What brings you to the neath? (backstory & goals)

[shadejackrabbit]

Name: Tall Hare of the Long Shadows
Nickname: Shade the Jack Rabbit

Background: A father from somewhere in Africa, a mother from somewhere in Central America. Who were they? Nothing else is known. The orphanage took the baby shortly after they got involved in &quotsome business&quot and have been out of the picture ever since. Shunted between boarding schools and churches, he grew up among the English, few to trust and few to rely on.

At age 12, he was sent to the headmaster’s office for &quotcausing distress&quot when he pointed out spelling mistakes in their copy of the bible. At age 16, he got in a fight with a drunk which landed them both in a cell. At age 21, he talked his way into a job at a pub in Glasgow. At age 24, he met a beautiful woman. Milky skin, strawberry hair, and a notebook under her arm at all times. Some sort of “journalist.” It was love at first sight, or so they say. More accurately, she drew him to her, like a spider weaving a spiral web, enchanting him with stories and news before it even hit the paper. She would stay far into the night, always the last to leave the bar.

Something about Tall Hare fascinated one of the regulars. A man named Candlewick. Maybe it was the way Tall Hair kept track of what everyone was drinking. Maybe it was the way he juggled his lady-friend and the bar patrons. Maybe it was the way he seemed to guess what people wanted before they even asked.

Tall Hair was living in small upstairs apartment, third floor, last room. It was small, and dark, but he didn’t need much. Though as the time passed, he realized slowly he did need something. Tall Hare and The Strawberry Woman were building a deep relationship, and he realized he needed it. The first deep relationship of his life.

When Candlewick asked Tall Hair about his plans, Tall Hair didn’t know what to say. Candlewick asked if he wanted to marry her. Tall Hair laughed, paused, then said he’d think about it. A year later, he had saved up enough money. He bought an emerald ring from a foreign woman, a trader from eastern europe who sold jewelry, the sort you would wear casually. With the last of his courage, as the bar closed one night, he asked the woman to marry him.

There were rumours going around. About a man named “Jack” who was carving people up. Deaths were occuring in the area, but Tall Hare and The Strawberry Woman were getting their own theory. It couldn’t be the real Jack. Some of the murders were of men, and the pattern was hard to follow.

A wave of emptiness washed over Tall Hare when he found her body. The Strawberry Woman, lying in her own blood. He couldn’t look at the wound which killed her, nor could he look away. It felt like an hour passed as he waited, hoping he was in a dream. As he slowly woke to his senses, realizing how real her death was, he stumbled over to her writing desk. He flipped the top up, pulling out the case notes. On the top was a fresh one. And a name. A name as sharp as the knife that must’ve killed her. Candlewick. And Candle was crossed out with a scathing replacement.

He dropped the page. And there, below, was another. A paragraph was claiming that “the killer seems to be fleeing. The killings are moving further and further to former London, directly to the supposed entrance to the ‘Neath.” London, and the ‘Neath, were circled in a red ink. The killer was in London.

He stumbled back to her body. He pulled the ring from his pocket, kneeling beside her. “Will you marry me?” He listened, waiting for a response. She couldn’t make one. He closed his eyes, nodding. He slipped it onto her hand. With nothing left, he sat in the corner and cried until the sun came up. With the rising sun, he slipped from her room, out the window, and stumbled towards London. He shaved his head by a river at midnight. He left his belongings at his place, and consigned all his possessions back to the orphanage that raised him. He arrived in the ‘Neath with only his clothes on his back, and scars in his heart.

He’s been chasing killers of love ever since.

[li]

[magnoliaprismall]

&quotLet us be quite clear about one thing: Magnolia Prismall is not a criminal. Waking up in New Newgate Prison means nothing; it’s only a prison if it is not where one intended to be. Ms. Prismall travelled to Fallen London with the intent of learning its secrets. She is a scientist and an investigator, pursuing the Truth at all costs. New Newgate Prison is clearly the central gateway to the surface; why else would every single individual in Fallen London pass through it on their first trip to the Neath? Ms. Prismall entered of her own accord in a quest to sound out the mysteries of the Fifth City, and given the reluctance of the Constables to allow tour groups, Your Honor, attracting their suspicions was my client’s only option.&quot

Ms. Magnolia Prismall is what is euphemistically referred to as ‘a lady of a certain age’. It’s possible she was attractive in her youth, but no amount of beauty could compensate for the severe twist of grey hair and the grim cast to her lips. Steel-rimmed lenses, scuffed boots, and a faded man’s morning suit with a variety of esoteric tools erupting from the pockets complete the picture of a woman who is interested less in society than in Truth.

The truth is that the Fifth City tends to be harsh and unforgiving. So is Ms. Prismall.

[othernaut]

&quotThe only reason you would have come to me is if you had a question.&quot The cynical detective tents her fingers under her lips, smoke curling from the burning stub held between the index and rudest fingers. &quotIf the question truly concerned mine own origins, you would have not brought it to me directly. It is a commonly accepted fact that no human creature is capable of honesty when discussing their own selves, regardless of intent. I do not yet count myself apart from that number. However, mine is a living earned through providing answers, and if this is an answer you are willing to pay for, then I suppose you can be humored.&quot She opens the bindle as if she is dissecting a particularly virulent corpse, and accounts the contents with with meticulous measure. When her black eyes, actually black, settle upwards again, they bear a newer and more ravenous glint. &quotAcceptable. We shall begin.&quot

&quotI make no secret of my humble origins. I am a woman of the northern Colonies, and I lack entirely for noble blood and landed aspirations. We survived on haphazard trade, and I was one child of nine. I experienced a poor and wretched youth, utterly lacking in any sort of interest. I only discovered my brother’s deeper arrangements when they conspired to kill him. I have yet to discover the reason why. The mystery tickles like a rotten tooth. I came here on the wings of that answer. It has yet been the only one that evades me. I have discovered, since, a particular aptitude with answers. Labor as a consulting detective was natural to me. I appreciate that people bring me their mysteries. It saves labor.&quot She takes a mouthful of acrid smoke, scenting the book-dizzy room with thick blue breath.

