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“An archive of things that never happened”. An in-character forum for fanfiction and roleplaying. Beware - spoilers abound!

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

Philip Eloy Posts: 6 10/30/2012	(there will be a few minor early game spoilers in this post. Just throwing a warning) I didn't seem to see this kind of topic floating around so...why not? --- My name is Aegix. I came to the Neath for one thing and one thing only. Finding out how I can sabotage hell and the soul trade. Spirifers have been acting more and more on the surface. While hell is open and active, it encourages the soul trade. Now, if someone wants to gamble theirs away or trade it for temporary gain, that's their business, although I'd call them fools. But the "darker" side of the culture... People forced to sell it to pay off debts, people who are tricked and bamboozled out of their souls...That is what I cannot stand. And if I ever hear of souls being outright stolen...cracks knuckles I had myself framed for something I won't even begin to describe so I could get a free ride down to the neath. I left behind friends, my true love, and any hope for leaving Fallen London "alive". My only allies are some strange old man, and a haunted old dog (I'm not counting that other dog. He's not useful to me at all), and MAYBE a certain man in veilgarden although I have many doubts about him. But I will keep pushing until I know everything I can about hell and the soul trade. Even if it drives me insane. Which I've come dangerously close to at least once already. I try my best to stick to my own moral code and to do as least harm as I can, but given the nature of Fallen London, I've had to delve into criminal actions. I'm slowly beginning to lose any sense of regret. But it's the only way to make any real progress. And I wonder if there really are any people down here who haven't obtained those goods through theft as well. If there is a way to end this state of affairs, I will find it. If there isn't.......Then I will sabotage it as best I can, for as long as I can. And I'll see if I can learn all the secrets of Fallen London while I'm at it. slips out the window to uncover more secrets, his dog tailing him --- As soon as the facebook functionality is working again, I'm using the "on matters of love" card to invite my GF to the game. It's been in my hand for over a week. I'm hoping it causes a nifty storyline for us both. Here's hoping that there is a way to achieve my goals. If not...Well, I'll make do. There is lots to do in fallen London. edited by Philip Eloy on 10/30/2012
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friendshipranger Posts: 274 1/20/2013	Devils aren't so terrible. They make for lovely fireside conversation, and the touch of their skin is...satisfying. cough But like with any other category of creature, there are rules. You don't sing to a Drownie, never fall in love with a spy, don't let an urchin near the good china (or leave the good china near the windows, for that matter), never play cards with a Master, never give a Rattus Faber a cookie, and for the love all that's holy, you don't let trust a devil an inch further than you can throw them through the nearest window. edited by friendshipranger on 1/20/2013 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/J.L.%20Moriarty
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CALLNXW Posts: 116 4/6/2016	A really freaky parachuting accident. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/Profile/Call%20Now
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Sherman Jones Posts: 151 1/20/2013	Come now, Devils aren't so bad! A Deviless rather close to me afforded me the wealth to buy a very Handsome Townhouse at only the cost of my own soul. And with the help of a wonderful little fork, I can continue to make quite the fortune selling the souls of others. They are just businessmen and women in their own right. They just sell unique goods. -- My mantelpiece is an open book. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sherman~Jones
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Augusta Lenore Coldbridge-Wynne Posts: 12 1/13/2014	Born to well-to-do but conventional parents, Augusta Lenore Coldbridge-Wynne was destined for a few years of polishing at Winthrop's Elite Academy for Young Ladies, an advantageous marriage, and an uneventful life of dinner parties and managing the servants. Brilliant, artistic, and headstrong, Augusta could imagine no fate she loathed more. On her eighteenth birthday, upon being informed of her engagement to the stolidly respectable and exceedingly wealthy Edmund Fotheringale, Esq., who opined that she "wouldn't be needing all these bally books once she was married, would she, because they'd be the devil to move," Augusta beaned her fiancé with an especially weighty copy of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and appropriated his attire. Disguised as a man, Augusta ran away to the Neath, enticed by the rumors of libertine behavior allowed under the Masters' rule. Libertine behavior, she felt, could only be an improvement. Without funds, she quickly ended up in New Newgate after an early attempt at pickpocketing went badly awry. But while she was inexperienced and naive, Augusta was also intelligent and adaptable, as well as daring to the point of recklessness. She soon left New Newgate behind, and set about making a name for herself as a rising poet in Veilgarden. Blazing across the Neath's artistic scene like a comet, today she is regarded as one of London's leading, if erratic, literary lights. Augusta's true passion is creating, be it poetry, an epic novel, or a scandalous opera. She has so far avoided associating herself with any of the Neath's major artistic movements, mostly out of sheer independent contrariness, but has the most sympathy for the Nocturnals. Her insatiable curiosity has led her to the Forgotten Quarter and the University in her study of the Correspondence, and her dearest ambition is to write a major work entirely in that dark and dangerous language. But she does not neglect more visceral pleasures, and can be found anywhere from a dice-game on Wolfstack Docks to the fading-couches of Veilgarden's honey-dens. Indeed, she has not forgotten the earliest lessons she learned in Fallen London, and while she maintains little connection with common criminals, there are whispers that she is not entirely ignorant of certain high-level robberies suffered by the Brass Embassy and even the Bazaar itself. Despite her strong Bohemian ties, Augusta has never completely abandoned her upbringing. She moves effortlessly in Society, and has been known to help the Church and the Constables more often than thwart them. She has a strong sense of fair play and a dislike of cruelty - as an opponent once put it, she can often be ruthless, but seldom heartless. She is sympathetic towards the Urchins and the Duchess, and distrusts and dislikes the Devils and the Revolutionaries. She is passionately devoted to her lovers - the Neath having allowed free reign to certain Sapphic tendencies, Augusta pursued and eventually married Violet Lennox, the acclaimed Artist's Model. Despite Augusta's often eyebrow-raising reputation, no breath of scandal has ever brushed the two of them. She is equally passionately loyal to her friends (and it is this and this alone which deters her from following certain tantalizing hints about a certain Name; she could view her own ruin with equanimity, but not the ruin or betrayal of those dear to her.) Though she has conquered many of the challenges the Neath has to offer, Augusta is reluctant, despite having received several notes from the Masters strongly suggesting that she consider career advancement, to become a Correspondent. Having observed several brilliant artists before her take that route, and descend into what appears to be a destructive creative solipsism, she is wary. She sees no point in creating to a vacuum; art, in her opinion, is communication. For all that, the Masters and their plots fascinate her. She realizes they are dangerous and not to be trusted, but for all its flaws and follies, in many ways the Neath is a far more egalitarian society than the Surface. Augusta is a tall, athletic woman; she has auburn hair, grey eyes, and strong, decisive features. She is striking rather than beautiful. She wears male attire as often as not, and can often be seen strolling in Tyrant's Gardens with her sword-cane at her hip and Violet on her arm. edited by Rahirah on 1/13/2014 -- Augusta Lenore Coldbridge-Wynne, an inescapable, sagacious, irresistible and breathtaking lady. Social actions welcome! Ebeneezer Crouch, her minion. Social actions accepted with ill grace and a high probability of betrayal.
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Katarina Moller Posts: 12 1/16/2014	Katarina's memories are...hazy at best. Long ago dashed to near oblivion in a deluge of wine and honey until she was picked up out of the gutter and sent to newgate prison on charges that still elude her to this day and which have been largely been deemed unimportant. Forced to sober up in a cold cramped cell, riding out the pangs of withdrawl, she decided at once that there was to be no more of this. Was this how she wanted to spend the rest of her life? No not at all! One might expect that after a revelation like that she would become a devout church goer, swear off the stuff for good, and never set foot in the veilgarden again. On the contrary she was more driven than ever to sample ever single delight and sensation the Neath had to offer her. Now however she was serious about indulging in moderation. No more long nights spend searching for cheap laudanum, no more mornings waking up in strangers beds reeking of cheap perfume. She learned instead to apply her rather generous charms instead like a scalpel. A wink at a judge here, a sly flourish of ankle to a young gentleman there, a few delightlyfully scandalous evenings with some well connected devils... Katarina has long since cut ties with her somewhat checkered past. Anyone who called on her now would find a well groomed society lady living in a handsome town house and doting on a prized pet tiger. Well dressed well mannered and well educated it is hard to imagine one so refined could have risen from such lowly status. And she pays good money to keep it that way, having somewhat forcefully cut ties with anyone who might have known her as anything else than an accomplished author. Of course she never really gave up that life. The novels she writes are all sordid romances set to curl the hair of any vicar. Some are capable of making even devils blush. While she no longer passes out in the gutter it is only because she now owns a rather large canopy bed on which passing out is much more enjoyable. Laudanum is a constant companion to chase off the more unpleasant dreams. Dreams which she has in abundance, of thunder storms and cold water and the word NORTH. She knows how the Bazaar preys on love, she keeps her affections shallow and fleeting and never spends a night with the same person twice. Terrified that if she were to feel something deeper she would be lost to the underground forever. Trapped in a strange waking dream never to see the surface again. Her grip on reality is already at times shaky, the things she has seen have marked her forever in ways she cannot begin to describe as simple acquaintances turned out to be so much more than what they first appeared. Sometimes she is afraid that it is already too late for her but she refuses to return to the surface. There is a calling for her down here, a secret she knows she is meant to uncover. Somewhere buried in the dark. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Katarina~Moller Draped in Scandal, Chocolates, and Honey. Terrified of Dark water.
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Hobnail Posts: 179 12/30/2015	CURSED! CURSED! CURSED! -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Hobnail
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Guest 6/14/2015	The Beginning of Midnight The Great Game. Some say it has been played since 1813. Others claim its secretive moves were done much earlier in many different forms. No matter how old its origins, one thing is agreed on by those enmeshed by its moves: The Game never ends.... 10th October, 1892. Was it really only that brief since I first arrived here, seven months...or should I note how so very long events linger on the soul when in the Neath? No, that beginning time flew by as smoothly as my first honeyed dream. Even when without lodgings, I quickly curried favor for garments and provisions, even an acceptable place to live within only a day. Even with what horror drew me here, those times were pleasant. It was the 6th of December I could not ever forget. If only I could undo that foolish choice thinking I understood as a "successful" Watcher and Person of "Some Importance": You are an Agent now. A street awash with moonish light: black doorways like block letters on a page. Who is watching? Who has kept an account of this moment? How many true Players are there in the Game? How many Players are in the Game? You might as ask how many pieces of Glim fall from the false-sky? How many truly think they can manipulate the Game? Almost all of them. How many can? Truly none, as they all are trapped in the Game they play, losing as they try to win by simply playing. God, Cynthia, I promised I'd never forget you when you were taken from me, and avenge your death. Now look where that has brought me.... Tears ran down "the truthseeker"'s face quite liberally looking in the hole, as he "reflected" on those thoughts. Actually, those thoughts never stopped, even in sleep-his Nightmares almost unendingly continuing. He promised back then after her murder-no matter what the cost-he would avenge her. And faithfully, he had been keeping that promise: Finding out the path of her killer, following the suspect's trail traveling down to the 'Neath, even becoming jailed in New Newgate Prison briefly for his "unorthodox questioning methods" (which send a few shady residents shipped off to what he would learn later was called the exiled land of the Tomb Colonies.) His decided turnabout on working with Law and the Powers-That-Be was almost as foolish if not more so. Becoming first a Lackey of the Constables, then the new storied interest of the Masters--eventually situated in the Highest Spheres of the Emporium for his "Loyalty," he was now more trapped than his time in the Roof's Prison. But all that done by the Bazaar is for love. A d*nable Impossible love between the Heaven Sun's Corresponding light and the Bazaar's....whatever Crustacean-like-thing it is outside every natural order chaining Law's existence by the rest of the Stars themselves. For love, I can understand and forgive everything they have done. But never will I forgive the key players of the Game! Lying to me, manufacturing just enough proof to make it look like.... the truthseeker grabbed his head as the memory of that event was freshly recalled as if it had just happened today, not months ago. He downed yet another three bottles of laudanum, not even passing out from that as he once did, but the vividness of the agonizing memory dulling somewhat. Since then, drinking countless bottles of Oblivion had even made him forget his original name (but not his truthseeker pseudonym he used since he began to track Scathewick; abandoning his name as not to be backtracked by him.) Yet never a minute of the remembered tormented day diminished with any attempt of that Irrigo-infused substance, even as he lost ability in almost every other skill and thought to what he considered back then "a dulled meshed blur of former memories and aptitudes." Even the Cave failed to pull that specific memory, after too many weeks of trying (as if he would remember the specifics of that place besides a few echoes here and there anyway.) Only this opioid provided relief from that memory; however, its effects lessened the more he used it. At least the Nightmares sometimes dulled. Sometimes. And that relief was never enough. How many times did he end up believing the Nightmares up to as if he was ripped physically onto Parabola's Marches or in the Royal Bethlehem Hotel? Even the Scandalous Hedonist acts reported in the Courts that got him sent "around the ways of Venderbight" lasted all too shortly and never counterbalanced as distractions he prayed they would be. No, there is only one option left. I must remember it. All of it. And accept what I have done. Only then will my mind let go. It's my job now....* Saturday, after 10 morning glow, 10:34 precisely according to a "briefly borrowed" Ratwork watch. (After removing Alice to "a new brass residence" and situating her daughter a month ago, the Agency noted only one task would remain before he would receive full credentials. That meeting was dead-dropped today.) He was a portly fellow called Odelle. Places are unimportant as was the garden location in Wilmot's End. Names-which are Legends at best-also mean nothing in this Game. But the moves they make define who you truly are. And what was asked was shocking--even for the rules of the Game; something he refused a month ago as crossing the line with the Cheesemonger. "Could you confirm game strategy please Kingmaster? Are you sure you said Knight to E5, remove White Bishop?" "That is the Rouge King's Gambit truthseeker. You memorized the documents before consumption stating the reasons for this synchronization. The family is gone. Such actions must have countermoves. You know the price at this level for refusal." "No refusal to play, just making sure before the piece is removed Kingmaster. Where should I remove the piece?" "Relocation is left to your accords. Confirmation of completion should be communicated 'I'm just here to borrow a heart-knot shovel' on the Spending cycle." And "synchronize" he did. Considering he was one of the top-level Midnighters only known as "Mr. White," the act seemed surprisingly simple when the truthseeker did it. A Dagger dipped once in Cantigaster Venom thrust just to the left of the sternum between the fourth and fifth ribs but not puncturing the heart allowing him enough time to suffer and truly End painfully, but not enough vitality to alert others to the Murder. His reaction then completely stunned truthseeker, and the end is what haunts him. White didn't look angry, or sad, or even surprised. He simply looked into the eyes (covered by that revolting disguise of a mask) of his killer and smiled, (Smiled!) He then poignantly spoke-almost whispered- his final words, "They had to forget. All of them. This way." Such a thing is what caused the truthseeker's schism. How could a master Spy-who toppled regimes and just killed a Husband, wife and all their children of the Dutchess' closest friend-be so, so...flippant on their death and his own? And now he knows the truth. From the investigation of another murder less permanently so. Lights appear from behind you. You duck behind a firkin of madeira and observe. A woman passes you. She is dressed in a simple white linen shift and about twenty pounds of gold jewellery. She is dark-skinned: African, perhaps. There's something familiar about her, though. Good God! It's the Duchess! Freed from her paints and powders, she is much darker. And younger! She looks barely thirty. It's definitely her, though, strange eyes, cat-earrings and all. The Duchess uses a great bronze key to open the door that defeated you. She slips inside. You peer past the hinges. The room beyond contains the Cantigaster. A screech, almost too high to hear. The beating of a great drum. A long, lonely wail. What is happening down there? You slip past the guards and... d__n it! This door is locked fast. You can see immediately that the Cantigaster was once a man. Now he is a living, shuddering sac of poison. His flesh swells green and soft like rotting fruit. Foul venoms ooze beneath his skin. The Duchess kisses him fondly and they embrace. You watch as the Duchess... as she milks the poison from his skin. The Cantigaster sighs with relief as his venoms trickle into a stone bucket. The Duchess looks up. Has she seen you? You flee the cellar It all became clear. The final identity uncovered was she was the one from the Second City. And her best friend found this out she was not simply the "Duchess" and was attempting to blackmail her--boasting this scheme to her immediate family. If such a thing were to ever become public, the promise of the City granted and her Immortality, it would cause London to immediately become...unusable, and the Sixth city would be found as it crashed upon the fifth. What White did was truly save everybody, but such an act of Final Murder never goes "unrewarded." "Just Borrowing a Shovel" the truthseeker said to the Agency's Quartermaster for what they didn't know was his last day as an Agent. Now here he was, on some part of the Nadir path where if you stay too long the cave's irrigo actually seeps and makes you forget the day's activity on that spot unless you literally keep the one task at hand in mind. The tears flowing down his face and that agonizing day he never could forget-for once-aided him so. The truthseeker finished digging up the unmarked grave, removing the corpse of White. Speaking to him as one would a long-lost friend, he acted as if he were continuing a scholastic debate, "You were right White. They had to forget. We all needed to never remember. And I was the last piece in your grand moves by Them, by Her. Like Mother like Daughter. How to clear the board of a bad setup. No words will do justice if I mourn you or apologize now, so let me say thank you. Thank you for your service. I'm continuing what you did now. I understand this is the only way it ends. We can't stop ever playing the Game, but I'll stop playing theirs. Now any person may speak, and I'll unburden them. ...Finding the rites was surprisingly simple. I...just needed your Robes. The Detective will take over my duties even if she doesn't know it today. She still thinks of herself as "A New Piece in the Game" at Wilmont. She will soon see that has changed. Your robes seemed fitting. it should be the last thing I retain...that they came from you. And that you're gone. The rest will be...forgiven, and follow the affected rites of Saint Joshua. The first client after all, is myself." The lady with the white scarf keeps her name in a box on the mantelpiece. She has played the Great Game since she left the orphanage, the secret centre of a network that reaches across the Unterzee. She has no enemies. Her system is perfect. She has beaten the Game, and she is bored. A dangerous mood. She crosses the room where she works, eats, and sleeps, the cleverly-made boards of its floor piping beneath her. She takes down the box. The hair fixed across the lid's join is unbroken. It has kept her safe, this box. Inside is a memento of the orphanage. When tedium threatens she looks upon it, remembers how close she came to losing everything, and returns to her safe, sensible habits. Why does the box feel so light? On Simple Street, a detective fishes a file from a drawer: 'Blackwood Orphanage', the cover reads. She reads it every month, hoping to find something she's missed. The orphanage was her first day on the job. Ten minutes a copper and pulling corpses from the smoke, their skin crackling like well-fried bacon. She opens the file, and sees a piece of paper she has never seen before. It is a transfer of guardianship: a young lady was transferred from the orphanage's care, to that of a notable couple. Very notable indeed. Your shrine to St. Joshua is draped in irrigo. Once you've finished the rites, you barely remember them. You pull your old chess-piece from your pocket and consign it - and the memories it sustains - to the altar-fire. the truthseeker sits at the often-moved Shrine. His first client will arrive shortly. He can't say where the trunk came from, but the instructions on how to use the information was absolutely clear. Every week he will get the Favours in High Places for his "service to the community." D*ned if he can remember why, but he's the Guardian now, after White. His first client approaches. A Sneer briefly crosses his face, but is rapidly masqued as The Cheery Man sees the one who back then sided with his Daughter, the Last Constable. He kneels and confesses to the Game's ever shifting moves of allies or enemies, "Bless me Father truthseeker, for I have sinned....." edited by the truthseeker on 6/14/2015*
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streetfelineblue Posts: 1459 1/21/2013	"Miller, Wesley Miller. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I came here by my own free will. Sure, I did not plan to visit the great stalactite. But now, for a while, I am a denizen of the Neath. There are matters above that I can only hope to handle if I manage to win a card game. Until then, we will be neighbours. An occupation? Well, I could not peruse my old trade here - I found there was very little demand for a Latin teacher. In Fallen London those who do not know Latin already are usually not interested in learning it. But I put my classical studies to good use. Starting up as a translator, then finding my way in prose and poetry. If you ever need a little celebration pean, a love letter for your dear or a rhymed mockery of your worst contender, feel free to ask. New customers are entitled to a small price reduction. You can find me either at the Pragmatic Poets Society headquarters in Concord Square, or above my shop at the Bazaar, the Blue Marine. Sure, I run a shop. More of a hobby than an actual source of revenue, actually. I just seized the chance to make some use of the experience I matured on the Unterzee, looking for clues on the fate of the last Fallen Cities. Dead civilizations have always been my fields of interest, in the end. And just like studying our ancestors gives us insights on who and of what we are, studying our predecessors in the Neath could provide useful information about both our current predicament and what we can do to escape the next one. Maybe. Oh, do they really call me that? Now, that is a little too flattering, maybe. It is true that I like riddles and calembours - and an investigation is but a long, complex riddle to solve. But I am no detective, just a gentleman who tries to be a good citizen and help up the police in the rare cases where my deduction skills can be of help. Yes, I meant police in the broader sense of the term. Constables are not the only ones guarding London's nights. And not the only ones deserving help, actually. Great what? No, the only game I am after is played at a cards table. I do not know where you could have heard that. But I suspect my last sonnet caused some little disturbance, and a little tattle was considered a sound punishment for me. No wonder I usually use a pseudonym to sign my works. But I have no qualm in telling you my actual name. I trust you. And you can trust me." [Additional info about my character can be found at the Fallen London Roleplay Wiki] edited by streetfelineblue on 9/20/2013 -- Twitter: @streetfelineblu Blue's LiveJournal Blue's Echo Bazaar profile Blue's Night Circus diary Link to Ocelot's Enigma Ambition hint page; PM for clarification. No direct solutions provided.
