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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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Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

1/14/2019


The finest purveyor of artistic integrity in the Neath!

With weekly editions, we offer refuge for writers, poets, artists, underappreciated scholars, and even the occasional gossiper.

No article is too scandalous! No play too frivolous! No confession too saucy!

In each edition you can expect:
  • An authentic news story from the very heart of the Neath’s artistic community - the latest trends, wagons and bands, bold movements to look out for.
  • A poem or an anecdote from yours truly, the very head editor of the Goosey Gazette, R. J. Frogvarian
  • A selection (one or more) of written works from various artists of London
  • One interview with a prominent person in London, be it a rising star, a presence paramount, or a significant individual (hell, I’ll even interview myself!)
  • Questions - yes, your very questions - answered by our dear Mother Goose, a woman knowledgeable in all things romance, art, cooking, murder- ah, I could go on!

This is where you come in, delicious readers (and players)!

This is an ambitious project of mine in which I want the community to come together. Shall I find anyone willing, I would like to post the works of our playerbase in this artistic newspaper - for compensation of course!
If you would like to submit a work (be it a short poem, story, or anything) or be interviewed by yours truly, we should come to an agreement of an in-game boon from me, be it in a form of a gift from the Square of Lofty Words, a boxed cat shall I happen to stumble upon one, or perhaps some of my actions to aid you with your menaces or answer your social callings. The possibilities are- well, limited, somewhat.

Questions For Mother Goose are a different segment, where, of course, you submit your questions and Mother Goose answers them to the best of her abilities.

How to submit a work or ask for an interview:
Simply shoot me a message here on the forums! We shall come to an agreement of the work, the compensation, which edition your work shall be posted in, and whether you would like to remain anonymous or be credited by proudly linking to your character’s profile.

How to ask Mother Goose a question:
Write a Letter to R J Frogvarian, and start it with “Dear Mother Goose,”. Simple as that!

I expectantly await your glorious works, for the art of the Neath and for Neath in art, forever,



edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+7 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

9/29/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There are a handful I have faith in. Faith, as opposed to trust. Faith, specified more often than generalized. One such individual is Kid Nullman, the Saint of Tears and the Kollector.

Mr. Tears, for those of you that do not know, is the Noman to arrive and be alive for a year. Nullman is the foremost prophet of Tears, and leader of his kind religion.

I truly have faith, London, faith in Tears and faith in Nullman. A good acquaintance of mine, they have been a presence of wonder and determination, gathering resources for the coming of Tears. There are those who deny the wonders of Tears, yet I firmly believe that there shall be success.

There is something calming about putting your faith into someone. To not be on the lookout for failure, but rather for success, to believe deep in your heart that the efforts shall bear fruit.

Once again, dear London, do be so kind as to support Nullman and Tears with a fistful of coins of the First City.

Shall we all be blessed by his cold wonders.


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

Reinol von Lorica
by Ted Brown


A portrait by Professor von Lorica’s protege, to celebrate his 30th birthday.

Happy birthday, Professor!


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

Second All-Bird Play To Debut Soon

After the vastly successful run of Ravemeo and Doviette, the crew behind this all-bird production is to debut a whole new play. This time it is an original of a Prussian playwright, Wheelwright Brides. It is a heartbreaking comedy, sure to leave you in tears one way or another.

While the play itself is, of course, well known, the all-bird production is what interests us greatly. We at the Gazette have some backstage information, which, of course, we are obliged by etiquette not to disclose in such public manner.

The information we can share, of course, is that it is all and more we could hope for, dear London. The birds chosen are all exquisite actors, very fit for their roles. The direction, also handled by a bird, could not be more perfect.

We, then, hereby invite you to the debut of this production at Mahogany Hall. Join us, next week Saturday.

Moreover, the first ten readers to find buried leads within this week’s edition will win free tickets to the front seats of the production!

Happy hunting and we hope to see you at the debut, dear London.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where is the goal I so elegantly sought?
Worried

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Worried,
There was little elegance to begin with. Please try again.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+6 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

11/3/2019
Pleasure to meet you, dear Kid Nullman - may I call you Kid?

Well, if you insist, yes, sure, it's fine.
~
Very well then. So, Kid, you are a Midnighter by trade. What had brought you to the rites of St. Joshua?

Let’s say, it's family affairs. Yes. Private occurances.
~
Private, of course. It is a role of importance within the Game, after all. Not something to be pried at, however a position that comes with a certain inherent understanding. What are your thoughts on the Game itself?

I wouldn't say I'm always very comfortable with the occurances, especially not the part that includes taking others out of the Game. That's why I try to not be employed by any high bidder, but instead just work organizing masses and as a correspondent between pawns. I feel… mixed about it, but at the same time I found an uncanny safety within.
~
I suppose uncanny is the baseline, nowadays. Well, let the Game be the Game. You have become known for another thing entirely - as the Prophet of Tears. Would you care to tell our readers a little about Mr. Tears?

Ah yes, Tears. Well, he has contacted me through a mirror, actually. It has been a few months already, and since I first saw him I knew I wanted to help. I never expected that it would all turn into what it is today. He wants a body, one of lacre, and until then he will stay nothing but a mirage behind glass. I wouldn't want it to be left like that, though.
~
A mirror! Quite intriguing, might I say. One would - purely hypothetically - assume that such is the reason you have been rumoured to collect many snakes, recently?

Well, yes, snakes. The official name is "Hound of Heaven." It's a lengthy process, but these Hounds are then used by the Bishop of Southwark. Don't understand this wrong, I have nothing to do with his plans, but he does offer wines in return. And then there are even more eccentric individuals that offer Bazaar Tears for these wines. I'm sure that the ordinary Londoner doesn't know of these, but these tears then shall be frozen when the time is right and used as a vessel for the manifestation of Mr Tears himself.
~
Hounds and wines and tears, of course. It is much work to be done for Tears, to bring his vessel here. Do you see this as a predicament or rather as a privilege?

Well, it is definitely unheard of. Children and adults alike tend to make nomen for their enjoyment, but what I have been chosen for really is something much grander. It is difficult, I must admit, but the support I get from people that never even heard of me really does push me forward. It's a blessing, I hope. I don't believe that I am bringing anything evil into this world. I hope the rest agree, even with the cult-like title.
~
Prophet of Tears, of course, is at least peculiar. Support, of course, there is much of. It is true that one can send a handful of First City coins your way to give support to you and to Tears. How do such coins help, and are there any other ways for one to show their devotion?

Oh, yes! Tears is, so he says, a lot older than we might think, and one of his earliest fascinations was the First City. He has asked me to actually keep note of everyone that does donate, because he would like to thank them individually. There have been donations already, yes, many, and I am not sure what he plans to do with the coins, but certain necklaces and other wearables have already been made from said coins. As for the use… we will see. Suppose non-material devotion is a possibility as well, because the more people know of him, the better.
~
Enigmatic still, without a physical body. For those devoted to Mr Tears, you are quite the inspirational leader. Though we know there is still much time to go, is there a possibility for the devoted to feel closer to Tears before his arrival?

