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

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Posts: 88

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian

Next came shadow, cold, hunger. The boys were roused from their sleep, though they desperately clung to the remnants of unconsciousness. They dared not move an inch. In the urchin’s eyes, thunder subsided, grey clouds sheepishly floating. In the noman’s eyes, a single fear: the cold of north.

Then, all was well.

The next visitor came in a storm. Lacre hailed around, temperatures demanded any cover they might find. Underneath a raggedy blanket, one of the boys had almost convinced himself his limbs were not giving out, when…

Warmth spread through the room. In an impromptu hearth flames danced high, and from behind them, a cloaked figure stared.

“There will be tragedy, you know,” it said, “It likes tragedies. There is much at stake for us. Can you feel the heat of the flames? How the Neath-snow noxiously melts? The worst storms come when end is near. Yes, soon the tears will subside. Soon, fires will burn stronger again. May they burn forever.”

It sat with them in solemn understanding for a while. When the storm had stopped, the fire had died out, the lovers now fast asleep, it was nowhere to be seen.

Day IX
It was gone in a flesh. A shadow swooped onto the roof, glowing eyes peered inside. A low screech like distorted laughter sounded.

“Oh, but we will see,” it intoned, and then, it was gone.

Yet, the urchin and the noman sat in stiff silence. Their fingers no longer intertwined - not for lack of want, only for fear that the other will let go.

Day X
A letter was slipped through a slit in the wall. Gently it floated down, between the two sitting on the floor. Shaky white hands broke the seal, pale fingernails fished the paper out. In neat handwriting, the letter spoke. It spoke of many truths and secrets, heart-wrenching tales, warnings of stories. It expressed sorrow over the boy’s predicament.

Most of all, it gleamed with understanding.

Little could be done to stop the tears.

Day XI
And tears never stopped before another hood appeared in the window. Soft fingers wiped the damp cheeks. A basket of food was placed on the floor.

“It does little to mourn early. Time is that which heals. Memories are what fuels us. These have not been easy days. Make the happiness last last forever.”

Laughter filled the room, soft and slow as if afraid to come out, but bold and brave in its presence. Smiles joined the tears, and just for a moment, thoughts swayed away from the inevitable.

The final day was marked by silent softness. The world moved as if through molasses; not even the birds and the wind dared break the calm. If one squinted in sleepy blissfulness, if looked almost as if sunlight spread through the windows and the holes of the humble rooftop hideout.

The urchin and the noman together as one. Smiles of regrettable truth and acceptance. With stormy eyes they looked at each other. No bliss can last forever.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Two
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author led the Introverted Devil to his own home. Even when they were well away from the Side-Streets and the worst of the crowd, he was still rather disoriented. It was only when the Devil was seated in the Author’s favourite reading chair, his handkerchief forcefully pulled away from his face to allow him fresh air, that the Devil managed to regain his senses. The Author brought him a glass of Amanita Sherry. The Devil hesitated.

“You’ll probably feel better,” the Author said. The Devil, still unsure, took the glass anyway. It’s not like the Author could drink it.
“I’m… more surprised that you’d have it, to be honest.”
“Friend of a friend,”
“I see…”

The conversation went stagnant. The Devil awkwardly drank the sherry. The Author fiddled with his sleeves. Itching to start up a conversation. They sigh in unison. Then they smiled.
“Well…” the Author started, “It wasn’t a boring day,”
“It’s only noon,”
They smiled at each other, partly out of politeness, partly out of fondness. Struggle brings people together, even in cases like theirs. The Devil put his empty glass on a nearby table and got up, wiping away his smile.

“I should go,” he said. The Author sprang up and grabbed his arm.
“Wait! Are you sure? You seemed just about ready to pass out a moment ago,”
“I was not!”
“Consider it repayment then. For the trouble I caused,” the Author snagged the open bottle of Amanita Sherry, smiling sheepishly.
“Of course, I will be indulging in cheap Greyfields,” he continued.

The Devil looked at the Author, then the cheap sherry, then glanced back at the door. He sighed.
“Alright, fine. But after this I’m leaving,”

Three hours and two bottles later, and the Devil was still there. He was draped languidly over his chair, legs dangling over an armrest and an empty glass balanced on his stomach.
“Why… am I still here?” he drawled. He was supposed to leave ages ago. But now he’s here. With the Author. In relatively close proximity.