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Rowan Dusang Posts: 57 2/21/2013	Rowan DuSang, pleased t' meet you. Not my birth name, but it had a fancy-like ring to it. I had a soldier father, a consumptive mother. Didn't last long, those two. Spent the rest of my upbringing relying on the generosity of shabbily respectable relatives, who hoped to raise me into a marriageable lady. That is, until I clipped my hair short and made off with the silver. I earned every bob of my hard-won freedom. I went cold, I went hungry, but I learned quick. I capered with rogues and urchins of all stripes, supporting m'self on the cross. Had some jolly good times too, even rampaged across the Continent for a spell. Then an old chum told me that down in the Neath, anyone can be rich as kings. What with jewels falling like rain and all that. The bastard. I got nibbed for cribbing handkerchiefs my first evening down, and was promptly sent for a stretch in that pointy upside-down black house. Oh, and he never mentioned anything about monsters either. Deuce bastard. After that, I tried to make a go of honest work—sipping honey in Veilgarden while scribbling bad poetry about mushrooms. It didn't take. Nowadays, I'm happily filching in the streets of Spite. I dabble in the Game. My affable roommate Agnes, however, is quite fluent. She's a slumming aristocrat. We plan our capers together and, ironically, also partake in the most delicious society parties. Our rooftop abode has the most MAGNIFICENT views. Oh yes, this other matter. I've been dressing like a lad since my surface days. Safer and easier this way. It doesn't seem to be an impediment to the loads of affairs I'm carrying on. I dare say, they rather like it. edited by Rowan Dusang on 2/21/2013 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Rowan~DuSang
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William Penning Posts: 26 4/15/2013	"Was it truly only in '88 that I first came to the Neath? It seems so long ago now. At any rate, My name is William John Penning. Pleased to meet you all. My reason for coming down here? To seek the impossible. The world above had grown stale indeed, and the Neath promised so many incredible diversions, how could I resist? I spent the majority of my first year here in Veilgarden, drifting in and out of sobriety and the halls of society. I learned of a most interesting card game, that I am still trying to track down. Eventually I managed to work my way to the Court of the Empress, but that ended poorly. At any rate, society had shut its doors to me, so I looked elsewhere in the neath for something to while away time. And find it I did. But those are tales for another time. I have no real profession, so to speak. Well, I suppose that isn't true. I'm currently doing a bit of work with the Church, but that is a recent development. For about a year and a half I just flitted about London and beyond, doing this, that, and quite a bit of the other. Enough to keep body and soul together, and entertained. I've tried my hand at archaeology dueling, zailing, stage-work beast gathering, academia, the lost does go on. As for actual hobbies, well. I've been experimenting with the Correspondence for quite a while now. I also keep a fairly well stocked collection of esoteric objects and animals. No, I assure you mine do not escape. Not often anyway. Besides, would being exposed to something as ancient and incredible as a Storm-Threnody or two really be a bad thing? Goals? My goals have shifted somewhat over the years. Currently I find myself working very closely with the Church, though I cannot say much more. I count among my allies most of the factions that inhabit London. The Church and I have a long and complicated relationship, but as of now we are on good terms. Huh? No, what you have heard is true, I also maintain somewhat close ties to Hell. Yes, I do have a guest room at the Embassy, though I seldom use it. Why? A saying regarding ones friends and enemies comes to mind. I try to mingle with most everybody down here. The Rubbery Men, the Colonists, on occasion the Masters. It pays to have as many friends as possible. Speaking of, do you need any assistance with anything? No? Very well. But if you ever do need my help with anything, and I mean anything don't hesitate to come see me at the Royal Bethlehem. I do get so dreadfully bored sometimes." -- My mantle. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/William~John~Penning My twitter, @Psyker11
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Rupho Schartenhauer Posts: 787 1/9/2014	Name: Rupho Schartenhauer Story: Born 1863 in Munich. Both parents professional spies. Never knew his Russian mother, never even saw so much as a faded daguerreotype of her. Witnessed his father's hanging for High Treason in 1871. Decided that Death was a bad thing and that someone needed to put an end to it. Studied Philosophy and History in Heidelberg, graduated 1886 on "Immortality and Why It Eludes Us". Published the infamous pseudo-history "Lost Cities and Where to Find Them" in 1888, vanishing shortly after. Went to the Neath "to learn all the world's secrets" and find a way to immortality. Sold his soul first thing after escaping from New Newgate "because down here it would only be a distraction" (oddly, he was never much interested in love before selling his soul but now finds it to be "a nice enough way of recreation"). Worked his way up in all circles of Fallen London's society incredibly fast due to his extremely witty and charming (adapted) personality. Dines with the Ambassador one day, with the Bishop of St Fiacre's the next. None of them would recognize him as the masked brute regularly laying waste among the fighting pits of Wolfstack Docks. Received multiple lifetime bans from the game of Knife-and-Candle for killing permanently. On first name terms with Mr Feducci (they kill each other every fortnight, for good sport). Also a renowned zailor; is preparing an expedition into the heart of the Elder Continent. Strengths: Trusts no one. Exceptional intellect. Master Thief, Master Spy and a Bringer of Death. Needs very little sleep. Rarely takes risks himself, rather pays others to do so, then studies their failures. Good chess player. Fears nothing except death by water. Flaws: Trusts no one, not even himself, not even his own thought processes and deductions. Therefore a bit indecisive. Bad card player. Overly precise and punctual, constantly disappointed by everyone else's lack of these qualities. Results from his lack of sleep are sudden mood swings and eruptions of violence, though he usually keeps the latter to his secret identity. Fears nothing except death by water since his only visit to Madame Shoshana (who refuses to receive him anymore). Trivia: "He" is not a very precise way of addressing "him" since his visits to Flute Street and his studies of the Liber Visionis. Some people who've met "him" would not recognize "him" the next day. Also, he absolutely detests Snuffers. Caused awkward silences at more than one dinner party by expressing his "solemn vow to squeeze every last secret from this most abominable of races before ending their abhorring existence once and for all." edited by Rupho Schartenhauer on 5/5/2016 -- Rupho Schartenhauer has killed a Master, well: most of it. Cortez the Killer has killed a Master, definitely. Deepdelver has become the progenitor of London's brightest star. It's... complicated. Dr. Kvirkvelia, gone NORTH on 23/12/1894.
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Mnemophage Posts: 5 1/22/2014	"The only reason you would have come to me is if you had a question." The cynical detective tents her fingers under her lips, smoke curling from the burning stub held between the index and rudest fingers. "If 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." 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. "Acceptable. We shall begin." "I 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." She takes a mouthful of acrid smoke, scenting the book-dizzy room with thick blue breath. "Do 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." "Some 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." "I 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." 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. "Is there anything else you want to know?"
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CaireneTyrell Posts: 7 8/8/2014	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 -- A sagacious, lethal lady of some importance still getting used to life in the city. Open to most social actions, so please don't be shy! http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/CaireneTyrell
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Macy Grey Posts: 19 9/1/2014	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. -- Always looking for more company down here. The Acrobat: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Macy~Grey Her brother, the Academic: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Frederick~Grey
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ladyfahrenheit Posts: 4 4/27/2013	Lady Laura, Countess of Fahrenheit, at your service. I was an upper-class lady back on the Surface. I no longer know the precise name of the city or the country I was born in, but my parents were originally of German nobility. My title came not from my late husband - I don't like to speak of him, he was rather useless as far as husbands go. He married me for my title and estate, you see, and drove me to bankruptcy. So I poisoned him, and fled to Fallen London hoping to regain my lost wealth. Unfortunately, attempting to burgle diamonds was too ambitious a pursuit for a novice thief as I was then, so off to New Newgate I went. After regaining my freedom, I have since been in pursuit of a legendary diamond that may just be the thing to help me restore most of my lost wealth.
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friendshipranger Posts: 274 10/31/2012	Moriarty's family used to be much like the Cheese-monger, and the old families tasked with the playing of the Game, and the defense of the Empire. They were known to the public as a honorable merchant family, distantly related to nobility. The intrigues and chaos of the Fall led to the sudden extermination of most of his relatives at a very young age. His mother, already disowned due to the illegitimate conception of Moriarty (by someone in the Palace, she claimed) fled with her infant son, but succumbed to consumption in Paris. He was raised by his retainer and nursemaid, who raised him on tales of the Neath, both great and terrible. He was young, and sickly, and prone to fits of paranoia and fixation, but he was loved. He spent his youth being schooled along the winding roads of Europe by his retainer, unsure whether they were wandering or hiding. She taught him about not the classics or academics, but about strategy, tactics. Geography. The odd bit of chemistry and physics. And many games of chess. He wandered the world, after his nursemaid retired due to the fever, leaving him with only his mother's ring. His nursemaid kept the papers, and the remnants of the family finances, on his request. She needed the money more than he did. He fell in love, and for a moment considered forgetting the history of his family, and learning the ways of peace. Then, came Paris. And everything was gone in moments. In the aftermath, he fled, into the sewers. Sick, wounded, and half dead, he stumbled through the darkness and somehow woke in a dark place. A place that felt ancient, like a crossroads on the river fate itself. The walls groaned, and shook, shivering away hairs and mucus. A frightening eyed man, with sallow flesh and cracked teeth offered him a choice. Sell the ring, and he could go one of two places- to the docks, to escape to the Colonies, and try to start anew, but risking permanent death- or to the Neath. A place where a man could bargain for his heart's desire, and survive death itself. For the briefest moment after he made his decision, he died. He woke, in a prison of stone. He knew without words he could never again leave the Neath. What are his goals? To win back love? Vengeance? Glory? Renewal? Who can say. His earliest exploits have passed into hearsay and legend. He has worn fame and acclaim and hate and banishment upon his back in equal measure. He walks with rulers, spies and rebels, and none know his allegiance. Though some say royal blood resides in his veins. And some say, in his home in in the shadows of the Bazaar, the crest of a long forgotten family hangs. A white Phoenix, climbing above a simple blue shield, with a star, and a pawn. Beneath, an inscription, Praeparare namque improviso consequatur. Those few who look upon it, remember. And those who are wise, are wary. edited by friendshipranger on 1/25/2013 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/J.L.%20Moriarty
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Owen Wulf Posts: 715 1/9/2014	Alias: Owen Wulf Date of Birth: 1855 Place of Birth: Kingdom of Prussia Owen Wulf enlisted in the Prussian Army at a young age following a tradition of service in his family. He fought well and rose through the ranks, but something happened that sent him into exile as a deserter. Some say he refused orders to execute dissidents, others that he murdered a fellow officer over a petty dispute. Whatever the truth of the matter, Owen Wulf chose to flee to the one place he thought he could escape retribution - a mile underground and a train ride away from Hell itself. He had heard stories in the army about the wonders that could be found in the Neath, and the fortunes that a man could make for himself in the city many now know as Fallen London. Forging documents as a Danish sailor, he entered the Neath through the Cumaean Canal aboard the Dutch merchant ship the S.S. Ragnarok where it was stopped for inspection by the powers that be in the Neath. What flaws betrayed the forged documents can only be guessed, but Owen Wulf was quickly dragged off in chains to New Newgate Prison (which he handily escaped). Deserter he may be but he is not a coward and made his name known in the rough jobs one can find in and around Watchmaker Hill. The reward placed on the Vake caught his attention and, seeking fortune and glory, he set out to bring the beast down. Since then he has traversed the heights and depths of Fallen London's society. A brief player in the Game (where he met his spouse) he has dedicated himself solely to perfecting his abilities as a hunstman - no matter the cost to him or his humanity. Now, situated amidst the spires of the Bazaar itself, famed and rich, he yet sharpens his blades for the day when he can resume the hunt. ---- edited by Owen Wulf on 9/2/2014 -- Owen Wulf's Profile Lanzo Hoffman’s Profile Lukas Uller’s Profile
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NotaWalrus Posts: 221 10/3/2015	Ignacious used to be a surface scholar of neathly mysteries and the Correspondence. His research field was difficult, given the properties of sunlight, but going through bits and pieces he persevered and unpicked secrets unknown even to most residents of the Neath itself. Unfortunately for him, certain parties were decidedly not interested in this happening. In the middle of the night, he was captured, beaten up and carted to the Neath, where he was immediately locked up in New Newgate prison, but not before being subjected to inordinate amounts of Irrigo radiation, enough to kill a man twice his size. He forgot his skills, his research, and even his name. Contented with this, his captors left him to die from the Irrigo in a dark cell. Miraculously, he survived, and days later, he escaped from the dark place. The people who made him forget soon realized this, of course, but decided to let him be, his research wasn't a threat anymore. Over time, fleeting recollections came to him of his previous knowledge. Visions of Judgments sitting in burning thrones, of devils closer to entomology than to theology, of the nature of not just the bazaar, but of its family too. He is a person of Importance now, and while he still doesn't know who brought him to the Neath, or why exactly. He knows he must be wary now. He feels he is close to remembering the wrong thing, and next time, he might not be so lucky. edited by NotaWalrus on 10/3/2015 -- http://fallenlondon.com/Profile/NotaWalrus Ignacious, the Fluid Professor, he will accept most social invitations, including boxed cats and affluent photographers (but only betrayals), though he is absent-minded and might take more time than entirely necessary. He apologizes.
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Breckner Posts: 38 9/6/2014	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 -- temet sarci ut sarcio rex piscatorum
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Lady Eris Posts: 162 1/27/2015	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 -- Lady Eris Psmith, Society darling, devoted wife. Dangerous when crossed. Accepts most social invitations. Distributor of Parabolan Kittens. Welcomes new acquaintances, especially those who write 'in character'. William Templeton, Viscount Manningham, newcomer, gentleman, all-round good egg - accepting absolutely all invitations.
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Wolsen Dryne Posts: 3 3/2/2015	"Wolsen 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." edited by Wolsen Dryne on 3/2/2015
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Penguin Zero Posts: 9 6/7/2015	My name is Sara Rivers, and there hasn't been a time I ever knew when London weren't Fallen. I was born in Bristol, not even twenty years ago yet, in one of the rookeries -- not quite as bad as down here, nothing like Flowerdene, but there were still too many of us packed into a space never meant to even be lived in. I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was young, but I was never alone. My set was crooks, no-accounts, and urchins, making a living however we could, because there was no way to better ourselves. I did some begging when I was little, sitting on theatre steps and touching up the toffs with sob stories asking for a shilling for a ride home, and also dipping into their purses when they wasn't looking. Later I helped my aunt out picking the monograms out of handkerchiefs, filing the makers-marks off of watches, and melting down old candlesticks. It wasn't an honest living, but I'd take a dishonest crust of bread over pious starving any day. My big mistake came when I met a rich girl my age. I was doing the old lost-at-the-theatre dodge again, this time with one of the little boys from my neighborhood in tow as my 'poor little brother.' She was finely dressed, but not proud or pretentious at all, and she invited me to take her carriage back to my neighborhood. I had to lie to her about where we lived, and lie more about who I was and who my parents were and all that, but I was used to lying, and soon she thought me a poor but honest working girl, a maid to some tradesman. She was a sheltered girl who'd dared to come out to the theatre on her own against her parents' wishes, with just a few servants in tow to keep her safe, and she was wanting for friends. I thought I'd pretend to become friends with her. There's money in knowing a rich girl -- gifts, secrets, and the little things you can filch when she's not looking. And then a big play at the end, touching her up for a big loan or making off with her inheritance or things like that. I'd known people who'd done quite well off it, and I'd always thought I could manage it if the time came. This was the perfect chance -- she was wealthy, she was trusting, and her parents paid her little attention. But something happened. I found myself growing too fond of her. I'd thought myself hard-hearted, and thought there was no way a little rich girl could be anyone I could care about. What problems had she faced? What virtue could she have that wouldn't wilt like a flower from a greenhouse brought out to the streets? But she was more than I expected, so much more, clever and funny and daring in a way my set never were. Dedicated to doing the right thing, even if it was hard. And she grew fond of me, though I'll never know what she saw in me. I couldn't steal from her any more. I even confessed what I'd done... and she forgave me. Foolish though it might have been, she saw something good in me and wanted me to stay with her. I took her out to see the city -- the rookeries, the rooftops, the docks by night. It was beautiful, seeing them through her eyes. Her parents finally caught on to me. And they weren't nearly so kind-hearted as their daughter. I don't know what was worse in their eyes -- that I was a girl from a rookery, that I was a thief, or that I was exposing their precious girl to things they didn't want her seeing. It didn't matter. They moved her to their country estates, scores of miles from anywhere, and called the constables down to clean out the rookery I'd always called home. Half the people I'd ever known were arrested, and the other half learned it was me who'd brought the coppers down on us. I didn't have any friends left, rich or poor. That's when I got a letter from a childhood friend of mine. She'd left Bristol to seek her fortune, and ended up in London. She talked about how easy it was to get rich down here, and I realized that there was nothing left for me up there. So I stowed away on a ship bound for Naples, and then another from there down to the Neath. I made it almost to London before getting caught. Since then... things haven't been as easy as she said, but it's a sure thing I've found more than I could've imagined up there. I've seen some terrifying things, and had people try to rook me as hard as I've rooked other people. I'm trying to keep my head above water, but when you come to the attention of the great, it's kind of terrifying even when they ain't hooded mysteries or monsters in human skin. But I ain't got anything left but here, so I'd best make what I can out of it. ( http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sara~Rivers ; always open for new acquaintances and perhaps a Patron.)
