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

[nuti]

Here come my two characters! (Chances are that I may tweak their backgrounds later as the RP proceeds.)

Lorelei Hale

Lorelei can be summed up into three words: narcissistic, hedonist, sex-maniac. If something bring pleasure to her, she does it. If something doesn’t, she doesn’t do it. If it brings or doesn’t bring pleasure to another person, whether she does it or not depends on whether or not it brings pleasure to her, too. While she keeps cultivating the words &quotlove&quot and &quotheart&quot in her speech, she doesn’t actually know the true meaning of love: to her it equals lust or needing someone’s offerings. She either wants a person or not. She either wants to use a person or not. She lies, makes empty promises, bargains, throws tantrums, all to get what she wants. And nothing bad is ever her fault.

Lorelei’s background isn’t entirely clear, but what is clear is that she desires the Neathy pleasures that the world can offer and eagerly wants to hoard them. What she claims as her background on the surface is this:

When Lorelei was a young girl on the brink of her womanhood, she was employed as a maid to a wealthy household. She lived all alone in the city, friendless, without family since her father had died when she had been young and mother had been an aggressive alcoholic. She had to gain living for herself. She, a poor creature.

The household she served in was in a marital crisis. A couple arranged together to enforce the status of the richer family and monetary situation of the nobler one, they did not feel affection. The wife was such a prude, Lorelei fondly explains, more interested in keeping of spotless hypocritical status as a fine lady and a goodmaker and holier than thou than devoting herself for the immense bodily hunger of her husband. So this naturally caused a tragic imbalance, and the husband had to seek love somewhere else.

He found food for his heart in the form of a budding young woman, melancholy in her eyes, unaware of her own rosy charm and innocent to the earthly pleasures. And so, so easy to lure. The man was smart enough to start it innocently. He first chatted with her and listened her tragic childhood. He offered gentle strokes to shoulder, firm holding hands, warm embraces… warm embraces that quickly started to heat up. He started to offer her different tasks for extra payment. A penny if she opened her blouse. Ten if she dropped her maid uniform on the floor and sat on his lap, and five more if he could caress her. Also, he could teach her such things that would make her forget her yelling mother forever – such heavy-handed pleasures. And besides, if she accepted to learn those pleasures, he could also buy her a necklace that would otherwise be available only to princesses, and take her to see an opera as if she was a count’s daughter. He set up a profitable game, and she wanted to play it. A pure flower had been tainted, with pleasure.

She became his dearest, most loved toy, dolled up with anything she wanted to ask in exchange of fulfilling her master’s fancies, some pleasing and some straight queer. But pressure surrounded them, a shadow loomed over the bed sheets. Their affair was a secret, and her master went to great lengths to hide the secret, even as far as removing her from the position of a maid and hiding her into a side chamber of his bedroom. To a young girl, it was a thrilling game… thrilling game with lavish prices… and the game that was often enjoyable to play. Even though her master had started to become dull…

But then it happened… a misunderstanding. Her master’s wed wife understood the situation so wrong and wanted to end it. And that was how Lorelei ended up to the prison. Unjustly. It was all his wife’s fault he had to break the innocence of a frail girl! Why wasn’t the wife in the jail? Thankfully, Lorelei managed to leave the rags and end up to Fallen London.

Nowadays, after her escape, Lorelei is seeking her former glory. It had not been easy, though, and she actually needs to work in order to have her wine and honey. She has looked for a satisfying relationship, but her attempts for now had turned out fruitless. In her ideal case, she would be a lover of a wealthy man and cherished for her capability to satisfy bodily needs, living in blatant luxury while offering only what pleased her anyway. For women like her, there could of course had been alternative career routes, but for now she has decided to concentrate on deeply bohemian literature. Prostitutes were prostitutes and treated as such, but if only her fame as an Author of Love Hunger would reach the ears of handsome stag with sizeable fortune, her way to bliss would open…

She thinks so. Genuinely.

Herlinda Smith

If someone described Herlinda as an item, she would be a sewing needle. Homely-looking, has a frequent use for improving things, but stinging and hurtful when handled carelessly.

Herlinda has gruff, bitter appearance, but also a good heart and iron-strong morals. She can’t bring herself for bringing malice to other people (unless she assumes it’s for the greater good or if someone SERIOUSLY makes her mad). On the other hand, she has little tolerance to cruelty from other people. While she can be persuasive in her own way, she doesn’t have really impressive people skills, and making friends is difficult to her. She has a feeling that the world is slowly drifting into darkness as people start to pursue their own interest while stomping the less fortunate under their shoes – and she wants to stop it.

Herlinda learned her trade and attention-paying skills from her detective aunt, who was also her adoptive mother. While her aunt didn’t make much money by her profession, she was willing to find evidence for those who could not hire slick-tongued lawyers. She didn’t do it for getting rich, but for helping to balance out the justice gap between the rich and the poor. Herlinda assisted her sharp aunt in her investigations and paper work.

However, not everyone approved Aunt Smith’s ambitions. One time, she crossed the border and had to face the consequences. It was an incident related to forged law documents, and Aunt Smith’s efforts led to disfavor of a certain society lady who could have benefitted from a choice of carefully changed words. This very lady could not allow that nosy detective to interfere her any longer.

Bang. Herlinda barely has memories of that time. But this had included her Aunt being shot between her eyes, the murder weapon ending up to Herlinda’s own hands, and her being dragged to a prison. Only very recently Herlinda had managed to make her way out… to Fallen London. Her Aunt and her fame gone, Herlinda had no way to seek her previous live. Instead, she carries her Aunt’s legacy… the will to straighten the wicked in this world. Hard-faced, bitter, Herlinda fights her way to support what she sees as just and right.

[frensus]

I don’t know if I can be as thorough as others, I am not the best at this!

Frensus

A man with a goal, and that goal is to reach the top. He doesn’t always know how to get there, and sometimes he makes a mistake or five, but he is an adventurous visionary. He’ll try anything once, and if it benefits his progress, he’ll do it again. When he heard of a jewel the size of a cow in the Neath, he had to get there to find it.