Leader? Maybe not nearly as charismatic as other religious groups have it, but I am trying my best. As for the question, I don't know. The mirror where I saw him first I have in my home, but I hope you understand when I say that I wouldn't want anyone parading through it, like some kind of pilgrimage. There are a few extraordinary individuals though that have aided a little in the spreading of the word and general planning, so they might soon get the chance to meet him, and hopefully for everyone else their word will suffice. The point is to see him when he is here, after all.
~
Truly so. We cannot speed the coming by much, after all. Good things take their time. You are the most devoted of devotees, such is an admirable quality in a leader.
Not to bring attention to you once again, but I understand you are Neath-born, yes? What do you make of the current political climate within London?

Yes, I was born here, and I can proudly say that I have so far managed to avoid political influence. If you mean the recent mayoral elections, I know better than to speak my mind, but I can say that I didn't really vote for the new mayor. I'm not complaining either about what she has done with her time so far. Mr Tears on the other hand really likes delving into these things and, well, let's just say he wants to give it a shot when he is with us. What exactly he means...
~
Truly exciting! Though his time with us will be just shy of a year - limitations of lacre and all that - I believe that, with enough support, London will warm up to Tears enough to allow one such creature to engage in... politics.
A few more things. As you know, our Gazette is a paper of art. What thoughts on art do you have, Kid?

Well I hope London doesn't warm up ti Tears, ahah. Art, yes, even though the first association is usually just a brush, I know art can vary so much more! And, well, while none of my creations would - or should, in some case - count as art, I really can only sit back and appreciate the lengths to which someone longing for beauty can go to. A heads up to all the free souls out there!
~
A heads up to the free souls indeed. Some might say what you are doing is a form of art by itself. Well. Time is drawing short. Kid, is there anything else you would like to tell our dearest readers?

I am not sure. I suppose a little 'Thank you' to the lot of them is enough already. I do hope Tears will bring enough wisdom for the lot of us. One can only imagine what a noman that is given so much time can conjure up to tell us.
~
One can only wonder, truly. We shall, however, not wonder forever. Thank you as well, Kid Nullman, for the exquisite interview. May the word of Tears reach many ears.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+5 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

11/11/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Moment For Me
by R. J. Frogvarian

I stole a moment.
Spirited away, hidden,
deep in my pocket.

It is a moment for the world,
moment to be shared,
from pauper to lord,
please no one be scared.

While I’d love to share
It is not the time just yet
Wait just a small while.

Just this little notch
that I had made with glee.
Just this little moment,
this one is for me.


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

Fallen London - The Crossword Puzzle
by Senforza




Fill it out on the centre-spread page.


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

Standing Ovation - A Way To Combat Discomfort?

Think on this, London. Has your bottom ever hurt after a hours of sitting on a theatre seat? Has the wood made you shift your weight in desperation, attempting to find a single position where your ample buttocks do not constantly ache?

A new theory within the theatre-going world claims that, as opposed to a celebration of performance, the phenomenon of a standing ovation is simply there to relieve such pain. A standing ovation grants the audience an early release, as their legs can stretch, bottoms rest, and now their hands do the talking - though, of course, in a socially acceptable, even pleasant, way.

Such polemics, though intriguing, hold little value for art itself. Conspiracists claim this is a ruse by shabby theatres to get unwarranted feeling of praise, while purists deny they would ever stoop so low as to give into their primal instincts when it comes to giving a proper, performance-worthy ovation.

We at the Gazette, of course, remain neutral. We will, however, say that, be the truth wherever, the Antimacassar Theatre’s number of standing ovations has (allegedly) increased by quite a few numbers ever since the installation of their new seats. Not to point any fingers, yet this in this reporter’s humble opinion, the seats are rather ache-inducing. On the opposition, Mahogany Hall’s recent renovation has left all buttocks unhurt - with no decrease in standing ovations, of course.

Nevertheless, you can always draw your own conclusions - and keep your rears from hurting!


--------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------

I've dirtied my hands more than I have intended. For the sake of the Game, for the sake of pleasing the Masters, for sake of being closer to insanity. I never should have listened to that man's words, and yet I now find myself tempted to throw everything away. Throwing everything away for what? The Seven which is not Seven now plagues my curiosity, and my thoughts, and my hunger.
-Misfortune



As the mist has set, so the revels have ended. Time of confessions is behind us. Oh, woe are we, still bound to carry the weight of our sins. Such is the time after Hallowmas.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh, the anticipation! Will it ever cease?
Eve

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Eve,
Simply focus on the good things.
edited by Frogvarian on 11/11/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

11/3/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Here's the desire for a touch of fame. Just a little bit. Ever so closer. Imbibe it. Consume it.

My friend's father was a musician. My aunt met a religious leader. I saw the Queen shopping for pomegranates one time.

Do we all yearn for the lights, the shouts, the shadows, the whispers? Signed cards and special treatment. Ballrooms and beds of the highest echelons. Oh, to get just a taste. Illusions of grandeur haunt our little existence.

There is little wrong with mediocrity. Who can say they are truly destined for greatness? With power comes the ability to abuse; oneself, others, strangers and friends alike. Tread lightly with the screams of thousands. It takes a special sort not to go mad in such a world.

After all, ambitions are one thing. Pure, godless yearning is another.


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

Messidorist Panopticot
by Eastern, F. B. G. Dscd.


Landscape painting of the Messidorist Panopticon, a fabled fortress in Downside. Artwork commissioned by Hotshot “Messidor” Blackburn, the proprietor and renovator of the fortress.


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

An Interview With The Prophet Of Mr Tears

On a very special occasion, we at The Goosey Gazette have just recently had the chance to interview the one, the only, Prophet of Tears, Kid Nullman. Without further ado, seek the interview on the centre-page spread.


--------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------

They can pry, search, and threaten all they want, but they will never obtain this truth. I confess that the Khan of Dreams' confession is still in my possession, and mine alone. One day, this secret will be able to control or destroy a Master in itself. London should look forward to it.
- Masked Midnighter

It feels like there’s a wick in my throat. Seven flames. Seven letters. Seven eyes. Seven sins. Seven cities. Seven regrets. Seven times have I failed myself. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. The name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number
- Kin

Submit your own delicious confessions to us! The last confessions will be posted in the next edition!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I know what is right and what is wrong?
Desperate

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Desperate,
When one’s heart is not enough, perhaps it is time to follow another’s mind.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

9/22/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There are many ways one can hurt. Scars are not the only impact. A gash across the flesh, skin, burnt, perhaps boiled. Scars of the mind will suffice for some. A word can cut just as well as any knife.

Such is an issue with self-appointed martyrs. They dive into the pain with open arms. The hurt is like an old friend. A warm embrace. A calmness. To hurt means for things to be as they always have been. It means for things to be right. The status quo, once again, restored.

Perhaps it is cowardice to sink back into the mud. A refusal to admit that there is responsibility on one’s shoulders. That, if they themselves are not dark, it is on them not to act as such. Or, perhaps, it is fear. Of change, of light, of good. Of one’s own soul.

I do not mean to meander on the point, but it is a gnawing hatred. A warm blanket made of teeth.