“Because you’re my guest and that’s just good manners,” the Author said. He was lying on his stomach, peering at the devil from over the edge of the couch’s armrest. Not the most comfortable of positions, but he enjoyed the view.

“You’re blond,” the Author remarked. The Devil, with his hat and tinted glasses tossed carelessly onto a coffee table, raised an eyebrow. He didn’t comment. The Author kept on, already accustomed to his silence.
“Like sunshine,” the Author said, reaching out as if to touch it. The Devil sat upright, out of reach. The Author didn’t seem particularly bothered. The Devil was already wondering what would’ve happened if he didn’t flinch away.
There was a moment of dizzy silence as the Author checked for remaining wine, and the Devil quietly contemplated society norms. Disappointed, the Author slumped back onto the couch. Staring at the Devil.
“What are souls like?”

The Devil stiffened.
“Do they taste a particular way, for instance?”
“Don’t be silly. We don’t eat souls,”
The Author thought for a bit, sitting upright.
“What do they look like?”
An idea occurred to the Devil. An awful one, yet an excellent one. It could answer all his questions, the ones just barely buzzing to the surface. Every...

“Why don’t I show you?” he said. He joined the Author on the couch, elbows rubbing together. It may be rather ill-taught to do this on a living room couch, but the Devil doubted he’d get the Author all the way to his bedroom and still manage to be charming.
“Do you know how this works?” the Devil asked. The Author’s throat bobbed. Nervousness, but not reluctance.
“On the couch?” he asked. The Devil smiled at him.
“Don’t worry about it,”

The Devil took his hand and leaned close, remembering all those lessons, all those well practiced words… The Author seemed surprised. Was he expecting something else? The Author was swallowed up by his words in no time at all. Warm, golden light, swimming behind his eyelids...

And then the Devil was gone.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Red Lights Overhead - Citizens Report A “Christmas Miracle”

Christmas may be nearly behind us, but the festive mood still remains. With some, even a little more than usual.

For several days, there have been many reports of strange occurances within the main London area. Citizens claim seeing a large silhouette of some sort of hansom with many horses, lead by a strange bright red light. There have also been reports of hearing a deep yet calming laughter from the false skies.

All of these reports, some overlapping, also claim having found small gifts on their windowsills the following morning.

While none of these claims have been confirmed as true, we would advise any and every citizen to stay vigilant and not fall victim to viles of some shadowy gift-giver.

Nonetheless, it could also be a big beneficial jest, or better - a performance piece! That would, of course, delight us.

Nonetheless, London, we do hope your holidays had been marvelous, and that good things will come to you within the new year.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Once again, I have failed. Perhaps it is time.


Dear Pleasing,
It, fortunately, may never be the time - unless, of course, it comes of its own accord.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Posts: 88

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

And on the Seventh day, we wept.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author woke up in his bedroom, a small package on his bedside table. It was morning, and he was alone. What happened last night? He didn’t feel particularly troubled. Or happy. Or particularly alive.

The Author rolled over and grabbed the package. Logically, he thought he should be alarmed, scared, heartbroken. He felt none of that. Just a vague emptiness, deep within him. He opened the package. It was a few handfuls of jewels, bits of Nevercold Brass and a Devilbone dice. There was a piece of paper on his bedside table. A contract. His very own infernal contract.

He had lost his soul.

Should he go look for it? It’s certainly an odd sensation, to not have a soul. Not unpleasant, he supposed. But odd.
He wrapped up his jewels and brass and made way for the door. He should look for the Introverted Devil. He will have his soul. Won’t he? He certainly didn’t expect an Abstraction when the Devil sat so close to him yesterday, but he’s the only one that could’ve done it. He thought about last night. Drinking with the Devil, getting to know him… somewhat.

He didn’t feel anything...

Did his home always look this grey and dismal? The Author got dressed in cleaner clothes. He’ll check the honey-dens first. He met the Devil there, after all. Maybe someone saw him. Maybe someone knows where to find him.

The same Guardswoman stopped him from going in this time around.
“You don’t understand, I-”
“Yeah, yeah, you said the same thing yesterday,”
The Author felt a somewhat... muffled sense of unease. A knot in his stomach where anger used to be. It feels kind of… cold, now.
“I don’t need to go inside,” he says.
“What do you want, then?”