His real name is an absolute secret. Frensus is obviously a nonsense-name, plucked from the alphabet because it can be pronounced and for no other reason. His past is worthless to him, and everyone from it would be unnecessary baggage. No looking back, only forward.

He does not have any problems with harming others for gain, though he does not relish it. Doing what needs to be done to move forward is all that matters, and whether that means helping others or harming them, he’ll do it.

Allegiances are nothing more than a means to an end for him, he keeps his hands in everything he can, as he never knows where opportunity will arise, or what he’ll need to take advantage of it. He aims to become a Paramount Presence, though no one has achieved the position as far as he knows, nothing will deter him from trying.

Clara Rose


Clara is a dreamer, and a romantic. She drifted from one romance to another on the Surface, never settling. Men, women, and those between or beyond such labels shared her company and then found her drifting to the next person. This came to a stop, to a degree, when she heard tales of the Bazaar. The spires, the symbols, the mystery. She knew she had to see it, but her carelessness as a stowaway landed her in New Newgate before anything else. Her first view of the Bazaar was from above, and she found something more than romance within her, it was love. She resolved to escape prison, and find a way to be with the Bazaar always. Rumors of a certain card game caught her attention, and with determination and focus, things she never had before, she will obtain her Heart’s Desire.

Clara is a poet and artist at heart. She enjoys Veilgarden, and were she her old self, would certainly never leave. Her time there is spent in preparation for the work ahead. Though she loves the Bazaar, she still enjoys the company of others, and continues to woo anyone who catches her eye. Once she is united with the Bazaar though, she will leave her carefree romancing behind her.

Clara dislikes stealing, and avoids it whenever possible, though is absolutely necessary to her success she will take what she needs. She also fancies herself an amateur sleuth, and perhaps is better than she gives herself credit for. Some are surprised to discover she can hold her own in a fight. She doesn’t mind a bit of roughhousing, and enjoys hunting dangerous beasts for the thrill of the chase and the inspiration for her writing. Whenever possible, Clara will try to help others, even if it means inconveniencing herself. Her morals will bend if it means reaching the Bazaar’s heart, but they won’t break. Not yet at least.

She doesn’t know what to make of the Masters, she has not encountered them, but is concerned they may come between her and her beloved. Devils and Revolutionaries she dislikes. She needs her soul to bet on the game, according to rumors, and won’t risk it being taken from her. Revolutionaries she fears may harm the Bazaar, they are her enemies through and through.

---

Frensus was my starting character so he wasn’t made with backstory in mind, but Clara was concocted recently while trying to think of a character to play through Heart’s Desire. She is more fleshed out than the test run character who made arbitrary choices based on what I figured would be the most beneficial. Here’s hoping Clara can get her wish!

[aegis1000]

Ah, Aegis. Such a bitter past, which may explain his bitter present. Born on the surface, his exact birthplace remains shrouded in mystery, rumored to be somwhere in Asia. Regardless, he was born to a poor but dilligent and hardworking family, who spent their savings in giving him a good education, which allowed him to join the growing middle class, as a professor of social sciences. His irrepressibly curious nature led him to the search of secrets, and his ultimate undoing. To this day, he refuses to discuss what happened in the secret room of the British embassy in Berlin, but whatever he saw, it was his undoing. He found himself unemployed, homeless, and hunted by fortunately human assassins. He lost everything. All his friends, his status and money, his property, and even his identity and citizenship. And his beloved parents, found murdered in their little home. Still, his curiosity forced him to find the truth. And so he fled to the Neath, seeking safety, prosperity, and the truth, no matter what it takes. After a tough start, where those hunting him managed to frame him for a murder he did not commit, he has settled admirably into the darkness of the Neath, falling in with criminals, spies, and revolutionaries. His bitter history has made him hard, cold, and ruthless, the stereotypical ‘power in the shadows’, invisible, manipulative, and a nightmare for his enemies, as those hunting him soon found out. A devoted player in the Game, ‘Aegis’ waits in the shadows, for an opportunity. For what? Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever he saw, it made him despise the Masters. Whatever the reason, they don’t know it yet, and what they don’t know will hurt them…
edited by Aegis1000 on 11/7/2014

[waters-serenade]

His given human name was burnt up in the flames of his old home, along with his pregnant wife and crippled daughter. He watched as his life burnt away like the humanity of heroes thrown into fire. He called himself “Waters Serenade” and he knew where he needed to go. He grabbed what few possessions he had left and boarded the next train to where London used to stand. His descent was pleasant for the others, annoying for him but without incident. “Appearances should be maintained” he kept reminding himself. The bourgeois wretches of the surface speaking of how they were so interested in the strange wine and death’s reluctance that their underground contacts had spoken of. This man cared for none of them. He was interested in the letter he received telling him that his Enlightenment was located underground away from the poison of the stars. The man known as Waters Serenade would advance the Great Work with reverence, horror, and a smile. And the Cosmos of Lights and Laws shuddered.

[kylestien]

My tale is but a simple one, born out of a curiosity…

I had heard about the “Theft” of London, and on occasion a whisper from the surface would appear that sounded curious to me. With nothing tying me to the surface, I came down to the Neath. On my first day I saved a man about my age from a gang of hooligans. As it turns out, he was a major player in The Great Game, and we soon struck up a friendship. I took my part too in the playing of said game, but I had discovered a much different passion that I never thought would excite me - writing! I have wrought romantic tragedies, tales of a far off future, a ark tale of gothic romance, a epic poetic cycle, and a rather scathing allegorical satire. And all were fairly well received.

My ultimate goals? I know not yet.

[lazaroth]

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE WATCHFUL MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR, THE CHEESEMONGER STORYLET, AND THE DARK OF THE VOID/CONVERSATION ON THE LONG ROAD DESTINY STORYLET.

In a word: ambition. To those on the surface, I was a monster. It may be a shock to some of those born in the Neath, but the surface is not kind to those of us who do not conform to their… precepts about identity. And Biology, for that matter. There is a reason I wear this cloak.