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Appolonia Posts: 248 2/14/2016	“I grew up in the Bavarian court of King Ludwig II. The Swan King. The Fairytale King . Der Märchenkönig. My mother was a lady in the court. My father was a virtuoso violinist, from London. He came to be near Herr Wagner.” “It is perhaps unwise to feed a child a steady diet of opera and fairytales.” “I know that he was not her husband. He stole time with me. Her husband, my paper father – a good man by all counts – had him driven from the court. My father returned to London, and was there when it fell, in ‘62.” “I was only a girl of twelve. There was little I could do. But, I knew that I would run away and find him, when I had the resources to do so. I was still foolishly young when I made the trip, but grateful he had taught me English, which helped in making deals that opened the way, but were otherwise so little to be trusted that I ended up penniless in New Newgate.” “I can find no trace of him. Even the opera… my opera… I thought that would draw him – moth to flame – if he possibly could. He would never have missed an opera in Bavaria, and he might have easily been among those chosen to play it. At the very least, surely he would want to know something of the composer.” “I tell myself he is trapped somehow. Unable to come forward.” [OOC: I would be delighted if some player who enjoyed roleplaying and did not mind absorbing a bastard child in Bavaria into their background who is now a young lady of the Neath, would take on this role of her missing father. Must be a violinist and obsessed with opera, at least in the past. Everything else is entirely up to you. You can be horrible or kind, villainous or heroic.] edited by Appolonia on 2/14/2016 edited by Appolonia on 2/14/2016 edited by Appolonia on 4/26/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Appolonia%20VonRavenscroft
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Azothi Posts: 586 3/6/2017	What is the azoth? A fancy name for mercury (though not quite as nice as quicksilver), if we're being technical, and the vision of countless alchemists who were all very wrong about the workings of the universe. Still, it was a name that stuck in the imagination of a young girl (who, at the time, was masquerading as a young boy) who loved to read, all alone, in the candlelit study of her father. It came to represent something unattainable, something that you could strive your whole life to achieve and still fall short at the very last hurdle and be doomed to failure. -- "Why do you wonder that globe-trotting does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you? The reason which set you wandering is ever at your heels." - Socrates Prologue Azoth – or, at least, the person who would become Azoth – was born to a rather prestigious, albeit unusual family. Her father began as a deeply pious Scottish man born in 1821 into a tradition of science, raised by a widower mathematician who had turned to theology in his grief, abandoning his pursuit of mathematics in favor of the problem of evil. He raised his son, Azoth’s father, as a Reformed (Calvinist) Christian, though he did take a laissez-faire approach to parenthood: to him, if his son was wicked and sinful, that was God’s plan and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Clearly, he was a proponent of predestination.His son met his expectations, though. As a child, he greatly admired his father and wanted to follow in his footsteps, becoming a mathematician and deciphering the “language of God”, as his father called it. This began in his late teens, when he first read the Principia, and he began to study the stars and the ways they seemed to move. He would attend university at Edinburgh and begin his career. He was in London on business in 1861 when his world was turned upside down and the city was stolen away to the Neath. Under the circumstances, he essentially had no work and left as soon as contact was re-established with the Surface. Though he fell ill upon his return, he recovered, having not been in the Neath for too long, and immediately began writing about the dangers that London was in and condemning the Traitor Empress for allowing this to happen. Nonetheless, he remained a strong patriot and enlisted in the army, believing that London’s place in the Neath put it in a unique position to do good by going to war with Hell. For seven years, he trained in preparation for a war that he knew would come, and was delighted when war finally broke out in 1868. His knowledge of theology helped him secure command of a company of men, who were to breach the walls of Hell and burn – well, burn it further – to the ground. His company survived the initial battle in the Forgotten Quarter and actually made it into Hell, but as soon as they entered, the devils were upon them. It was a massacre, and he barely managed to escape with his life. The sight of seeing his comrades cut down before him was traumatizing, to say the least. He had managed to escape with only a couple of his men, fleeing all the way back to London and then back to the Surface, trying to get as far away from Hell as possible. Suffice to say, they all resigned their army positions and drowned their sorrows in a tsunami of alcohol. It was only the death of his father just a few weeks later that snapped him out of his misery. He only received a small portion of the inheritance, but it was enough for him to buy passage on a ship to the east, where he wanted to build a new life. England had too many reminders of the war, but its colonies; he could build a life there. In 1869, he arrived in Hong Kong, one of the farthest colonies of Britain, acquired only around a decade prior. There he met a local poet, one who had learned English and fought for reform in Chinese society, and they soon fell in love. Together, they bore a child in mid-1870 -- Azoth, though that wasn't her name then -- and settled in the city, leaving behind their pasts to live in this strange meeting (or perhaps "invasion" would be a better word?) of cultures. They pledged to raise her in a way befitting a child of their two worlds, one that could take the best of each and cast away the worst. She would be raised with an appreciation for both cultures. She would not have her foot bound and bent, nor would she be expected to marry young and into money. She would be raised happy, healthy, and - S---. It turns out that syphilis is a pain in the - well, it would be rude to say, but it suffices to say things went downhill. -- "Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousins Early Life When she was five, her mother's mental state began to deteriorate. It began with headaches and mood swings -- fairly bad, but not the end of the world. Things worsened quickly, though. Within a year, she was having frequent seizures, and all Azoth could do was watch. The treatments given by the doctors simply weren't working, and though her mother remained lucid, over the years her condition steadily worsened. In this time, Azoth found solitude elsewhere, trying to distract herself from the realities of life. The children outside wouldn't usually play with her; her mixed heritage saw to that. Instead, she found herself drawn to the work of her parents. She would sneak into her father's study and take books from his library to read. Some were written in languages she couldn't understand. The ones she could read seemed needlessly complicated, but it wasn't as if she had anything better to do with her time. The ones in Chinese she'd have her mother help with in her more lucid moments, though they grew fewer and farther between as the years passed. Around this time, Azoth was sent off to school, with one caveat. Education for women was thoroughly lacking, but education for men ... there was something that could be achieved. Her parents had known this and kept her hair cut short and her clothes loose-fitting; if they were lucky, they might be able to pass her off as a boy, at least until puberty. It wasn't as if the missionaries running the western schools would be checking (... maybe). In the day, she'd go to school and learn English and math and other subjects. She remained fairly socially isolated, fearing that she'd be kicked out if anyone found out her secret, but slowly began to make friends. Her days truly came alive in the night, though, as she would walk outside and simply stare at the stars above her. They were fascinating, these tiny points of light shining from up above. She'd seen her father observe them before, and she knew that he used a "telescope" -- whatever that was -- to look at the moon and "planets". Turns out it wasn't that hard to steal it from his study. Turns out dropping it wasn't the best idea either. After what seemed like hours of angry shouting and an awkward few days of silence, her father sent word to England to ship over a replacement. In the meantime, he began to teach his daughter about the sky and the stars, recognizing that she'd keep on stealing and breaking his telescope if he didn't. She learned about the constellations and the planets and the way they moved across the sky. When the new telescope finally arrived at a considerable expense, she learned how to operate it and was able to see the moon and planets in their full glory. Her mother died when she was twelve. Surprisingly, she found that it didn't hit her as hard as she expected. To her, her mother had died years ago; this was just her ghost passing from the world. Unfortunately, her father didn't take it as well. The death was crushing to him. For years, he'd hoped for a better treatment, perhaps some new antibiotic, that could help. Now it was useless. Azoth had seen death before, but this was the first time she truly saw grief. Her father became more reserved. He'd retreat for hours to his study, writing letters and delving into strange and obscure texts. Occasionally, Azoth had a chance to look through his correspondence, and they all seemed very strange. For one, they all seemed to be sent to some strange city in some mythic land: "London". She'd heard stories about "London" from her father and from the other British in the city (those who would speak to her, at least), and she'd even seen daguerreotypes of it, but that wasn't even the strangest part. Nothing in the letters seemed to make sense: devils, boatmen, gardens, and so on. She never got any answers from her father, though, even when he was lucid. She'd noticed a change in her father. Before, she'd never seen a drop of liquor enter his lips; he'd always said he needed a clear mind to think and work. Now he drank every day, and when he wasn't drinking or writing in his study, he was using opium, too lost in his own world to deal with her. Every now and then, she'd find him burning papers outside, pages and pages of writings; familiar writings -- mother's poetry. The words curled and blackened in the flames as each page, the last remains of her mother on the earth, burned away into nothing. Her father said he was sending them over to the next life for her to read and remember. She didn't believe him. She continued to go to school, but she'd lost a lot of her old enthusiasm and was beginning to underperform. Her only solace now was in observing the world around her. She continued to stargaze, studying the works of astronomers of the previous centuries: Copernicus, Galileo, Brahe, Kepler, and so on. There was some comfort to be found in their stories and their mathematics, how they persevered in the face of adversity, and how even if they were ridiculed and mocked in their times, their truth would prevail. All would be well, and so too would all be well for her, she hoped. All would be well. When she was 14, in the year 1884, her father made a spontaneous move: he announced that they were leaving Hong Kong and moving to London. The city that he had avoided like the plague fourteen years prior, the city he once thought of as a dead, rotting corpse in the ground was now the city of his dreams. Azoth couldn't understand what had changed. She couldn't understand that once when he desired knowledge, he found love, and for so long afterward his heart's desire was his true love. When that was stolen from him, he could not stop wanting, and as he desired love, he found knowledge: knowledge only found in the Neath, far away from the laws of the heavens. All of this went over her head; all she could see was that some change had come across her father, and now they were crossing the seas to a land she had heard of only in song and story. -- "Isidora, therefore, is the city of his dreams: with one difference. The dreamed-of city contained him as a young man; he arrives at Isidora in his old age. In the square there is the wall where the old men sit and watch the young go by; he is seated in a row with them. Desires are already memories." - Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities On the Sea Her father was aging in years. The hairs on his head were turning white and his recent addictions had not proven healthy at all. He had spent nearly the last of their money on the voyage, the rest squandered in his search for ... what? Azoth didn't know. She knew it had something to do with London and it likely had to do with her mother's death, but she had no idea what seemed to be driving her father to madness. It could've been the alcohol and the opium, but she doubted that. Even in his lucid state, something seemed to be consuming his mind, driving him towards the west, towards the city of his dreams. This was Azoth's first time on the sea, though she had lived by it her whole life, and it inspired mixed feelings within her. The liberation from the rest of the world was refreshing, and it was very relaxing, basking in the sunlight with the wind behind her. Of course, that was only during the smooth sailing. As soon as the waters grew turbulent, the journey would become far worse, leaving her stuck in a crowded, humid hold with total strangers and a slightly insane father. As the journey continued and supplies lessened, the atmosphere on the ship grew worse as morale fell and scurvy began to manifest. Though she avoided it, her father was not so lucky and was left sick for much of the voyage, confined to bed, left to dream alone. Stepping foot in Liverpool for the first time (London wasn't exactly a port anymore, given the circumstances), Azoth was overwhelmed. This was an industrial town, one changed by machinery and factories, by coal and rail. Still, she didn't have much time to marvel at the city: within a day, they were moving on to London, but again, she noticed something different about her father. He was moving slower, with none of the vitality he had displayed at the journey's beginning. He was tired and had spent much of the sea-voyage thinking and pondering about why he wanted to come to London. He thought back to the ancient days now, when he had loved and been loved. He thought back to how much that love had changed him, for better or for worse, and all that he had done to try and destroy the pain of losing it. He had wanted nothing more than to make it go away, to take everything to a time before it all went to hell, but now he was just tired. What had he wanted? The cure for death? Eternal life? That didn't really appeal anymore. What was there in London now? Otherworldly pleasures, he had heard; unanswered mysteries waiting to be answered; even love, he heard, was plentiful there. But why did that matter? The journey had aged him, it seemed, or it could've been the years of self-pity and misery finally catching up to him. He felt like an old man now. A city of dreams has no place for a traveling old man; it is the place of the young, the bold, the beautiful. After all, what use are desires once they've become only memories? Right at the gates to the Neath, the doors to that subterranean cavern, he turned back, and Azoth couldn't fathom why. All she could see was the final madness of an old man with nothing left to live for. He had crossed the whole world and given up everything, put himself through years of pain and self-destruction for ... for what? To turn back at the threshold, to give up after all of this? There was nothing left to be done. The day passed, and Azoth lingered. Her father was bedridden now, as if the will to live had been sapped from him. He could get out of bed. He could leave and try to rebuild his life from scratch. But he didn't want to. He was tired, and he just wanted to rest, truly, for the first time in years. Azoth watched over him as he drew his last breath at the doorstep of the city of his dreams. -- "The heart will break, but broken live on." - Lord Byron, Don Juan Healing For the first time, Azoth was truly alone. She only had the clothes on her back and few prized possessions, but she managed to come up with enough money to buy passage back to Liverpool. London was her father's folly, and she wanted nothing more to do with it. Deep within her, she felt empty. The past year of her life, give or take, had been a waste of time and money, and now she was stranded, a stranger in a strange land. She was marked; it was still clear to see that she was not a pure-blooded European, and with no home or inheritance to her name, she had few options. Realizing the disadvantages she faced in this society, she turned back to the old trick she used years before: disguising herself as a boy. Her voice was low enough that it could be mistaken for a high-pitched male voice, and if she remained silent, it'd be all the better. She was still quite thin and so long as she concealed her features well enough, she could make for a passable male. She cut her hair and went to the docks, looking for work. She managed to find it as a deckhand on a small trading vessel, where she presented herself to the old captain and managed to impress him. It was not hard for him to realize she was disguising her gender -- the ship was a closed environment, one not well-suited for long-term disguises -- but he recognized a certain hunger in the child. The loss of her father was still fresh in her mind, and she could do nothing but run. She buried that pain under a mountain of work, and she found the bottle comforting in this time, as her father had before her. She wasn't fond of its taste, but she couldn't resist the numbness that came with it. Before she departed, she was making plans for the future, trying to find opportunities for social advancement. After expressing an interest to the captain about becoming a doctor, he recommended a number of texts that could be useful, slipping in a few recent books on nursing, knowing how difficult it would be for a woman to ascend the ranks to become a doctor. The next day, she slipped out of the ship to a local bookstore, pilfering as many of its books on medicine as she could. Narrowly avoiding detection, she managed to return to the ship uncaught and immediately began studying whenever she had a moment, though she had little time for it. The ship was ready to sail and deckhands were expected to do far more than lounge around reading books all day. Once, she had dreamed of stars and the heavens, and she still looked to them for comfort and inspiration, but no longer did they fill her mind as they once had. She now dreamed of her own star and her own heavens, a place to stand so that she could move the world. The nurse, the lady with the lamp, was a good profession, one that could bolster her financially. Planning on moving on from the deckhand position quickly, she haggled for only a year-long contract with the merchant vessel in exchange for lower pay, but her friendship with the captain proved profitable nonetheless. He was an old officer of the Navy, and he'd seen his fair share of the world. He’d grown up hearing stories of Admiral Nelson and the bravery of the navy, and he’d joined as soon he was of age. He and Azoth would reminisce about the east, the captain having fought in the Opium Wars and Azoth having lived through the consequences of those actions. She came to resent some of his beliefs -- the captain was a vehement imperialist, justifying British expansion in the name of God and civilization -- but gained a healthy respect for him as a person. The captain, in the meantime, saw a hunger in the child that he saw in few others. He had never had a child of his own, and here, at the end of his life, he felt the urge to take her under his wing, to pass a part of his legacy onto her. He took her on as a personal assistant, knowing she would prove useful on this voyage, as he intended to trade in the Far East. At the same time, he trained her in self-defense, giving her one of his pistols in the event that the crew found out her secret and tried to hurt her. Arriving in Beijing, Azoth was immediately uncomfortable. She’d returned to the land of her childhood, but it wasn’t her home. The people looked at her strangely. Some seemed disgusted that she would work with the westerners who had just a decade before invaded and caused so much suffering. Having landed, many of the other sailors seemed to treat her differently too, as if they were afraid she’d run off and abandon them, and many simply pretended she didn’t exist. Still, the voyage was a success and they returned to England with a tidy profit. She agreed to remain with the ship for another contract, but when the captain died in his sleep, she was left alone on the ship again. She returned to being an ordinary deckhand, and despite the resentment that others had for her, she managed to make it through the remainder of her contract and left the ship soon afterward. Casting off her disguise, she applied for work at a hospital and was given an opportunity to demonstrate her abilities in lieu of proper schooling. It was 1887 and demand for nurses remained high. She went to work for the first time, stationed at the emergency ward, and was completely unprepared for what she would see. She had heard of brutality and starvation before. She'd seen death before, many times now, and each time she'd learned to hide the grief. But this ... this was different. Working in the hospital, she saw case after case of cruelty and misery and doom. She saw the way disease ravaged its hosts, the infected coming in one day and dying the next. A few came with seizures and mental failures, and she could not help but remember her mother, slowly dying as her condition worsened and worsened. She saw accidents of industry, men caught in flywheels and cut to pieces, construction workers crushed and crippled. She even saw crime and murder, with people stabbed and shot and dying. As a nurse, she was to watch over the patients, to gauge their condition and call a doctor if necessary, and thus she witnessed death again and again. There were cases that ended well, with full recovery and a happy patient, but the joy from those was continually crushed by the death of the next patient, and the next, and the next. The pay was good -- she managed to find a home in a settlement house and could afford to buy food and drink -- but she felt herself growing angry. Why did it have to be this way? Why was there still pain and poverty haunting such an advanced society? For years, she'd continue this work, losing hope as time passed. What was there to care about anymore? So many of her efforts were for naught, so much time spent on nothing. Sometimes, she would see a patient, suffering and beyond care, and she'd just wish that they would just die. The worst for her were the youth, the ones about her own age that would turn up, stabbed or drunk or both. They managed to save some. Many others didn't make it. They took a greater and greater toll on her. She was adrift in a sea of misery, and she could see no way out. Even if she left the nursing field, what else could she do? She couldn't stand to know that people were dying and that she had walked away from those who would help them. In 1891, this all changed. -- "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." - Friedrich Nietzsche Love is Light Azoth had felt love before; the love of a child for a parent, mainly. Sure, she'd had a couple crushes and romantic thoughts in her teenage years, but she'd never truly felt the love and lust of romance before. This came to a startling end when a new nurse transferred into the emergency ward, one schooled in London and now working on the Surface. She advertised herself under the pseudonym Nightingale (as is the practice of many in London), as those trained from the academy in London were known, and since the Fall, their services had become quite prized. Unfortunately, the Surface-sickness that struck her kept her from working for the first few weeks of her stay, and Azoth became her nurse, as they were close in age. The two became fast friends, with Nightingale talking about the strangeness of the Neath and its quaint, charming beauty, while Azoth regaled her with stories of the sea and the east. When Nightingale recovered, she was placed in the emergency ward, where her services could perhaps be of the most use, and she and Azoth continued to grow closer. After their first encounter, this newcomer began to take over Azoth's mind. She was intriguing; London was still a mysterious place to her, despite having lived in England for so long now, and she still wondered what her father had sought there. Nightingale was surprisingly nonchalant about all the horrors on the Surface; it was nothing compared to what she'd seen in the Neath. She remained bright and cheerful, ready to help anyone, even if failure meant a permanent death, unlike the deaths of the Neath. It was her who taught Azoth of the philosophy that she would come to adopt: the Anchoress's Promise. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. Their conversations took a long time to turn to love. It was the February of 1892, and London was celebrating the Feast of the Exceptional Rose. It was the first year Nightingale had not celebrated, and so she and Azoth arranged to have their own little celebration in the hospital, buying the traditional masks of the holiday and having a night of singing, dancing, and music. It was then that Azoth began to realize her feelings for her, and she confessed her feelings at the end of the feast. Thus began Azoth's first relationship and, truly, the only one she invested all her heart in. A year passed, and Azoth continued to learn all about the Neath from her new lover. They decided to move in together and pool their resources, even if society on the Surface stood against everything about their relationship. Nightingale told stories of the love in the Neath, and how blind it was. People of different classes and genders mixed and loved. Even people of different species, she said, could find love: intimacy with devils, romance with Rubbery Men; it was very much unlike the hellish London she'd heard of as a child and the mystery-shrouded London of her adolescence. Nightingale entertained thoughts of returning, but Azoth opposed them: she simply couldn't give up the stars and the sun and the bright colors of the Surface. Another Feast of the Exceptional Rose came and went, and the two grew closer. These were among Azoth's most prized memories, ones she feared losing to the Nadir or to the fog of time over the years. It was an escape from the darkness of her everyday life, a beacon in that sea of misery. Love was light, and she could not let it go. It's why the knife would cut so deep a year later, when her shift in the emergency ward was cruelly interrupted. She couldn't quite believe her eyes when Nightingale arrived there at the edge of death, her throat slit and body mutilated. The doctors tried to save her, but it was impossible. The constables had been the ones to bring her, and they revealed few details to Azoth about the murder. They had pursued the killer and recognized him, but he was a citizen of the Neath, in the jurisdiction of London. His name was Scathewick, they said, and the story matched the evidence: the petals left on Nightingale's corpse were from a flower of the Neath, now withered and dead in the sunlight. Azoth left the hospital and her lodgings the next day. She had a new destination: Fallen London. -- Nemesis "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche It was not hard entering London, at the end of the day. All she had to do was assault the customs officer, and suddenly she was locked away in New Newgate, high above the city. The hard part was getting out of New Newgate in one piece. She was inexperienced in the criminal world. She'd stolen before and she knew how to use a gun, but the pistol the captain had given her was taken with the rest of her possessions. She had to learn how to fight, but driven by pain and grief, it proved easier to than expected. As soon as she heard a prisoner talking about Scathewick, though, she snapped. She can't quite recall what happened, but there was blood and it ended with her sitting down to talk with the underworld boss who controlled the man she assaulted. To deter her from attacking again, he had one of her fingers removed, cutting off the index finger of her right hand. This left the hand practically useless for a few days, but she could live without it, and she had what she wanted: a name and a place. The petals of Scathewick's flower were "exile's rose", apparently, and the man himself was well-known for being hard to find and difficult to employ. The information may not have been worth it, but in her irrational and almost mad state, Azoth didn't care. Soon enough, she was preparing to escape on the dirigibles, and then, truly, she could begin. -- Epilogue "Give me the place to stand, and I shall move the earth." - Archimedes Her ambition to find Scathewick was at first what drove her, but soon enough, the grief and anger over Nightingale's death began to fade and she realized that she needed to establish herself first in London. The charity of a Soft-Hearted Widow gave her lodgings, and from there, she began to plan. She realized that the Neath was so much more than just Scathewick, and that he would be on the run for a while still. If she waited, he would let down his guard, and she'd find him then. Until then, well ... London was her oyster. It had mysteries to be probed, stories to be told. Nightingale's death hurt, and it still hurt, but the loss of her finger reminded her of what truly mattered: no matter what, she had to stay alive. She had the opportunity to finish her father's work, whatever it was. There were people around London that needed help, and she could provide it. After a long time in the Neath, the pain had nearly faded fully, and she began to embrace the Neath for everything that it held. Even down here, tensions still rose among different peoples. The Clay Men were little better than slaves, and few in London seemed to understand them. Rubbery Men were incapable of being understood, but she saw mobs hounding and killing them. Snuffers were an enigma, but it was only natural for humans to fear what they couldn't understand. She had to learn more, to understand these peoples and avoid the mistakes of history. Besides that, the Neath was full of mysteries: zee-monsters, ancient cities, and the Correspondence, above all. She was making a name for herself here, and soon enough, nothing would be able to keep her her nemesis. Her mind had been sharpened since coming to the Neath; her words honeyed, her steps made soft, her skill at arms made ever greater. Scathewick wouldn't escape her gaze. She'd just have to wait. But this is London. Death is a mere inconvenience, though one that she will avoid like the plague. She will wait for it. edited by Azothi on 3/9/2017 edited by Azothi on 7/3/2017 edited by Azothi on 7/3/2017 -- Azoth I, the Emissary of Cardinals - A Paramount Presence (not currently accepting new Proteges) Away to where the Chain cannot bind us. Hesperidean.