The Author pulled a piece of paper out of his pants pocket. He had attempted a sketch of the Introverted Devil from memory before coming here. It wasn’t half bad, really. Very detailed, too.
“Have you seen this devil? He’s blond, wears all black.”

The guardswoman looked at the picture for a while, then at the Author. Then back at the picture. She jerked her chin to the alleys off to her right.
“Yesterday. That’s all”
The Author looked towards the alleys. That’s where he and the devil had met. He’s no closer than he was when he left his house. He sighed, disappointed, but thanked the Guardswoman nonetheless.

The next place to check would be the Forgotten Quarter. The Author took the exact same route he took with the Devil. Waited for a cab on the same corner. Got off at the same desolate street.

The Forgotten Quarter was quiet. But not ‘quiet’ as in a lack of sound - there was screaming in the distance, for one - it was the kind of quiet that instantly silenced your own thoughts. The kind that allowed even the slightest sounds to press in on your ears and burrow into your mind.

The Author put one foot in front of the other. A muffled sense of fear was creeping into his heart, as if by habit instead of genuine feeling. Is it safe to travel alone here, where Devils prey on humans? What would they do to someone who’s soulless? Does he even know where he’s going?

Would he be able to find the Devil again?

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Our Dearly Departed

______ __________
12th of June 1872 - 5th of January 1898

Today we say our goodbyes to ______ __________, a renowned hunter, zailor, a loving friend. Only a handful had returned from her last northbound expedition. The zhip had crashed, unsalvageable, and ______’s zailors refuse to speak of what had happened.

______ is survived by only her brother and sister. A symbolic funeral shall be held at the delta of the Thames and the Unterzee, in a week’s time with the midnight bell’s chime.

May her soul find peace.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it was all for something.


All shall be well.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Posts: 88

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The passage of time truly is a bewildering concept when one wills to give it thought. Not in the way where it might lack sense, rather in the way of the human mind being unequipped to fully comprehend Time’s full quirks and reaches. A month, at times, might feel like a week. A month, often, might feel like the full extend of a year. A year, rarely, might feel like no time had passed at all.

No matter subjectives or unperceivable truths, there is objectiveness to the comparative length of a year. 12 months; 52 weeks; 365 days; 8,760 hours; 525,600 minutes; 31,536,000 seconds. Today’s is the 53rd edition of our humble paper. A year in the making, truly, and all of it impossible without the help of London’s artistic community.

In the darkness of the Neath still shine lights. In the galleries, the theaters, the smoked back rooms of restaurants. There, brighter than the candles, the creativity of artists radiates luminous iridescence. It is our great honour and privilege to capture a bit of this glamour, to print it onto our pages, to share it with the rest of our remarkable city.

It is my hope that the Gazette has provided you dear readers with at least some amount of entertainment and, perhaps, an amount of joy as well.

We shall, of course, continue further on, and discover new reaches for our as well as your art to blossom within.

Best of regards,


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part II
by Cassius Mortemer

“Here we go again…” he whispered. He tried his best to remember the road he took yesterday. He hadn’t been focussing on the way at all. He was too busy asking questions and watching the Devil’s reactions.

He had passed four horse statues (or the same statue four times?) and finally admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was going. Perhaps he should’ve looked for a guide instead? He sat on the edge of what might’ve been a broken statue. Or a fancy rock. He didn’t care, he was too busy moping.

He unfolded the little sketch he drew of the Devil. He had only met the man yesterday. Do the soulless normally get this attached to the devil that takes their soul? Do devils usually rush an Abstraction? He had a friend who got hounded by a devil for weeks before he finally attempted an Abstraction. The devil failed, of course.

A shadow passed over his sketch, making it hard to see. Someone was standing before him. The Author’s gaze shot up, and he locked eyes with a pair of sulphur-fire blue eyes. The man was grinning cruelly at him. It took the Author a moment to recognise the Churlish Devil, who had nearly made him an Infernal Hunt participant the day before.

The Author sprang to his feet but the Churlish Devil planted a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
“Now, now, no need to rush...” he purred. “Where’s your little friend?”
The Author didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he didn’t want to. The Churlish Devil tightened his grip.
“It’s not nice to stare,” he said. It almost sounded like a threat.