I was born Abelard Jaeger (to confine it to this undersized alphabet) in the city of Berlin. The name I now keep comes from a game I played with my sole friend—one of few happy memories from that city—which was quite silly. I will only say that spoons were involved. As I neared adulthood, the contempt people had for me rose to the surface. My parents and friend, the only things protecting me, succumbed to what here is called consumption. I was driven from the city, and would have died if not for luck.

I wandered what most Fallen Londoners call the continent, scraping by in my own way. Eventually, in Paris, I met a man by the name of Lucien. Filled with booze and kind word, I told him my tale. Unlike others who has heard, Lucien was not terrified of me, ordriven to hate me. He saw opportunity. Lucien, you see, engaged in the Game for the French crown, and had for years. He saw in me an agent of untainted reputation here, but suited perfectly for this place because my own… biology would help me keep my wits about me when dealing with others like myself. That there were &quotothers like myself&quot at all proved to be quite a shock in and of itself.

A few days later, he returned. Not, as I had expected, with an angry mob. Rather, with another man. A Russian by the name of Adrik, with a jewelled ring on every finger of his left hand. Adrik had fled Russia when his family was… well, let us say that it was not pretty. He had inherited a fortune, the vast majority of which he had managed to smuggle into France. Lucien told me that he had been assigned Controller of the French Network in Fallen London. As I said, he saw me as a potentially useful agent, and Adrik had served under him for at least half a decade. I accepted. Nay, i damn near kissed Lucien’s feet. Here I was presented with an opportunity not only to earn my keep, but also to become Important. Notable, even.

It went well for a time. I was a courier, murderer, seducer, silencer, and more. In a word, I was a spy. I often worked with Adrik. What’s more, I joked with him. Laughed with him. Drank with him. Cried with him. And I damn near worshiped Lucien. He delivered me from the Surface into the Neath, where I could flourish. The three of us, together, were poised to take control of French intelligence, on the Surface and in the Neath, with Lucien at the helm and Adrik and I as his hands.

It all came crashing down when Adrik and another Frenchman, envious of Lucien, murdered him in cold blood. I was devestated. Adrik offered me a choice to join him, but I am no Traitor. He could nopt kill me, he was never much of a fighter, andhe couldn’t waste allies that were to kill when there were those who were far more dangerous to him, but he could pull strings. I was in New Newgate before the week was out.

In New Newgate, I learned just how weak I was. More Intelligent, more Beguiling, more Rugged, and more Charismatic than most people in London, yes. But that wasn’t saying much. None of them, however, ever broke out of New Newgate. It was here that I took up my alias, so as to trick Adrik into thinking that I was still imprisoned.

From here on, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. To kill Adrik, certainly, but that was far from a long term goal. Lucien had taught me to always prepare for the future. I stumbled, here, upon a strange old man—a benefactor, you might say—with a fascination with hell. He taught me how to survive, as I was. I haven’t seen him for a long time, but at least he did not journey to Hell, as he had planned. He would have been killed there, and I couldn’t stand that. Not after losing Lucien.

I did much after gaining my freedom, and I shall not bore you with the details, other than that Adrik had fallen off the map. Eventually, I heard tell of a mysterious individual known only as the Cheesemonger. With much effort, I tracked her down. I later learned that her name was Alice, and that players of the game had wronged her greatly too. She wanted revenge. She grew to trust me, and as my skills grew in her employ, I became ready. Half the Agents of the Game in Fallen London, and the Controllers of the French and Russian Spy Networks. Knowing that the Frenchman Adrik had allied with had taken up the French Network, I jumped at the chance. I laughed as the Cantigaster Venom struck the life from him forevermore.

The head of the Russian Network was a challenge, but he could not hide from me. I did not know his name going in, but I knew that he would die. When I came upon him, I was shocked to see an old face. It would seem that Adrik had fallen back into the arms of the Czar. Indeed, he claimed that Lucien’s death had been to earn himself a pardon for whatever it was he and his family had done to call down the Czar’s wrath in the first place. He begged, pleaded, called upon our past as peers. As allies. As friends. It was tempting, I will admit. To regain some measure of what I once had. In the end, though, I had given Alice my word, and I am no Traitor.

When I returned to Alice’s home, she was gone. I had grown attached to her, I will admit. I may have had a little too much to drink. Looking back, though, I see something that I did not at the time.The churning engines of the Surface’s spies could not be destroyed; where one was struck down, anotherwould son spring up. I… We had halted it. The whole of the Game, stood still in the wake of Alice’s planning and my handiwork. I hope that, wherever she is, she is happy.

At the time though, I was lost. I had still not planned beyond revenge, and while I had plenty of ongoing business, I had no drive anymore. So I went to see Madame Shoshana. I am a spider, apparently. But that night I dreamed like never before.

I saw the stars, te Masters with cloaks aside, a Judgement in its full splendor…

I look around me an see what I have made for myself. I have grown, and it is glorious. I shall continue to grow. I shall become the greatest.
edited by Lazaroth on 12/6/2014

[saravine]

&quotHello there fellow human, I’m Sharalin Veilin, i’m 23 years old, a science lover, and young lady. You wonder why I came to the Neath? Easy. Knowledge, power, immortality; and curiosity. I seek what only this sunless land so close to hell can bring me. I wish to preserve my existence, tell of what has happened in my small life span to a great many generations to come! … Har that’s a lie, well the curiosity part wasn’t. But, oh well!

Now, as for my back story… very interesting if I do say so myself. I come from France, Paris in fact. So I don’t rightly like any of the limey folks in the Neath, but they are very nice. I lived with three younger brothers and an older sister. My mother was a scientist like I aspire to be, my father was a Historian, a damnably good one too if I do say so myself! But, my mother died when I was young, I hardly remember her, poor flower.

I lived with them I was to be married off at the ripe age of 18, and who set this up? My wicked step mother! I hated, and still hate that hag with a passion. She married me off to some rich Russian bloke. I think his name was Caspian? He was handsome in looks; but good god he was the rudest fellow I’d ever met! He treated me like some baby making object! Threw me around, tossed me, and treated me like a decoration!