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Six Handed Merchant Posts: 141 12/29/2017	The Six Handed Merchant has always been in the Neath. They were born down here, but not in London, nor did they choose to come to London. They were smuggled into London via a shipping crate of trinkets. They don't remember their parents. But even the smugglers couldn't keep track of them, and Six's shipping crate was stolen and carted off to Spite. Six's encounter with the thieves was nearly fatal. But they survived and were restored by the Soft-Hearted Widow. Eventually, Six gathered a web of supportive friends from the poorer side of Veilgarden. But even after fortune smiled on them and they found a path out of the gutters of London, Six remembered their darker days, and has harbored a deep resentment against he devils and criminal element which preyed upon their friends in the gutter, taking everything they worked so hard to make, including their very souls. But under the tutelage of the Honey-Addled Detective and guidance from the Implacable Detective, Six has become a decent enough detective in heir own right, and has begun to turn the tables on those who have hurt so many. ---- Feel free to role-play with me in game or via PM to learn more yourself. Or, you can spoil the surprise and read my short fiction of SIx’s backstory, as told by the Honey-Addled Detective and Implacable Detective: They Walk Among Us. edited by Six Handed Merchant on 6/2/2018 -- The Six Handed Merchant: If it's the truth you seek, The Six Handed Merchant is the gentlemen-, er, lady-, er, detective you need! Just pay no heed to that Eradication Officer tailing Six: that poor fellow is simply out of his mind! Six's Mantlepiece (I am available for roleplaying and SAs. My schedule is pretty full, so please PM me first to work out the details.)
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Vivienne Thursday Posts: 42 2/6/2018	Vivienne Thursday, née Redgrave [[An update since her salad days of London, detailed in this post]] As some understated person once claimed, there is, in fact, never a dull day in the Neath. And let that be considered a mercy to us all! With so many new delicious people to fascinate, soirees through which to sashay and salons to enchant, once established in London, Vivienne Redgrave swiftly found her rightful place amid her subterranean Bohemian circle and the haute ton just as easily as she had in her Surface days. Finding admirers of her artwork, and not merely her own effusive presence, continued for a time to be something of a challenge, but she has found great success in recent years as the Author of a trilogy of mycological romances. Some might say she's merely reworking select portions of the more debauched (and delicious) litanies of London's scandals into those flourishing, fungal-fueled fantasies, but yet when each new volume is released, the fingers that begin to point as to who exactly did what to whom and with whose spouses, servants or spores, the direction most often pointed is at oneself. (To claim to such infamy will get one... well, at least as far as Veilgarden.) Suitably settled, Vivi has found her adopted home of London delightful on the whole, and though she followed her capricious Heart's Desire here, as she had always done, the true gift was revealed to be not wine, fame, jewelry, or an ever-growing Appreciation Society (all still fine and very necessary things), but rather a handsome professor and scholar by the name of Ginneon Thursday. Theirs is a love story that will be told through the ages, and while each of them is commendable on their own, together, they are exceptional. Once the Masters' marriage tax was lifted to great acclaim, they were reportedly the first to wed within the Bazaar herself, and their celebrated and treasured union remains a fine reminder that in the deepest matters of the Bazaar, one should look always to love. Still... happy endings are difficult things to achieve, particularly hidden away in the dark. Though together the Thursdays have gained enduring love, riches, success and so much more down in the Neath's chiropteran depths, as most Londoners know all too well, such boons come at a steep price. When Vivienne sleeps, in the moments in-between all the galas and laughter and smiles and the balls and all the joyous revelry—her dreams, both false and true, and worse still, the yearning, desperate visions borne from July—are always the same. The dreams that refuse to quiet in the still of the ever-present, endless night are of a glorious dawn rising over Paris... always Paris, and the well-missed Sun. ____ Do you find yourself intrigued, or perhaps even a bit fascinated? Might you wish to know more about the Thursdays and their charming and often champagne-fueled adventures? Of course you do! To learn more, all you need do, delicious friend, is click here: Vivienne's Profile • Ginneon's Profile • Their Wedding Announcement • and A Forum Game: 'Win' a Night on the Town for the Feast! edited by Vivienne Thursday on 11/16/2018 -- Vivienne Thursday: Artist • Author • F̶l̶i̶r̶t̶ Wife
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absimiliard Posts: 759 2/13/2016	Absimiliard claims to remember nothing of their past prior to arriving in the Neath. Even more odd they claim their first memory is that of falling, and then plunging into the cold Zea near Irem from which they were plucked by a passing Zea-Captain before they drowned. There are many Zea-stories they relate that indicate that they did indeed Zail the Zea for some time, and they have been many places. It is clear that Absimiliard is terrified of the Zea, and desires to never set foot upon a ship at Zea if it is within their power. Further investigation by those with the proper connections will reveal that they were condemned to Newgate prison for murder of a ship-mate. The court-case was dilatory, suspiciously so, and little exists in written word detailing it -- what little you can find indicates that they killed an officer on their ship who had recently been hired on at Mt. Palmerston. Looking into their activities since finally regaining their freedom on the streets shows an odd set of contradictions. Clearly this person is quite subtle, but the number of Londoner lives they have jumped in to save, or influenced for the better, says they are quite capable of direct action when needed. They are well known not just for their terribly scandalous behavior -- wearing scarlett stocking whilst dancing with Sinning Jenny at the Carnival for example -- but also for their piety as they are a regular at prayers in nearly every church in the city. There are rumors that despite their connection to the Constables Absimiliard has engaged in no small amount of criminal activity -- usually to the Widows advantage, though they toast to the Cheery Man. The few constants you can find in their behavior are as follows: They seem irresistibly attracted to the Duchess and any cause she supports. No matter their dress or style there is always a feline manner to their motion. There is no snake so small, or innocent, that they will not instantly bristle (you can practically see the hairs on their neck and back rise up) at them, and if they think they can win . . .. . attack. At no time or place do you ever see them feel truly in their place, wherever their home is, it isn't here. They are far more comfortable trading secrets sitting up on the roofs with a horde of cats than you ever see them be with people. Oh, and they are obsessed with the lands behind mirrors, almost assuredly unhealthily so. -- "Because, Parabola!" -- the Curious Captain Eating nightmares from friends -- and I'm easy to befriend. Absimiliard: the Black Rose of Wolfstack Docks
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Tanner Price Posts: 30 1/1/2018	Born in the Neath from the union of a high-class prostitute and an American sailor, Tanner was raised primarily by his mother and his menagerie of aunts — other working girls who entertained clients for Mr. Wines. Eventually after repeated visits with Sylvia over the years, his father Mason decided to marry her and help raise their son. However, money was tight in the family and neither could afford to retire — Sylvia’s money mostly going to room and board in the lavish brothel, and Mason making too little as an able-bodied seaman to afford a proper home — so the other ladies of the Moonstone Masque did their best to help give Tanner a decent upbringing. They taught him survival skills — most notably, people skills. Tanner can fit in with just about any crowd, and always seems to know just what to say. He favors high society, but has always had an artistic and creative streak. His father picked up work as a deckhand at Wolfstack Docks, forever leaving the Surface and teaching Tanner the ins and outs of maritime labor. Tanner became skilled, tough, and dangerous, eventually getting chartered out on a major contract to transport diamonds from Polythreme. There, his growing greed, hedonism, and hunger for notoriety took over, and he overthrew his own crew to take control of the vessel. When the captain tried to stop him, Tanner cut him down, sinking his body overboard and stealing the black steel cutlass he still carries to this day. He bribed the crew by splitting their cargo amongst them, depriving it all from Mr. Stones, and beginning a life of piracy. His exploits at sea have made him rich, and he uses that money to afford the finest pleasures high society can offer. He takes care of his family, still loving them dearly while keeping his professional life and social life separate. Still, despite his success at villainy, he occasionally feels moral conflict — even guilt — and wishes to use his skills in the interest of a greater good. For now, he is belaying his career as a captain in pursuit of other exploits, both selfish and altruistic. Perhaps in the process he may even find something — or someone — worth living for. -- Captain Tanner Price: Legendary Charisma [SEEKING PROTEGES]; esteemed pirate and social butterfly; raised by the girls of Mr Wines.
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Lady Karnstein Posts: 278 9/20/2017	Caroline Karnstein was always a queer girl, never quite fitting in, despite having many admirers. As she began maturing on the surface, rumors began to swirl about her private life, and also what secrets lie in her family's noble or perhaps not so noble background. Many people had questions, but only got a mysterious smile in return, at least in public. Few could say she lacked a kind heart, but her pursuit of pleasure got in the way. Eventually she was caught with the Wrong Person one time too many, one too many letters put a bit strongly or to the Wrong People, too many whispers by servants about her Special Room. To say she was run down to the neath by pitchfork wielding fathers, husbands and brothers might overstate things, but in the end, the writing was on the wall. Only love of Paris kept her on the surface, but even then it was not enough. Since coming down Caroline has made rather a splash in the Neath. Of course, she immediately got arrested, but she vowed never again! She has only been arrested twice since then, which is good for her. She is known for her kind heart and keeping her word (to any but herself!) in many places, as well as her hedonism, and some say she is almost as deeply entrenched in The Game as she is Bohemian culture and Society. She is an avid Nocturnal and has undertaken some detective work using the Implacable Method. Poetry, Fiction, Theater, Art she has turned her hand to many things, and they say for better for for worse the world will never create as it did before she came along. She married one of her favorite models, which some hoped would slow her down but they only seem to multiply each other's voraciousness! They say you should watch out when she shows but but really, she only wants to make friends and have a good time. Isn't that all any of us want? So come to her Salon, and have a good time. edited by Lady Karnstein on 9/20/2017 -- Lady Caroline Karnstein, The Moral Hedonist (Description) Infamous writer, artist, and courtesan. Unrepentant Invert. Hesperidean. Paramount Presence, Correspondent, Nocturnal. Poet Laureate of the Neath, Ambassador to Arbor
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Rysiek Posts: 693 2/17/2016	Rysiek: Wollt die Geschichte hören warum ich hier bin? Chętnie. It is very simple. I hoped for more money than at home, in a steel smeltery. First I went to the Pott... not what I wanted. Then I got to this place. And I will stay here for some time. Always wanted to be a cop anyways. Expected a story with more drama, tragedy and scandal? Przepraszam. I was from a family of coal miners. I learned from books. I am not from a big city and an important family. I am a proletarian and always will be. -- The silesian Detective http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Rysiek The incredible Warsovian. She certainly didn't steal your diamond necklace. That idea is RIDICULOUS... http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Maria~Konstantynopolska The silesian vengeance seeker http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Agata~Grym I apologize for any and all anachronisms. I am too lazy to check some facts if I am sure they are from the 1890s or sometimes think they are. Oh, and by the way, I am not polish, I am GERMAN to clarify for heavens sake... tylko po polsku mowie. Um Himmelswillen...
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Eglantine-Fox Posts: 872 7/6/2016	Siobhan O'Malley comes from Connacht in Ireland, a place that was hard-hit by the Famine. She grew up on stories of its horrors, and what England's Queen and England's people did to worsen those horrors. She fell in with fervent Irish nationalists from a young age, all speaking of one thing: a free Ireland, its own country, no longer under British rule. But how to attain such a goal? That's why she's come here, to Fallen London. She needs to understand the city before she can act. Siobhan hopes to somehow cut London off from the surface forever, or find some other means of neutralising it. Without the power and authority of London and the Traitor-Empress, Britain will falter. Its Empire will weaken. And those who long for freedom will have their chance to fight for it. She knows she might never go home. It's worth it. She'll sacrifice her chance at life back home if she must, her life entirely if that's what it takes. It would be prudent not to ask what else she'd be willing to sacrifice - or who else. She will do whatever she must in London. She will do whatever she must to London. -- Eglantine Fox, the charming and androgynous Correspondent, teetering between hobbies of seduction and self-destruction. Siobhan O'Malley, Irish patriot (or 'bl__dy Fenian' if you're impolite). Isidore Day, an up-and-coming London gentleman. All allegations of wrongdoing are categorically denied.
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Bertrand Lyndon Posts: 95 2/19/2017	Bertrand Lyndon – or rather Sergeant Lyndon, since he prefers to be called by his title – is a former officer of the British Army. He was born in York from a British diplomat and a woman from Gibraltar, making him half-Spanish (his ethnic background is actually even more complex than that). He spent most of his youth traveling with his father around the countries of the Mediterranean Sea (in Spain, Malta, Italy, Greece and Morocco, among other places), and very little time in England. Lyndon joined the British Army at a young age, intrigued by the prestige and lifestyle that a successful member of the military enjoys. He was a good soldier, but he was by no means a patriot. He eventually managed to join the 7th Dragoon Guards and fought in Egypt, where he was promoted to Sergeant. Lyndon’s career in the military came to a halt when he left the Army shortly after the end of the war because of reasons that are better never asked to him directly. He fled to the Neath and never looked back. Some of the people he knew back then haven’t forgot about him, though, and many of them would pay good money to know his present whereabouts. Since he saw his fair share of the world when he was a kid, Lyndon isn’t too interested in exploring the Neath – unless he gets something out of it. He’s much more intrigued by how a man of great talent and little morals can go places quickly in London. He has slowly managed to form a network of spies, killers and thieves who answer only to him, and he has gained a place among London’s underworld ringleaders. Lyndon’s loyalties go only to himself, so when he’s involved in a conflict between two of London’s factions he often ends up working for both sides and helping none. The exception are the Revolutionaries: he opposes the Liberation of Night, so he will always work against it, no matter the situation. Many people in London’s underworld think that he's plotting to take the place of the Cheery Man, or the Widow, or the Topsy King. Some even say he’s wants to take the place of all three of them and rule London from the shadows. Lyndon would deny that such rumors have any real basis, obviously. edited by Bertrand Lyndon on 2/19/2017 -- Bertrand Lyndon, a former Sergeant of the 7th Dragoon Guards who deals in crime and secrets. (My main profile: a Midnighter available for Orphanages) Jordan Farchild, a kid who often meddles in things bigger than herself, and Bertrand's ward. (I check this profile less often than Bertrand and I use it only for very light roleplay) Call me Barren on the IRC.
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Andrew Astherson Posts: 118 6/10/2015	Excerpt from Astherson’s diary 10 June, 1893 Today I have had a misfortune to observe another rare, yet “typical” dream of mine. Like it was not enough exterior pressure and unsupportive circumstances to break my will, I am starting to face the grim void, which appears to be my consciousness. It is clear to me that I will have no aid from aside in matters of keeping my cognitive balance. That is why I should recognize my current state in the way ancient stoics used to. Who am I and what is my nature? I am a product of love between opportunism and abdication embodied. My father is (or was) an officer of Russian empire’s army. He came from a humble Ukrainian family, but his origin failed to avert him from pursuing through imperial military and diplomatic hierarchy, and becoming a tool of oppression to own lesser Homeland and kin. It still remains a miracle to me of why his parents never rejected him and his spawn. My mother came from a noble tatarian family, which was oppressed by the Empire equally or even more than my Ukrainian bloodline. And it is even greater enigma of how could she fall in love with him. When she was up to decide whenever to follow her heart or her identity, she preferred the first option. Her family responded accordingly. While being a child of an up-and-coming imperial officer, I received proper education and was destined to continue my father’s hierarchal crusade as an occupation regiment officer in Poland. But I betrayed his ambitions and ruined carefully-planned schemes by deserting from imperial army. Was it the influence of my ukrainian grandparents or was it my own nature, but I could not commit violence based on political and ethnical reasons. I guess I just knew the bloody story of my predecessors far too well to continue my father’s purpose. Yet, I am a traitor no better than he and my mother. My personal plan and purpose is to deliver my bloodline from traditional battleground and terminal mayhem that lies between the sea of Azov and Baltic sea. I only wish for a better, happier and fair life for my possible children. Where am I? After a few years as a deserter running at large and laboring at Odessa’s legal and semi-legal ports for a ticket to the West, I managed to move to Napoli, Italy. However, the situation was hardly an improvement: huge numbers of locals were and are leaving their Homeland due to the lack of jobs, social tensions and a fantom of future war between five great Empires. They are all moving to the New World, and it seems like I should also try my luck in America as well. But the problem is that I need funds - a solid capital to move, settle and accommodate at the point of final destination. I was aware of the Neath that lies deep under Avernus lake, I knew that it might be a perfect place for a social ladder, just like any frontier appears to be (though, I never imagined how exotic this frontier is). The narrowness of options forced me to pick a new name, take the risk and descend underground. And that is how I ended up here, hunting for rats, beast, bestial rats, aquatic menaces, ethereal threats (not my favorite), infernal fiends, troglodytry of different nastiness and, occasionally, things that cannot be categorized easily. I also possess somewhat proper lodgings, the half-empty salon with gymnasium and fire range, which I want to turn into a club for hunters, sailors, entrepreneurs and other industrious folks. Where am I heading? My plan is as simple as a brick: to raise a capital, to develop and then sell few facilities, to make contacts, to establish reputation and to move to the New World (I really hope it to become my final stop) before upcoming surface storm will trap us in this gargantuan dungeon. And even more – this social ascent is not that easy: I may even meet the fate of Ikarus, who had chased his dream carefree and was killed by it. The realy important fact is that I still have will, health and reasons to continue this flight … I just wish if it was not so lonely. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Yes - I can see it in your eyes - you want to add this dude and RP with him 'til he drops dead, 'cause he is cute, modest and knows how to cook ! edited by Andrew Astherson on 8/19/2015 -- > Currently open for RP: Andrew Astherson - heavy-tempered, rapacious but reliable menace of slavonic-tatar origin. Clement "don't you call me Clem!" Mustela - merry and licentious to a stupid degree Irishman-detective > My lads appearances ; Astherson's short backstory > Seeking for RP partner(s), are you ? This thread might be the right place.
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MadifyMarley Posts: 8 4/28/2015	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 "career", 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 "that isn't the job". 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. -- Open for Social Actions. But not the bad ones, please. I need friends.
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Zhorgren Posts: 23 4/28/2015	"Zhorgren's his name..." Quoth intones. "Zhorgren's a she!" 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. Moderator edit: Please don't use coloured text; on these forums, we use it as a marker that someone works at Failbetter. edited by Flyte on 4/28/2015 -- "Elapsam semel occasionem non ipse potest Iuppiter reprehendere, Quoth" "Shut up, Maggie" http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Zhorgren
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Nuti Posts: 27 10/18/2014	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 "love" and "heart" 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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lorelei~Hale http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Herlinda Characters' backgrounds
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Frensus Posts: 102 10/21/2014	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! -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Frensus Currently targeting: NiteBrite's Fabulous Diamond Diversion (1/50), Breath of the Void (3184/3200)
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Aegis1000 Posts: 64 11/7/2014	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 -- Aegis1000,a midnight, sinister, inescapable and sagacious gentleman. Intent on taking over the world, or at least Fallen London. Indescribably awesome and only marginally narcissistic.
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waters-serenade Posts: 4 11/28/2014	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. -- A Post-Nowist's work is never begun.
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Lazaroth Posts: 67 12/6/2014	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 "others like myself" 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 -- The Perspicacious Romantic — When all the world is washed away by misery, something beautiful will still remain.
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Saravina Vorcast Posts: 30 12/26/2014	"Hello 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 "The Masters are Coming! We need to leave! We'll be drug down to the Neath!" 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?" she smiled and stood, then leads you to the door; bids you farewell, and shuts it. -- -- ((TA-DDAAAAA)) -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/doctor~rosanburg http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/vira~mandrake http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/devious~dolorosa My little ladies, feel free to send calling cards!