The Author attempted to weasel out of the Devil’s grip. An awkward roll of the shoulder, a little shimmy to the side. The Devil didn’t hold on, instead watching him with idle interest. Like a cat watching a lizard wriggle and run before he tears its skin off with his fangs. He grabbed the Author by the collar before he could get too far away.

“I seem to recall your little friend breaking something of mine…” the Devil said, pulling the Author close. The Devil’s chest pressed to the Author’s back, and his free hand grabbing on to the Author’s bicep.
“Please let go of me…” the Author said. The Devil leaned his face close to the Author’s neck and took a deep breath. Every muscle in the Author’s body was telling him that now would be an excellent time to run, perhaps. Only for self-preservation purposes, of course.

The Churlish Devil hesitated… then started laughing.
“He took your soul, eh? Ha! Didn’t know he had it in him.” He roughly pushes the Author away, sending him stumbling. He caught himself, barely.

“Well, I no longer have any use for you. But that doesn’t mean my time would be wasted…” the Devil said. “I’ll give you a five second head start. If you get away, you’re safe. At least for some time. But if you don’t…” the Devil only smirked. The Author didn’t waste any time. He bolted before the Devil could say ‘go’.

(Un)Holy Night
by Chronic Dreamer

Two of my friends and I raced to the city center on bicycles, all of us having started from various points around the city. The brown multi-storied buildings were primarily of the Tudor style; a few modern sensibilities accented the buildings, such as shingled roofs and windows on the lower levels bastioned by iron bars. Other than the three of us, the city was desolate.

I had been the last one to arrive which made me the last to have my wish granted by The Crimson Beast. The building — that The Beast had propped their tent on the lawn of — towered over us with white columns and cold trim. Bearing a wide berth, it pushed all the other buildings away with well-groomed green. The building accented a much smaller white tent housing myriad musical instruments and mixing tables in which waited the wishing fairy (previously The Beast). Her violet hair floated freely as if in water and she drifted free from the shackles of gravity. She listened to one of my friends, the one who was the second to arrive. The first to arrive had already received their wish, and they were kept as a liquid in a tall-necked, deep-blue vase.

I already knew this was to be our fate; it had happened to me the previous time I had made a wish. That time, I was unaware of the process and shocked to find myself melted into a liquid and kept in a bottle. I watched as the universe around me slowly folded in on itself, molding itself to where my wish became the altered reality. For those around me, this was instantaneous; for me, I had to wait for the eternity to end and circle back to the point where I had uttered my wish.

When my second friend melted into the eternal liquid, I stepped up to make my wish. I joked with the fairy of how we had done this dance before and how I wanted a different wish, this time. Before I could express my wish, and after I had made the off comment, angels in sharp suits came into existence, seized me, and flew me away by my shoulders. They ferried me to the foyer of a drab office building, the whole place in a tumult.

Something evil had been re-born because of my wish, I had overheard. Ordinarily, they would have perceived each and every time the universe looped, and kept that evil under their watchful eyes and in their made prison. My wish, they did not know about. The evil being, called Noah by the angels, had been able to escape its imprisonment. During the singular point in time, the gap between where the previous universe ended and my wish universe began, Noah escaped its bonds with its will of wrath and gave itself birth in the new world.

The other side of the foyer, next to the hallway of office rooms, faded away to reveal a dirt path that wound through a neatly kept wooded area. On the path trod an adult male holding tightly to a baby wrapped in a serene blanket. The angels cross the threshold, frightening the man and poised to execute the infant. My sense of morality was thrown into conflict. I did not want a baby to die, but I knew that if it is true evil it must. I am unable to decide its fate.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Prolific Paper Reaches One Year In Age

Which is, of course, both a truth and jest on this humble reporter’s part. The bottom line, of course, is information.

In the next year of The Goosey Gazette, a few changes and improvements:

The Gazette is now under the label of the Word & Press printing agency, who provide us with new possibilities of form.

The Gazette is still under the ownership of one R. J. Frogvarian, which guarantees a wealth of content.

The Gazette is still here to serve its readers, which guarantees integrity.

All in all, there are positive changes on the horizon for a humble growing paper.

Wish you all the best, London.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it is good.