Truly, the worst critic is yourself.


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

Assorted Artwork
by Nihil



A Rubbery Scholar



A portrait of a Master



A painting of sure fiction


See more at the artist’s gallery.


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

Famous Artist’s Last Performance? A Challenge Of Life And Death

In the latest news of the art world, the Renowned Performer faced accusations from one V. S____, a critic of some acceptance. S____, in his latest review of the Performer’s work, called it, to quote:

“Uninspired, a blasphemy of sight and sound, outrageous and outrageously dull to boot. A man so lacking in soul and virtue is fit more for the circus than the gentle arts.”

While we could write litanies on each word of such a claim, the Performer himself has responded with a less than expected act - he has challenged S____ to a duel of the Black Ribbon. We need not remind, if only for dramatic effect, that it is a duel to true death, as is common both in the high echelons and in the artistic circles.

S____ has, graciously, accepted, throwing a velvet glove into a well of blue hue.

The duel is to be in a fortnight, and we shall waste no time in bringing you the news of such occasion.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I am so very, very tired.
T. J. W.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear T. J. W.,
There is a strong sense of deja vu.
edited by Frogvarian on 9/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/17/2019
-------------------------------------------- A rather important interview --------------------------------------------




Let us start from the humble beginnings. Canon - what let you to the Neath?

The finer details of my past are a mystery, even to me, but when I take off my irrigo robes off and take the time to dream of sunlight, I can only picture a self-imposed exile born of shame. When you are young, you believe that there are endless possibilities and that all one needed was the willingness to speak their mind and the courage to face the limitless unknown.
Soon, you would find many who share the same beliefs and attitudes, and together would find strength in each other to create a better tomorrow, a tomorrow where the light of reason and freedom never sets. However, as the years went on, you realize that the hierarchy of power never changes, only that the people who compose it do, and that what was once light only lies in darkness.
While there are some on the surface who still see me as a hero, my past actions only bring me grief for all those sacrificed for the empty lie called “liberty” that still haunts the commoners of the Neath to this very day.



Furthermore, what kept you in the Neath?

Originally, to forget, to constantly chase after frivolous pleasures so that one never has to reminiscence about the past. However, as time here is particularly treacherous in the Neath, the past will always catch up to you, so to speak. The same can be said for the Bazaar and the Masters who seek to postpone a reckoning, but I instead have chosen to accept and learn from my mistakes so as to never repeat them again. And unlike before, I plan to win on my terms.




Who do you favour most in ruling the Neath?

No one deserves to rule the Neath, as the Neath has existed far longer than any being here and shall outlast all of us until the day of our respective judgments. Do not take this as support for the Liberation crowd, however, as our current state of tyranny is still leagues better than the madness the Calendar Council wishes to enact upon the universe.

That being said, I favor those who deal in honesty rather than in falsehoods, absolutes, or unkept promises. The Fingerkings can only offer imaginary trinkets, but always demand everything that one possesses (which includes your bodily autonomy); the Masters and the Bazaar promise the world but can never fulfill those bargains well; and the Liberation as a movement do not create, but only destroy.
On the other hand, the determination of Seekers is admirable (if ultimately misguided), the sorrow spiders desire eyes and knowledge (but nothing further), and the Masters are honest about their intentions of running London like a business, whether for good or ill. Every group wants what’s best, but what constitutes as “best” and “for who” can differ even among those with the same loyalties. I suggest you choose carefully.




As a Midnighter, you are a rather important part of the Great Game. What do you think of the game itself?

The Great Game is Life itself, and just like how Life continues after one’s death, so too does the Game. The Game is eternal and encompasses all – the only differences between players are the roles they play and the moves they make. The loyalties they possess and the methods they practice matters little when alliances shift and information is at stake – what was once a bitter foe could be an irreplaceable partner the next day, while machinations planned for years could be overturned by one single betrayal.




Do you engage in more than just the role of rituals?

Those addressed as “Canon” take great care to follow the rituals outlined by St. Joshua by taking confessions, but I am more of an outlier in that I redistribute secrets rather than erase them. Many players of the Game have yet to understand the importance of their roles in the Bazaar’s schemes, and I simply wish to…enlighten them. While some of my colleagues may view this practice as heretical blasphemy, I merely see it as a way to keep the Game moving right on schedule, since games are meant to be played by people, not living tools without greater understanding.




How many have fell under your intrigues?

I do not care to keep count of those I’ve bested or entangled with even if I could remember through the irrigo, as I only look towards the future. All I am willing to say is that the city of London – and perhaps the entirety of the Neath – is my chessboard and all its inhabitants my pieces.




You are one of a few, a Paramount Presence. How does it feel, to sit atop the world?

First, your assumption that I am worthy of praise is incorrect, as I have only gotten as far as I have by following in the footsteps of true legends such as Mr. ____________, master of stories; Ms. _________, who sold her firkin of Hespiridean Cider to own the first Heptagoat in existence; ________, the first to have ventured NORTH.
Second, the world is but a small blip on the vast frontier known as the Far Wilderness, and it is only by conquering the four corners of the universe that one can claim to truly be at the center of things.




What do you see for your own future?

All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
B̨̻̰̤̬͎̘̹͈͘u̢҉̢̢̛̫̰̗̘̲̘͍̭̞̪̺̣̲͕̮͈͍t̸̛̲̰̝̘͇͈̼̼̹̻̬̕͡ ́͏̧̘̪̙̪̬̰̻͍̕͠ͅf̵̶̟̮͔̙͔̼̭̯͈͎͓̦̰o̷̢̪̳͔̣r̷̢͈̥̝̹̼̖͕̻̤̫̘̙̹̦͡ ͞͠͏͠͏̦̠̫̣͙̙̠̩̖̱̟̤̫͖͈͖͚w̷̡͙̜̫͕̬̘̮̘͖͓̳͇̱̹͕̜͞ḩ̵͙̭͔͓̗̬̩̬͔́̕͜o̴̲̺͕͉͚̹͢͢͝ ̶̹̥͙͔̗̩͈̞̦̕͝a͏̡̛̦̭͈̦̩̤̟̻̭̜̗̫̲ͅn̛͡͠҉̰̮͕͓d͝҉̛̣̦̰̞̠̰̞̗͔͙̭ ̸̫͍̮͚͕̰̯̕f̷͏̗͓̪̖͚̭͕̭͍̖̱͓͙̮͍̻̬̲́o̭̤̺̭̙͉̫͍͍͓̫̰̝̝͚̟̣͎͞ͅr̸̼͖̦̥̯̗͖͠ ̨͉̱̩̱̫͎͎̪̀͜w̰̥̪͖̰̲͚̳͍̙̺̙̫̦͘͝h̶͍̥͇̖̪̯̬͎̪̦̯̫̱͕͘͜͝a̵̡̛҉͚͕̜͔̺̱̮͇͉̫͉̰̱̘͎̰͍̦ͅt̶̵̡͕̭̤̭̟̫͍̱͉̠̤̣͇̪̞̬͜ ̘̻̯̲̘̘̯̦̖̘̥̺͖̖̠͞i̶̷̛̱̪͈̮͍̰̼̜̜͟͠ͅs̸̲̝̭̮̦̰̪̲̮̜͍͙̻̳̘̳̻͜͝ͅ ̺͉̙̙̪̠̯̼̲͚̹̦̻͢͜t̺͕̙̯̫̠̙̗̥̖̙̰͍͔̼̦͜͜h҉̟̼͚̼̘̪̝̝̣͇̯̝̜̞̟̹͝e̩͕̟͚̞̼̦͖̰̫͎͟͞ ̢̧̛͢͏̫͈͕̝͖̪̮̪̱͍̞̳̤͔͈̩t̡̛͙͎̺̬͙͈̻͙ͅŗ̸͓̞̭̪͓̮̣̝̭͙̖͘͡ų͏̰̜̟̖̦͎̥̩̟́e͞҉͓̥̟̰̝̘͈͔̼̬̫̜͝ ̛̯̰̙̙̫͚̝͓̠͚́͞͝q̴̧̨̟̺̯͖͎̤̳͕̲̜͡ͅu̸̢̦̠̪̘̺̹̬̩͔̮̙̥͞ͅe̡͉̙͈̙̫̜̻̦̗͘̕̕s̸̰̳̝̳̝͕͍͜͝t̴̶̡̧̖̺͈̫̬̼̯̟͔i̴̶͔̰̫̖̩̼̫͓͈̖͉͉̹͕̺o҉̸̢̻̟̙͖̥͜͟n̢͈̳̣̹̺͎̜͓̱̮̪͔̮͡ͅ.̴̶͕̦̦̬̙̹̘̠̭͙͢͜