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Cryptix23 Posts: 33 6/29/2015	((Ooo, I like this. As soon as I started thinking about it I wandered off in an odd direction, though...)) ---- In the first generation, there were eleven. The first generation failed. They were destroyed. In the second generation, a fatal flaw culled all but five. Successes were had, though, and mistakes learned from. In the third generation, there were nine. The greatest moves forward were made in the third generation. There was no fourth generation. Problems arose. It became expedient to scrub all evidence of the project from existence. Those who knew its purpose disappeared. The results were destroyed. A few, however, escaped. Impassioned 23. Broken 13. Perhaps others. They had no names. Only numbers: designations of their place in the defunct Cryptics project. They had no identities, no place, no way to get by on the surface -- and they were hunted. Slowly, but surely, they funneled into the Neath. Here, they would make their own names. Twenty-three was one of the last, one of the most successful results of the project. Passionate and ambitious, a voracious reader and seeker of knowledge, with a twist of empathy that would not bear injustice. Though she struggled awhile to get by on the Surface, limited resources frustrated her efforts -- and she had heard so many fascinating and terrible stories of the Fallen City. Granted, a spell in New Newgate wasn't exactly how she envisioned her entrance to the Neath, but as long as she was here already... Then there was Thirteen. A survivor of the second generation -- for some quantity of 'survival'. Thirteen slipped away into the Neath the moment the project shut down. Down there, muffled and bandaged, Thirteen found himself not so out of place -- just a step away from a tomb-colonist. Lightly built but scrappy, quick on his feet, and possessed of a powerful aquiline profile beneath his bandaging, Thirteen styled himself the Aluminum Eagle, and found a welcome home in the fighting rings of Watchmakers' Hill and the rooftops of Spite. It was a chance rumor that unexpectedly reunited the estranged siblings: one of the agents responsible for scrubbing the Cryptics project had slipped into Fallen London. Twenty-three found that she was not above vengeance. Thirteen had no such scruples to hurdle. There were rights to be wronged and faces to be bloodied in the Neath, and two numbers ready to make their names known. edited by Cryptix23 on 6/29/2015 -- Prone to occasionally disappear for weeks at a time. Lady 23; the Magnanimous Midnighter, self-styled detective vigilante. Extraordinary Mind. Loves boxed cats. The Aluminum Eagle; grumpy bandaged hobgoblin with entirely too many dogs. Shattering Force. Threnody Lament; charmingly ruthless socialite. Carrion Crow; Seeker of the Name. Cares little for safety or sanity. All characters accepting calling cards and social actions. Follow their adventures here
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Guest 1/2/2016	Psyche Labyrinth wrote: quote=Hobnail] CURSED! CURSED! CURSED! Now that's what I call enthusiasm! Funny, when did enthusiasm get an alternate spelling of I-N-S-A-N-E?
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Seno Posts: 77 7/27/2015	So you wanna know me eh? Fine I'll tell ya, not like my life could get worst. Call me Seno (say-no) it's what I remember as my name. I actually came from America, Michigan to be specific. Used to be a musician out around Detroit. Not much money made but a good life. However things got sour a bit after I... made a deal so I ran to the Neath via the Cumean Canal and arrived in London shortly afterwards. I got into New Newgate soon enough though. Apparently at that time I had no clue about the Masters' hate against Egypt and was thrown in jail, luckily due to my newness thrown in a relatively low security cell. After a little while however I charmed one of the... Gaolers I believe and managed to escape, luckily unknown due to the mask they put on me and that I tell no one down here my gender. After a while down in the Neath I began to see my goals and pick sides. I often am considered one of the Agents of the Game and side the most with them. Bohemians and Society I also see myself apart of. Many of the more radical factions I like and join sides with. However I do have a particular loathing for Summerset and the Church. One of my main goals currently is too become quite famed in Court and learn about the Correspondence. Also a minor one of mine is to become an Author but my first attempt was just a failure due to those imbecile reviewers. That's about it currently so please leave. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Seno http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/Katrina450
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3Squirrels Posts: 38 8/1/2015	From the journal of Eddy Gale: I have been considering, this gloomy London day(?), my original motivations (if they can be called such)for making my way down the canal locks and into the Neath. Why it is I shunned the surface life in the first place. I assume now is as good a time as any to put such to the page, lest I forget it. My memory is occasionally spotty for some reason; perhaps a side effect of the Honey dens? Who knows. The point is, I can recall today, so I will write. I left the cities above on a cold day in September. I had been dodging the various constabularies of England for some months at that point; several misunderstandings involving shoddy forgeries and a person of my generalized appearance and dress habits being in the vicinity of major burglaries. That sort of a thing. All wash, of course - I was never present when they attempted to pin crimes to my name, but they still believed it all true. I had managed to acquire passage to Venice in the hopes that Italy would bear far more fruit than Merry Old England had, but word of my supposed misdeeds made it there before I even landed (and the list is far shorter when they recant it than it should be, I am not afraid to confess - they never did find the Jewel of Punjab, and the Rising Opera Star apparently does not miss her famed necklaces as of yet) - I was forced to hop from rigging to rigging, secreting myself and my meager belongings on a small steam tramp as the Italian police searched my arrival vessel to no avail. My original plan had been to lay low on the tramp for a bit, then skip off onto the docks and disappear into mainland Europe proper. It would have worked had the little boat not taken off from port again with me aboard - I was unable to vacate my hiding-place amongst the cargo crates for fear of being thrown overboard. I was never a strong swimmer, after all. So I waited and hoped we would get to another European port soon. Unbeknownst to me, that would be the last I saw of the sun. The little boat headed down the famed canal-locks to the Neath with me stuffed between two supply crates. I was found by a large, angry stevedor when the steamer docked at Wolfstack; I had no idea where I was and had no money with which to pay for my fares, so naturally I wound up in a dirigible bound for New Newgate with no small amount of haste. There is an escape tale to be told eventually; I am, after all, a free person in London now. It will have to wait for another time though. I am due for drinks with the young lads down at Veilgarden, and Lord knows that without me to help them, they’ll never lighten their purses fast enough. -- Eddy Gale, The Unburdened Cracksman - Available for all your burglary-related needs. Brought to you by Three Squirrels Who Game.
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Philip Eloy Posts: 6 1/20/2013	zarraha wrote: Devils do not count. In theory, if there were a devil who was not a soul-trading God-hating scumbag I would accept them, but Hell and those who work for it are horrible and I am currently spending my efforts and much of my valuable goods to bolster the church and destroy the soul trade. Again, I do whatever I feel like doing, and after having seen the tortured look in the eyes of the soulless, I feel like wreaking havoc on the scumbags who made it possible. Ah, a man after my own heart. Finally someone else sensible in this (almost literal) hell hole. buys you a drink*
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Pyrodinium Posts: 639 1/8/2014	I am named by my researcher father after the algae that cause seas to turn red and make slay both fish and man. I believe that the name was merely the beginning of the strangeness of my solitary life. My parents, lovers in both life and science, disappeared at sea while searching for the cause of these bloody blooms. My elder brother believed that it’s no accident that they disappeared. He knew that they’re searching for something more powerful than a simple act of nature, and that they have stumbled on things that the powers that be aim to keep secret. He knew that they’re alive. He raised both of us, working odd jobs at the University at day and working with some shady dealings at night. I’ve always looked up to him both as brother and mentor, even though he’s a full decade older. All went well until I found him lying in a pool of blood and showered with petals that are not from any earthly flower. “London… is where it ends”. It’s the last thing that he whispered before he breathed his last. It’s been a few months since I cradled his lifeless body yet I’m still far from the truth on who has done this to my family. I have grown strong since then and have become well-versed in the ways of the Neath. If they were here, I believe they’ll be proud that I continued the family tradition of being an ally of both the Church and the academe although they’ll probably be less approving of my own night-time heists and rodentine profession. There’s a bigger Truth hiding here, something that even my family won’t dream possible. The city ruins are merely whispers of this great mystery. I’m going to find this Truth as I seek my vengeance. There are only dim lights here in the Neath and the darkness eats us all. Yet, I’ll always be like my namesake, a bioluminescent bloom drowned within the Sunless Sea. -- My profiles: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Pyrodinium (A Monster hunter on the hunt of his twin brother's killer. Overprotective dad of his twin's daughter) http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Rudolph~of~Taured (an indeterminate person of potentially rubbery lineage) * All social actions except photographers and loitering welcome!
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Traintop Stowaway Posts: 2 8/24/2013	The Traintop Stowaway, and I came here for reasons I assume many others have, even if they'd rather not own up to them: law troubles. What sort of law troubles? Oh, the usual. Larceny, destruction of property, assaulting an officer of the law, unlicensed possession of high explosives - mostly high treason, honestly. There might have been manslaughter in there somewhere, but I never got the chance to learn if the guy actually died... Oh, don't go looking down on me like that. Populist uprisings involve a good number of casualties even in the best case scenario. Anyways, high treason, face and name broadcast across the nation. I thought I was done for until I remembered: Hey, you know what kind of place probably doesn't have any extradition treaties? Underground cities where Hell sets up shop in broad daylight. Luckily, I turned out to be right. Sure, found myself in jail down here within a week, but anything's better than the death penalty. Honestly, I'm rather embarrassed at how quickly I wound up in New Newgate that first time. I just figured that, with everyone being so unconcerned about murder, theft couldn't not be legal. There'll always be some things about this place I'll never understand, I suppose. edited by Traintop Stowaway on 8/24/2013
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Harry_Pierce Posts: 1 7/20/2014	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. "I 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." 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. "Where was I.... Where wa- AH! yes, of course." with his sudden inspiration he made a rather wild gesture with his arm, sending wine spraying towards a nearby table "Well 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." He shook his head in a slow exaggerated manner, causing the feather in his hat to bob sadly in sympathy "Sad 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." 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 "And 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!" 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
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Yurana Posts: 14 8/7/2014	“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. -- A most mysterious individual. New acquaintances are always welcome.
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Snowskeeper Posts: 575 2/28/2014	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 -- S.F., a midnight midnighter and invisible eminence. Impossible to locate them, personally, but there are dead drops and agents.
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Mr. Griffon Posts: 7 3/9/2014	"My name? Well, the real one's hardly important. Nobody down here to recognize it. For now, just call me Griffon." "I'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." "My 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." "However, 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." "Of 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!"
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Magnolia Prismall Posts: 1 1/20/2014	"Let 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." 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.
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dismallyOriented Posts: 215 1/31/2014	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.
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aquila garotting Posts: 1 2/4/2014	"If 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. "On 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. "Thus 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?"
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John Vazquez Posts: 108 2/15/2014	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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/John~Vazquez
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John Vazquez Posts: 108 2/26/2014	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. "I 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." http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Black~Alice edited by John Vazquez on 2/26/2014 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/John~Vazquez
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Lord Hattie Posts: 15 1/28/2014	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.] -- Lord William "Hattie" Masters - In-game Profile The Melancholy Lord, open for pretty much all social activities and roleplay
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Zeinka Posts: 6 1/30/2014	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!
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William The Marshal Posts: 24 4/19/2014	"William the Marshal doesn't talk about his past, much." The hooded and masked figure in front of you nods his thanks as you lean forward and top up his wineglass. "But down here, there's not much you can't find out... for the right price." His voice has changed. You think that he's smiling, or perhaps smirking. "This is what I've found out." "The 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 "the Marshal" - 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." You thank the shadowy figure and toss him his payment. He weighs the fat sack in one hand before standing up and bowing courteously. "Thanks 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." You sit flabbergasted as the Marshal finishes his wine and walks out of the Singing Mandrake. edited by William the Marshal on 5/21/2014 -- William the Marshal - a Pensive Professor and Sorrowful Soldier. A gentleman of very little importance, except perhaps in his own mind. On good terms with the Bohemians and, oddly, Society. Do feel free to drop by for a visit. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/William~the~Marshal
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Rackenhammer Posts: 354 5/23/2014	"Wiggins, would you be as so kind to bring two-no, three bottles of Greyfields? I expect that this will take some time." 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. "'At's for you, mister Smith." "Psmith, Wiggins. Do try to pronounce the silent P, will you?" 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. "Well, 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!" "Well, 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!" "After 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!" He looks over to you, slightly surprised at the look on your face. "Were 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." 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. "They 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." He looks at you with the careful steadiness of the drunk. "I'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." -- "DO NOT TRUST HAPPY ENDINGS. DO NOT FEAR SAD ENDINGS... NEITHER ARE ENDINGS." ~ Mathieu Psmith: The Bard of Lost Children, loving husband, and a fixture of the artistic set. Can never resist making a show of things... Irene Psmith: Adopted Daughter of Mathieu. Specializes in Information, Acquisitions, and the Acquisition of Information. Vaughan Montblanc: Once a frontiersman of Western Canada, he now practices medicine in London. His discretion may be absolutely trusted.
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Lazarus Trafalgar Posts: 1 7/3/2014	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.
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Leslie Miller Posts: 3 9/3/2014	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; "Don't forget-" 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 "young Miller", or perhaps even just "Leslie". 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, "What is done, is done." 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 - "Never forget. There is more than one truth." 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. -- here we go 'round the prickly pear
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Flower of December Posts: 8 1/8/2014	a bitter loathing of all that is between brought Flower of December to the Neath. That the devices which bridge the gaps between us all necessitate those gaps to insure their own existence and form a wedge dividing humanity and preventing our new world from being born. Chief among these evils which must be destroyed are Art, Currency, and Language. She has heard whisper of a powerful and primal language in the Neath which forms the root all other language is derived from. She will strike at this root and she will destroy it.
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zarraha Posts: 3 1/20/2013	My name is Zarraha, I came to the Neath in order to gain fame and fortune, and gain them I have. Although I began with almost no possessions or useful skills, I have an incredible knack for learning things and become more skilled and earn money even faster every day. I do jobs for anyone willing to pay me, provided they aren't immoral or harmful, and often do favors for free in the hopes that I can gain favors that I might use to my advantage later. I have several lodgings that I use for storage, piles and piles of valuable goods, and networks of spies and followers that gather information and can be used to handle business for me in various locations so I'm not constantly running about and can focus on earning more money. That said, I try not to be selfish with my desires. I do whatever makes me happiest, and since I like being kind to people and dislike suffering, I tend to do good deeds since they bring me emotional happiness. I donate to charities and help the poor, especially urchins, I treat all races equally, even if they have weird customs and speak weird languages, and I never compromise my morals, even if it would be to my own advantage. It's been a successful endeavor so far: I run around helping people, I eat good food, drink good wine, enjoy the company of fine women, and hang out with my two favorite ex-urchin girls who helped me when I first arrived in the neath. Devils do not count. In theory, if there were a devil who was not a soul-trading God-hating scumbag I would accept them, but Hell and those who work for it are horrible and I am currently spending my efforts and much of my valuable goods to bolster the church and destroy the soul trade. Again, I do whatever I feel like doing, and after having seen the tortured look in the eyes of the soulless, I feel like wreaking havoc on the scumbags who made it possible.
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Ben Cardwell Posts: 27 1/21/2013	My name is Benjamin S. Cardwell. Not a name one would associate with nobility. In old London my chances to enter high society would have been infintesimal, but there are many oppertunities in Fallen London for a person with light fingers, a sharp eye, a golden tongue and a sharp left hook to make a name for himself. Or herself, in these increasingly enlightened times! I was born to working class parents both of whom died by the time I was ten. I was an urchin and a thief. I was only a child when London fell, but with the help of a mysterious benefactor I was able to take hold of the opportunity to advance in life. I am now a person of some importance, if I do say so myself! I mingle with the rich and powerful, but I am not really one of them. They will never accept me. That is probably for the best. I still steal sometimes. I'm good enough that I can keep my identity under wraps, and I only take from those who have more than they know what to do with. I try to give to those who have none, and treat others right. There is so much pain and inequality in this great city, but I don't trust the revolutionaries. I don't trust their leaders or methods. But I think I have a better way. I have a plan, you see. A plan to turn the Neath on its head. This is a place full of secrets. I have been gathering them for quite some time. I already know of the mysterious skills of the sorrow spiders, the nightmarish grammar of the correspondence and the foul trade of the thrice-cursed spirifer, but I will have more. I will see what lies beyond the gates of the garden, I will uncover the mysteries of the Elder Continent, I will learn the secrets of the fallen cities and much more. And then, once I have pierced the mysteries of the Neath and the Bazaar itself, I will publish them. There are ways to distribute documents in such quantities and with such speeds as to make it very difficult to suppress them entirely. I am already working to found my own newspaper. I will publish the deepest secrets of the world for everyone to see and the world will never be the same. They will try to kill me for it of course. But if I can gain my Heart's Desire, they may find it very difficult to do so.
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Shadowcthuhlu Posts: 1557 1/24/2013	Call me Dirae Erinyes. I came only for revenge. Born to a rich family, who died early, leaving me with a fortune. I was a melancholy child until I met my love. And I was happy. Until she died. I spent everything to come down here. In the midst of all my plots and schemes, I found something I never would think to find again. Love. Now, I will do anything make her happy and anything to keep her safe. Thus I gain power and wealth both for her amusement and as necessary tools. The one who took my first love will never touch her. Even if I have to kill the unkillable. -- https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Corrupt Official Posts: 6 1/9/2014	It was scandal of a life time. Lukas Kane who used to be a well known politician in the United States of america was caught with several prostitutes and large amounts of money that may or may not have been bribe money from criminals and shady businessmen. Kane's Identity was lost to history and he became known as the Corrupt Official. In order to escape his past in the surface he ran into the neath in hopes the darkness would keep him from harm. And perhaps be profitable in time. But alas even he couldn't avoid justice forever for he was recognized by one of the constables and was thrown into newgate prison. However with his mastery of speech, observation, violence and admittedly some more shady abilities. The corrupt official is climbing his way to the top. He wrote amazing plays, he is a scholar of correspondence, he is the winner of the black ribbon dueling tournament. He is both loved and hated across the neath. With a mighty submarine in hand even the unterzee is no match for him. But this my friends is just the beginning, he is climbing to the top and all will know the corrupt official. edited by Corrupt Official on 1/9/2014
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ShadeJackrabbit Posts: 16 1/17/2014	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 "some business" 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 "causing distress" 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. -- Professional academic, Ambitious avenger, orphan-raiser, drink-downer.