Dear Resting,
It is what it is, and it will be what it shall be.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Posts: 88

The Goosey Gazette turns one today!

Or, technically, one and a week - however, it is precisely a year since the very first edition had been published.

I would like to say many thanks to everyone who has submitted over this year, it would be quite literally impossible to lift of if it weren't for you.

In some exciting news, we have a website now! Go check it out:

Exciting stuff! The site is, of course, heavily under construction, so pardon the look of it.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Posts: 88

20 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Self-embetterment is to be taken one step at a time. Progress is seldom rapid, and even then most commonly on the larger scales. It all starts with a promise, a promise to the self, a promise to friends, a promise to the audience.

Promise improvement, and support will follow. Yes, even in these pursuits, humans are creatures of society. We lift each other up and help each other grow as the needs of our social circle expand. To allow oneself help can be daunting, especially for the entrepreneurial soul so used to relying only on its own powers. To limp on a shoulder of a friend is to make the most dangerous of trust falls.

Aforementioned steps are to be taken with care as well as courage. It is not a blind battle to be fought, rather a premeditated match to be won. Hardships of the mind arise in such times, yet with dedication, determination, and diligence even the wiles of one’s doubts can be overcome.

Most importantly, there is a need for time. As the best wines are the oldest, as cheese ages in cellars, human improvement cannot happen overnight. Do not, however, look to the future as if it were present. Realisation of one’s current needs is what drives us towards the future we desire and deserve.

Look to love, London.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author couldn’t breathe.
It was an oddly curious sensation, really. He supposed the lack of a soul explained his general lack of fear. He also didn’t remember being such a weak runner. How did he even get out yesterday? Perhaps the lack of fear made him self-conscious, which in turn was slowing him down. He pushed those thoughts out of his head. No time for thinking.

He had a good rhythm going, jumping over rocks and rubble and ill-maintained roads. He could hear the Churlish Devil laughing in the distance. He had no doubt in his mind that even the slightest rest could be the end of him. He wouldn’t dare look back.

The Author vaulted over the ruins of a wall and immediately regretted it. His foot caught the edge, and he went sprawling into dust and cobwebs. Cobwebs? Oh no. Long sheets of sticky grey webs stuck to his clothes like tomb colonist bandages. Clumsily he got to his feet, continuing his run with prayers on his mind.

Except he didn’t get much farther. Where previously he could’ve sworn was an open courtyard, was now an unnecessarily sturdy stone wall. And to his left. And his right! He was boxed in, and the Churlish Devil was almost on him. Part of him hoped that the Introverted Devil will save him. The rest of him knew that was unlikely.

He was faced with an awful ultimatum: attempt to fight back, or succumb to his fate? The latter sounded less painful. But the former…

The Author leaned against the wall that now trapped him. Covered in sorrow spider webs and dust. Soulless and lost. Is this what they meant by ‘curiosity killed the cat’? If he had left the Introverted Devil alone, would he be any safer? The Churlish Devil jogged over, grinning smugly. The Author squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away…

It was another curious sensation. The Author assumed the Devil must’ve crushed his windpipe, because his throat hurt considerably. That, and he couldn’t breathe. The Author felt like crying. Felt like cursing his luck and screaming in frustration. He didn’t, of course. He just knew that’d be something he’d do. He was vaguely aware of the stone wall scraping against his back. Oh, he was falling. He had fallen. Ah yes, and he was feeling cold now. He remembered dying before. Perhaps once or twice.
The Author woke up in a slow boat passing a dark beach on a silent river.
“What…?” he said. “But I’m soulless...” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
The other two passengers eyed him, but said nothing. The Boatman was grinning at him (not that he had a choice, otherwise).
“The Soul is complicated” the Boatman said. He was too preoccupied playing chess to further elaborate.

The Author found himself feeling… bored. All that drama and an echo of despair, for the same old result. Is getting his soul back worth it, when it’s seemingly most important function turns out to be false? What’s the point, then? The Author’s gaze fell onto the far bank. The far country. Death. He squinted, trying to see details. He could almost see…

“Bah!” the Chess-Playing Passenger said. The Author jumped and sat up straight. Perhaps not. The Passenger decided that now was a good time to take a break, catch their breath, and not smash the chessboard. The Chessboard… That’s how he got back, last time. Would the Boatman remember him? The Author took a seat and started setting up the board. The Boatman was only half caring.