&quotDo not take my profession to mean that I associate only with scions of the Law. Constables deal only with those criminal conundrums which are sloppy enough to leave evidence, and other confusions occur by the second. I had often joked, before my descent, that my only goal in life was to know everything - joked, because it was impossible. ‘Everything’ changes with every instant, burying the destroyed past and creating new futures from the past’s own gravesoil. How can one know the height of all the waves? The motions of all the stars? Impossible. But in my time here, riding the back of that initial mystery, I have met numerous impossibilities. I have a… a very strong suspicion, let us say, that my omniscience is not only possible, but inevitable.&quot

&quotSome people call me callous, true. The majority of slander laments my lack of moral character, as if alms and sympathy were a thing to be expected. It is true, I spend much of my time in the company of foul devils and depraved novelists. I have never denied this. I am also frequently employed by said devils and novelists, as the nature of their existence elicits continual disorder. In the undulations of chaos, I will find my trillion answers - I am assured of this fact. I have detected in modern months a lack of the frantic, the emotional - I have detected a detachment from the passions which had defined my initial fratricidal inquiry. Yet, I do retain my soul, when many more ‘moral’ creatures have sold it for alms - and have met many passionate lovers of mankind as they beg for clemency at their trials.&quot

&quotI have but one goal: to know everything. Everything. I will forewarn you that this cannot be corrupted, and better folk have tried. I will not sell my soul nor my service in the name of anything but the Answers. And to that, my soul already belongs.&quot

Her payment disappears somewhere locked and unseen. Her dark eyes still eclipse you, even as the rest of her face fails utterly to provide an expression. She is not just watching you, she is absorbing you, and it is impossible to tell what details she retains in the scuffs on your clothes; your scars; the gentlest twitch of your eyelids.

&quotIs there anything else you want to know?&quot

[lordhattie]

The Tale of William Masters, the Weeping Lord

William Masters, otherwise known as Lord Masters or The Weeping Lord, was recently recorded by journalists giving his life story at one of the Veilgarden pubs. Masters, who has been an on-again-off-again staple of Fallen London society, has been known for his melancholy outlook, which manifests itself in his poetry and literature.

“You ask me for my story? I thought everyone in the Neath had heard it by this point, but very well. Go, find all those who are yet to hear it, for I am loathe to tell it more often than required.”

“Are we ready to begin? As you may know, my name is William Masters. Some of you I have met, others I have to cross paths with, and some I shall never see again. And yet, you are about to learn of me, and why I find myself in the Veilgarden, regaling my tale to those who have asked for it. On the surface, I was a member of the nobility. Indeed, my title may not mean much down in Fallen London, but up there, it meant much. I spent my youth, a good thirty years ago now, travelling primarily in the subcontinent of India. I can remember where I was when I heard the news of the Fall, about to go tiger hunting with the son of the local Maharaja. But I digress. It was in India, amongst the meetings of other travellers from the Heart of the Empire, that I met my wife, my darling Harriet.”

“We fell very much in love, and in less than six months, we had returned to England and got married. My Harriet and I were happy together. We lived a blessed life, and we thought it would never end. Indeed, it was only a year after our marriage that we received the news that my darling wife was pregnant with a daughter. We celebrated, threw parties, and were known on the surface from Ely to Edinburgh as two of the brightest souls on this earth.”

“But fate did not hold happiness in our cards for very long. It was with a cruel irony that with the birth of my darling daughter, Annabelle, my fair wife passed away. I can only pride myself on that I never blamed my daughter for her mother’s death. No, it was fate that took my wife away from me and our daughter. But I digress. Without her mother, I was left with the responsibility of raising my daughter, and I raised her well. She was not only taught those subjects that women of her age need to know, but also those that would prove useful no matter where she went. Languages, philosophy, economics, even the inner workings of Parliament, all these were imparted to my daughter.”

“It was on her 19th birthday that my daughter announced that she had found a suitor. Much like her parents, it was not long before she and her fellow were engaged. The boy was nice, polite and respectful. I came to love him like a son, and his parents like my siblings. But my love and trust were misplaced. On the night before my daughter’s wedding, I heard a scream from her room. I rushed as fast as I can, bashing down the locked door. It was there that I saw the bastard, her own fiancée, standing over her dead body, knife in hand, covered in blood. He jumped out of the window, onto an awaiting horse, and try as I might I was unable to follow him, but I knew where he had gone. He, like so many others, had fled to this pit.”

“It has been three years since I followed The Bastard down here, and I have been hunting him ever since. Now, damnable vultures, leave me to my drink. This story has stirred up memories that I would rather have been let lie, and I must now mourn my lost wife and daughter. GO!”

[It was at this point that Lord Masters went to the bar, bought the most alcoholic bottles of wine he could afford, and left the pub for his lodgings. I, as well as several other journalists and general hangers-on followed him, but we dispersed after fifteen minutes of him screaming out the window for us to let him have some peace, followed by a couple of gunshots.]

[zeinka]

Zeinka Annette Dobry, nice to meet ya!

My Mother and Father are Moravian immigrants, who settled on the surface and had me, and three brothers, which is why I'm more accustomed to... Local things.

Being of foreign descent, you would expect me to come from a poor family, when in truth it was just the opposite.... Well, opposite maybe stretches things a bit far, but my father's trade- the gentle art of skillfully acquiring things in the ODDEST of places- kept a decent amount of food and comfort in our lives.