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MellosRevenant Posts: 4 8/25/2015	the masked figure gives you a small smile and the tiniest of nods You want to know my story? I'm Mellos. Or, well, that's what I'm called here in the Neath, anyway. My real name, my old name, isn't important. I came to the 'Neath from America. My family is moderately well-off, but when I found out that my father intended for me to take over the family business and take a pre-selected bride, I fled. I'm not the sort who wants to be tied down like that, you understand. It didn't help that my one true love was of the wrong gender, per society's standards. I fled across the sea to Europe, where I wandered about for a bit before finding myself in Paris. The city fascinated me, and I fully intended to stay there. Then, I heard rumors. Oh, I'd heard a few whispers even back in America, but those seemed like simple tall tales. But the Parisian stories were much more elaborate. The people spoke in low murmurs of London, great London, that had vanished in the night some years back. The more I heard, the more fascinated I became. A place where one could (almost) never really die? A city where the strange and unimaginable existed alongside the mundane, and no one batted an eye? A place where someone like me could love who I wanted without fear of too much reprisal? Sign me up. I...might have snuck my way onto a ship bound for the 'Neath. I didn't plan on being caught, but I was. I found myself tossed into New Newgate, and I spent several days staring out at the lights of London, planning my grand escape. It worked. Since then, I've been hiding in the shadows, building connections and learning my way around. Spite is my dwelling of choice, but I often find my way to certain taverns and such in Veilgarden. I've heard tell of a giant diamond here in the Neath, and I'm on the trail of that. It would certainly help me cement my place down here. I'm always open to forging new connections, so seek me out in the shadows of Spite if you wish. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mellos~Revenant
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DecroMcQuin Posts: 24 8/30/2015	What's that now? Who am I? Hmmm... I suppose I have some time, a lot of time actually... What do you want to know? Why come to the neath? Well there are so many more pleasures down here, at least that's why I think I came here. You see I can't really remember much of my time before I came down here, it all just sort of... faded, over time. Simply lovely down here though, can't think of why I'd want to go back. Now what else did you want to ask me? Gent or Lady? Do you mean to ask my preference? Which am... Oh because of the mask, well funny story that. You see I was with a zailor friend of mine, sailing back from the tomb-colonies (again, I really don't see why people take scandal so seriously here) when something floated by in the water. I plucked it out and examined this exquisite mask. I thought to myself, “I could wear this mask, and none would know who I was. I'd be free from all this scandal and ridicule.” So just before getting into Wolfstack I put the mask on and all those people who had come out to “greet” me back to dear old London just looked past me as I came off the boat. Smiling broadly under the mask I went to take it off, but the horrid thing must be cursed as to this day it's stuck to my face, that or the Zee has invented some manner of adhesive far better than one we have on shore. So now my gender is rather a fun little secret I keep to myself. If you work hard enough you might be able to learn, though looking at my company won't aid you. Since then I've really kept to myself, I've much to do in London. Writing, speaking, sneaking. I'm really up for anything, but I take to Zee a lot, so I'm not always around. -- Come find me if you care enough to: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/DecroMcQuin
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Ruby Correspondent Posts: 3 8/31/2015	How I came to the Neath? Well, first of all, the name I go by is Roobz (It's just a silly little monicker I picked up somewhere. True name? For my family's and my own safety, I will not say.) and I came to the Neath on the whim of dreams. There are secrets down here. Fun and secrets and pleasure. Prisoner's honey alone is a good enough reason to visit, and the potential immortality is a good enough reason to stay. I never cared all that much for sunlight anyways. I come from a fairly well-off family, they're nice enough, but I grew bored of surface life. The thought of carrying on the way I had all my life for all the rest of it filled me with a sense of jaded despair. When I heard of the Neath from a serpent in my dreams, I simply had to verify if such a wondrous thing could exist, and to my incredible surprise, it does! To think, there could be a place that could truly break away from the everyday, truly turn the fundamental laws of reality on their head and grant true freedom to all who will have it, it's something I couldn't have imagined just a few years ago. I took my part of the inheritance and said goodbye to my sister and father. I admit, on my arrival in the Neath I got a LITTLE carried away in the honey dens, made a few intimate connections with devils, may have accidentally dabbled in illegal spirification (no, really, I didn't know what that needle would do! That devil just took the soul and ran!), but surely it wasn't bad enough to put me into Newgate, and confiscate all of my money? my entire inheritance? Either way, I wasn't having any of it and took advantage of their rather poor maintenance of the place and made it back to Fallen London proper. Afterwards, I had a little...conflict with the constables who dared to try to rob me of my inheritance. Needless to say there are no loose ends from that incident. I have come a very long way since then, taken more than a leap and a bound up the social ladder, and made a reputation as one of the best authors in Fallen London, If I do say so myself. Considering the Bazaar has taken an interest in more than one of my love stories, I believe I have room to talk. Nowadays, I like to take it easy in my Townhouse, attend the occasional soiree or ball, and host the odd salon (and maybe honey dream expedition) here and there. From here, I know not where I will go, but I have one thing in mind: To thoroughly enjoy myself in this impossible paradise, in this eternal night under the world. edited by Ruby Correspondent on 9/1/2015 -- Roobz (aka Addis Rook) Author, silvertongue, perpetual insomniac.
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The Black-Shirted Radical Posts: 188 9/1/2015	The Black-Shirted Radical surrendered his name long since. Born to a family both economically wealthy and morally bankrupt, he found his escape in radical, imperial politics. Fell in love, then out. Founded a new political party. Lost that too. After a grave disgrace which coincided with the day London fell, his fortunes collapsed and he tried to drown himself in a river. Somehow he woke up in a prison cell in New Newgate. That was a year ago. He found his calling in Veilgarden, giving the old speeches and poetry that founded his career. Now, with people scared and looking for answers, people grew to like his brand of politics. He spent a brief time in the Shuttered Palace until a resurfaced political scandal had him driven out. However, the Black-Shirted Radical has managed to land on his feet, amassing a very respectable number of followers in the form of his large street-based party, the New London League of National Populists. Managing to carve out a niche in his old stomping ground of East London, his position is secure as a rabble-rousing politician and wealthy philanthropist. Boredom, and political responsibility drive him most days, his party having gained significant control over Port Carnelian and his own interest in law and order taking up much of his time. The League are a rather strange collection, ranging from Veilgarden bohemian types of a more violent nature to militant churchmen and veteran soldiers of the old British Army. He maintains a small cadre of bodyguards at all times, whose ferocity rival that of the most inebriated of Neddy Men. Fresh from a rather violent expedition to an unknown location, he has been seen only the other day departing from Wolfstack aboard his tall, handsome yacht, The Rod And Axe, bound for parts unknown. edited by The Black-Shirted Radical on 9/1/2015 -- Poet of once distinguished acclaim.Apprentice alcoholic. Somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. Radical politician, playwright, duelist, archaeologist,Correspondence professor,criminal mastermind, Commander of the Auxiliary Constabulary, Leader of the League of National Populists, former Governor of Port Carnelion . Rude, crude and scandalous to know. Plot his lynching at http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/The~Black-Shirted~Radical
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RedRoach Posts: 2 9/14/2015	Right, so you're not here for... okay. I guess. Suppose the devils aren't taking me away just yet. Me? I'm like a roach. Like, a red roach. Bet you've never seen one of them, right? That's why I'm called that. Heh, funny. I always imagined it'd be different. What, my real name? Get off, I'm not telling. That's a part of me I'm keeping safe. Why I'm here? That's... well. I used to live up on the Surface, a tad bit before London fell. No, I didn't go down to the Neath, I was just a teenager at the time. Anyway, important thing was I had a woman I liked up there, someone I knew for a while. A good friend from my childhood, she liked to sing, dance, and run. Ah, she liked to run, always challenging me to run up and down the countryside... you know what happened to her? One night, while she slept, her soul was taken by a Sprifer, one of those illegal traders for that damned soul trade. Heh, well I suppose it literally is "damned". You know how love is. Once you feel like you've had it set, you don't deal with it being gone well. Now that she'd become one of the soulless, she'd... not quite been all there. Sure, she'd flash a smile and sip a cup with you, but that brilliant light behind the eyes is just gone. Not the same, right? I'm sure you've seen plenty of those lost people down here in the Fifth city, so close to Hell. I just couldn't take it. Someone stole her from me, and I didn't know anything as to why or how. I'd heard rumors, the devils themselves walking amongst the Neath buying souls, and in my naive little mind I thought maybe, just maybe, if I raced fast enough I'd be able to catch her soul before it disappeared into the pockets of a devil. Maybe, if the ships sailed fast enough, I'd be able to grab the person who stole her. Now? Now, I'm more certain than ever I'll never find her brilliant soul amongst all the din and dark here. If I haven't found it in the years I've been here, I'll never be able to find the damned thing. Maybe one day, it'll appear in the cache of some spry Londoner who's trying to sell it off at the Bazaar, but that day isn't today. I've tolerated the devils, souls do have to go to Hell I suppose, but something tells me they don't tolerate me. Either way, this is the life I've been stuck with, running around doing errands for suspiciously interesting individuals and visiting the place with beautiful carpets and fountains but terrible service. Those street gangs of urchins are the ones who remind me of her the most, climbing and running, trying to get the best of what they can off the streets, so naturally those are the ones I've stuck to the closest. Why do I stay? Look around you. Look how dark and dreary it is outside. The candles? That's nothing to the sun. Believe me, I tried to forget it all but ignoring that with honey, fights, and broken romances won't work. The church may preach about gods and angels, but you see any angels walking around outside? No, yet devils wander around freely. What I'm trying to say is that it's a bit bleak out there, someone's got to try and make it brighter. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/RedRoach
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Dr Hemsworth Posts: 9 9/26/2015	Ah, yes, my little story, eh? Well, I'm from the surface. Yes, yes, that must be right. Sorry, irrigo exposure swaddles the mind. Ah, anyway, I came down here to make a bit of money. Didn't have many prospects, being a royal bastard up there. What bloodline? Don't know, Don't care. My name is Dr. Hemsworth. First names seem redundant, when you have no family. My mother taught me to take delight in natural philosophy. So I did. No way to make a proper living up there, not like that. So deception was a logical step. Less opportunities up there, though. So drab, imprisoned by all that sunlight. So yes, I descended for money. And, I suppose, to flee. To escape the rules of the surface. The rules that make you inferior to those around you. The rules that strip you of your degrees. The rules that take away your daughter. To flee them, yes, and to learn how to break them. I started as a pickpocket and a con artist. Fortunately, I received excellent instruction in eloquence from my dear teacher, Estelle Knoht. With her instruction, and my improving skills in the art of deception, I began cultivating a connection with. Ah, wait, you won't like this. Well, I became a bit involved with Hell. Ahem. Then the, er, soul trade. Which lead to my current ongoing study of souls. For the good of all, I assure you. Surely, though, you must admit my little sanctum is delightfully warm. Make no mistake, I am not their puppet. We both profit from each other, and we both consider not betraying the other. But honestly I find the urchins far more agreeable. edited by Dr Hemsworth on 9/26/2015 edited by Dr Hemsworth on 9/26/2015 -- Dr. Hemsworth , natural philosopher and would-be god. Know anything about the purpose or properties of souls? Do tell.
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Lamia Lawless Posts: 604 10/3/2015	If Hell were still a monarchy, Lamia would be its courtier. In these enlightened times of the New Democracy, she is simply one of its many public relations specialists. That doesn't seem to stop her from striving towards Castiglione's ideal: Versed in both martial arts and social graces, she leads a public life of balls, banquets, and charity events, using her influence to draw people closer to the Brass Embassy, and fostering relations between humans and devils. It's a bit of an open secret that the enigmatic 'Miss L' spends her free time as 'Miss Lawless,' a swordswoman, duelist, hunter, and amateur zee-captain, stalking through the most disreputable places in the company of her tiger. Among high society she is reserved, soft-spoken, and polite. What she lacks in finely tuned etiquette, she makes up for in warmth and sincerity, and if she sometimes falls short of perfect nonchalance, it can easily be construed as a pleasing touch of modesty. She has a scholarly affection for endless minutiae, as well of a a love for the arts, and can speak with some amount of authority on those subjects closest to her heart. Though she has a kind word and warm wishes for everyone, she maintains a certain amount of distance: The sort of woman who might be called 'friend' by many, but keep very few in close counsel with herself. There are growing rumors among the nobility that she has access to strange powers, and can show one's fortune with mirrors. This is thus far unsubstantiated, but some of the younger and more liberal-minded nobility are waiting with baited breath for Lamia to announce her first secret salon. Throughout Spite, Wolfstack, and Watchmaker's Hill, she is known for her easy laughter and sudden violence. Not excessive or gratuitous violence: Simply sudden. The blades of London all have their intimidation tactics, and some of the best can end a fight with a good, hard stare. Lamia dispenses with such posturing. She can transition from making polite conversation to holding a gun to someone's head without telegraphing her intentions. Accordingly, even some of the most formidable figures of the docks, marshes, and alleys have learned to leave her alone. Even if she does insist on bringing those abominable floral tea cups to the Medusa's Head. But she was not always a figure of note. Much of her early beginnings has been effectively erased by the Brass Embassy, the better to polish their pawn for her new role. Nonetheless, there are still some who know a few fragments of her history. She came to the Neath with a group of anarchists, they say, and that- not her weekly participation in ring fights- accounts for the name 'Lawless.' She spent a brief stint in Veilgarden, composing impromptu poems, and at one point took singing lessons, though she never made it to the stage. They say, also, that she had a string of love affairs shortly after coming to London, the only remaining source of information about her life on the Surface. With sufficient coaxing, a certain priest can tell you that she once lived in India. Without much prompting, an indiscreet devil will tell you exaggerated tales about her days wrestling tigers in Bengal. There was also a spy, an Abstraction, and heartbreak at the tail end of her first Feast of the Exceptional Rose, which might account for her public denouncement of all future and would-be suitors. If she once worked in the service of revolutionaries, she seems to have abandoned those endeavors. Now, by all appearances, she has no greater ambition than to spend frivolously, eat lavishly, and enjoy the luxuries of Hell, until Hell calls her home. edited by Lamea Lawless on 10/3/2015 edited by Lamia Lawless on 6/12/2016 edited by Lamia Lawless on 6/12/2016 edited by Lamia Lawless on 9/22/2017 -- The Harmonic Hellfarer
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sebastian olmen Posts: 18 10/3/2015	Came to the Neath? Born here mores the pity. Sebastian's grandmother sailed the zee just after the fall and wrote about her travels. Sadly (as is often the case) the zee air drove her quite mad, her children as well. Over time all but her youngest son were lost at zee or simply disappeared. A generation on and things haven't improved, Sebastian's disreputable (and incompetent) actions landed him in New Newgate and his sibling (an academic obsessed with a certain number and related cardinal direction) has sealed themselves in their family home sponsering captains to travel and bring them back stories and relics. Extracting himself from his incarceration Sebastian has set himself up in the Veilgarden with a single goal in mind, to build a legacy equal to his grandmother's and to learn all he can of the Neath. His fear of the zee is a stumbling block, as is his colossal ego but as his name ascends to greater and greater infamy those that his aunt once wronged (and unfortunately that's rather a lot of 'people') have started to take interest.
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TheD3rp Posts: 17 1/13/2016	Alright, might as well have a go at this: Alexandra Blackwell was born to a relatively wealthy family several miles north of what was formerly known as London. Quite intelligent and largely self-educated, Alexandra spent most of her time on the Surface trying to become recognized by society and following her philosophy that you should fill your life with as much pleasure as possible. However, despite being fairly attractive, she experienced repeated frustration when it came to breaking into high society. This is what brought her to the Neath, where she saw an opportunity to become a prominent figure. So at the age of 18 Alexandra Blackwell packed a small amount of personal belongings and set out for Fallen London. In terms of personality, she was generally kind although could come off as a bit snobbish at times. She could also be rather melancholy, most likely due to losing both her brother and mother at the age of 14. Physically, she was of average height and size, with blue eyes, red hair, and pale, smooth skin on a face most men would consider "cute". She enjoyed reading books, and her fashion tastes tended to be similar to those from approximately 30 years earlier. Shortly after arriving in the Neath, she encountered a problem: getting into the city. She considered multiple options of getting into the city, including bribery, but eventually settled on getting arrested and breaking out of New Newgate. Of course, now the problem was finding the best way to get arrested. Again, she considered and dismissed several options: assaulting a constable(too likely to get her a baton to the face), stripping into her undergarments(She didn't necessarily want that kind of attention or reputation once she was out of prison), shouting political slander about the powers that be(Getting on their bad side probably wasn't the best idea.) Just as she was pondering this question, a benevolent, middle-aged, complete with scraggly bear and hat, Zee captain by the name of Daniel Montgomery sat down next to her on a bench against a warehouse wall just outside the city limits. He had recently acquired his first command, a steamer named the Sylph, and was in a rather cheerful mood. He offered to arrange a roberry, with him as the victim, right in front of the eyes of London's finest. The item stolen would be a small amount of money, and soon enough the two were ready to execute their plan. She gave Daniel her personal belongings to be delivered to her inside the city, on the basis that they would in all likelihood be confiscated once she was placed under arrest. The plan went almost flawlessly: he strolled along a sidewalk near the city's gates right in front of two constables, she grabbed the pouch full of money he was carrying, made a half-hearted attempt to run, semi-intentionally tripped on her skirt, and was promptly placed under custody. Her assumption was right, they took everything from her: fan, boots, corset, crinoline, and in exchange she got a bundle of prisoners' rags and shackles. She quickly got replacements for her confiscated items after she had talked her way out of New Newgate, and the rest is history. She did, however, come across Daniel Montgomery again in a restaurant at the Veilgarden, where she entrusted him with a whisper-locked chest which she had come across in her travels across the city as a sort of payment for the help he had given her, and they exchanged goodbyes for the last time. edited by TheD3rp on 5/23/2016 edited by TheD3rp on 6/18/2016 -- My character, and a friendly reminder to vote for the Captivating Princess in the 1896 London Mayoral Election.
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Viti Rose Posts: 32 1/15/2016	Once upon a time, up on the surface, there was an upper-class lady named Viti Rose. She had short brown hair, bright brown eyes and the sweetest smile anyone had ever seen. Life was good but she longed for something more than the balls and dances she had grown up with. She longed for love. And one day she did find it in the most peculiar of places. A man from the Neath and was a zailor. He fell in love with Viti and Viti fell in love with him. They would exchange letters as it was dangerous for him to be on the surface too long. This continued for two years as the man described the most unusual of creatures. Squid people, giant crabs, devils, and strange hooded men. It was unlike anything that she had ever heard and she wanted to be there, with him. So she went to the Neath to live her new life with the man of her dreams. It was a hard life. Her wealth at the surface did not follow her down here but she was happy. One day the man said he would go on a zailing trip. He asked her not to worry about him. He would be back in no time. They kissed goodbye and he set off. So she waited and waited and waited but he never came back. She was heartbroken. Everything she had given up on for him and now he was missing. Then something peculiar happened. A bouquet of beautiful mushroom was at her door step. A note was on it. I was from a devil who had heard of her missing husband. He wish her the best and hoped that they would be reunited soon. Viti got curios and decided to head out to find this devil. And she did. He was a charming gentleman and over 3 months they became good friends. One day he sat Viti down and said he had some information on her husband. She would do anything to get him back so the devil offered her a deal. He said that if she would sign a contract giving him her soul and do some work for hell. She took the deal hoping that maybe she could see him again. A year of insanity later and nothing has changed other than the fact that she can feel nothing and act everything.
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Abdul Majid Posts: 1 2/8/2016	This looks fun! Hi everyone. What is Abdul Majid doing in the Neath? It's a long story. He was born in the Orient, in Sind under the Raj. His parents, virtuous and devout in the Mohameddian faith, taught him the values of respect for all men and women, be they of the faith or not, and the benefits of a devotion to peace and justice. They told him of the fall of London, saying that placing the city close to Hell was both a punishment for their imperialist ways and a test of faith. Inspired by his family, Abdul travelled the world, seeking a fulfilling life of helping the poor and speaking the good word. It was on his travels that he learned the true story of the Neath - that the city had been sold to the Bazaar by the Traitor Empress as Allah had looked on with either helplessness or apathy. He realised that his God was not as powerful and certainly not as loving as he had been brought up to believe. He cast away a life of virtue, devoting himself to sin and power. He decided that he would live forever in the great dark city, courting devils. He would become a criminal mastermind and, as a cruel rejection of his God, a spirifer trading souls to Hell. He crossed the Cumaean Canal as a stowaway on an unterzee ship, a crime that landed him in prison.