A skilled player of the game yourself, you are used to use. How many of your acquaintances have you used for your own purposes?

How many souls do you think are traded daily in the Neath?




Have you ever fallen in love?

We should not talk of such matters here lest you draw the attention of certain meddlesome batty individuals and their crabby employer. Come, I know of a place deep inside the Forgotten Quarter that even they cannot venture…

To answer your question, yes, I am faithfully in love to my wife, for we are both share a mutual understanding to aid each other as equals in intellect, goals, and ability. Many in this city – and perhaps the universe as well – make the mistake of loving something that cannot be attainable, a love that cannot be reciprocated, and never have I ever witnessed it end well for either party.
On the other hand, love is a choice that we all must make in the end lest we lose it like the Rubberies, and I hope that I’ve made the right choice. It is fitting for a priest entrenched in secrets to form an everlasting union with an intriguing woman of faith, is it not? Should she betray me, then that is simply the results of my turn, and the Game continues on, but I love her all the same, keeps me in shape she does. Love is a part of the Game, and all games at some level must be challenging; therefore, there should be nothing more challenging yet adorable as my wife.

Does that answer your question?




Have you ever confessed to another midnighter?

I'd sooner grab the complete set of preserved internal organs on my mantelpiece (of which were ripped from my body personally by Mr Eaten) and hurl them from the highest rooftops of the Flit than ever consider visiting another Canon for confession.
The last time someone suggested I do that, I ripped off their mask and threatened to expose their folly for all of the Neath to see. If you forget your mistakes, you cannot learn; if you cannot learn, you cannot adapt; if you cannot adapt, then it is only a matter of time until you fall.
Midnighters are needed in the Great Game to help guilty agents absolve their sins with irrigo, but like what Mr Fires once told me, a truly strong person must own up to their mistakes and rise above them.




What have you found at the gate?

If you are expecting a cryptic or overly-convoluted tale of self-reflection, madness, and new horizons, I am sorry to disappoint you. I have only ventured to the Gate two times, and each time I have met with the same bleak scenery: the starry surface of the waters around the angels of Gant, the massive wreckage of ships, yachts, and zubs that have passed through, and the dark eyes of the exiled who still wait for the Empress's pardon.

On my first visit, a shipmate of mine known as the Jaunty Cannoneer decided to stay at the Avid Horizon to await judgment for a crime she cannot undo, just like myself. Though I wanted to, I could not stay if it meant condemning the rest of my crew to the frost, as we had camped on an unforgiving lifeberg for a week and rations were non-existent, but I swore that I would come back. And I did, with another traveller returning, a folded knock times 7, and the knowledge that this is the beginning of something better.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/19/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------
Some days can feel empty. There is not always an absence, but there can still be emptiness. The emptiness can be ever present. Persistent. Lasting. Days, weeks, months. It is a dreadful state to be in, truly, yet it is possible to overcome. The void is not eternal, and never has been. Fulfilment can be found in the most unexpected of places. This search, in itself, will last for as long as the emptiness remains.

Emptiness does not mean absence. There are wonders to be found within and despite the void. There is brightness within. It simply has to be dug out. This is hard, work, of course. It does not come easily. It does not come alone. Yet the start is lonely.

There is a certain emptiness within everyone. Do not give up until it is filled.


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

Legacy
by Reinol von Lorica

Captain Whitlock had passed.

I wasn’t as sad as I thought I would be. It was...surprising. I was there when she spoke her last. As much as I wanted to yell, to scream, to shout, to ask why she did what she did...I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make her smile one last time.

We made it back to New Winchester not long after. To this day, I wonder that if I had been a second faster, might had she been able to survive? The doctor said that there wasn’t a chance but still…

The Stationmaster’s visit certainly didn’t help. But his questions helped to clear my mind at least. Made me remember who I was.

I was a zailor once. Just like my mother. And my father, or at least, that’s what she told me about him. She showed me the ropes, taught me how to sail the Zee, manage a crew, hold my grog, and bed the engineer. Useful things at the time, and even more useful now.

I sought fame in the Skies. Just like my father. I know that’s what he did, because I see his name in every book in every library in every settlement that dared call itself a dominion of the Empire. It’s not that I want to be like him. Quite the contrary.

I wish only to surpass and eclipse his name. To carve my own name into history, just like he did. I like to call this payback for what he’s done. To me. To mother.

I’ve been summoned to attend to the matters of our late captain’s will. Other than her passing of the locomotive onto me, it seems she left much more. And for that, I am glad.

17th of May, 1905
Fabian von Lorica


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

Art of Carnelian - Poetry of Khanate, Theater of Tigers

The works of the Carnelian Coast are, for many, exotic still, just like the Coast and the Elder Continent themselves. It is for your convenience that we bring you a short insight into the works of these places, but it is still for you to discover them for yourself. We picked the two most enjoyed forms of art at the Coast, one for each of the residing factions.

The Khaganians are fans of tea side poetry. In their tea shops you can often find a poet, sat among cushions, reciting words of love, joy, wonder, and of hatred, sorrow, loss. The poems are different from those of London. Rather than providing lyrical depth, the poets of Khanate recite epics, stories of heroes told throughout generations. None of these epics have ever been written down, and it is forbidden to do so by their ancient laws. Still, the poetry is beautiful. Truly, nothing matches the feeling of sitting with a cup of tea, listening to the heroics of times gone by, not only from the Neath, but also from the Surface.