My mother and I were never particularly close, but I loved my father very deeply, and took to learning his trade at an early age, practicing on the pockets of others. Oh! Don't get me wrong! That's not ALL I learned; I can read, and write, and cook, and I am fairly good with managing my own money without my father's trade at all! As a matter of fact, that's why I LEFT the surface. Too many things that happened at once. My father had died, my mother was pushing me to marry before I found love, there was a man who had been interested in pursuing me I did NOT fancy, and I had stepped into adulthood.

So I left the surface, hoping to start things anew, with a clean slate... But as MY luck would have it; I had to use my skills to get on my feet after a... Strange coincidence. Now; I take my trade to the streets in my father's footsteps. Looking for pay, food, love, tales of adventure, and the lot!


Not at all what I had planned, but I wouldn't have it any other way!

[li]

[dismallyoriented]

My name is Teresa Lin, but it’s not a name I keep willingly.

If not for fate, I’d forge myself a better title. But if I got what I wanted, I likely wouldn’t have been caught here to begin with. My family is far, far away, and think me dead. Considering how my mother had been kidnapped and conscripted into, ah, a less than pleasant business for a young woman and birthed me in an opium den, I might have been better off that way.

If I’ve any memories of London before the Fall, they are hazy opium filled dreams. My early days during the Fall were not much clearer. Certainly more desperate and disoriented, as the den I’d lived in had been destroyed and I’d lost my mother in the chaos. The Urchins raised me afterward, taking me to the Flit and other haunts. But I wasn’t cut out for that kind of life–though I certainly had incentive to steal, as I hadn’t escaped the den unscathed by addiction, I was almost always caught during my shadowy escapades. I became a liability to the Urchins, especially as an adolescent, and they cast me out after I sold their secrets for a bottle of laudanum. My subsequent time in New Newgate cured that affliction, and though I did indulge in honey during my first days in Veilgarden, I have since kept clean. I indulge through healthier methods.

My stockpiles? Only for profit, I swear.

I’ve since carved a life for myself. It’s not bad. Far from it, actually. The Fifth City is rife with things to do and find. Perhaps I may find myself prone to nightmares and scandal, but I’ve many connections among many people–including the Urchins who gave me sanctuary. There are two especially, that I’ve had the privilege of knowing and aiding after my escape from prison.

I’ve an eye on the Shuttered Palace and the Bazaar. If there’s something worth enjoying, I will pursue it ardently.

If you’re ever in Veilgarden, do stop by. Especially if you’ve got a pack of cards–I need the practice.

[aquilagarotting]

&quotIf you know me at all, it’s by the name Aquila Garotting. I came to the Neath in pursuit of secrets, and of one truth in particular. But in the meantime, I make my living on whispers and conspiracy.

&quotOn the surface, I was a green grocer, born of green grocers in a little, anonymous English village. Not a particularly glamorous life, I know, but I’ve never been one to draw attention to myself. Much better to trade vegetables and a friendly face for gossip. At first, I was satisfied to know the scandals and the mysteries of my little town. As time wore on, however, my neighbors began to bore me. You can only listen to so many tales of cuckolding and shoplifting before it all begins to sound the same. Only the new vicar, with her avid obsession for the Neath, piqued my interest. I befriended her, tucking extra apples into her bag for news and tell of London and its devils. One thing lead to another, and suddenly I had my own secrets to keep. Let’s just say . . . my vicar’s tea is very good. In that time, she continued to share the fruits of her curiosity with me, and when she vanished, I alone knew where she’d likely gone.

&quotThus it was I came down to know the fate of my peculiar vicar and in doing so stumbled on a dark world of delicious intrigue. Of course my goal remains the same, but if now or then I become distracted by the secrets of the Neath, well, can you blame me?&quot

[johnvazquez]

When the beautiful woman came into my office and asked me for help to catch her brother’s murderer, all my instincts told me not to accept the case. My speciality had always been insurance fraud and fake antiques scams, not chasing murderous villains throughout Europe. But my client looked desperate and I was the only detective in Seville able to speak English fluently. I suppose I have to mention here my weakness for the “damsel in distress” type, which has put me through so many troubles, both on the Surface and in the Neath; and obviously, if you are a watchful reader, the reason that brought me here.
Let’s make a long story short. I have published enough pieces of fiction now to know that you can keep your audience enticed for so long. I heard in Liverpool dock tavern that the man I had been chasing for months was a prisoner in New Newgate, and even though the idea of going into such a God forsaken place as Fallen London terrified me, I had been brought up to never back up from my duty, not matter what. My honor was too valuable, my word a sacred vow.
I managed to get myself arrested and taken to that dreadful prison, but when I arrived there, I found out the man I was looking for had already been released. Apparently, being a murderer does not grant you a long term sentence in the Fifth City.
I eventually escaped and found myself at the place they called Ladybones Road now. Somehow, I knew was here for the long run, so I started making a living as a local enquirer, running errands and collecting secrets for the local people. A few weeks later I was able to track my prey and knowing that handing him to the authorities for a crime on the Surface was pointless, I killed him; I knew it was not for good, but that was enough to fulfill my contractual obligations. As for the lady who sent me after him, I wrote to her, letting her know that I was unable to get my payment and asking in return to tell my parents that I would not be back in my homeland any time soon.
Many things have happened since that day. I had been a private detective, a minot poet, a watcher for the constables and now I find myself as a Chronicler for a Geographical Society called the Dilmun Club. There are many stories I could tell of adventures in the Neath, but this will suffice for today.
Oh sorry, just one more thing. One day, I will see the Surface again. I do not know when, but I will happen. I have all the time in the world to figure out how.