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Parvorus Posts: 42 7/5/2015	„Me people callings Robert Claxton. And me been very silly man when commings down here to London. Me've been hearings of devils and their shiny brass and they all have be so very nice to Robert so Robert get them many little soulsies and even got them me own soulsie. And nice devils tell Robert all kinds of thingies about people and London and...“ Only for a second, the manic smile on Robert's face disappears. „...the Master's thingies... And then very bad thing happen. Robert saw very horrible devil thing.“ The man shudders, visibly scared. „Don't wanna talking about it. Very bad thing Robert saw. Very bad. Made me mind go snap they says. So me runs away. To church. Devils don't like church, see? So Robert hide. And Robert now talk to people to make them not help devils too. Only collecting thingies for fun now, promise! Me changed. And me is goings to make London better place!“ Again the man's face darkens as he mutters something to himself. „D__n good job the Masters did at that, didn't they? Oh, someday it'll be time...they'll see. And it'll be the last thing they...“ His eyes widen in shock as he notices you listened. „Oh! I...you...I'm not...forget what I sai-...I mean...me good peoples be! No revolutionary thoughts here, nosiree! Me leavings now! Me forgots me...uh...me oven! But me suggestings you is meetings me again some day. Maybe for walkings through London at night? Robert thinks „Night“ in London very „liberating“.“ With these words, the man turns around and runs away into some sidestreet. (For those who couldn't make that out a summary: Robert Claxton came to the Neath upon hearing stories of the devils, wanting to become rich through them. So he collected souls for them and even sold them his own. While working, he learned a great many things about London and especially the Masters, towards whom he developed an antipathy. But one day he had to witness some devils doing something so horrible, that he went insane, fled to a church and now works as a campaigner for it to warn others while collecting things of interest to him. However his insanity is only an act and his work at the church only a facade for his revolutionary work. Robert seeks to bring forth the Liberation of the Night, supplying the revolutionaries with materials from his collection and using his job with the church to recruit new revolutionaries.) -- Feel free to send me anything other than Photographers. ►My Profile◄
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Sestina Valdis Posts: 210 10/4/2015	An extract from A True Relation of my Birth, Breeding and Life (Especially my Breeding) by Sestina Valdis. Well, this is all painfully embarrassing to discuss. How shameful, for an Author to be seen dealing in sour little cliches! But I must begin with a cliche, because it is The Truth, and The Truth is valuable down here-- quite literally, dear reader, as you know. Yes, I remember. I was a silly young thing dithering about on the Surface: wine, soirees, men... and women... and other things... We will not speak or write of those. In any case, my parents were simply too restrictive and failed to appreciate the merits of a pleasurable lifestyle. "Too expensive," Papa said. "Too scandalous," added Mama. My parents were extremely backward: "Young lady, you are not going out without a dress on!" "Young lady, sit straight and put the puppy and the wine down immediately!" "Young lady, have you seen where Mummy's laudanum has gone?" O, what was a stupid little girl to do? Complain, of course. Complain, and then run away from home many years later because her parents were chiding her for drinking five glasses of wine a day. When one of my delightful friends told me of an underground City with a sprawling Bazaar, my stupid little heart grew full with dreams and hopes and other stupid little things. Also, I could be certain that my parents would never follow. Mama hated dirt on the hem of her dress, Papa hated having to pay additional taxes on goods, and I was sure that he would never leave the family business behind. And I was right. I told them I would be enjoying dinner at a friend's estate, as usual. This naturally meant that I would be spending the night there; that much my parents surmised, based on my general habits. I packed all my belongings, all my finest dresses and jewellery; again, this was not out of the ordinary, for my parents and the servants knew I was fussy with my toilette. I paid hefty sums of money for directions-- not always to the right place, mind you. Like I said, I was a silly young thing dithering about on the Surface... That opened many doors for me, yes, but not inexpensively. Eventually, I found the right way, even if I had lost nearly all of my belongings by this point. Down I went, into the heart of darkness, and I was confident as all h__l. The guardsman would not let me past the gate, but a young lady has many means at her disposal for circumventing such arbitrary boundaries as national borders, even if the aforementioned borders pass underground. After a short trip to the discreet little bed located at the back of the guard-post, I was past the gate. My stupid young heart was thumping ceaselessly; I had made it! I was in London! Triumphantly, I breathed in the lovely London air, and immediately started coughing very loudly, because of all the smog and fungal spores, I should think. The air that day was most dreadful. A man appeared-- a Constable, asking why a young thing like me was roaming the streets so late at night. I lifted the hem of my skirt discreetly. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about a bottle of wine that I had borrowed from the guardpost prior, and stowed underneath my crinoline. That night, I was imprisoned for roaming the streets; can you imagine that, dear reader? I believe the judge also mentioned stealing wine and attempting to initiate carnal indiscretions with an upstanding gentleman from the Constabulary. They took the wine, much to my sorrow, which made what was to come much worse. Needless to say, I was locked up. We shall not speak or write of that, either. Immediately after I left prison, I gingerly removed a delicate piece of paper, a honey-stained stamp and some dubious-looking ink from the dustbin of a publishing house, and wrote a letter to my parents, assuring them that I was still alive and well and had found a respectable new home in London. I said I was living an austere, tawdry life with a convent of nuns who had gone underground to escape from Earthly Temptation. In truth, I was garbed in an unbecoming prisoner's outfit and roaming the streets-- an austere, tawdry life of quite another sort, one might say. The reply was warm and loving, but I think my mother's penmanship seemed livelier and more joyful than usual... She added that her health was much improved due to a pronounced lack of alcohol fumes and unbecoming stains around the house. She also informed me that I was as terrible a liar as before, and sent some surface coin, which I quickly exchanged at the Bazaar for an old and used, but not unbecoming, dress. My first work was a little free verse thing that I cobbled together immediately after I was done with the horrible matter of New Newgate. I was homeless and frustrated and this was my first poem so, naturally, I was the subject of it. I did nothing more than complain on stage, really, with some very arbitrary and thoughtless line-breaks. Today, I am completely ashamed of my early poetry, but at the time I was beyond myself with naive pride. Some laughed, some jeered, and someone threatened to set my not unbecoming dress on fire for "demolishing and despoiling the Foundational Principles of Pleasant and Fine Art"... but somebody else ended up buying me a glass of wine, which naturally led to certain... indiscretions... and I went back to Veilgarden the following evening. Yes, that was not my finest hour, by any means, but wine, silk, words and honey open many doors. Dear reader, I am happy to add that things have sorted themselves out now! Yes, things are going very well, indeed... edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/4/2015 edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/4/2015 edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/4/2015 -- Sestina Valdis, the Saccharine Satirist. Appearance and Misc. Accoutrements A Past Scattered Across Discarded Stockings Fei Xue, the Artful Assassin. Self Edward de Riere, the Barebones Baron. Avatar by Daniel Ilinca.
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Psyche Labyrinth Posts: 159 12/29/2015	I arrived in the Neath probably about two years ago or so. I originally came for very hedonistic purposes. I wanted to indulge in the wonders of the Fallen Cities, to experience things I could experience no where else. I was driven mainly by two things: the prospect of winning my heart's desire and my yearning to be the closest human to hell, well loved by all those charming devils. As I stayed, however, I developed an interest in the deeper aspects of the Neath. I became much more familiar with the politics. Now I am unashamed to say that the revolutionaries have stolen my heart with their unique sense of persuasion. I wish to aid them in bringing about the Liberation of Night. Trust me when I say it is what is best for the world as a whole. I do still plan to milk whatever I can out of hell, but when the time is right I plan to sever my ties with them in favor of the revolutionaries. Okay... so it would be a great time to admit that I'm not heading in this direction for entirely unselfish reasons. The eternal night would bring about chaos, I know that much. But just listen, when society is collapsing in on itself it will be a chance for transformation. With me as your god... ahem... I mean guide, civilization can be improved greatly. I will deliver the best from the living nightmare that will be earth and take them with me into the skies. A new, stronger empire will be formed. It will be heaven for the living. It is my destiny! Now I kindly suggest that all of you appeal to the good side of your future dictator... no, leader. -- Neath citizen, zee captain, possible deranged serial killer... Profile Backstory Appearance Always happy to meet new people and help out where I can!
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Ami Miljkovich Posts: 98 1/5/2015	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... "Heart's desire." 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 "Fox," and Jason was the "Hound." 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 -- The Secret-Hungry Bat ~ "I have my bats and my works, and endless secrets and pleasures at my disposal; what need have I of a soul?" The Dangerously-Charming Fox ~ "Let's go stab each other and then get drunk together! That's what friends do around here, right?" The Ever-Scheming Magpie ~ "All I'm after is a fresh start... And maybe a little profit on the side..." The Blood-Thirsty Moth ~ "This floor isn't red enough. I need to fix that. Come closer." Meet the families.
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Solomon Husher Posts: 62 1/19/2015	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 -- Solomon Husher, a most persuasive and shadow gentleman. Airia Saint-Clair, A watchful and persuasive young lady. Marcus Demorgan, a dangerous and watchful man. Lucas Saint-Clair, a persuasive and dangerous man.
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Arol Posts: 24 1/20/2015	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. -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Arol~ http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Amber~Harwood http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Car~Johnson http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Margaret~Sloan
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Solomon Husher Posts: 62 1/25/2015	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] -- Solomon Husher, a most persuasive and shadow gentleman. Airia Saint-Clair, A watchful and persuasive young lady. Marcus Demorgan, a dangerous and watchful man. Lucas Saint-Clair, a persuasive and dangerous man.
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Kylestien Posts: 749 11/29/2014	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. -- I will accept all actions, though I hold the right to refuse for my own reasons. However, if you explain WHY you send me a harmful action like Loitering or Dantes,And I feel the reason good, I will consider it more. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Kylestien Persuasive patron. You want a lesson, send me a message asking for one.
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Violet Posts: 16 5/1/2015	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. -- A diary of Violet's exploits in Fallen London
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CapBubba Posts: 3 5/5/2015	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. -- Varutil Vanderhill: Esteemed busybody and glamorous glib. Willing to drink your wine and talk your ears off. Literally. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Varutil
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Dry Fish Posts: 7 5/8/2015	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
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Percenila Posts: 31 4/18/2015	"Who 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." "Something 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." "Well, 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." -- Percenila Crypts, an outgoing and resourceful lady Welcome all social actions, slow responds (Too poor for the 2015 Feast sorry)
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Maude Posts: 4 2/24/2017	"Hello, stranger. Got some questions for me? I'd be more than happy to share my humble little tale. My name is Maude Braun. Lord Braun if you're feeling particularly polite. I don't particularly know what I'm doing here in the Neath. I'm serious. I have no idea what I'm doing down here. Haven't the foggiest notion of how I got here or exactly who I was before coming here. There are vague memories of people who I once knew from the Surface. Lovers, clients, enemies... Not that any of it matters much anymore. Just little memories now. What's that? How did I forget who I was? If I knew that, my friend, I would've remembered who I was by now. Anyway, there's nothing important on the Surface for me anymore. It's the Neath that I call home now. So full of mysteries and interesting people. Teeming with stories. I consider myself a collector of stories. Something of a bard, if you will. I just love a good story, true or not. Goals? I can't really say I have any particular goals. Is seeking endless entertainment a goal? I would hope so. After all, what is this life for if not for us to enjoy? That is certainly my passion. The joy of myself and others. I aim to amuse and satisfy. Veilgarden is practically my home away from home. Ha ha. What? Yes, I'm a bit wrapped up in some scandal but even rumors are entertaining. Besides, I'm not hurting anyone with my fun. Anyone important anyway. People around here need to lighten up! So what if I've had a dozen lovers, some of which may or may not be devils. And yes, I may frequent honey dens but it's just how I enjoy life. I don't tell you how to live your life. Hm? Oh, that's just Barnaby. He's an angel really. Just don't let him crawl up your- Oh. Terribly sorry about that. He usually only bites people when I tell him to. Morley! Carrie! This gentleman needs some medical attention. I'm afraid Barnaby may have chewed through something important." -- Maude Braun - Appearance - Background
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Mr. Hamilton Posts: 80 3/5/2017	Mr. Hamilton's* parents were constables in England. One day they were happily arresting criminals, the next day, they vanished off the face of the earth. No one ever figured out what happened to them. Mr. Hamilton's uncle was coming over the next day, he expected to find his sister, brother-in-law and their child, instead he just found the child. His uncle was just visiting from France. He couldn't see what else to do, so he took him to a orphanage in France. In his haste (he worked in the French government) he just labeled the cradle he had put the baby in "From the Hamilton Family" . Mr. Hamilton was a curious child, so he climbed over the walls of the orphanage often he explored the city's alleys, corners, nooks and crannies. He was easily likable (though sometimes solemn) and made friends with all of the other children in the place. He did this until the age of 16 when he ran away to England and was a vendor there for 18 years before deciding there were better opportunities in the Neath. Mr. Hamilton has been in the Neath for almost a year. In the first week, while looking for a home, he met Edward Frye, who had moved into London a day after Mr. Hamilton, and they instantly became friends. He has celebrated (with mushroom wine) his 35th birthday while in the Neath and has written a number of short stories and a novel. Mr. Hamilton's first name is not known. edited by Mr. Hamilton on 3/5/2017* -- I am open to any calling cards and most other social events. My alt: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/George~Albany My alt's appearance: http://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=8#post164336 My main profile: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Mr%20Hamilton My main profile's appearance: [urlhttp://community.failbettergames.com/topic9363-your-characters-appearances.aspx?Page=6#post164298
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The Absurd Rogue Posts: 1049 7/6/2016	Elias Lowe II wrote: "People don't want a simple answer, one wrought with pragmatism and ruthlessness, they want a scapegoat. Me and my associates took control of Flowerdene Rookery specifically to have a place where we could operate somewhat safely, to use as a launching point for our relief efforts. We have built schools instead of orphanages, putting real education into the youth. We offer safe havens to fugitives of the urchin gangs. They learn the things that they need to learn when morality is put to bed, what will give them the tools to be independent. That's all I want for Spite and that's what we have mostly given it. Choice. We use the Legacy that the seventy-seven of us built to ensure that the children never starve and the walls never crumble. We encourage the economy of nearby areas and have dropped violent crimes to the lowest they've been since before The Fall. Things aren't perfect and the people still suffer, but things are on their way to getting better. So why did I do it? I didn't. It was all of us. The people who couldn't wake up to this shit anymore. Seventy-six brave human beings who gave their lives for this. And one person to take all the responsibility. I did it because we need to take care of each other until we can take care of ourselves..." A divisive figure among society, half-demon and half-saint. Elias Lowe entered the Neath out of necessity and he found nothing but misery, pain and the bitter taste of blood from the memories that continued to hound him. His time on the surface was a very fast twenty some years, cut short when Anton Chekov and his wife were slaughtered in their flower shop by squad of terrorists of an unknown political group. Anton's body was never recovered. The Journal of Police Inspector Zadurnov wrote: The body of the lad was never found and all evidence suggests he limped out into the snow to die somewhere. But just like they used to tell us, *if there is no body, the guy is alive* Someway or another, a young man found his way miles underground while drenched in the blood of his lover, to a place where no-one spoke his language and the very fabric of reality seemed tenuously thin. Naturally, he lost himself and his mind fragmented. But sometimes, you need to lose yourself to find who you really want to be. Elias Lowe II wrote: It was my becoming. I am known by no name save for the name I have chosen to wear. I am faceless, save for this one I have carved out of stone. He still cannot remember the name of the woman who gave his life meaning once upon a time, for those memories had no place in a psyche so mangled, but he made a man with the pieces. Anton is dead. Long live Elias Lowe II. -- "There is never another story. There is only one, and I try to tell it with every page. I fail, and I try again. There are no new stories; I have this one." -S.N RemainProfane#2532
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Lisbella Peridot Posts: 138 2/20/2016	Born in a declining family of minor nobility, her rebellious attitude towards being married off in the future was not well-received by her parents. She had frequent escapes that swiftly ended in failures, but on these trips she was exposed to the world at large and saw the seedier part of the world. As she grew to be a teenager, her elder brother gradually took control of the family and it begins to transform into a merchant family to survive. She was offered education by her brother and took up fencing and brawling on the side, and she eventually started to contribute to the family business as her brother's bodyguard. Displaying a total lack of skill in mercantile and having a rock-solid bond, she was someone that her brother could relied on. That all goes out the window, one day, when her brother was found murdered. While the rest of her family scrabbled over the incident and pointed fingers, she took to the Neath, knowing that she no longer have a place in her family and this is the only thing she could do for him - not to take up his mantle, but to take revenge and find out why. -- Anatasia Swansong - fencing prodigy, extraordinary beauty, and very stubborn Welcoming friends of all sorts! All independent now. Kelly Siniature - grinning, deranged, elegant child of indistinct gender Kelly is taking a long break on isolation. I also play Town of Salem and a few other games - still Lisbella Peridot! I finally regained stable internet access, so I should be around more often...
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Xisuthros Posts: 4 2/25/2016	Mr. Xisuthros: "Many, many years ago, I was saved from certain death and given a new home by a friendly, helpful benefactor. I was young then, and easy to fool, and thus I accepted these gifts without question. But my benefactor was not motivated by altruism. They wanted me in their debt, a fact they made very clear afterwards. Eventually, my benefactor returned to me to collect on this debt. You see, in those days I was respected in the surrounding area for my great knowledge, and a man came to me seeking that knowledge. The man was searching for a way to save a loved one from death, and had come to me for help. I knew of a rare and powerful medicine that could have saved the man's love, but my benefactor (for their own obtuse reasons) did not want the man to learn of it. Thus, fearing the wrath of my benefactor should I renege on our arrangement, I acceded to their demands, and claimed that there was no way to save him. The man left my home in tears, searching for another way to save his love. My benefactor, to their credit, kept true to their word even after I had exhausted my usefulness. I was still permitted my home, and was under their aegis despite my obvious resentment of them. Many years later, I came across rumours that the man I had so terribly wronged had taken up residence in the city of London. Through great effort and planning, I was able to secure passage to that fallen city, hoping to find the knowledge and power necessary to undo my misdeeds and apologise to my victim. That is how I find myself today." edited by Xisuthros on 2/25/2016 edited by Xisuthros on 2/25/2016
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Theodore Gibbs Posts: 3 4/7/2016	I alluded a little bit to fate content in this. Let me know if it's out of line. "Hello, I'm Theodore Gibbs. I think. It's so hard to remember these days, with so much more fluttering around in my head. Who would think there could be so much purple... My story? Well. I came to the Neath on a tip that my quarry had finally settled down. I was going to avenge my love and set my demons to rest. That didn't happen. To reach my target of two decades, I had to climb the ladder of power, and I did so with the aid of one Cheesemonger. I didn't care what I had to do. I lied, stole, murdered, wrote awful poetry, anything to get closer to the one called Scathewick. Eventually, opportunity struck: Alice and I would strike out at the Great Game, unbalance it enough to wipe it out for good. I never questioned her. I followed my orders with perfect skill and utmost conviction. Yet the Game and I are still here, and she isn't. She was nothing more than a piece in my game, and I a piece in hers. That's all anyone is, really. Pieces and players. My next bid at power came in the form of the Revolutionaries. I had learned enough about the Bazaar, about...love, to understand it was bad news. Some Firebrand needed my help to uncover a very singular Cave, one that he promised was stuffed with wonder and knowledge long past. I obliged, and lost myself in a hell of nothingness. When I finally escaped, I decided that the one party that would use the Cave as a wondrous bargaining chip, but never for anything else, was the bureaucratic monstrosity of the Great Game. That decision gave me the edge I needed to finally track Scathewick down. I'm not the man I was before. I know that as well as anyone. The Correspondence burns my brain constantly. My dreams are full of ancient monsters petitioning my aid. But that still isn't as bad as my own parts of my mind. I was a virtous man, once. Even when I came down here, I helped the Constables, solved mysteries. I stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Now I can only see everyone, myself included, playing their own game, using and discarding pawns as they see fit. Why are they deserving of mercy or aid? I broke the very mind of my old friend from prison, just to satisfy a question I already had the answer to. He might have screamed. It's hard to remember. It's worse to realize what that means about myself. My first hell was when I lost my love. My second was the circular stalemate of the Game. My third was the eternity of the Nadir. Yet now, I find myself trapped in a much worse one, knowing that Scathewick was himself just another piece in the game of the Masters, the chessboard that took my love, and now I can't even remember who she was, or who I was." edited by Theodore Gibbs on 4/7/2016 -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Theodore~Gibbs
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Baron Leichtsinn Posts: 34 4/9/2016	Sherman Jones wrote: Come now, Devils aren't so bad! A Deviless rather close to me afforded me the wealth to buy a very Handsome Townhouse at only the cost of my own soul. And with the help of a wonderful little fork, I can continue to make quite the fortune selling the souls of others. They are just businessmen and women in their own right. They just sell unique goods. Agreed: A soul alone even your own as useful as a rubbery favour but gathered and paid for together they matter as portfoilios of souls (assorted in flavours) -- All the world's problems can be solved by poetry. And violence. Poetry and violence. Who said, violence wasn't a solution? Actually it solves all the problems, that couldn't be solved by poetry. ___________________________ http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Baron~Leichtsinn
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Arlecchinata Posts: 30 6/7/2016	"I am a child of the Fifth City, born to a well-bred kin of Surface incomers; my mother and father, a Wistful Organist and a Dashing Academic, descended to London soon after the Fall. Still, despite their otherwise good fortune, my parents were no strangers to the maladies so oft inflicted by the Neath upon its newcomers. Within five years of my birth, dear mother's melancholy dragged her body into the far bottom of the Zee - hands stuffed with stones as she was filled with sorrows. Father was less than kind to her, this much I know - still, did the poor man suffer. Many times he swore blind to have heard her chant and wail down at the Docks - and eventually, in a most disturbing account, he claimed to have sighted her, skin covered in moss and hair thick as zeeweed. Years after - yet no longer than half a decade - he embarked into an old friend's steamer. I recall being ten years old, at the time. Still, I could devise the rumours and place the morsels together. By then I was not certain about what it meant, but from this date I knew that he had retired to Venderbight. I take it, now, that he may have found some appeasement in the company of the many-times dead. Perchance a quaint sort of kinship, even. Throughout the following years, nevertheless, life has treated me more kindly than I might have expected. I was raised a wealthy orphan, fostered by a Bright-Eyed Governess, a Bedazzling Instructor and a trio of fine nurses - all appointed by my father prior to his departure. My family's handsome townhouse was less than lively, but I did learn to regard it as a haven, almost as home. My training encompassed the elementary skills, the fine arts, literature, dance and creative writing; almost ceaseless writing, at that. My more covert studies, however, included the scrutiny of every scrap of arcane information I could find on the subject of the Neath and the Fallen Cities. I have meticulously read innumerable stories on the Fourth City's ruins, the half-forgotten relics, the realm beyond the boundaries of dreams. I would write my every finding, compiling a small archive for my own enlightenment - as well as my entertainment. Amid my father's books and oddities, I recall once finding plaques scrawled with violant ink; an odd chain of diagrams - a sort of foreign lettering, perhaps? - that would flush my skin and make the strands of my hair burn with a sizzling, wispy flame. These scribblings have become branded to the utmost depths of me. Despite my will, they have not abandoned my dreams. With the passing years, the visions have become more substantial, more complex. I grew up, then, with a flair for artistry and a constant disturbance that hounded me. Perhaps these traits were what lured me into the wonders of Bohemian life - or perhaps I merely have taken after my wanton of a father. Despite the constant distractions - namely wine, prisoner's honey and the occasional drop of laudanum -, this was a very productive period for me. Amid the delightful cacophony of Veilgarden, I developed a career as a prolific author. I acknowledged my passion for creating, and wrote a vast number of works, ranging from prose to poetry and opera. There, I found a multitude of lovers; and I found Anthea, a young artist's model who soon became quite prominent among social and artistic circles. We fostered a mutual attraction that grew to become irrepressible. A few months' time sufficed to render us inseparable. We became each other's lovers, intimate friends, spouses. She and I do still indulge in our share of particular - or shared - lovers. Still, the matters of our hearts are well-settled, and our trust in one another is unfazed by our external liaisons. My meanderings around Society, as well as my friendship with certain Bohemian sorts have allowed me to attend the most exquisite sorts of reunions and soirées. These events have granted me a number of fruitful connections. Amid these, I found my Academic acquaintances to be particularly engaging. I developed an interest in scholarly matters - ancient history, cartography, mythology. And, once again finding myself embroiled into increasingly esoteric affairs, I stumbled upon the inevitable. All my studies, every disclosure, every finding - it all pointed out to that which is, perhaps, quintessential esotericism. The same searing language that had spoken, beckoned to me for years unending: the Correspondence. The dreams I recalled from childhood years gained a new, startling intensity. I have chosen, then, to pursue this haunting tongue of flame and metal. Many times have I delved into the Forgotten Quarter; traversed, half-maddened, the Mirror-Marches; gone overzees, almost haphazardly - a wanderess. I have seen more than I deemed bearable, learned more than could be lodged within the coils of my mind. Nightmares pestered my every rest; even laudanum could barely grant me a peaceful night. I have dwelled for far too long upon the state between vigil and dream - the edge of sleep, soaked in greenish light. Now, my desire is to mould my work to encompass both my passions: creation, and the gist of the arcane knowledge that I have gathered. In the meantime, my Bohemian tendencies remain a diversion to me. I attend and host a number of salons and soirées, in order to gather people of compelling characters and interests. I relish in all sorts of art; I appreciate beauty, sensations, novelty. And I, of course, devote much of my time and attention to my current - and potential - lovers." -- Sybil Bertrand, the Licentious Correspondent.