Ohoho I’d have none of that. So what did I do you ask? Now keep in mind up there, death is a brick wall, no going back. And I was NOT as good at stealth as I am now. But, I poisoned him, put rat poison in the bastards wine! Ha! Watched him writhe like a pig and honestly I think I am very good at evil laughs, huhuhu. But, after I killed the rich Russian, I had the servants dismember him and toss him in a pond, I stayed a widow in his home until I was 20; the servants were absolute sweethearts I must say, good cooks too!

But, how did I hear of the stolen London we live in now? Well I didn’t actually hear about it, I read something on it a newspaper article, apparently some lunatic ran through the main streets of Paris shrieking &quotThe Masters are Coming! We need to leave! We’ll be drug down to the Neath!&quot and waving a sword; crazy bastard.

Now being the curious thing I am, I did a little digging and found out about this stuff, apparently London hadn’t been the only city to just up and poof. There were… Oh wasn’t it four? I think so. But no matter, when I found out this information, I decided to see if I could get to London, so I gave my home to my sister, and split my fortune evenly among my siblings and myself; then packed my bags and went to find a way to the neath!

And here we are, siting in my parlour, sipping wine, and talking about this. Fascinating ain’t it? But that’s all the time I can spare m’dear, I’ve got studies to commence! Perhaps another time I’ll tell you about the Forgotten Quarter?&quot she smiled and stood, then leads you to the door; bids you farewell, and shuts it.

---

((TA-DDAAAAA))

[soran]

Soran: I was born into a particularly wealthy and pompous surface family. Growing up, I was always something of a blacksheep; most considered my scholarly inquiries either pointless or blasphemous, while my early artistic works - which were honestly quite pedestrian compared to my more recent output - were deemed disturbing. My relationship with my family only got worse as I moved into my teens, and my more… Recreational proclivities began to come to light. Things came to head when I turned seventeen; something particularly drastic happened; I’d rather not get into the specifics, but what’s important is that it started the downward spiral that led to my being disowned three years later. And, to be honest, as heartbreaking as the event that let to it was, walking out of my family home - finally free of their wretched name and my parents’ shadow - was one of the happiest days of my life. I even left my given name behind, choosing to call myself by a name I’d used for a character in one of the first stories I’d written as a child; Soran.

The years following that were not easy, but I managed. I eventually found my calling both as an artist and a freelance consulting detective. It was my work as a detective that really brought me into my own; in the course of a fairly routine investigation, I stumbled into something more dangerous than I’d anticipated. The next seven years of my life were spent fighting a private war against a particularly powerful criminal figure. I won, in the end; I never actually killed the individual I was battling, but their operation was effectively dismantled. Through all that struggle, I discovered strengths inside myself that I never knew I possessed, but even with my successes, I could never find anything to make me truly happy. I suppose that’s why I came to the Neath; to find my… &quotHeart’s desire.&quot I did not know precisely what my heart’s desire was at first - just that it was probably something worth having - but, now, I think I know; I wish to right the terrible wrong that was done during the event that led to my estrangement from my family, somehow…

Zero Hunt: Ooh, are we finally doing this? Fantastic! Well, back on the surface, I was one of the Hunt Brothers. Have you heard of us? Eh… Probably not, actually, but no matter! All you need to know is that me and my big brother Jason were the best around if you needed something particularly difficult or dangerous done. Spying, detecting, burglary, bounty-hunting, assassinating; we could do just about anything for the right price. I even dabbled in the arts on my own time, though not nearly as much I do these days. The two of us had code-names too; I was the &quotFox,&quot and Jason was the &quotHound.&quot You know; because our last name was Hunt? Those were my idea.

Before all that, well, I grew up in Bombay, which I suppose is pretty interesting, and I did have a fairly functional family there, with parents and whatnot. Then… Something happened, and now I don’t. I spent the half-a-decade or so after that running with anarchists and spies - learning how to kill things, mostly - before eventually reuniting with my brother to form our little super-duo. But… But, just like everything else, that couldn’t last. On our final job together, things went… Bad. Jason was killed. I was so distraught at the time that his murderer managed to escape, and I’ve been hunting that b****** ever since. That hunt has obviously led me down here. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I think I need to go drink myself into a mild coma for a bit; this got a bit stressful at the end.

Kasha Cairn: My turn to tell me life’s story, eh? Well, I’m sorry to say that I can’t get into too many specifics; telling you everything about my family and history would render all the pomp and mystery I’ve tried to cultivate quite worthless, wouldn’t it? What I can tell you is this; on the surface, I was the Magpie, one of the most influential people you’ve probably never heard of. I was at the head of one of the biggest networks of spies and criminals in the world, but at the same time, almost no one knew I even existed; that’s what made me so untouchable. At least, I was, until a particularly tenacious individual found out about me and managed to tear it all down. It was quite impressive work, really, and I’m willing to admit that it was all firmly my fault; I tried to let them go with a friendly warning - told them to walk away and forget everything they’d ever learned about the Magpie - but apparently that just made them mad. Funny, that.

As for what I’m doing down here, well, I’m just after a fresh start, you know? I suppose I’m also hoping to regain my fortune. Through quite thoroughly larcenous means, admittedly, but the then illegal work is still work, yeah?
edited by Soran on 1/5/2015

[solomonhusher]

Solomon grew up dirt poor, an urchin of the surface. All he knew was destitution, he had nothing. But he made himself some friends, a young girl. We needn’t remember her name. They roamed the streets together, stealing all that they were owed. Two villains, alone against the world! They stole for years, until they were teenagers. Perhaps Solomon fell in love with her. He’ll never say. But the girl had to leave. All she stole, she stole to give her sister a better life, one without an abusive drunkard of a father.She left abruptly, along with her sister, into the night.

Perhaps Solomon was heartbroken. It doesn’t matter now. As he grew older, he began to rule the streets with a silver tongue and a sharp eye. He dreamt of stealing enough money to live as a king, wealthy and with pleasure for the rest of his life,

But one day, he received a letter. A letter from his old flame, telling him where she had fled: The Neath. A wonderous land of riches, home to a new score. A jewel the size of a cow…

Solomon Husher is a man of pleasure and avarice. As his life was hard, he seeks to drown in luxury. He courts the devils and the masters, while trusting neither. He’s a hedonist, always putting himself first, but if you are lucky enough to make it to his close circle of friends, he’ll look out for you as well.