The Tigers of the Coast bring another twist to a tried art form. Their main joy is theater, however the theater of tigers is lyrical. The actors play concepts rather than characters. They convey feelings through their performance. They relay what may be rather than what is. Truths are ever only hinted at. These performances, of course, are enjoyed with a hookah. A room filled with smoke, the performers covered in a thick mist of mystery. Their voices boom and echo throughout the hall as they reveal their secrets. This form of theater is truly otherworldly.

Do not be afraid to travel, London. There is much joy in the mystery to be found on the Carnelian Coast. We encourage you to seek art, always.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of fame?
Wodnerer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Wonderer,
Your whole self, and much more down the line. It is the ultimate price.
edited by Frogvarian on 5/19/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/26/2019
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lorine - or may I call you Reinol?


That's Professor von Lorica if you must know, but yes, you may call me that.




Of course, Professor.
You have made quite the reputation for yourself with your writings down here in London. What is your muse, your main source of inspiration that lead you to success?


My muse? Well, I suppose you simply have to look into my roots as a Celestial. The long forgotten memories of the world above, the lost sky, the distant seas, the verdant ever green pastures that are out of our reach- those are what inspired me to write. Though I truly found my muse in sleep. When I close my eyes, I dream. I see that which we lost. I envision the planes behind mirrors, the amber skies of the sleep, the false sun of the dream. When I sit down to write, all I do is close my eyes, and imagine these two worlds in my mind...and the stories that could've been made




It is dreams what inspires you then - are they ever only pure dreams? Artists are known to utilize Prisoner's Honey. Is this a technique you have adopted yourself?


Once in the past, I have relied on honey and wine to make art. Now however...I no longer need them to dream. After all, what is honey but a way to aid those who wish to dream? I have no need of such thing, not anymore.




A truly exquisite talent! Many would give much to be achieve this. Do you, however, consider this dangerous? It is a sweet apple to bite from, though offered by a snake.


It is only dangerous to those who bite more than what they could chew. The lords of the mirror can only do so much after all. Dangerous yes...but then again, isn't everything down here?




Truly, there is little safety in the Neath. It is said that even you began your life down here with a bit of danger. Tell me, if you wouldn't mind, a little more of your reasons for coming here, and reasons for staying.


Let us say I came here for a reason far more different than as to why I stayed. I came here in search of certain fellow who has escaped my grasp. I stayed to carve my name into history.




A noble goal, one many will consider successful. More to your work - it is cherished all over London. Do you have any regrets concerning your position?


That I'm afraid, implies that I hold remorse as to the methods of how I achieved this position. Which I do not, so no, I have none. Though, I suppose I do wish I had more free time on my hands. My work takes me not only to my writing desk, but to my office at my newspaper, the halls of Parliament, and the theatre-rooms of my rivals!




A man of many talents, of course, always suitably busy. I'm sure all of London is as familiar with your papers, London's Reflection, as they are with your other works. Your membership in the Parliament, however, might escape the less politically inclined. Would you mind elucidating your position there to our readers?


Ah, yes, I’m glad to see that my less artistic endeavours are known to the public indeed. As for what I do in Parliament...well, my role isn’t much you see. I merely got there through more simpler means rather than by decades of political experience that my fellows have. I suppose you can call me a simple advisor. I do nothing more that to provide advice and suggestions regarding the new laws that are to be pushed forward.




An advisory position, of course. Still, you must have your own opinions on the going-ons in London in the Neath. Not too get too political, or to stray much to far from the topic of art, I must ask, what are your thoughts on the Masters and the Bazaar?


Why yes indeed, I do have many opinions about the current state of London, but I shall spare you the boredom and simply answer your question, and besides, some things are best held close to your chest. I admit, the way the Masters run London is not something that I can whole heartily support. There are many things worthy of complaint, but I believe that with cooperation and negotiations, that can change. No need for riots and revolutions. Through more peaceful and diplomatic methods, our troubles can be easily resolved. While I can make no comment on the Echo Bazaar, I will say that it is a wonder for our Economy. Anyone, as long as they have the skill, can easily climb the ladder, as most of us have.




Well there's our bit of politics for today, thank you. Back to the art. Our own humble Gazette has been allowed to publish one of your very works. Would you care to tell us something about the work? How it came to be, your feelings towards it?


Ah, that one, yes. Well, let’s just say that’s it’s once again, something I thought of in a dream. I was having a particular fascination with the stars at a time, and so I dreamt of what was beyond. I admit, I do feel that it could be one of my personal favourites. It’s neither great nor classic, but I wrote it for someone else’s sake. And that’s all that matters.




That is what we value most of all; art for the sake of art. The emotion within the piece can be felt upon just a skimming.
What would you consider the best part of your art, Reinol?


The answer is simple. The meaning. The intent. The purpose. For every book I write, for every portrait I paint, for every story I regale, each one has meaning, regardless of the way they are produced. What is art but a way to express our unbidden thoughts and desires? Without meaning, our works are nothing but rubbish scribbled on parchment.



Wise words, so close to home they hit for artists.
Speaking of your various mediums, what is your favourite way to convey your art?


Without a doubt, it is through words and writings. It is how I started my path to notability, and it shall be that way until the end.




One last question - as parting words, what would be your advice for the artists of London, old and new, our dear readers of the Gazette?


Advice...well then. I know that many of London's artists struggle to make their name in this city. Some, because of a dying muse and the deprivation of inspiration, others because they lose themselves to the temptations of wine and honey. My one piece of advice is this: when you find your pen-hand struggling to fill those pages with blessed words, do not use the freedom of honey-dreams or bouts of drunken frenzy to set your muse alight. No. Do as I once did; close your eyes, and dream of something far more better. Walk out of your homes, look to Zee, and think of the shores so far and away, yet so wondrous and magnificent. Set your eyes upon the Roof and envision the forgotten skies. Gaze to the South and imagine the splendors of the Mountain. Look North, and wonder what lies beyond.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+4 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/16/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Remember the past. Learn from it and grow from your mistakes as well as successes.
It is often difficult to face your past. Like meeting a long estranged lover, now merely a probable acquaintance. You recall the times together and try not to talk about the end. You may end up as friends once again. The past is just that. Now is now, times constantly a-changing. Do not be afraid of the past. We all have to deal with our demons, one way or another. Embrace the past. Grow from it. You are better now than you were.


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

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

The next day the boy awoke, packed his book of stories, and ventured back to the clearing. In front of the crow he placed his latest catch, a salmon from the forest river. The crow seemed so small now, its beak was in the height of the boy’s nose.
“I hope you’re not getting weaker because of me,” the boy murmured. He checked the support on the crow’s wing. “It’s healing well,” he said.
The crow ate. The boy sat besides her. He opened his book. The crow’s eyes sparkled at the sight of colourful pictures and beautiful cursive. The boy started to read. He read the crow fables, faerietales, legends and myths of their world. He read of mighty kings and cunning jesters, of humble farmers and brilliant inventors. He read of magic and of the mundane. He read into the evening. As the sun set, he and the crow were huddled together. He read into the night.
As it was time to sleep, the boy turned to the crow.
“I shall stay here. I promise,” the boy said. And it was true.