Memories and Roses, Part I
by Professor Wensleydale.
“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not buying your- why, Bishop! What brings you here?”
“I require you to restore an epic, and perhaps modernize it.”
“Any old ______ would do. Why me?”
“Because all the others refused.”
“Not to mention, your department seems to imply that you are the most qualified.”

At this I leaned in.

“What language is it in?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh, yes.”

You’ve gained 1* Surface-Rose Petal(new total 3).Renown: the Church is increasing…
A twist in your tale! You are now Restoring an Epic.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

An Exquisite Marriage - A Bond Of The Lethal Nightmare And The Melancholic End-Bringer

The two started out as the usual, modest couple. Days of courting and days of dates. Those bewedded know the pains of preparations, the legalities and the celebrations. Guest lists and wine, venues and sighs, all for the perfect wedding occasion.

The proposal came, by all accounts, rather fast, yet it was all but unexpected. The couple’s wonderous romantic alchemy is, after all, rather obvious, even tangible.

The affair was private. Very few were permitted inside; the venue was one of the Bazaar’s own. Intimate, truly, a precious thing in these times. We can, of course, only speculate upon the proceedings within.

The guest list of the proceeding celebration was, to state bluntly, exquisite beyond belief. Many a character had found themselves congratulating the happy couple; though most wish to stay anonymous, there have been sightings of several Masters of the Bazaar, prominent women of London, and a well-known Midnighter.

We at the Gazette wish the newlywed couple all the best in their married life. It can be tough, it can be dreadful, it can be the pinnacle of ecstasy. It will be what you make of it, with determination and hard work. Love is nothing if not a challenge of will.

As the courier states: Look to love, always!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I, perhaps, on the verge of mediocrity?


Dear Gray,
I am afraid we all are, at some point in our lives.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Posts: 88

13 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There is an importance to being idle, like a vast oasis of leisure. All one can sometimes do is lay back with a cup of tea and blurred words on a page. There are such lulls in all of our lives.

Sometimes, perhaps, we are not as grateful for them. Just a trifle for those who care not for work, we think, a tool of the lazy to pamper their souls. We do not think that, perhaps, our soul needs to be pampered as well.

Other times still, perhaps, such moments are a terrifying void of awaiting resolutions. A true, actual lull in time, when nothing seems to move. A vastness of time through which we have to trudge second, by second, by second, by second. There is no doing, there is only the attempt to survive until the next page of this chapter of our lives.

Whichever reason we may have, well, it is important to not get lost in the why. Perhaps, still, one can simply enjoy a small, tiny, break.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

A Compilation of the Good Bits- Credited, of Course, and put together in such a way that it makes no goddamn sense
Compiled by Professor Wensleydale.

I then found my rival, writing a film of slanderous material. The Devil looked mockingly offended. “Me? Insult one of our best associates?” I ran in the general direction of the noise. Just like my mother. The Neath grows dark in their absence. This opportunity is mine, and mine alone. This wasn’t exactly planned. An old woman gingerly entered the hall. I only take the cup and shake it a while. I already knew this was to be our fate.

Credit where it is due:
Wolf Grim Rine
Reinol von Lorica
Rowley Ruskin
Tuesday Next
RJ Frogvarian
Chronic Dreamer

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part IV
by Cassius Mortemer

It must’ve been a dozen games now. The Boatman didn’t care, even if he lost every single one of them. People of little importance do not matter to him, especially those as inexperienced as the Author. With each win, the Author felt a little stronger, sat up a bit straighter. Then, a sudden light! The Author nearly fell out of his bed, gasping. Everything hurts. But he’s alive. The Author tried to make sense of his surroundings: squeaking bed, dusty shelves, faded carpet... How did he get back home?

There was a note on his bedside table. No, not a note; a poster for Dante’s Grill. ‘Devilishly Delicious,’ was written in the strange, flat and rigid-yet-flowing style that devils are so fond of. Nothing had serifs, and it just seemed… off. Nevermind that. There was handwriting on the back.

‘Try harder next time,’ it read. ‘The moment you wake up, meet me here.’
It was unsigned.