====================================================================
Marcus DeMorgan was a strong, humble man. He sought to live a good life, and die a good death. He married a good woman, and together they bore a beautiful baby girl. As they years went by, their little girl grew up, and Marcus was a proud father. She was his pride and joy, and it only hurt that much more when she was brutally murdered, and all the evidence pointed to him.

He had to run, leave his wife and family. No one would believe him, and he only had one place to go. A place where no light would touch your sins, a place where the earth hides her shames. A place where his daughters killer came from?

Marcus DeMorgan descended to Neath, determined to bring justice to this killer. He tries to be a good man, helping others. He tries to be a devout man, one who fears God. For surely God sent him here for a reason?

But if you stand between him and his vengeance, may God have mercy on your soul.
edited by Solomon Husher on 1/22/2015

[arol]

Arol

Arol doesn’t really say much about his family. The only family he ever mentions is a mother he left on the surface when he decided to head to London. The surface bored him the Neath sounded like a great change from what he was used to.

He isn’t human, even though he looks like one. He’s not really a he (or a she) either, but he prefers to be called “he.” He’s most likely some type of demon, though he isn’t a devil. It not something Arol advertises and most people believe he’s human.

Arol is mostly interested in other people’s pain, in the rending of their mind and soul. He doesn’t justify it beyond a deep desire to cause and experience the destruction of those around him. But he finds pain is best served after a long and twisted game of getting into a person’s good graces and stretching trust out until he can snap it like a twig. He will also sacrifice his game of pain if people have something he wants.

This game goes beyond playing with people’s emotions. Arol plays with their souls as well, which is why he aligns himself with Hell. He has a theory about the soul that doesn’t match what the devils have been telling people. He thinks the soul is not a conscience or spiritual counterpart, but the mind itself. When a devil or Spirifer takes a soul, they leave a tiny connection to it in the person’s body, otherwise said person would become a vegetable. They can control what parts stay connected, which is why different people seem to lose different parts of themselves when they lose their soul. Some people are granted full connection to their souls, even though they are no longer residing in their mortal bodies. The pain the soul/mind goes through is blocked off from the people, except some people can subconsciously experience it, which makes them experience painful emotions they can’t seem to place. And when they finally die permanently, their full awareness will go to where their soul/mind currently is, no longer protected by a connection to a mortal body.

Arol loves this theory and wants to not only torment souls, but torment people whose souls are still in their bodies. He sometimes kidnaps people (both human, clay and rubbery) and tortures them for fun, leaving their still living bodies out for their loved ones to find. This isn’t just physical torture, but mental as well. Arol rends their bodies in a slow and methodical fashion, removing limbs, eyes and tongue a little bit at a time, all while using carefully crafted chemicals to trick their minds and cruel manipulations to strip them of everything that makes them who they are. And while his ambition is using his Light Fingers, it is a cover ambition for his secondary more personal ambition to capture the Vake, not to kill like all those mindless heroes, but to torture, to see how much it would take to break such a legendary creature.

He spends a lot of times with devils and has even become a Spirifer to further advance his soul research. Still, he doesn’t see devils as evil enough to his tastes and mostly just uses them for his own purposes, though he is more aligned with them than any other faction. He even let several devils seduce him just for the fun of it, only finally selling his soul when he grew bored and wanted to sell it at least once to see what would happen.

Arol is quite the hedonist, so his goals are sometimes shadowed by indulgences in wine, food, pleasure and power. Still, he will rarely give up the chance to inflict pain or murder.

All this is hidden behind a façade that changes depending on who he’s dealing with. To Criminals, he’s cruel but loyal, to Bohemians, he’s poetic and warm hearted, to the Constables, he’s brave and filled with the fires of justice, to the Anarchists, he’s a truth seeker who wants to free London, to Society, he’s prim yet prone to scandal. To the Masters, he’s humble and a loyal servant. He’s everything to everyone, which makes him incredibly dangerous.

---

Amber Harwood

She fell in love and married a kind young man and they had a young daughter she named Katherine. Life continued on in an ordinary fashion for six years, until tragedy struck. Amanda was home alone with little Katherine, when several masked men broke in, carrying revolvers. They shot Katherine on the spot, straight through the head and beat Amanda into unconsciousness when she rushed at them.

Amanda woke to find herself in New Newgate Prison, down in the Neath. She managed to escape and found herself in London. This was not only her first time in a large city, it was her first time in the Neath, the strange world he had only heard rumors about.

Lost and confused, Amanda struggled on the streets, scrounging for food and shelter until she finally resorted to picking a pockets to get enough money to try and find another way to survive. She tried her hand a bit of everything, finding she enjoyed writing for commission the best. Still, Amanda had no connections or Neathly skills, so she had to learn the hard way how to navigate the dangers she faced. While never resorting to major crimes, Amanda still picked pockets from time to time but tried to maintain her morals for things that really mattered

As this was a whole new life, Amanda decided she needed a new name. She changed her name to Amber Harwood, Amber for the strange amber that people traded and Harwood after a prisoner she had met in New Newgate named Grace Harwood.

Amber heard rumors that her husband may also have been taken to the Neath, so she started a search for him, but the search was overshadowed by rumors that the men who murdered her daughter, including whoever had her killed, was somewhere in London. She decided to go down the rabbit hole to find them, even though Amber knew that the path to revenge may turn her into someone she’d later regret.

[solomonhusher]

Time to continue where I left off.

The Saint-Clair siblings. Sweet as honey. Deadly as a blade. They’re from an affluent, well off family. Perhaps that’s what made them what they are.

Bored. Always bored. Always looking for something to do. Something exciting. Something unusual.

Thats why Aria came down, you see. She’d heard of a card game. A game where you could win whatever you wanted. Your heart’s desire…

How could she pass that up? Why on earth would she stay on the surface, trapped and bound to her fathers will, resigned to be married off for the sake of the family? No. She would find a life of her own, down underneath the surface.

