Melancholy is raising…
Mr. Abominable Lacreman survived 18 visits of Time the Healer, losing a total of 2365 Noman’s Friend, close to the expected average of 2392.
It still had 690 Noman’s Friend left, so it would have melted spontaneously on May 30th.
It was built with more than 52k€ of resources plus an inordinate amount of actions.
And today, Mr Lacreman was consumed at De Gustibus, and will be remembered as long as Lord Bolo has a drop of Cider in his Firkin.
Thanks to everyone who shared this year-round adventure!
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R.I.P. Jorge Sinclair, who fulfilled his lifelong dream of surviving to enjoy the festival of Whitsun. Memories of a Doubled Spring are all that remains of him. I’ve updated my melt rate tracker and other stats earlier in this thread for future reference, but I also wrote up a sendoff for Jorge (which I’ve sent out in-game to my contacts in this thread who were also going for a Doubled Spring this year). It was hard to fit a proper sendoff into Fallen London’s 1400-character message limit, but here it is:
"You receive an invitation to a sendoff party for Jorge Sinclair, a noman who has not much longer to live. His progenitor James has rented out all of Caligula’s. Despite the sombre occasion, the atmosphere is jovial, with mushroom bunting, candles, and a scrumptious feast. Jorge greets you warmly. His suit is wet, small puddles collect beneath him wherever he goes, and his handshake leaves your hand damp and smelling of lacre. At the center of the room sits a large Scarlet Egg, warm with embryonic life.
While you dine, Jorge regales you (and the egg) with stories since emerging from the lacre-pools beneath the Bazaar: exploring ruins in the Forgotten Quarter, climbing St Fiacre’s Cathedral, leaping across the rooftops of the Flit. He whispers of heists, raucous revels, drifting down canals bubbling with poison, battling pirates on the black zee, and unearthing long-buried treasures. He speaks of voyages through Parabola, Apocryphal worlds in the Stacks, and caring for newly-hatched children of Whitsun.
In a few scant months, Jorge has lived more than most do in long decades. As the hour grows late, you bid Jorge farewell. His face is already distorted from melting, his hands losing their shape. “Farewell, friend,” he whispers, voice slurred and wet. “Live life to the fullest, every precious second.” You know you will not see Jorge again, but his stories will remain with you."
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