Now, a sane man might be wary. Even some insane men might be wary. The Author, however, was already forgetting what suspicion felt like. He had no reason to be scared. Even if he had, he couldn’t remember what feeling scared felt like. Might as well, right? He had nothing better to do. Perhaps this person knew where the Introverted Devil was.

That person was… the Churlish Devil.

The Author had never been to Dante’s, first and foremost. It’s relatively exclusive and the only way gentlepersons such as himself can afford it is by being invited by a more important gentleperson. The Churlish Devil had been waiting for him outside, grinning. His brilliant Infernal Hunter’s uniform was replaced by a ‘simple’ navy suit and a rather bright cravat.

“Quite a long nap you took,” he commented.
“You’re the one who invited me?”
The Devil didn’t answer. He walked into the building, feeling that should be indication enough of his intentions. It worked, at least. The Devil found them a seat near a window, and the Author sat opposite to him.

“Why am I here?” he asked. The Churlish Devil gazed at him with those sulphur-fire-blues (he wasn’t wearing any dark tinted glasses, as Devils often tend to do). A fanged smirk. His eyes flickered to a menu on the table.
“Because I’m curious as to what sort of man you are. Coffee?”
The Author ignored the question.
“But why?”
The Devil didn’t answer him. A Devilless had arrived to take their orders, and the Churlish Devil decided for the Author. The Devilless left, and the Devil turned his gaze to the window.
“What is your opinion on sorrow spiders?”
“You didn’t answer my question,”
“How about poisons or venoms? Which is worse, in your opinion?”
“Please answer my question…”

The Devil finally turned his gaze back to the Author.
“It’s related to your soul,”
“What about it? Do you know where it is?”
“How do you like snakes?”

For perhaps an hour (perhaps more), the conversation continued in this fashion. They had lunch (it certainly was as devilishly delicious as advertised) and the Devil kept asking questions relating to the Author’s fears. When they finished up, the Devil was the first to leave his seat.
“Ladybones,” was the last thing the Churlish Devil said before they parted ways.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Feast Of The Exceptional Rose Celebrates Lovers Once Again

Dearest London, the time has come again for the wonders of love. Clandestine balls in the mist invite even the most compliant members of high echelons to forget their uptight ways and softly fall into the arms of a stranger. Now, more than ever, is the time to reach your beloved’s heart. We at the Gazette, of course, recommend the true and tried ways of deepening a bond, rather than today’s trend of turning over one’s pockets to pay for expensive gifts and trifles.

For those struggling for ideas, it is of course our pleasure to provide inspiration:

Challenge to find each other at a masked ball.
The rush of the unknown is, of course, the cornerstone of many a London festivity, Feast of the Rose being no exception. Being able to find your beloved among a vast, masked crowd truly is a test of love. If, perhaps, you end up falling into the arms of another, well the situation may solve itself still in new and exciting ways.

Take a walk in the lesser known corners of the near-London area.
A romantic walk never hurts, and one full of exploration (and lack of prying eyes) is a very sought-after commodity. We, of course, cannot reveal these unknown corners, as it would defeat the purpose of the exercise. A means of defense (just in case) is recommended and remember - in darkness, clothes are optional!

Partake of a delicious meal together - perhaps prepare it together as well!
The heart is reached through the stomach, and a bond can be only deepened by preparing a lovely dinner with your beloved. Culinary art, as any art, is for anyone!

[Due to the unspeakable salaciousness of this advice, the printing press owners refused (through red cheeks) to even touch it.]

We do hope, dear London, that this article truly inspires you to spend a time of quality with those that you love this festival season.

Look to Love, London!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Is there solace for the cowardly?


Dear Sigh,
None, only the flames you set to yourself.
edited by Frogvarian on 2/9/2020

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Posts: 88

6 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is my hope that my countless tirades on love have not gone out of fashion, or worse yet, out of the want of minds. Perhaps, even in such dire circumstances, this season of love is an acceptable time to indulge one’s waxing and waning thoughts.

It is a choice for all of us to pursue the matters of one’s heart; of course, we cannot choose when these matters strike, or which target our heart’s arrow shall aim towards. All one can hope for is for the alignment of circumstances, a fortuitous occurrence within one’s heart and one’s mind. A conjoining of one’s interests and one’s primal desires.