She had been under the surface for a scant few weeks when she found a courier’s letter, detailing something about her brother. Worried, she sent him a letter, letting him know where she had gone. And so he followed her down. Down to a land full of mystery, excitement, and danger.

What would he do down here? Whatever he wanted. Something exciting. Perhaps find some monster to kill.

[help I’m drowning in characters how do I stop]

[ladyeris]

I am Eris, the daughter of the Duke of R______. A sixth daughter when I should have been the much wanted son. My father named me Eris after the goddess of strife and discord and it is true that after my arrival there seemed to be a great deal of both. My childhood was… not happy. My parents made no secret of their resentment of me. My sisters tormented me. Any servant who showed me kindness was dismissed so before long, none did. A kitten I befriended was drowned on my father’s orders. So many petty cruelties.

And so, when kindness was finally offered to me, I was unguarded and I was unwise. I believed that I was loved at last, and I … you can guess the rest, I’m sure. I am not the first to be so foolish, and I doubt I shall be the last. But foolishness has a price - on the Surface, the only asset a lady possesses is her reputation, and without that I was nothing. Or so I was told. The little value I had to my family was gone, but by then I cared little for their valuation of me. Valuation would have been an apt word - I wished for more than to be traded away.

I was to be no commodity. And I was angry. Hell, it turns out, does lack the fury of a woman scorned and that fury was unleashed on my betrayer. That too, was unwise, but back then, I had not yet learned to think clearly, to bide my time, to plan. I did not wait to face the consequences of my rashness - I fled.

And so, the Neath. It suits me well. I have made friends - and enemies too, no doubt - and I have embraced all the Neath has to offer. I am well occupied. I began to pursue my heart’s desire - and no doubt I shall know it when I have found it. In the meantime, I have found happiness of a sort. And I have a great many kittens.
edited by Lady Eris on 1/27/2015
edited by Lady Eris on 1/27/2015
edited by Lady Eris on 1/30/2015

[wolsendryne]

&quotWolsen Dryne. Yeah, pleasure. I worked for the constab up on the surface, but I’m a bruiser at heart. Too rough for ‘em. I won’t play flowery word games with arse-wipe patrons, an’ I’ll give cut-throats an’ murderers what they got comin’. Left after I broke into another high-up’s house and burst his nose ‘cos he’d been on the take, turnin’ a blind eye to a filthy underground ring who traded in goods worse’n flesh. Wasn’t safe for me any more, an’ the good folk I knew turned their backs.

Would’ve been much worse for 'im if his wife didn’t keep a pistol by the bed. Lucky bastard.

You ask me, I reckons some faces need a kick in the teeth to speak straight. ‘ere in the Neath there are folk who understand that. There’s plenty work for someone who can chase down villains an’ grapple creatures o’ the night. I ain’t never been afraid o’ the dark, but I tell yer what: the dark fears me. One way or the other I’ll bring the light back where it’s needed most.

Anyway, enough blabberin’. Startin’ ta sound like one o’ them Veilgarden wastrels, pompin’ up my own arse. Unless yer ‘ere ta drink an’ drink hard we’ve no more business.&quot
edited by Wolsen Dryne on 3/2/2015

[percenila]

&quotWho could have expected this? My family was adventorus. A whole city, supposedly lost yet linked to the world. The mystery was enticing, and there were rumours of jewels. Without having a say in the matter, I went with my family of considerable size on a little boat trip to Avernus.&quot

&quotSomething blew up. I was asleep at the time. By the time I woke up, I was at New Newgate. Alone. And let no one say I did not try to search for them. I did so, twice, after I establish myself at Ladybones Road.&quot

&quotWell, good riddance to them. They were already making plans to wed me to a Rubbery Man, even back at Naples, because it is rich. They are not so bad, the Rubbery Men, in fact. But my uncle, my mother, my brothers, none of them truly cared. Their actions proved so. And with the Liber Visionis, I am now free.&quot

[freedomgeek]

Knowledge and immortality - mainly.

There are clearly many unknowns here in the neath. And the explanations for many other things are greatly lacking in scientific rigor. For instance what are these so called souls that devils pull out of people? I’m fairly confident these are not the seat of consciousness (far from confident enough to sell mine mind you - I’m not an idiot) but just what are they, what is their purpose and how did they come to be inside us? I have the feeling that the neath is the best place to find out. If not - well I’ve been very careful not to die and limit my options.

I’ve always been interested in immortality and living forever. The strange effect here in the neath is worthy of study and eventually replication of the surface. And improvement - death by old age is no better for instance. Death is a disease and I fully intend to cure it and spread my cure to all of mankind. That will in turn buy me the time I need to investigate a number of other interesting problems facing mankind. I’m not sure I can put much stock in it but I did once have a strange dream (vision?) about being on the brink of solving it in a decade or twos time once. But that was probably just my mind playing tricks on me.

[madifymarley]

My name is Madify Marley. If that name means anything to you, don’t show it. I may decide you are a threat.

On my twenty-first birthday I was bitten by a rat. The when I awoke in the morning, every hair on my body was gone. It has never regrown.

On the surface, I was a master thief and con man. I stole the unstealable, I bilked the unbilkable. I made many a powerful enemy and many a dodgy ally.

In the early days of my &quotcareer&quot, I aided a penniless though ambitious scullery maid who longed to be a Barrister- she gave me an invitation to a party hosted at the house of her Master, so I could walk right through the front door of an otherwise impenetrable manor-fortress. In return, when I cracked her Master’s safe, I kept the jewels inside, but gave her certain scandalous documents that would have spelled her Master’s doom had they bee published in the papers. I later heard that her Master, in an uncharacteristic display of charity, provided her with the funds to obtain her Barrister’s License.

What am I doing here in the Neath? It’s simple, really. As my skills - and my legend - grew, I began to accept jobs from certain interested parties to procure certain goods. Sometimes they were gems, sometimes gold, papers, daguerrotypes, the list goes on. I also dabbled in the Great Game. I was never caught, never failed a job. And while I never knew the names, faces, or positions of those who paid me, they paid well, and that was all that mattered.