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

A rather special interview - Canon

Dear readers, we are proud to present to you a rather special news piece. A certain midnighter, who shall remain anonymous, has offered to answer some questions for us. It is a thrilling time for the Gazette. Without further ado, you are welcome to read - you can find the full interview below.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I have made unwise decisions. How does one survive from nothing? I fear I owe far too much.
Indebted
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Indebted,
Such is the nature of business. When you owe to dangerous people, the solution is to be more dangerous than them. It is but a minor setback. Do not be afraid to speak their names. Arrangements can be made.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

6/30/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Home is a nebulous thing. It resides only within the mind, one could argue, even if we connect the word to a place as we so often do. Yet home can stretch to horizons of various sizes. A home can be a town. A home is often a room within a house - or the house itself. A home can be as vast as a country. A home can be the Neath, if one ventures to the surface for a while.

Is a home the place of our origin? The one at which we live now? How many homes can a person truly have?

The qualities of home:
Safety
A warm meal
A lockbox full of secrets.

The romantically inclined so often ascribe the qualities of home to people. I myself am prone to agree; home is where the heart is, as they say.

It is everyone’s hope to have a home, one day. It is my hope that it is what everyone shall have.


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

We present to you works of contemporary modern art from two readers of our Gazette.


A bold piece by Plurnes.
“The L________n of N___t”



A work by an anonymous artist, with a critical analysis of the very Johnattan Hoppskotch.
"SHEEP"



The work “SHEEP” is a deep and meaningful satirical statistical parody on the current state of art, politics, and agriculture.
On the surface level a obvious parodic analogy emerges, the darkness surrounding the sheep represents the darkness of the Neath while the almost brightness of the sheep represents the light of art and journalism; I believe this is why the artist chose a sheep and not a cow or a pig - cows would be hard to draw in the background of the piece and pigs are considered to be a criticism of authority because more wealthy people tend to eat pigs more.
However when the work is studied and carefully observed deeper truths emerge, the style is very similar to that of what First City art is speculated to look like according to my academic associates, and the darkness surrounding it represents the lack of civilization at those times. This leaves us with an even deeper question. What does the sheep represent? I intended to ask the artist only to learn that he is apparently in prison, the Tomb Colonies, dead, and might have not legally existed in the first place.
So in my opinion the piece is meant to be interpreted by the observer as they see fit. Do tell me what you think of its meanings and send monetary incentives to 34 Takepenny Street.
- Johnattan Hoppskotch


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

The Art of Devils - Baroque, Indulgence, Needlework

The devils, an enigmatic presence not liked by all, yet now such an integral part of life down in London. They keep their gates locked to those not at least tolerant of their presence, though, naturally, we have seized an opportunity to explore their artwork in-depth.

Devilish art is as one would expect; it is a thing of grandiose, artwork with make and content of epic proportions. Devils do love their visual art, covering whole walls with them, or even ceilings. The anti-church has to be complimented - their love for such art matches in scale even the grand temples of worship of the Christian church.

An interesting factor of the devilish art are, however, their intriguing tapestries. Woven of the finest sorrow-spider silk, sewn with the most minute of needles, sharp enough to pierce a hair. This art does not lack in grandiosity, though it’s breathtaking factor is in the craftsmanship itself. One’s mind is sure to be enamoured, bewildered, boggled.

We do recommend admiring a devil’s tapestry with a spoon of honey.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What is work if not hell?
Questioning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Questioning,
Joy.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

8/11/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There are times we can feel betrayed by the rational actions of a loved one. We all act in a manner of self-preservation, after all. It is hard to despise decisions which are made in best intentions to the self. We can, however, be hurt. There may even be a good reason for such a thing. We can be confused, and we may not have the answers soon, if ever.

There is care one must put into one’s life. Steps we must take, obstacles we must cross. There is care we should put into the lives of others. That care, sometimes, requires us to hurt. True love means sacrifice, after all.

One should not ponder far too hard of the intricacies of another’s soul, however. Put trust into their betrayal. In many cases there is only ache to be found.

People are not a puzzle to be solved, but a forest to be left to its own devices.


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

The Deal Made On A Comet
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick
Submitted close to 27th of July

The complex was alive with chit-chatter. The clocks began to ring. Odin… Dva… Tri… Chetyre… Pyať... Shesť... Sem’.

The doors opened. The President walked out of them. He overlooked the river that continued past the Kremlin. The ripples succeeded each other.

Dvenadtsať. An old woman gingerly entered the hall. She spoke, with a voice clearer than should be, and an accent that no-one else possessed.

“Whom did you love?”

“My daughter. Olga.”

“I loved my fianceé. He’d got bit by a snake, and this wonderful man- his name was Syd Alshumue. He offered to save my bethroted’s life. Actually, it offered anything, just for the city. I accepted his bargain. Much, much later, (though it felt like a couple of years to me), this merchant was murdered in such a despicable manner.”

“Similar situation with my daughter. She was my firstborn. When the revolutionaries began to riot, they threatened to shoot her if I did not back down. A man by the name of Gospodin Stranitsy offered to protect her, at the price of the city. ...he gave his word, but unsuccessfully. She was killed eight years after the bargain.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Frightened. Confused. Doomed. But mostly, I felt a primaeval rage. When my fifth-born, Alexei, was acting up again, I killed him. Not out of a personal rage for him, but out of an anger and a hunger to avenge her.”

“That’s the thing about these merchants. In their intrigues, in their deepest matters… look to love. Always.”

Odin Kormovy, the clock struck. The woman left, leaving the czar alone. The river rippled. Perhaps, when Halley’s Comet came again, the pain would be over. Perhaps he would live to see the day it did. The woman, he saw, was tired. Tired of the pain, of the Neath. But lastly, tired of life, and it’s miseries.

“Always.”

Then he remembered. There had been inhabitants of the Neath a’fore he. Paris had become Moscow. The adobe labourers. London as well. Karakorum. Hopelchen. Amarna. Another city. But most of all, these Maîtres du bazar. They had been there. They had seen the suffering, the grief, and the torture. And what had they done?

“...look to love.”

And with that, his business continued.


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

Summer’s Heatwave Comes - Londoners Not Safe From Collapsing Even In The Neath!

It is a great shock to us to see the seemingly impossible come true - the yearly summer heatwave of England had reached even the Neath! In a span of just a few days, the temperatures have gone from mild, to only bearable, to rather uncomfortable. There were even several corset-clad gentlepersons who could not withstand this sudden shift, and have collapsed on the very streets of London (or, in some cases, coffee shops, art shops, and so forth)!

The origin of this heat is, so far, unknown. Leading theories propose Mr Fires’s meddling with the furnaces, or perhaps the Devils truly bringing Hell forth. Either way, we advise you hide in a gentle breeze or sip a refreshing glass of cold milk as we await for the heatwave to pass.

Stay cool, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! How to have such, all the time?
Rupert

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Rupert,
Why, that is a solidly good question. Perhaps, engagement.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

8/19/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I have thought far too long about many of my predicaments. There is danger in getting locked in one’s own mind for such lengths of time. I have never been one to go into a battle unprepared, no, though I am afraid I have been preparing alone for a job for several. I am afraid I have let emotions take too strong a hold of me.

