great deal of countryside, but we most certainly have an excess of earth. Indicates the cavern ceiling with a pointed glance. Stalactite apartment, anyone?

At some point we’ll have a governorship of a colony on the Elder continent, or something like that?

A stalactite apartment would be amazing. With my very own dirigible to get to it!

Across the far Unterzee, to the NORTH perhaps … and what new characters might we encounter there? The Gin-Soaked Huntsman. The Impecunious Farmer. Perhaps a country-house staffed by a Starchy Butler, a Resentful Cook, and a Flippant Valet. And far off there, I do declare – was that the tail of a fox disappearing around that stile? Why are there no foxes in the City?

When I first came to Fallen London, I had a Stalactite apartment. It was somewhat less thrilling than I had hoped, so I left as quickly as I could. While I try to not look back, on occasion large burly men dressed in blue, whom I suspect to be Irish, convince me to give it another go for a time. But invariably I give it a token chance and then make my way back to one of my other, vastly superior, lodgings.