A Rather Amusing Thought

Fallen London
1

Or: The Instantaneous Nature of Changing Clothes; The Phantom of the Soiree; What Would You Do To Correct the Rubbery Entrepreneur’s Table Habits?


The scene is Veilgarden: an unobjectionable address, where a party is being thrown with all the usual suspects: The Jovial Contrarian; the Brass Ambassador (a goat-demon this time, for whatever inconceivable reason); the Turkish Girl; the Rubbery Entrepreneur; and of course, one Nameless Sensation who seems to be all the rage these days.

The time is dinner. The Jovial Contrarian’s about to go at the Whiskered Admiral’s overly-tight throat, as is usual. The Brass Ambassador is struggling to keep its drink from burning the tablecloth, as is usual (with goat-demon ambassadors at least.) The Nameless Sensation has disappeared, to powder their nose (or so they say; although this is also as usual).

It’s about this time the Rubbery Entrepreneur does it again: it fumbles its spoon, grasps its other spoon by the wrong end, and is perilously close to inflicting bodily harm on itself with its steak-knife. This is also as usual.

And, as usual, a hand bolts out from behind it to catch the spoon, point the steak knife away from it, reverse the other spoon, and adjust its napkin for good measure. This goes unnoticed by all the others, for various reasons; most of the more notable party members are busy with the food, or each other. Only a single butler notices as a glass of mushroom wine is plucked from the air in front of him without spilling so much as a drop. This is as usual, of course; the masked, exceedingly shady character behind the Entrepreneur is as much a fixture of the party as the Entrepreneur itself.

The Nameless Sensation returns from powdering their nose only once dinner has long passed. The Turkish Girl gives only a passing glance, the Jovial Contrarian and the Whiskered Admiral make a show of welcoming them back, the Brass Ambassador gives a grand, mildly flirtatious bleat. The Rubbery Entrepreneur says nothing, of course. As is usual.

I put next to no effort into this and wrote it only as a semi-descriptive portrayal of the unusual nature of items in London. Have you ever become the Phantom of the Soiree just for that extra edge in assisting the Rubbery Entrepreneur? Have you ever quaffed some Tinctures of Vigor moments after you had already died, or Laudanum after you’re already en route to the Royal Beth? Take a moment next time to think about what’s actually happening-- how your character is changing clothes, using consumables, or using a poisoned umbrella to catch a cat.

2

Oh, that’s easy. You leave the cap on the poison tip, to prevent accidents, then catch the cat in either the crook of the handle, or, if it’s moving particularly quickly, in the open canopy.

3

His signet ring is Late Malebolgean, a gift from a dear Embassy friend and his sole remaining vanity; he kisses it for luck and raps the door-knocker smartly. Over the years, his outfits have saddened from olive to sepia to black, until he could stand in for an undertaker’s mute. He is always going to a funeral nowadays: the never-ending funeral of good taste.

When the Amanuensis sees them on the street, most of London’s Notables are dressed unexceptionally, at least for the Neath. To his misfortune, he has a keen memory and the things these people get up to in private audience rise to mind quite unbidden. A lecturer’s gown and a meat-covered hat. Anarchist’s sable and a Snuffer’s mask; we will assume that both are forgeries. I observe that your wife is an ambulant squid, so three points for effort. Ah, you mistake me – those are for her.

They expect him to be staggered by these extravagances. Worse, they sometimes expect him to be titillated; the lady whose attempted flirtation involved chelatic mittens will haunt him all his days. There’s no respite. Dock their Notability and they redouble their efforts. Improve it, and they think they must be getting somewhere, and add hobbies. Or pets. That detestable business with the owl…still, there’s always Bottled Oblivion. An abyssal headache and a tendency to forget one’s own name are acceptable side-effects.

He hears eager padding footsteps approach the porch from the inside and prays silently to Hell that this time, there won’t be Lenguals. It’s true that if you dust your palms with colophony, wax your cuffs, and keep your handshake level, hardly any inquisitive drool slips down your wrist at all. But surely, no career should force a fellow to know this. Or that it can’t have been a real owl in that parlour because –

No. No!

– owls don’t unfasten like that, with –

He recovers himself just as the door opens. He is a servant of the Embassy. Hell itself has no terrors for him, and its insignia gleams gallantly on his finger. This evening will be fortunate. There will be no owl.

– a noisome little click.

4

[quote=Reused NPC]Or: The Instantaneous Nature of Changing Clothes; The Phantom of the Soiree; What Would You Do To Correct the Rubbery Entrepreneur’s Table Habits?


The scene is Veilgarden: an unobjectionable address, where a party is being thrown with all the usual suspects: The Jovial Contrarian; the Brass Ambassador (a goat-demon this time, for whatever inconceivable reason); the Turkish Girl; the Rubbery Entrepreneur; and of course, one Nameless Sensation who seems to be all the rage these days.

The time is dinner. The Jovial Contrarian’s about to go at the Whiskered Admiral’s overly-tight throat, as is usual. The Brass Ambassador is struggling to keep its drink from burning the tablecloth, as is usual (with goat-demon ambassadors at least.) The Nameless Sensation has disappeared, to powder their nose (or so they say; although this is also as usual).

It’s about this time the Rubbery Entrepreneur does it again: it fumbles its spoon, grasps its other spoon by the wrong end, and is perilously close to inflicting bodily harm on itself with its steak-knife. This is also as usual.

And, as usual, a hand bolts out from behind it to catch the spoon, point the steak knife away from it, reverse the other spoon, and adjust its napkin for good measure. This goes unnoticed by all the others, for various reasons; most of the more notable party members are busy with the food, or each other. Only a single butler notices as a glass of mushroom wine is plucked from the air in front of him without spilling so much as a drop. This is as usual, of course; the masked, exceedingly shady character behind the Entrepreneur is as much a fixture of the party as the Entrepreneur itself.

The Nameless Sensation returns from powdering their nose only once dinner has long passed. The Turkish Girl gives only a passing glance, the Jovial Contrarian and the Whiskered Admiral make a show of welcoming them back, the Brass Ambassador gives a grand, mildly flirtatious bleat. The Rubbery Entrepreneur says nothing, of course. As is usual.

I put next to no effort into this and wrote it only as a semi-descriptive portrayal of the unusual nature of items in London. Have you ever become the Phantom of the Soiree just for that extra edge in assisting the Rubbery Entrepreneur? Have you ever quaffed some Tinctures of Vigor moments after you had already died, or Laudanum after you’re already en route to the Royal Beth? Take a moment next time to think about what’s actually happening-- how your character is changing clothes, using consumables, or using a poisoned umbrella to catch a cat.[/quote]

I’ve certainly changed clothes in the middle of a burglary to enhance my Dread and proceed without discovery. You’re right, it’s kind of strange that the game software permits that. Though I’ve often been glad that it does!

5

Bravo! I have wondered about that feature, particularly at that exact soiree. Ah well. C’est la vie!