[johnvazquez]

I have recently received a letter from a friend. She asked me to publish it here, as a testimony of the injustices that happen both at the Surface and the Neath. I would keep her name anonymous, but for the fact that she names herself in the letter.
So, without any more delay, I will proceed to write the story of Black Alice.
&quotI was born and raised in the slums of Liverpool. Well, to be honest, raised is not the right word. Let’s say I just grew up. My mother had spent her days swimming in cheap gin and her nights in bed with legions of cheap sailors since the day my dad had died in a work accident. My older brother was the only one who would take care of me, bringing me some food any time he was able to nick some coins.
At the age of 6 I started working as a chimney sweeper. That is how I earned my nickname: Black Alice. The pay was utter rubbish, but sometimes I could use the chimneys as a way into a house, and then open the main door for my brother and his gang. As you can imagine, not only the chimneys were cleaned.
When I grew up I had to find other ways to earn a living. I knew I did not want to end up as my mum, or so many other young girls, serving the appetites of dockmen and sailors, so I became a pickpocket. I also hung around with my brother’s gang, engaging in footpadry, burglary and any other profitable businesses we could find.
My whole life changed the day I met Mr Thursday, much, much more, that I would had never expected. At first he seemed a normal gentleman, elegantly dressed, as I treated him as such: trying to get my hand into his purse. But he was a watchful man, indeed, and he grabbed my wrist before I could take it off his pocket. I was scared he would call the constables, but instead of that he looked at me, smiled and ask me why I have tried to steal form him.
Mr Thursday was no gentleman. He was a union organizer, a follower of the anarchist doctrines and a shadow revolutionary. He taught me to read, everything I know about Proudhon, Bakunin and so many other great thinkers, and the reason why there is injustice in this world. And soon enough I was one of his shadow operatives, stealing documents, meeting with contacts, and engaging in acts of sabotage.
Until one day, a Special Constable got a scent of me. I could not stay in Liverpool anymore, so I packed the few possessions I had and, without even saying goodbye to my brother, I went to London.
“Why London?” you might ask. Because I foolishly thought I would be never chased so far. Actually I was, but I managed to break the copper’s head when he cornered me. He did not die, but that taught him a lesson; and he realized that, anyhow, he could not bring me back, or go back himself, to the Surface, so he gave up. He is a constable for the Masters now, and we find ourselves face to face more than I would like.
My first months in the Fifth City were not too different from my days at Liverpool, except that there was no sun, which actually made things easier. I associated myself with toughs and criminals at first, until my skills caught the eye of the local revolutionaries.
Yes, I am not afraid to tell everyone who listens that I endorse the overthrowing of the Masters. They have exerted their corrupting power for too long, and created a misery as never seen in the cities of men; just have a look around the twisted place they euphemistically call The Orphanage in Spite, and you will have no option but to agree with me. But they are not the only responsible ones: greedy financiers, corrupt politicians, dictatorial cops. They will all fall as well.
They cannot touch me know. Not openly, at least. I have been a thief and a thug, but I am a respectable woman now. I run an orphanage, a real one that takes care of urchins in search of an education and a future. And I campaign for equality and the rights of all denizens of the Neath. My days as a terrorist are behind me. Mostly.&quot
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Black~Alice[li]
edited by John Vazquez on 2/26/2014

[snowskeeper]

What do the huddled masses say about S.F.?

They say they lost his memory long ago, and that loss was what prompted theirobsession with secrets.
They say they are the master of one of the largest crime-rings and spy networks in London.
They say that their most notable enforcer, an Adrian Than, is a Devil with filed teeth–that’s why he wears that eye-concealing mask.
They say they are responsible, directly or indirectly, for the death of hundreds of people, and the permanent death of dozens.
They say they no longer leaves their home–that they have been made infirm, somehow.
They say they never had a home–that they aren’t an adult, but an urchin, and that’s why no-one can catch them.
They say they have contacts in every walk of society, and that they even visit some of them personally.
They say they are a shade–invisible and intangible, until the moment they choose to be otherwise.
They say they’re Jack-of-Smiles.
They say they seek a way to step out of time, so that they can watch every instant and know every truth.
They say they have seen the Nadir and bled in Parabola.
They say they are a one-time Prince of Hell.
They say they are prominent among Rubbery Men, Tomb Colonists, Devils and Society. They say that out of those, only the Devils know who they are.
They say they associate closely with the Masters, particularly Mr. Fires.
They say they are looking for one secret in particular–a great secret, but an empty one.
They say they don’t exist.

They say many things.
Some are even true.
edited by Snowskeeper on 11/29/2014

[mrgriffon]

&quotMy name? Well, the real one’s hardly important. Nobody down here to recognize it. For now, just call me Griffon.&quot

&quotI’m a native Londoner, though I was very young on the night of the Fall. Dreadful experience, I have to say, though I tried to make the best of it. Took a while to get used to the dark, though. Regardless, I spent most of my formative years here in the Neath, although with whom and where I’d prefer not to disclose. Let’s just say it was far from the grandest of birthplaces and leave it at that.&quot

&quotMy twentieth birthday was the day I truly stepped out into the world. I was working as a courier, and lo and behold I was asked to make a peculiar delivery to a chap in the tomb colonies by a rather rude Revolutionary. Correspondence Plaques, wrought from brass and wrapped in leather, I recall. Happy to finally be leaving the slum of my birth, I boarded a steamer and was off across the Unterzee…only for the ship to be sunk by a load of mad zealots from the Iron Republic, stranding me at zee. They even stole my package, the louts. I finally made landfall at the colonies, but by then I was so haggard they thought me a new resident instead of a visitor. I spent nearly a year wrapped in linen before I was able to get back to London, and by then I was so used to it that I’ve taken to wrapping myself in silk just out of habit.&quot

