Still Trapped by Scandal in the Tomb-Colonies

Greetings friends.[li]

Since I am still haplessly and, seemingly without recourse, exiled in the Tomb Colonies I am reduced to smuggling my good wishes to you all via tramp steamer.

Carpe diem! As for me, a profound and unsettling boredom reigns.

Yours in solidarity

It’s a most unfortunate circumstance, but creating another thread here won’t resolve it, I’m afraid - bugs can only be addressed through the bug report system at

It’s not my intention to seek resolution here (I have submitted bug reports as yet to no avail). Since for the time being I can no longer play I am attempting to role play the situation… that’s all.

If you can make a game out of not being able to play a game, you’ll never be bored! In that case, I daresay there’d be worse ways to get things started than with an account of the dead folks you’ve met and how their lack of life has changed their lifestyle!

You may wish to have this sent to Mr. Pages’ Fabularities. We’re sure he’d enjoy reading of your tales of endless scandal as much as the rest of us, though he might not admit it.

We apologize for the rating. We didn’t realize this was an attempt at roleplaying when we made our vote.
edited by Snowskeeper on 1/20/2014

EDIT: Our. Not out. Our. We apologize once more.[li]
edited by Snowskeeper on 1/20/2014

Think on the bright side: imagine how high your Connected: Tomb-Colonies will be when you are rescued!

Sterling idea; I’ve moved the thread over so that its purpose is more clear!

Dear Mr. Snopes,

I write to let you know that your plight in the Tomb-Colonies has become a cause celèbre among certain individuals of compassionate alignment (a handful, in this city, as it were) and that we wish you the very best in making the memory of London’s moralists more pliable.

Although principally concerned with the struggles of the Seekers - though not condoning such a foolish lifestyle and choice, which has consistently been shown to lead to extraordinary rates of suicide, social debasement, ingestion of inedibles, fits of anomia, transmission of Seeking to innocents, betrayal, and many other unwholesome habits - we of the Damnation Army are willing to send you a little “care package” to remind you of the London that awaits you, and not of that which has shunned you.

We understand that shipping certain things to the Tomb-Colonies might be easier than others, and as such we cannot properly provide you with edibles (the focus of the Damnation Army and its charities) and might be restricted to sending you an assortment of miscellania that have been left with us.

Please reply with the address of your current residence in the colonies and allow for some time, and we will see to it that your exile doesn’t become as dour as to leave you in bandages as well.

Nathanael S. Wells esq., acting on behalf of the Damnation Army.


As wished, I kept a watchful eye on your front door, postbox, back door, personal club armchair & your favoured seat in the Mandrake (and moreso, the one in the Medusa’s Head… I took the liberty to erase the little carvings in the wood with a heavy Steinkrug and a small hatchet while the landlord was distracted, frankly not without tracing them beforehand using a piece of charcoal & my trusty newspaper. We may have to discuss this later. Much, much later, since):

I very much advise you to extend your stay in calmer & healthier pastures (crypts? necropoleis? tombs?).

Your door and &quotterrace&quot front is still marked by the most vicious of grafitti, not all of which can be directly looked at lacking protectional equipment. The neighbours are awakened at the most inconvenient of times by the banging noise of judicial citations, challenges to duels, love letters that I think are of a sarcastic persuasion and, worst by far, invoices being nailed onto your doors & shuttered windows. Your postbox was nailed, soldered & cemented shut after the steady stream of boxed rats and spiders resulted in the formation of rat city-states, spider spires, miniature-scale war, enslavement of the spiders under a monarchic rat empire and finally in a series of spider/rat cavalry raids on nearby orphanages and butcher shops. I personally dumped a few sticks of L.B. dynamite into the postbox before the constables sealed it. I can’t forget the tiny inhuman screams. (and I don’t want to, despite being offered quite a handy sum in exchange!)

A supposed cat told the Gazette some rather indiscreet details regarding your &quotbloody rants&quot at the Duchess’ salons. One of your maids ran away to become a pirate queen. A person claiming to be your butler sold your table silver to a known & often-hired murderer. An unprobably named orphan down the corner to M----- Street shows the cueball that was involved to anybody willing to pay a penny or a moonpearl. A Pair of Spanish spies uses your name to sign their code-letters, which, due to their near-legendary incompetence in turn lead to a new, slightly unfortunate slang-vocable: &quotto do the snopes&quot. I will spare you its meaning.

Three Young Stags, one Constable and two Devils tried to gain access to the secret compartment in your armchair at the club. I sternly reprimanded all of them, except for the devils, which I thoroughly drubbed. I still haven’t regained my knuckle hair or the ability to sleep without being slowly smouldered by spontaneous bedfires, but the Bishop of S-------- granted me a curt nod. Maybe you should direct a letter or two at him. And maybe I should drag that chair upstairs into the &quotbillard&quot &quotroom&quot, where nobody ungentlemanly or unprepared dares to venture, but I suspect the secret compartment to contain a gunpowder trap, a highly volatile lead slab or a medium-sized monkey with a scimitar. Probably it’s some combination of the above.

I hope I could sway you to not hasten your return. The state of affairs does not warrant the much-deserved warm welcome. And don’t they have very picturesque chapels in the tomb colonies? And wartime stories aplenty? And duels every even hour? Day and night and day?

The London weather is horrible too, my old, non-suspicious albino surface friend on a visit is quite literally sweating to death. Or figuratively? Well, I’ll leave the intricacies of the English language— to the English.

Yours most humbly&truly
Hr. H.d.Glas
edited by HinterDemGlas on 1/21/2014