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Julius Stokes Posts: 113 6/7/2016	Julias Stokes was born in the year of The Fall, in Scotland. As a boy, he was disgusted by the thought of aging. He thought humans - at least the good ones - deserved to live forever. He tried to become immortal, but none of the things he tried worked. Then, he heard of Fallen London and knew that the answer was in the Neath. He gathered his supplies, said goodbye to his family, and descended to the Neath. When in the Neath, Julias developed a hatred of the Masters, and of the Empress. London - a whole city, taken to this wretched cavern, just for the life of a single man. The people were never asked whether they were okay with living near face-stealing demons, squid people, and literal devils. The Empress just gave them away. Julias joined up with the Revolutionaries, before realizing that their plan wasn't to free London - it was to destroy it, and the rest of the universe. He then created his own group, one that aimed to not destroy London, but to destroy the Masters, and just the Masters. Maybe that would bring the city of London back to the surface. But no, he did not forget his goal of immortality. He learned of the legendary immortality Cider - the kind that would allow any man to return to the surface. He learned of the prospect of becoming immortal in Parabola. He even learned of the possibility of becoming a Master - a fate worse than death, in Julias's mind. He pushed toward the Cider - the greatest way of becoming immortal, becoming free. While learning the secrets of immortality, Julias also learned of the value of a different kind of secret - the secrets of the Elder Continent. He became a great scholar, learning all he could on the Elder Continent, the Unterzee, the Correspondence, and the Bazaar. These secrets could make him rich and intelligent - and what's immortality without wealth and intellect? -- http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Julias~Stokes - A revolutionary of his own sort, who has devoted his life to overthrowing the Bazaar, ascending to godhood, and saving London. Doesn't have to be in that order. I'll accept any social actions - except maybe suspicious loitering.
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Eglantine-Fox Posts: 872 6/10/2016	There may have been records of Eglantine Fox, once, that told the tale of their birth circumstances. Those records are gone, burned by the bitter Eglantine, who sought them all out and gathered them up to destroy. Their surface life is no more than private memories, now -- so much of it is gone. Their secrets, their lovers, their rivals -- some have sought out Eglantine after the fact, but one by one those ties have been severed, leaving only a maiden aunt, who Eglantine could not bear to part from entirely, as the last shred of family remaining. Whatever her other shortcomings, this aunt is discreet on the subject of the family, and has not divulged the hidden names. All this sounds frightfully sinister and mysterious, but in the beginning it was no more than a passionate and dramatic gesture from Eglantine, swearing to avenge their murdered brother. Eglantine was... more impulsive, then, and has since paid the price. A stint in New Newgate, yes, but also an encounter with death and the troubling realisation that, short of immortality, they are stuck down here. So be it. Eglantine will have their revenge, enjoy every strangeness of the Neath, become legendary, and arise, immortal, to show the world something new. -- Eglantine Fox, the charming and androgynous Correspondent, teetering between hobbies of seduction and self-destruction. Siobhan O'Malley, Irish patriot (or 'bl__dy Fenian' if you're impolite). Isidore Day, an up-and-coming London gentleman. All allegations of wrongdoing are categorically denied.
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Amelia Syrus Posts: 626 6/12/2016	Since Amelia's story is ongoing as I go through FL for the first time, I'll use bullet points and mostly focus on the backstory I had planned out for her. - Her parents died in an incident she barely recalls when she was 4 years old. She thinks it was caused by an arson but she barely recalls the details. - After the incident she was passed around foster homes until she ran away and joined a small urchin gang. - She kept flitting between different urchin gangs until she was roughly 12 and stuck with a group called the Brass Reds. A gang heavily connected with an Irish mafia. - When she was too old to stay with the Brass Reds, she started working with the mafia doing "small jobs." - Eventually when she becomes old and strong enough they give her a job as a bouncer to one of their establishments for a while. - Met and eventually fell in love with a woman that sneaked into the establishment named Madeline or who she nicknamed Maddie. - Maddie was actually the Boss' daughter and her family hailed from a prominent textile factory. - The textile factory itself was part of a large smuggling ring that shipped in different locations. Maddie tried seeking out the truth behind it when she met Amelia and both prominently forgot over time. - Their romance was hidden but an arranged marriage to another prominent family had been set up and unknown to her until the month of Maddie's wedding. - They ran away together. - It goes badly. - Amelia managed to escape but not without the lose of Maddie. - She has since searched for Maddie's murderers, killing those involved one by one which has led her to the Neath and it's many hidden secrets. Bonus, an age chart to give an idea of what young Amelia versus the drunken thief looks like now: [spoiler][/spoiler] -- Amelia Syrus: A Drunken Thief For Hire.
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The Absurd Rogue Posts: 1049 6/16/2016	"Ezekiel has come to Neath to really ruin someone's day. Or several people's days. Live to serve Sir, in return is given life supply of vinegar, delivered exclusively in treasure chests filled with mason jars, as per request. Simple things in life is much motivation for the Ezekiel. Meeting new and interesting skin-suits. Killing them. Long walks on zee beach. Pretending to be plant and making pigeon noises at people who walk by. Life is simple, life goes on." Sincerely yours, Ezeeiiikl te ddeedle an handsum genleman -- "There is never another story. There is only one, and I try to tell it with every page. I fail, and I try again. There are no new stories; I have this one." -S.N RemainProfane#2532
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Dean Lee Posts: 133 6/17/2016	Once a kind, if eccentric, professor of Botany at Miskatonic University (yes, that Miskatonic), Dean Lee came to the Neath unwillingly, having been betrayed by a colleague and tricked into making a pact with an elder god. Said being sent him through a rift and the Dean arrived in the Neath. He just wants to go home and be with his students and his plants. Failing that, he wishes to tend a garden, maybe The Garden. Anne Oak is an assassin. Once a student of Miskatonic, she suffered a fatal "accident". Revived with the assistance of eldritch powers she is bound to the service of her master who has sent her via rift to eliminate the Dean permanently. Her reward was to be freedom from service and oblivion, but the Neath has other plans for her. Still, she never leaves a contract unfinished. edited by Dean Lee on 7/6/2016 -- A list of credentials A Business Card Research progress: 77 volumes of cryptopaleontoligy 77 volumes of Prelapsarian archeology 77 volumes of theosophistry.
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Eichlos Posts: 11 6/19/2016	"What is that? No I'm sorry I'm not doing confessions or abstractions today. Hm? A few questions? Oh yes. Sit my chair down boys. And take the knife from the man's throat. I apologize. They are a little overzealous about protecting me. Wouldn't be the first time a young man such as yourself tried to kill me. Yes. I am a Eichlos. Deacon Eichlos. Not the Eichlos. The Eichlos is my father. The reason I'm here? He, that is to say my father, is the reason I'm here... well initially. Last time I checked New Newgate and the Bethlehem are in an extended custody battle over him. I've given up trying to keep up with the mountains of paperwork. But that is what drew me here. I was orphaned at the age of 5 when my father fell off the map. About thirty years ago. I was raised by the Church, but our ties are somewhat strained these days. I'm tolerated, but not yet excommunicated. Funny how your perspective can change. Souls? Yes I care for souls. Either into the hands of their rightful owners or on rare occasion into other hands. I prefer not to break contracts with Hell. That, the paper I push for the Universities, and helping to keep the unions in line are what could be called my day job. Not my passion. If my passion was leading a bunch of thugs, I'd probably be better off. Them? No. They aren't thugs. They are... concerned citizens. Yes, those are cudgels and sticks. What would be your point? You think that unofficial police don't need a chaplain? Look, you obviously know who I am. I'd stop that line of questioning if you like your knees how they are. What is my passion? Well that is best not spoken of on the streets, but let us say it involves strange symbols, lots of mirrors, and long forgotten Names. Mostly I just gather information, drink my wine, and from time to time climb down into the pits and enjoy a boxing match. I'm sure you have other questions, but I have an appointment. Good day." -- Eichlos
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Anactoria St James Posts: 29 11/28/2017	Dear Sister, So, you actually made it to London! I’m impressed. I am also delighted to know you are out of New Newgate. I was working discreetly with lawyer to have you released—I could not be too directly involved, you understand—but you managed to get out yourself. Bravo! You’ve always been such a resourceful girl. Now then, how are you finding London? It’s a bit different from Cumberland isn’t it? Are you hot on the trail of whomever it was that killed our dear cousin … well, your dear cousin … you know what she was to me. In all events, I’ll send a landau around to pick you up this evening. You and I can have dinner, just like old times, and you can catch me up on everything. With all my affection, Donatien edited by Anactoria St James on 11/28/2017 -- Roleplaying social actions are welcomed. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Anactoria%20St%20James
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Harry P. Posts: 116 12/30/2017	Both Harry and Elizabeth were long-time close friends on the surface. There had been speculation of something more, but these rumours are unfounded. While both were curious about the Neath, they did not find visiting to be worth the effort. Then, Elizabeth's brother was killed. The event would forever change the both of them. For Harry, it kickstarted a severe fear of death and led him to seek immortality in an effort to save both himself and Elizabeth. As for Elizabeth, she was enraged beyond belief and seeked to avenge her brother no matter the cost. After many failed expeditions on the surface, Harry heard rumours that in the Neath, the secret to immortality was being held. Eager, he chartered a ride and arrived shortly thereafter despite a few 'roadblocks'. There, he heard a rumour mentioning a simple card game called the Marvelous, where one could win their heart's desire if one is willing to take the risk. He hopes immortality is among the prizes to be obtained and will do anything to make sure the next game starts with him as a participant. Of course, that doesn't mean he can't stop to enjoy all that the Neath has to offer. Throughout this all, he expresses great sorrow and grievance for the life he left behind on the surface. However, a certain Hallowmas dream inspired to think bigger. Encouraged by a dream and despite missing the surface immensely, he resolves to stay in the Neath until he can find a way to end death in its entirety. Elizabeth had a hard time finding justice for her brother when so little evidence existed that could pinpoint the killer and spent many years working alongside the police, chasing false leads and punching numerous villains in the face. However, she eventually comes to the conclusion that the killer came not from the Surface, but from the Neath and proceeds to head down to confront them face to face with her fists. There, she is reunited with her old friend, who she resents for having abandoned her in his quest for immortality. Her quest for vengeance will be a long and painful road. The only silver lining is that it gave her a reason to stay in the Neath, a place she openly admits to finding exciting and awe-inspiring. -- Harry P.: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/HarryP22h A Magnanimous Gentleman Author with a tendency for melancholic monologues. Elizabeth K. Broker: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Elizabeth%20K%20Broker A Socially-Awkward Dueling Trickster with a thirst for vengeance and a soft spot for urchins. If you are ever in need of any assistance, do not hesitate to ask either of them. The second one is still finicky, though.
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Teaspoon Posts: 866 3/6/2017	I would like to observe: that was pretty epic. -- Truth lies at the bottom of a well. https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Alt%20Ern
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Aldous Tefton Posts: 2 9/9/2017	I'll begin by way of preemptive apology, for my story is neither as complete nor as fulfilling as many shared between these walls. The unfortunate truth is, I do not recall much of my life. Ah, I see some of you scoff! You've heard tales like this before. Of course, I understand, but I also appreciate how remarkable it is that such tales are not-so-rare in this strange city. My memories begin aboard a ship. I had been struck with some otherworldly malady, and was bedridden. The disease (if indeed it was a disease, it may well have been a curse) was agony incarnate. My flesh burned like fire, while my insides felt like ice. My teeth rebelled against my mouth and tore at me like daggers; I could not tolerate even the slightest glimmer of light; and I could feel every nail and follicle of hair not so much grow as force themselves through my skin. There was a man who cared for me on the ship. He called me Aldous. I do not know his name-or I do not remember, for I believe it was the affliction that ravaged my mind and memory. He told me we were going to London, where we would find answers. I was in too great of pain to wonder what the questions were. When we docked, my friend and some sailors strapped me to a board and we alighted from the ship. But, as soon as we touched land, we were set upon! I can swear that it was not an attack of random violence, but a staged ambush. In the fray, my friend was killed. Any more than this, however, is lost to the fog of my disease. I recall then being saved-or captured-by the constables and brought to New Newgate Prison. I was masked, shackled, and dressed in rags, but I was also fed and given shelter. At the prison, I was only ever referred to by a number: Two-Eight-Five-Three-One-Nine. In a fit of cleverness, I thought it apt to take an abbreviation of those numbers as my surname. "Aldous Tefton." But a name is a hollow pittance for remediation of lost history. I slowly regained my strength in the prison, and finally was able to escape (thank you very much). But my memories continued to elude me. All I know is that I was brought to London for a reason. My friend's killer is somewhere in these streets. So for answers and justice, I remain. Or, if not those, then scholarly interest, for the Neath holds a great many wonders I feel an inclination (a semblance of my past life, I wonder?) to study. I am new to this city, but the devils, the clay men, the tomb colonists, and the million other oddities do not surprise me. So, Perhaps I have been here before? Perhaps.... "Perhaps" is all I have. London is all I have.
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Lady Jen Black Posts: 96 9/11/2017	In my earliest recollections, I think I had a family. There was a man with dark curls and a woman with red hair. I remember smiles and laughter. The feeling of being loved. But that seems to me a distant dream. What I can remember is screaming. The next thing I knew, I was all alone in a black alley. I couldn't have been more than six. Somehow, I survived. I learnt how to use my wide eyes and weak smile to charm coins out of passersby. How to run and hide from those who sought to catch me. How to fight when I had to. How to watch, and learn, and hear things, and steal secrets. Oh, and the characters I met! There was a gentleman who would pay for knowledge, an addict and a thrill-seeker but a brilliant mind. It was thanks to his doctor friend that I didn't die young. I met him again recently, in a different capacity. He doesn't remember me, and I'm not surprised. I've come a long way since then. It's for the best, I suppose. There were the twins. A daredevil brother and a calculating sister. They worked with a group of urchins I hadn't joined - life on my own might not have been easier, but it was freedom. They were like angels of death, moving silently and invisibly to end lives. I picked up a few of their skills, but not nearly as many as I would have liked. Both were intimidating, but kind enough. And most importantly, there was a couple. A Dutch genius and his wife, a Romani acrobat. He had come to London to expand his criminal empire. I met them when I collapsed at their doorstep on a snowy night. They took me in during that harsh winter. He taught me how to finesse locks, how to think ten steps ahead of my opponent, how to fight dirty. She taught me how to hide, how to steal secrets, how to be unnoticed. They offered to let me return with them when they left. I accepted. I spent the next few years abroad, helping my parents in their gang. There was only one incident a couple of years in, when a plague swept the city. We left for their country home, but it was too late. I contracted a fever and fell in and out of consciousness. The infection attacked my brain. If not for their friend, a Russian healer, I might have lost my vision entirely. As it was, my eyes changed color to a dark blue-purple shade because of the elixirs she used. When I was fifteen, a visitor came that changed my life. He said he was my godfather, Lord Black, and he had been searching for me ever since he was released from prison. He didn't recognise me at first - apparently I had been born with my mother's brilliant green eyes - but that was easily explained. Originally, he had been accused of my parents' deaths, but he had proven his innocence in the end. My family didn't trust him, but he carried a daguerrotype that was clearly of him and a younger me. And when he started singing lullabies, I recognised his voice. My father made enquiries. He seemed to be the real deal. So my parents accompanied me back to London, staying there about a year to supervise their criminal empire and ensure my safety. It turned out their worries were unfounded. Lord Black was the best godfather I could have asked for. He had me introduced to society as his heiress. It wasn't safe to use my real name - my birth parents had been killed in the Great Game - so I picked a new one. My mother's name was too unusual, so I reversed it. Jeni became Jenny - and that name had too many connotations - so Jen it was. Jen Black. But it didn't last. Lord Black's stay in prison had weakened his constitution. He passed away. When London fell, I fell with it. I took over the Black estates and my father's empire. At one point, while seeking the secrets of the Snuffers, I ended up in New Newgate for a spell. But I broke out. Given how my father had handled the Ice Court, it wasn't even a problem. My goals? Simple. Take over the legacy of both my fathers. Surpass the Widow and the Duchess in power and acclaim. Become wealthy. Hunt the Vake. Make my family proud. You can drop me a line if you need help, but I hope you'd be willing to offer occasional assistance in return. And don't cross me or you'll regret it. (OOC: The first 3 people who can tell me the works being referenced in my backstory will get surprise packages! PM me or send me a message in-game.) edited by Jen Black on 9/12/2017 edited by Jen Black on 9/12/2017 -- Lady Jen Black - Appearance - Backstory - MBTI - Song - Portrait - RP Directory Accepting calling cards!
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Copperhead Jake Posts: 5 2/6/2018	Copperhead Jake:Not a native of London,born somewhere in the American West. Much to his consternation his sharp mind and ruthless facade gained him a reputation among the Pinkerton Agency. However, after refusing to fire on striking coal miners and helping to expose his employers he fled the country on the moral ground of self preservation and decided to hide in the one place no one would dare follow, The Neath. After landing in London Cumaean Canal, Jake found out quickly just how big of a hold he dug himself into... figuratively speaking. He was in a strange land his concrete mind couldn't imagine, with no contacts and an accent that stuck out like a sore thumb he knew his options were limited. Not one to mope about, he began to cut his teeth as a private eye, despite his reluctance to return to his previous profession, he decided that maybe a fresh start was what his life needed most, a second chance he would not relinquish. He also began to turn his investigative talent towards the nature of Fallen London itself, partly out of scientific curiosity and partly to learn what knowledge to avoid seeking out. After spending some time in the Neath on his lonesome, he came to the conclusion that perhaps solitude was not the most healthy way to spend an eternity, rather than ending up a honey fiend or a permanent resident at the Royal Bethlehem, he began seeking out the company of others. A man who was once a lone cowboy in a strange world has carved out his own niche. Maybe this time the cards will be in his favor. Despite his lack of lofty ambitions, he often finds himself getting into trouble that are way over his head. -- Copperhead Jake American tough-guy detective, closeted intellectual. "Yes I'm hunting that d****d Vake now ask your questions or leave me alone". http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Copperhead%20Jake
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What brings you to the neath? (backstory & goals)