I fear I have little positive to say today, dear London. I have been fighting with myself for too long. Tugging and pushing and pulling in all the wrong directions. Overthought my place into paranoia; all that’s left is a straight jacket to match my inane grin.

So many things come down to the relations we create. Any good spy will tell you that the most valuable asset one can have is a contact. A friend, perhaps. Never make friends with spies. People are so unfortunately complex. Like clockwork that reconnects its gears whenever it feels like it.

Some battles are to be fought with compliance.

My only hope is that there is still warmth to be salvaged.


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

Excerpts from Parabola
by Kimberlea Heili
More works to be seen.




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

Myth Or A Gruesome Reminder – The Tale Of The Drowning Dutchman

Today we commemorate a special legend in the hearts of zailors. Today, the ̷̵̶͠8̡͢͢͝҉8̶̴̸͘th anniversary of a zhip known as The Drowning Dutchman being lost at zee. Captained by one F_________, the Dutchman was a vessel of great renown. With a skilled and loyal crew, a smart and brave captain, surely the fastest in all of Neath, it was a true naval jewel. It had discovered many a treasure and secret, mapped much of the Neath, and brought glory to London.

It is sad to say that its tale does not end well. During what was to become its last and most infamous voyage, the Dutchman was caught in a Storm, much greater than it had survived ever before. This was, indeed, the last we have heard of it – none of the crew had made it out alive to tell the tale.
Still, legends persist. Reports and rumours of a ghostly zhip have spread through the ranks of zailors. Crew with hollow eyes, a captain with no soul. A vessel followed by mist and storm. All shall fear this vessel, they say, as all should, and never to follow, but turn ‘round and flee at first sight.

Such are the tales of the Dutchman, if one is to believe the tales, of course. Though much bizarre is to be found within the Neath, a healthy dose of skepticism never hurts.
However, be the tales truth or tosh, they serve as a reminder to all zailors, a reminder that it is not wise to challenge the Neath’s treacherous waters, and especially its Storms. It is a reminder for all that nature is not to be meddled with.

It is a reminder to us, dear London, that a good story persists.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Why, why, why, when, why, how?
Madma

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Madma,
I am afraid we are alone in such ponders.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

8/26/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

One important thing to note is that our actions have consequences. It seems logical in hindsight, always, yet it is important to keep in mind. That is not to discourage from any singular action. Perhaps it is only a reminder to be prepared for what is to come.

Consequences may be positive as well as negative. Such a distinction is, of course, subjective from each point of view. To be considered by each individual. Neutrality, however, is not a matter of consequence. It is the default state, a change of nothing. Not worthy to be spoken about at length.

Neither should we give attention to positive consequences. It is not that they do not matter, rather that none would dispute them. Subjectivity aside, of course, the assumption being of net good.

That leaves us with the consequences negative. One should always be aware of these. Prepared for the sword to strike, so to speak. They can have many impacts; the worst of which is, arguably, the emotional one. We rarely allow ourselves to think that something will come out of our behaviour. We coddle ourselves into a false sense of security. It is important to stay sharp!

What, then, is one to do when the pain comes knocking? Only hold your head high and prepare further. A life on the lamb is better than a life of regret.

Everything is wonderful, dear London.


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

A Dawn of Something New
by Reinol von Lorica

“I know it may come off as a shock to you.” The Dark Spectacled Admiral demurs. “But I’m afraid that it is the single, unquestionable truth. Your room at the Blind Helmsman has already been prepared. I bid you a good evening.”

A firm hand grasped on his shoulder as the Brusque Secretary promptly steered her away from the desk.

She quickly found herself shoved into the main workplace of the Admiralty Survey Office. Men and women in the blues of the Navy ambled about, someone seated at desks filing reports while others walked in and out, bearing recent news of ships. Occasionally, a zee-captain would stumble in, and make their way to give out reports of ports across the Underzee…

“Try not to think too much of what happened, Miss Delamere.” The Dark Spectacled Admiral says his voice still audible from halfway across the room. “Some things are just strange down here. Especially that far out North.”
With those finishing words, she found herself thrust out in the foggy streets of Fallen London.

-----

The Blind Helmsman was an inn.

Run by a blind helmsman.

“Carried away by spiders.” He said with a chuckle when she first asked him about the matter. She wisely chose to abandon the subject shortly thereafter.

Her room was frugal, and smelled of stale beer and honey, and it was to no surprise that she spent most of her time away from that place. Besides, the Blind Helmsman was hardly a good place for company, unless you were a zailor.

Nowadays, she spent most of her time wandering the streets of Fallen London, though she limited herself to Wolfstack Docks.

Not that she minded of course. Wolfstack was a fascinating place, a thousand ships a day, or so they say, make their way in and out of the port, to old far off places she only knew by name.

If she was lucky, then she sometimes found herself listening to the boasted tales of zailors returning from months spent out at Zee.

Though today, she had a different purpose.

The Admiral was kind enough to provide her with a respectable amount of ‘Echoes’, that was, Fallen London’s currency, that should be able to last three weeks at the very least.

That meant she had three weeks to find a job before she got kicked out of the Blind Helmsman, and though she never really liked the place, it still served as the closest thing she had as a home down here.

She sighed, taking her place on a nearby bench. How did she get here? Briefly, she recalls what the Admiral had told her regarding her past.

Or perhaps, her lack of one.

Simply put, there was nothing at all. Not even a sliver of her name or appearance had ever been seen in London. Not that mattered, considering where she was found...

The creaking of the bench as a weight came upon it interrupted her thoughts.

A gentleman dressed in black had chosen to sit next to her. She noted his appearance; a smooth pale face, auburn hair, green and orange eyes, spectacles, a dark three piece suit, and a fedora with several small mirrors attached to it. He seemed to be a respectable, if rather grim sort of person.

“The Admiral told me I’d find you here.”

She couldn’t help but flinch at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t cold, but it certainly was emotionless. He gazes at her impassively as ge turns to face her completely. She squirmed under his stare, for she could feel nothing from him.

“I am the captain of the ship that rescued you.” He says in the same, monotonous voice. “We were on an expedition on Irem of the Pillared Sea when a Riddlefisher led me to you. You were asleep, on a bed of roses. Almost angelic I might add.”

She looked at him in slight confusion and wonder. This was the man who found her? The words he said were already known. The admiral had briefed her about this. Still, it was always odd to hear them, especially considering she had no idea what half of them meant.

The captain tilts his head curiously towards her. “Now you look just like your everyday Londoner...not very angelic if you ask me.”

He leans back on his seat before stretching out a gloved hand. “Professor Reinol von Lorica.”

For a while, she simply stared at the gloved appendage. She wonders who this person really was, and why he even bothered coming to her. To meet her? Though she knew she shouldn’t be too surprised. If what he said was true, then he would be most curious about a girl who was asleep on a bed of roses.

Almost hesitantly, she grabbed his hand with her own. She didn’t exactly trust him, but he was the closest person she could, save for maybe the Dark Spectacled Admiral.

“Evensong Delamere.”