&quotHowever, in my time in the colonies, I became fascinated by the nature of the colonists themselves. What force could possibly be so powerful as to animate these wretches? What could have the strength to bring a near end to death? I was spurred on by tales of journeys to places like far-flung Polythreme, or expeditions into the untamed wilds of the Elder Continent. By the time I returned to London, my desire to explore had become so strong as to influence me to try and stow away aboard an airship that I believed bound for the Carnelian Cost. Alas, I had misunderstood the dirigible schedule, and instead found myself at the loading dock of New Newgate. It didn’t exactly take long for me to end up in a cell myself.&quot

&quotOf course, I escaped. It was a truly massive jailbreak, too. Hundreds of folk must’ve ditched their cells and boarded dirigibles headed for London. No doubt the Masters have decided to leave them be-too many to round up and all. I was lucky enough to make it to Veilgarden, and now months later here I stand, wealthy, equipped, ready to plumb the Neath for all it’s worth!&quot
[li]

[williamthemarshal]

&quotWilliam the Marshal doesn’t talk about his past, much.&quot
The hooded and masked figure in front of you nods his thanks as you lean forward and top up his wineglass.
&quotBut down here, there’s not much you can’t find out… for the right price.&quot His voice has changed. You think that he’s smiling, or perhaps smirking. &quotThis is what I’ve found out.&quot
&quotThe Marshal is young - not more than twenty-five. He was born in a city somewhere on the Continent, though he sounds like an Englishman. Grew up a homeless urchin, running the streets with a gang of others like him. One of them was a girl, about eight years younger than him. He always took special care of her, like she was a sister, or a daughter, if you take my meaning. Probably not related at all, of course, but he sort of adopted her. Then she died - some say a tragic accident, some say murder - and he ran off, joined the army. Or maybe several armies. That’s why they call him &quotthe Marshal&quot - although he wasn’t one. Commissioned an officer at least once anywhere he went, apparently, and he picked up a few medals, too, but he kept being court-martialed and broken, or discharged. Eventually something happened that was too big for him - treason, maybe, or espionage - and he had to come down here to escape the noose. No one knows quite what it is he wants. I’ve heard he’s looking for revenge on the man who killed his foster-daughter. Some say he’s looking for redemption, or love, or greatness; some say he just wants a good time. A few have told me he’s trying to go out in style, although I wouldn’t put too much credence in that. I think mostly he wants what everyone wants. To survive.&quot
You thank the shadowy figure and toss him his payment. He weighs the fat sack in one hand before standing up and bowing courteously.
&quotThanks for the payment - and the curiosity. I’m quite flattered, actually. That doesn’t mean I won’t break your head if you try to follow me, though. Good day.&quot
You sit flabbergasted as the Marshal finishes his wine and walks out of the Singing Mandrake.[li]
edited by William the Marshal on 5/21/2014

[rackenhammer]

&quotWiggins, would you be as so kind to bring two-no, three bottles of Greyfields? I expect that this will take some time.&quot

The gentleman in front of you relaxes somewhat in his posture, but the focus of his eyes does not waver. They are captivating as well as shrewd, these eyes, well suited to a man who charms secrets out of people for his daily bread.
The urchin he’s sent for the wine returns, the sardonic expression of the native Londoner never leaving his face. &quot’At’s for you, mister Smith.&quot
&quotPsmith, Wiggins. Do try to pronounce the silent P, will you?&quot You’d heard about this minor particularity, it was one of the old music-hall jokes by now. Why he insisted upon this name would actually be a good place to start your questions.

&quotWell, Smith’s the family name, you know. I wanted to distinguish myself from the rather mundane background of my ancestry, and Smythe just seems too obvious an evasion. So, I went the route of the silent letter. My family didn’t think much of me; I had enough to live on without work if I wasn’t too particular about luxury, but the simple life of obscurity wasn’t for me! No, sir, I want the most out of life! I thrive upon experience, any kind, which brought me early into the French Romantic school, on the surface. I count it as a point of honor that I never refused a commission nor an impulse, and I stuck my nose anywhere I thought would yield some interesting smells!&quot

&quotWell, well, that has a tendency to get one in trouble, you know. Nothing really serious, of course, just a mix-up between treacherous revolutionary literature and a smashing good parody, if I say so myself. Ah, but has not your greatest novelist said, ‘The law is an ass?’ Well, I decided to give being a fugitive a go, and one thing led to another, and I found myself in the most unique prison in all the world!&quot

&quotAfter the trifling matter of breaking out, well, it was just too good an opportunity to pass up. The city is absolutely full of delights, one lifetime couldn’t possibly take them all in!&quot He looks over to you, slightly surprised at the look on your face. &quotWere you expecting something else? Some grand scheme? No, I am one of nature’s dabbler’s and meddlers. If it makes for a good write-up afterwards, I’m happy.&quot

The evening progresses, and the bottles slowly empty. Mathieu Psmith is a charming fellow, but over the course of the meal he grows more and more quiet, and a touch of sadness enters his eyes. When the last drop is drained, he sends his hired boy to bed, before speaking in a low tone. &quotThey don’t come back. The urchins, I mean. Have you ever seen a young tomb-colonist? There’s dead men walking the streets, but dead boys and girls seem to stay dead. Have you ever noticed that? No one else seems to care… But I do.&quot He looks at you with the careful steadiness of the drunk. &quotI’ve done rotten things. That business with the model… I wish I had the courage to be true there. The comtessa still gives me nightmares. But children… it is too much. I think the Bazaar’s trying to do something rotten with them, and they’re making as game an attempt as they can to get around it. I will help where I can, whatever else I do.&quot

[lazarustrafalgar]

Good day, ladies and gents. I am Lazarus Trafalgar of the Endless Worlds, explorer of dreams. I have come to these hallowed streets to seek mysteries and pursue truth, beyond all means. There are many intriguing individuals, many well defined parties. I have come to find these shadow draped roads rather exciting, and endearing, too.