This proved to be my undoing.

One gray Sunday morning I was sleeping in one of my many safe houses when a small army of uniformed police and ununiformed bruisers broke down my door. I never had a chance. I was arrested, beaten, and taken to prison, where I was held without charge, food, or human contact. My survival depended on drinking the foul water that dripped from a crack in the ceiling of my cell.

After three days of such sequestration a man, ordinary and forgettable in every conceivable way, came to my cell with several thugs armed with heavy chains and heavy sticks. The man explained that someone had spent a considerable sum to have me taken off of the board, as it were. He laid out what was in store for me- I was to be transferred to New Newgate, in the Neath, where I would be masked and manacled, and left inside for an indefinite amount of time. On the surface men were already spreading the news of my capture, and telling the tale of how I had turned on my fellow criminals - a very large lot of them - in a desperate bid for clemency and freedom, which was granted to me. To the criminals of the Surface, I was a squealer who had fled for some far off land. My reputation ruined, my freedom gone- yes, whoever this shadowy figure was, he or she had done a bang-up job of irreparably ruining my Surface career. I asked why this was happening. The man remained silent. I asked why not just kill me. The man would only say &quotthat isn’t the job&quot.

And so I was beaten unconscious, bound and blindfolded, and transported deep, deep underground, where I awakened in New Newgate. After several months I had recovered enough to walk, but the damage was done- my nimble fingers and silent tread were stiff and clumsy, and my confidence was shattered, taking my charm and charisma along with it. Even with theses obstacles I would be dam*ed if I would remain incarcerated for the remainder of my days, and I made my escape when I could.

Freshly free, I did not return to the Surface. There was nothing but death - and a permanent one, at that - waiting for me on the Surface. But down here, under the assumed name of Thatch Bowler, I was free to do as I pleased, to remake myself. I was nothing then. Of course now that I am somewhat important, my true name is becoming more commonly known among the players of the Neath, and my reputation is recovering from the slanderous staining it suffered. But I can’t go back to the Surface now. After all, Feducci killed me in a duel. I saw the Boatman. And now I can never return to the life that was taken from me.

[zhorgren]

&quotZhorgren’s his name…&quot Quoth intones.

&quotZhorgren’s a she!&quot interrupts Maggie.

The white raven and the black raven begin to peck at each other. Zhorgren does nothing, standing with a hunch that lies somewhere between that of a scholar and a thief. Zhorgren does not seem to act without at least one of the ravens on its shoulders whispering in its ear. Is it human? Is it alive? …Is that a tear slipping down its ever-grinning face?

The ravens, Quoth and Maggie were born in the Neath. Twins, though they certainly took after different company. Maggie associated herself with the Benthic College, learning much from the lectures she could sneak into, and the odd student who showed her kindness. She kept away from Summerset, knowing better than to trust the church. She grew up well. Quoth was different. Quoth took to the alleyways and the rooftops. He ate what he found, not caring whether or not the previous owner was nearby. He found friends in the Urchins, and the Topsy King’s court. His feathers took a dark tinge. They did not live well forever. Maggie was discovered by a Summerset lecturer, and thrown out of the University. Quoth was grazed by a stray bullet and left for dead after he followed a gang into trap set by the Constables.

The siblings found each other, allowed their wounds to heal - Maggie’s pride and Quoth’s body - and devised a plan. They had both heard rumours from the surface about someone who could make artificial life. Not from mere clay either. Fleshy life, if they were correct. A puppet they could pretend to be the pets of. A way for them to make their mark on London. A warm home and a source of food.

So what if it lacked any actual characteristics? So what if the mental strings they had to pull were loosely defined? So what if it drifted towards acquainting with devils? So what if it gazed longingly at the bottles of souls they had amassed? So what if it occasionally uncorked one, and tried to eat it? The raven twins could care less about the construct’s suffering. They had a free pass to all of the corners of London. They would take it.

Together.

[color=#C2B280]Moderator edit: Please don’t use coloured text; on these forums, we use it as a marker that someone works at Failbetter.[/color]
edited by Flyte on 4/28/2015

[violet]

If you happen to not know me, my Neath name is Violet Willow, back in the surface, when I lived a sunny life among the vineyards of Burgundy, I used to have another name, but that is the past, and I’m here for the future.

I came into this place following the advice of my not so sane grandfather, see, in all of its history my family always took profit in chaos, the hundred years war, the death of the duke, the reformation, the revolution… We never really went much past traders and winemakers but the influence and wealth did grace us more at those times. Naturally, a place like the Fifth City is fit for someone whose blood is attracted to chaos, I think that this is what my grandfather was probably thinking in his deathbed, and sincerely, I see the logic.

To be sincere there were also my parents, idiots both of them, too focused on republicanism, philanthropist and other silly ideals. The fact they didn’t take advantage of Paris and that my mother took hmy father’s peasant name instead of keeping her traditional surname is probably what made me truly realize those two were slowing me down.

And that is it, I came to this hole so I could rise up again. I do have to admit my situation is not the best but for someone who arrived with nothing but a piece of cloth which barely kept my decency I think I’m doing pretty well.

[capbubba]

Varutil Vanderhill is not the name of this man wrapped in rags, but it’s what he responds to now. His life was one of luxury and hedonism on the surface, a third son to a noble family who was close enough related to a king that they were important, but not close enough to be considered a threat to the throne. Being the third son he wasn’t expected to do much but marry and own a small plot of land. However, when his first brother died and his second brother came down with an illness, the life of luxury he was used to was threatening to fall apart. Not wanting to give up his freedoms for a responsibility he was never taught to handle, he turned to someone else. A devil.

This devil was an old friend of the family, playing with the politic of the land and the status quo for quite some time. The third son was more interested in the pleasures he was able to procure and the stories of the Neath he was told. That day, however, he came for something greater: an escape. In exchange for his identity the son would have a way to escape and continue his life of whimsy. So the Devil took his face and name, and the son lost his own face and identity. The last memory he had of his old life was his own smiling face looking back at him.