It is, of course, not a crime to not follow one’s heart. Emotions may sway us towards a goal, yet the mind knows such goals can be, ultimately, destructive. It is wise, then, to pave the road with caution. It is hard to know what is good for one’s self. Warnings of one’s own body are to not be taken lightly.

I find it hard to know what the correct choice is.

Perhaps, one day, the heart and the mind will cease their fray of hauntings and release one’s spirit from their hostage.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Four
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer

Ladybones Road; A district and a street in the West end of Fallen London. Most notably known for attracting spies and detectives, and is the center of Hell’s businesses. It houses the base of operations for devils in London: a Hell away from Hell in the Brass Embassy, not too far from Dante’s Grill...

“Why didn’t I think of checking here first…” the Author asked no one in particular.

The Brass Embassy stood tall and brassy, with glowing windows of emeralds, rubies and topaz. Abstract patterns, strange dials and springs, winding pipes… It looked like a massive, vaguely building-shaped engine of some colossal machine. Devils walked the streets, gossiping, shopping, going about their own business in their flamboyant fashions. Oh dear lord. How was he supposed to navigate around here?

At least, he supposed, the Introverted Devil will stand out in the crowd.

The Author aimlessly wandered down the streets around the Brass Embassy. Devils, on multiple occasions, approach him with confident smiles… only for their interest to falter once they realize that his soul had already been taken. He left a trail of disappointment wherever he went. At least that didn’t change.

“You seem lost, dear,” a Curious Devilless purred. He waited until it was clear that she wasn’t going to leave, despite his lack of soul, then he answered.
“I’m looking for a friend,” he said.
“Oh? Perhaps I know them.”

Somehow, the Author doubted that. But he told her all identifying information he knew. At least, what he remembered at that moment.
“Are you sure he’s a devil? Did he have a fork?”
“He doesn’t sound like a devil, are you sure?”
“Entirely su-”
“Madam, I’m very sure of it. His eyes shone like brass,”

The Deviless considers the information for a moment longer. A slender finger tap-tapping a soft cheek.
“Could it be the fellow I saw before?” she asked herself. The Author waited - patiently - for elaboration.

“You know, I may have seen someone like that heading for Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour just a few moments ago!”
Clathermont’s, known for being the spies of London’s favourite haunt. The Author never pegged the Devil for a player of the Game.

“Thank you,” the Author said, “I’m sure I’ll find who I’m looking for.”
The Author turned to leave, straight to Clathermont’s… and the Devilless followed him. The Author ignored her for now. Perhaps she’ll go away? The Author had more pressing matters than wondering why a Devilless is following a soulless man. Like finding his soul.

Soon, the giggling devillesses and flamboyant devils were replaced by couriers, aspiring detectives, and (unsurprisingly) more dull-faced citizens who had recently lost their souls.

There. Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour. The Curious Deviless giggled behind the Author. They crossed the road. There. He could see people inside. He opened the door. A bell clinked above him. No one paid him any mind. There. A figure dressed in all black, his back facing the door.
It had to be him. Blond hair curling out from beneath a hat (the devils called them fedoras). Narrow shoulders. Slender fingers. But the Author hesitated. No, there is no time for that. He took a breath, readying himself to speak as he approached the Devil. The Devil followed one of the ladies he had been talking to around a corner. The Author jogged after him, but what is this? As soon as he rounded the very same corner, they were already out of sight.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Dreams Of Weddings - The Shopkeeper In Viric Blesses Londoners!

This Feast of the Exceptional Rose, an exquisite new opportunity has show its wings. Wearing a suit painted in Viric has set up shop for those seeking thrill and romance. Four persons of prominence have provided experiences for the Shopkeeper to distribute, all of which, of course, shall remain anonymous within our little paper.

Once one has purchased a dream, chosen the desired qualities, and signed a contract, a whole lifetime of married life comes to them in their sleep. Over three periods of sleep, to be precise - three sessions of dreams, three seasons of romance within three nights.

Naturally, our reporters have tested these dreams, and we must say - it is no scam! This, dear London, is the genuine article experience! To the very end, yes, the dreams are immaculate, and the Viric is strong. What could one learn from the love of these Londoners? If you have the echoes to spare, dear London, we encourage you - visit the Shopkeeper in Viric! A true artist of dreams.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Is she the one?


Dear Pining,
I fear it is impossible tell through such inaction - intent, after all, is not pursuit.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link

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