I hail from far up north, in Canada, full of snow and trees and upon trees. Though I have very greatly fallen in love with these surroundings, my heart aches for trees’ solemn embrace. That being said, I have explored to this area in pursuit of a grander and more picaresque life, to replace the monotony and homogenity of my closest companions.Such as is, the grandeur and atmosphere of the environment have fostered peace in my melancholy. I have heard tell of many secrets beyond human’s immediate comprehension, and seek to discover surreal and fantastic events. I cannot say my past life has been very exciting, though I believe my passion and drive towards equality - of all forms (I hope to find out more about the Rubbery Men, as I have found much needless discrimination)- will more than make up for it.

I have been rather intrapersonal until late, prone to compulsions and the like. The devils are very keen in that department, I’m afraid. In saying this, I have an ambivalence concerning the soul trade. For those who willingly sell their soul for profit in any regard, it is unfair to be condemn them based on my own preconceptions. However, there is the impermanence and interconnectedness that exists in and within energy and souls, and I live to explore the fringes of human ability and the unconscious.

I do love the pleasures of the aesthetic and the perverse, though too much has led to rather isolated relationships, or a complete lack thereof. I hope to meet many interested, eccentric, and individualized characters along these cobblestone streets.

I have recently become a journalist, though the pursuit of truth is ever eternal, ever transitory. I am accruing goods and services to set it up, though they have been rather expensive, as of late. Rather ironically, my taste of dreams and exploration has not made me the better for accumulating nostalgia.

I am highly interested to speak of philosophy and the social sciences to anyone who would be willing to join for a spot of intellectualizing, and a cup of tea to salivate palettes and minds alike. I make quality tea, my own recipes. To anyone who finds solace in herbs and experimenting, give me a holler, and we can swap recipes.

[harry_pierce]

The man currently talking, well perhaps talking is the wrong word… The man currently pontificating (much better) at those around him did not look particularly strange. His clothes were clearly once fine but now were covered in dirt, dust and a number of stains whose origins were perhaps better left unknown. He wore a large and rather fancy wide brimmed hat, in an equally dilapidated state with a rather sad looking feather now drooping over one side. Clearly upon the surface he had been a man of at least some mild form of note but down here in the Neath… Well, he was just another honey addled, wine soaked haunter of the depths of fallen London, who could say what had laid him so low?

Well as a matter of fact he could, and was in the middle of a somewhat drunken and most certainly very loud description of (his version of rather) the events that had led him down into the gloriously terrifying depths of the Neath. No amount of wine or honey could quite hide the accent that he spoke with; it was a strongly refined accent, all the twangs and drawls of one who had been brought up with a bit too much money and far, far too little common sense. &quotI am… Well I was certainly, I suppose I still am, what they called a gentleman scholar back on the surface. Spent my days discovering the unknown, partaking in local customs and what not. Rather enjoyed it. Even got a few books out don’t you know.&quot the gentleman coughed, briefly and reached for his glass of wine, his fingers wrapping around the stem of the glass clumsily as he took a generous sip, spilling more than a little of the red liquid down his chin before he continued, his voice faltering slightly as he tried to re-capture the train of conversation. &quotWhere was I… Where wa- AH! yes, of course.&quot with his sudden inspiration he made a rather wild gesture with his arm, sending wine spraying towards a nearby table &quotWell you see, I had my travels before, Europe, Asia, the Americas, seeking out the past and trying more than a few well erhm… Local delicacies shall we say, Excellent for digesting information don’t you know. But well some people take offense so very easily… And well there was some terrible rumours, completely unsubstantiated of course and those small minded fools of so called high society began to shun me. It became so bad that I was quite unable to do anything in peace.&quot


He shook his head in a slow exaggerated manner, causing the feather in his hat to bob sadly in sympathy &quotSad really. But thankfully my cousin was rather generous and still loyal. ‘Harry’ he said 'Harry, you know I have heard wondrous rumours of the Neath, such secrets down there Harry, among other delights.&quot A smile crossed Harry’s lips as he swayed slowly in place, attempting to take a drink from his empty wine glass and frowning, abandoning the vessel upon the table before continuing &quotAnd so here I am, enjoying the wonderful delights of London and trying to understand the secrets of this wonderfully cryptic land… hm… Perhaps it is time for another drink, yes? Or maybe some honey!&quot And with that Harry stumbled into the crowd towards the bar, and quite possibly the poor fellows he had just thrown wine over.

((OOC: as a side-note if anybody is interested in any sort of RP feel free to message me.))
edited by Harry_Pierce on 7/20/2014

[yurana]

“Well? What did you find out?” The young women, that had introduced herself as Lily, tried to conceal her eagerness, but did not succeed. On the other side of the table the detective made a great production of sorting his notes.

“Before I can go into any details, we have the matter of payment…”

“Yes, yes. I brought the jade as agreed. Now what did you find out?”

“Good. Good.” The detective was still shuffling his papers with a calm that seemed to agitate the young women opposite him even more. “Concerning one individual going by the name of Myko, current residence Spite, lodgings above of ‘Mr. Martour’s Most Splendid Fiction and Toys’. Have you ever been there? They have the sweetest stuffed bats you’ll find in all of London.”

“Could you please, get on? My time is limited.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Well, as you probably know most things about the individual in question are rather mysterious, right down to the question of their gender. And I’m afraid I could not shed any light on that particular issue. I have however found out some rumours about their life before coming to the Neath. The most persistent is that our friend is in fact the progeny of some royal family, on the wrong side of the sheets though. Which royal family is less clear.”