When the son arrived in the Neath, he quickly took up the name of the Devil who took his identity, thinking that he wouldn’t need it for as long as he was alive. So now he goes by Varutil Vanderhill, continuing his life of luxuries and frivolity. He continues to shy from responsibilities and instead flocks to the Veilgardens, a place where wine and people gather for the point of talking and insincerity. To him he has found a home far greater than that of the surface.

[dryfish]

You want to know what brought me here? Well, alright. My instincts say I can trust you.

I had a real name of course, I wasn’t an urchin but I would spend most of my early life with the less fortunate. I grew up with the homeless children living on the streets of my hometown by the coast south of London. I swept floors and sold cheap goods just as they did, and it was from witnessing the ways the poor and miserable were treated, that my disgust for the wealthy and the cruel was nurtured in to my adult years. As children, we were all powerless to do anything about our situation, except to learn to relieve the rich of their burdens. I did not have the light fingers of the other urchins, but I did not stand out in a crowd. Most of all for most of my early years, I simply watched and I listened.

Many were not hesitant to boast of their accomplishments in my presence. Those that were my friends, I treated well. When the most wretched of villains would spill their secrets, no one suspected me when the coppers heard of it the next day. We were thieves, not murderers, and I felt no guilt for doing what needed to be done to feed myself.

I was but a boy when the London fell. We were not far from London, and I recall all the refugees that arrived over the years, and the stories they carried with them. Families had been cut off, businesses had been crippled, and to our delight, the church started feeding us soup and bread. Little of us would refuse a full belly for the small price of prayer. My only previous involvement with the church was Sunday church services. I was doing well for myself however, trading secrets with the sailors, the constables, the church and criminals that I also took up Charity myself and continued to pay back what I’ve taken from society.

Nothing ever lasts however.

Life had treated me well for many years, but everyone hates a snitch and I had become very good at it. In the end it wasn’t a deranged man with a knife that forced me to leave, but a spirifer. After the initial panic of the fall, life had settled back to a steady pace, but the stories of the Neath the sailors told never dwindled. It was from the clergy that I had learnt of the devils and the spirifers, those engaged in the vile trade of human souls. And to my horror, the rumours that one of them had surfaced and now resides in our town reached my ears.
To most the thought is terrifying, but there are always those whose eyes glimmer at the prospect of entering a very lucrative business. I cannot even entertain the thought of harvesting souls for personal gain, a fate surely worse than death. I laid eyes on the spirifer, but I had uncovered a few that conspired to work with him and I was the only one in position to stop it. A few careful words in the right ears and the men were soon awaiting trial for nefarious deeds.

What I had not anticipated, was the resourcefulness of a spirifer. Their connections spread far wider than that of a local town whisperer, and they were not pleased I had interfered with their operations. Fortunately, many in town were in my debt and owed me favours. I was warned that my life, and god forbid, my soul may be in peril and that my only real option was to leave town. Few would have agreed what I had done was worth the price I paid, but the church convinced me I had done a worthy deed and I believe it still.

We’ve had little contact with the clergymen in Fallen London, what little we’ve heard has struck fear in to our hearts. Hell itself, who would believe. Devils roaming the streets, walking among the common people! Foul creatures in suits and dead men who do not rest. We were afraid that the fall of London would spell the end of all as we know it, but for years all that transpired in the neath never reached the surface and for that we were satisfied. That is, except for me. With every man that tell a tale of terror, another would divulge of curiosities that will drive a man insane, and of riches not could not evenbegin to comprehend. I longed to discover more about the neath, yet at the same time I wished for no part in it. But then it would seem, that my choice was made for me when evil men would come for my life.

It would be a month until I reached the Cumaean Canal. With a new name, certain well connected contacts managed to get me on board the Funiculars which took us down in to the darkness. The trip was uneventful, though regret plagued my mind. When we reached the docks, I boarded a merchant vessel set for London. For the first time, I had a fresh start. Though I had little possessions, I did have a letter addressed to the clergy who would help me settle in to my new life. What proceeded I could not have anticipated.

The other passengers on board seemed to be local from what I could deduct, sailors were easy to identify. I had many questions of course, but I held my tongue for there were still those that seek to bury a dagger in my heart. It did not matter though, for sailors love to drink and talk and I would watch from the corner. When they invited me to join them, I admitted that I could not hold my liquor and it was there amongst roaring laughter that I was dubbed Dry Fish. I haven’t a clue how long we spent on the ship in the ever-lasting darkness, but on one night like any other night, my quiet reflections were interrupted by gunshots and the heavy footsteps of the crew approaching my cabin. Before I could protest, several of them entered, seized me and then a maniac raised a bottle over his head and brought it down on my skull.

When I had awakened, my hands were bound sitting back against a crate, and before me were the crew, two coppers and the city of London behind them. From what I could gather through heavy pains coursing through my head, I had attempted mutiny, murdering the captain before the crew seized me as I was waving a pistol in my hand completely mad.

I couldn’t argue, and I couldn’t fight, I was the outsider without any identity and they imprisoned me without another word. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one who found their version of events simply preposterous, as my time in the prison was short lived. Any detective would notice that I don’t look insane or dangerous, nor does my breath smell of booze like the arf’arf’ an’ arf men who accuse me. It would seem that someone was watching out for me. Almost too conveniently, as the prisoners were being sent out of the tunnels one by one, a hammer and chisel was left in plain view after everyone else’s was confiscated, and the gaoler nowhere to be seen.

It was that night that I escaped my cell, hopped on a passing dirigible and found myself in rags on Ladybones road. For whatever reason, no one stopped to question me, and despite my suspicious appearance, I was able to trade a couple secrets overheard on the ship for a spare room.

Since then no one has ever traced me back to those events. I would suspect that a mysterious benefactor has arranged to silence those that would recognize me with bribery or some other means, or the constables recognized the sailor’s stories were hogwash. Regardless I never heard from them again, and I was able to start my new life undisturbed not with menacing intimidation but an insightful mind, exchanging intriguing words with like-minded devious men, women and anyone else that would be interested in what I can uncover.
edited by Dry Fish on 5/8/2015