“I knew that already. Is there any truth to it?”

“Hard to say. In my personal opinion, that seems unlikely. This Myko character seems entirely to mixed up with the revolutionaries, for such a thing to be true. This sounds more like something our friend made up. Making themselves interesting, when they first came here. Pff.”

“What else?”

“There is the matter of the daughter.”

“Daughter?”

“Yes, she is dead apparently. They say she died on the surface. Now Myko is out for revenge and this is what they came here for. This seems far more likely than this whole royal bastard story… heh! Royal bastard.” The detective looked rather pleased with himself. Eventually he started to look through his papers again. “Other than that, they seem to dabble in the Great Game quite a bit recently, though nothing too notable. They do seem to have a knack for not being seen, if they don’t want to be.” Silence stretched trough the dingy, dark office.

“Is that all, you could find?” the woman asked with a pinched expression on her face.

“There is an aunt, that has recently shown up down here. But she doesn’t really seem to be an aunt.“ The detective shrugged. “They seem to like the urchins.”

“Myko or the aunt?”

“Both.”

The women sighed. “That is all very well, but there has to be more. There has to be. I was so sure this Myko would know something. That they would be important.”

“Important to whom? What would they know?” The eyes of the detective narrowed.

“It … it doesn’t matter.” The women calling herself Lily stood abruptly. “You have certainly not been of any help. You have given me nothing but rumours and things I already know. I refuse to pay!”

“Wait, wait, wait. I put time into this. It’s not my fault when you already know so much about the target, I can’t tell you anything new. … And I warn you. I have friends.”

“Very well, half of what we agreed upon, no more.” The women dropped a small purse in the table in front of the detective, then spun around and fled the office before the detective could say another world.

After a while, Myko picked up the purse and looked inside. Not at all a wasted afternoon, they thought. They had not expected to get away with it quiet this easily. And getting paid for it, too. That was surprising. After all the point of this little diversion had been to spread some rumours and half truths, throwing some very dangerous people of Myko’s track. Not scamming an unsuspecting young woman out of her fortune. And the question why this “Lily” was looking for them still had not been answered. She seemed rather innocent, overpaying people for services not rendered. She was new to the Neath that much was clear. Maybe she needed someone to look out for her, whenever an eye could be spared.

[cairenetyrell]

Years ago, Cairene Tyrell was part of a small group of students who, thoroughly bored with the inevitable mundanity stretching for years in front of them after graduation, had gotten wind of the fallen city and were determined to discover it for themselves. After nearly a year of secret meetings, copious amounts blessed wine, and a blood oath or two, the three of them- Joanna, Peter, and Cai herself- had laid down a plan.
In June 1891, Joanna, a year older and already graduated, set out early to London, with the intent of obtaining lodgings so that when the others finished out the semester, the three of them could begin their adventure.

She wrote faithfully for a month, telling stories about men with squids’ faces and a cozy apartment. When Cai and Peter reported that the pair of them might be delayed due to an illness Peter had contracted in the last week of classes, Joanna expressed regret but no sense of urgency.
Then, as Peter’s condition worsened, Joanna’s letters abruptly halted. In early August, Peter coughed his last bloodstained cough, and Cairene was left with nothing but two ferry tickets to London and an address scrawled in Joanna’s looping handwriting.

However, upon arrival in London, Cairene found the apartment completely destroyed. The neighbors, apparently, did not recall a young lady of Joanna’s description. Alone and heartbroken, Cairene contemplated returning home to her books and her university, but only briefly. She and her friends had sworn to find out as much as they could about this strange underground world, and damned if she wasn’t going to continue on with their quest.

In the year since, Cairene has begun to feel more at home here than she had ever felt on the surface, getting herself in to all sorts of fantastic trouble with the law, the Great Game, and the Vake. Still, she is certain that Joanna is here somewhere, and has no plans on giving up on finding her.
edited by CaireneTyrell on 8/8/2014

[macygrey]

Macy Grey grew up on the surface as a child in a travelling surface. Her mother - the carnival’s strong woman - was distant and stoic, but her childhood was full of laughter, colorful characters, and pleasant memories. In addition, it allowed her to hone her talents for agility. At nine, she began to perform as a circus acrobat. One year later, at age ten, she realized her talents aided her not only when performing; she took up pickpocketing audience members and reaping the rewards. She quickly grew to be a master thief in miniature, and a girl of charming demeanor, if a bit unruly and short-tempered. Greed became the permanent factor in her life, when both friendships and residency changed like the wind.

At twelve, her mother disappeared. The woman who commanded such respect was gone, and while she had been more demanding than compassionate, young Macy mourned. She disappeared more into herself, and her innocent mischief vanished as her knack for crime grew. Macy, still performing but without the vibrancy of youth, grew into a sharp and intelligent young woman. Fearless, despite being birdlike and fragile. But most of all, bold and manipulative underneath layers of hedonism and flirtation. Her morals became cost-efficient, but Macy had never grown up with expectations from society. She was an outsider to the genteel world through and through.

As a teenager, she befriended a fading music hall singer at a show, sipping information about the fallen city like wine. The stories of glim, fame, and complete moral ambiguity completely entranced her. But above all else, she remembered the diamond the size of a cow. It lingered in her mind for the next few years, as performance became more and more tedious and her family at the circus felt more and more strange. Her last tie above was severed as she received a letter from her distant friend, describing the wonders of the neath. The diamond remained!

In addition, there were rumors of a fearless tomb colonist by the name of Mrs. Abigail Grey. A woman who fought without mercy, despite the clutches of death, who had gained a troublesome reputation for violence. With two missions in mind, Macy, an unmarried vagrant and unvirtuous woman, left her home for the neath. But really, as she arrived, walking the Flit like the tightrope she grew up on, this dark London felt more her home than anything above had been.

[eatenbyagrue]

Murmurs and low voices were the first thing which awoken them. Now their head is filled with stories; secrets and scandal, rumors and risky feats. The madam had risen from the rags on the Surface, and came to the Neath to rise further than those womanly stations allowed. The scoundrel was once a lord but was disgraced, but only publicly; he had longed to bring those hypocrites down with him and enjoyed when they danced to his tune. This detective could tell your story from your breeches, and that zailor had once been a wretched lady of the evening.
The stories Leslie Miller would hear were all fabulous; they coveted any and all, perhaps more than the Neath would pay them in Echoes. But all Leslie Miller had, at first, was their name.

Their name, and a voice; &quotDon’t forget-&quot

But they had.

Later it would come, in drips and drabs. The poets and the street-musicians were the voices of their past lovers, in a time when they must have been far more whimsical. The furtive glances and whispered secrets from the Great Game’s players were of their rival’s, surprising themselves by their own ruthlessness.

They couldn’t be - that couldn’t be them. There were advantages here, being in the Neath. The horrific nightmares could have been what they did, or they could just be illusions cast from the false-moonlight. Leslie could see this as a new beginning.

… Certainly, things were not so easy. Between strangely calm dreams of bandaged tomb-dwellers and disturbing nightmares of a chilling wind, was a face to the voice. How could they forget Bertie? Yet his visage wasn’t so important as the feelings which came rushing with it - acceptance of them when their parents could not, encouragement when they were brought low, quiet empathy when their brash and youthful ventures brought painful lessons. Bertie was old enough that, while brother by blood, he was a father in practice.

Bertie could have been The Good Son, a model and hope which Leslie could never fill. Instead he supported them. Sheltered them. Helped them with disguises, with false names, with adventures and painful lessons. And they couldn’t remember why.

Perhaps, instead of escape, Leslie came down here for revenge. Was that more righteous than escape? Or more selfish?

The clergy were a surprising balm, a comforting sanctuary - when on the Surface, Leslie remembered nothing but judgment. No need for Sir or Madam; just &quotyoung Miller&quot, or perhaps even just &quotLeslie&quot. So close to Hell, down here, it might be that be that greater sins were more important than the supposed sin of who they simply were.

Leslie knew they were following some more dreadful villain, someone they couldn’t forgive. Despite the hollow eyes of the urchins, the furtive and desperate grasp of the criminals. Maybe that was what Bertie installed within them; that hidden flame which made them respond to every bobbie’s call.

And yet … joining the constables … it would seem the law favored the rich and privileged too, down in the Neath. There were the Clay Men, and trampled cats, and the bombs of so-called revolutionaries. Dreams of the Surface sometimes were indistinguishable from dreams of the present, and Leslie couldn’t help but feel the darkness sometimes. They remembered the famous detective of the Neath, addled with honey. Could they really blame him?

But then, a small grey cat whispered to them, during the early hours when such terrible visions wouldn’t let them rest, &quotWhat is done, is done.&quot
Dreams of the Surface were nightmares, but they were also something they longed for. Their parents, the laws of the past, tried to make them choose. Compromise. Be less than the sum of their parts. Bertie had said - &quotNever forget. There is more than one truth.&quot The world, above and below, held a multitude.

Leslie watches, listens, collects all of the secrets and stories they can hear. Their pen flies across the manuscript pages, to share both horrible and wonderful things. Anything they can do, in the Neath, to bring some light down here - a helping hand, a crime solved - they will do. Anything they can do, to forget the cruelties that existed which Leslie escaped from - and still found down here - they’ll put into manuscript.

And it may be their own story will never be magnificent, or notable. As it may be their story may be one of many small heroics, and sacrifices, and glimmers of hope.

There is more than one truth; many in the world.

[breckner]

Breckner was born, not under that name, on the Surface, to a minor colonial official and a wife he met in one of his several, ever-changing postings. When the child was an infant, she died, and the child was sent back to England to be raised by an aunt with whom the official was on cool-at-best terms. The monthly stipend improved the relationship materially, as did the fact that the child spent most of the year away at boarding school. The child and the aunt were also on terms that were cool-at-best. Much of what the aunt let slip implied that the official was a failure (not true) and that the child’s mother was neither English nor white (probably true, never verified) and no better than she should be (not true).

Then the official died. There was no pension; in fact, the Foreign Office seemed hard-put to remember they had ever employed such a person. Such things, they say, are all in the game.

The aunt and the child found work; the aunt as a paid companion, the child in the textile mills. In the mills, rumors abounded among the urchins, of the paradise of the 'Neath. Some of them ran away, and slipped down the Travertine Spire. And for a while, the Flit was paradise. The child was a Knotted Sock; the Fisher-Kings were an aspiration, but an unrealistic one, for one who joined the 'Neath already an adolescent.

On the eve of turning 18, a group of urchins stole a crate of leftover fireworks from the bizarre. An irrigo rocket went off in the face of one, who tumbled into the street, mazed and barely conscious. The explosion attracted the constables; the friends fled. The child went into New Newgate.

This span of time–months? years?–remains muddled and unclear ever after, but at some point the fallen urchin came under the protection and care of the Ragged Mendicant. A false eye was carved of moonpearl; the arts of secrecy and observation were transmitted.

Eventually, an escape; eventually, a bequest, in the shape of a pair of shiny shoes and some papers in a German name. The mask Breckner acquired personally.
edited by Breckner on 10/23/2014
edited by Breckner on 1/16/2015