Reinol lets go of her hand and stands up, before gesturing her to follow him with an emerald topped silver came. “You live in the Blind Helmsman, yes? I won’t be having that.”

She blinks, unsure how to react. Unrepelled, Reinol speaks on. “Come with me Miss Delamere. London is a strange and dangerous place.” She could’ve sworn there was a glint in his eye as he spoke his next few words.

“You’ll never survive without my help. So do yourself a favour and say yes. I hate repeating myself.”

Evensong Delamere didn’t know why she suddenly trusted this man. If anything, she should stand, and scream for help. But instead, she finds herself looking back at him. There was something compelling her to accept. Something that she couldn’t explain at all. Was this fate?

Then, without a word, Reinol turns and leaves.

And Evensong followed.


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

Wonders Of False Summer - The Fruits of the Zee Festival

The time has come once again, dear London; the Fruits of the Zee festival is here! Ferries to and fro Mutton Island leave every half an hour from Wolfstack Docks. Imbibe the scenery, take a boat for a relaxing rowing trip, enjoy mingling with the locals, perhaps try fishing!

Not a perfect holiday resort, certainly, Mutton Island is still fabled all around London, for worse or for better. The famous Rubbery Lumps originate here, a wonder of Neath’s cuisine. Drownies, who inhabit many nooks and crannies of the island, deliver the mystery meat for these lumps to the locals for preparation.

Lord Mayor Virginia is, of course, present and enjoying the festival herself. Word has it that Mariam Plenty, a Mutton Island local, was forbidden from attending. She has many contacts and supporters on the Island, and while she has not been yet spotted, the truth of this claim is still up in the air.

The empty chair, it seems, is not present this year.

Nonetheless, we encourage you, dear London, to go out and catch yourself a juicy one!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I only wish there was noone left to mourn for me.
Tired

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Tired,
This too shall pass.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

9/1/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Revel
by R. J. Frogvarian

"The revel, the revel!" the crier cried. All around wine and spirits flowed. "Join the jolly jesters!"

High echelons and low gutters do not mix so well. The upright worker looks down upon the displeased lady. Who's in the wrong? It is any one's judgement to say? The intricacies of a bond are not up to an onlooker to decide or decipher. Fueled by the intoxicating brew the pair sit arm in arm, an arm’s length apart. What blessed togetherness.

The two leave together. The bark seems worse than the bite. Through the darkened streets there is only silence. Neither is eager to admit a wrongdoing. As the silence grows unbearable, their humble abode makes its appearance. Glances are exchanged and words forgotten. Actions speak louder, after all.

Such sweet actions they are, under the sheets and around the limbs. The two are now one, as poets oft like to remind us. They diverge with bliss. Two again, in each others’ arms. Silent words are exchanged only now, at last ready to break free what was unwanted back then.

Though this might be only in the onlooker’s mind.
There is hope for happiness.
One would rather disappear than have to face the reality of living.


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

In The Shadows
by Samuel James

Jules was right about the dark, that people should be scared of it, that all manners of evil lurk around in the shadows once the sun goes down. He tells them to get inside their homes, lock their doors and windows and close the curtains until the sun comes back up, because there's things out there in the dark that want to harm others.

But no one listens to him.

Nobody takes him seriously.

They all just write him off as an insane old man who's gone crazy of old age, they say 'yes old Jules, we'll do as you say' but then ignore his advice. They think he's just a crazy old man. Just another crazy old man who has gone crazy of old age and solitude.

But he was right.

He was always right.

He's seen things in the shadows at night. Things with red eyes, red eyes no normal human can possibly have. He's seen things with teeth sharper than any teeth he's ever seen in all his years he's spent on this planet. He's seen things most other people brush off and try their best to ignore.

But he knows he's seen them.

He's looking at one of them right now.

Old Jules is looking at a man, a young man with bloodied hands and nails too long and sharp to be those of a human. Nails that are claws. Claws that just tore another man to bloody ribbons of flesh and fabric. The young man is staring at Jules with eyes as black as coal. Eyes that stared right at Jules and are making the old man back away from the scene he just walked into.

But the young man won't let him go.

No.

Not after what Jules has seen.

The young man takes a step towards Jules, snarling like a vicious dog and baring his too sharp teeth at poor Jules. All Jules can do is back away, back away from the demon slowly closing in on him, bloodied claws twitching. Itching to dig themselves into more flesh tonight, to tear another soul from its body.

Jules knows he won't make it out alive. He knows they'll find his torn-up corpse in the morning, that there won't be much of him left to bury, that they might not even recognize him once he's been reduced to strips of meat and fabric.

Jules says one final prayer.

One final prayer as the demon closes in on him, raising a clawed hand high above his head and bringing it down in one swift blur of dark red. Jules doesn't even let out a scream when the talons tear through him. All that can be heard is his body hitting the paved ground and animalistic snarls as the fiend descends upon poor old Jules.

The first one to discover the remains of Jules and the unknown man is a young woman who will never forget the bloody scene. A woman who now firmly believes that there's something out there in the dark, because she has seen what happens to people who go out in the dark.

Nobody will believe poor young Hazel.

Nobody will believe her about the things that lurk in the dark.

Nobody believes in things skulking around in the dark.

That's why they go unchecked.

That's why nobody ever catches them.

That's why they're free to take as many lives as they please.

Because no one believes in them.


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

The Drownie Troupe - London’s First All-Drownie Theater Group Makes Its Debut

In the marshes of our fair city, secrets swim and gurgle. The Drownies lie in wait just below the surface, just behind the zailor’s fears. A new Drownie troupe named The Marsh-Mired, however, lies in wait for you to buy tickets to their debut performance!

The troupe has made its venue on the Thames, with the stage just below the surface, water up to their knees. The audience seats are both on and off-shore, accompanied with chains to secure yourself once the actors start singing; a truly admirable dedication to art and safety.

We had the pleasure to see one of their performances, a play full of sorrow and love and death. Not one eye was left dry. The actors were truly wonderful, full of emotion, their songs mesmerizing (and the chains truly secure!). Despite the water they waded in - or, perhaps, thanks to it - they moved effortlessly, as if floating. Combined with the early morning mist, the spectacle was rather ominously charming.

We encourage you, dear London, to give The Marsh-Mired a chance. Tickets on sale now!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh how damnably myself I am.
Lazy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Lazy,
It is hard to forget one’s roots.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

1/19/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


What is art? What is art to you, fellow Londoners? A song, heard at the opera? A canvas, splattered with paint in a pattern recognisable to beings of sapience? A book, read under a duvet for fear of being discovered? All of those, and more - and most of all, art is nothing without those who consume it. Such as we would be nothing without you, dear readers. For what is more of an art than a community coming together to celebrate the works of its individuals, revel in their creativity, indulge in artistry.

I am, at last, proud to present to you The Goosey Gazette! The finest purveyor of artistic integrity in the Neath!
Kindly yours,
R.


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

Letters From The Surface, Part I
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I awoke, the morning after one of Mr Wines' revels. Thoughts soared through my head. Gant... Wells... Zee...

I heard a knocking at the door of my Orphanage/Townhouse. A letter? Addressed to: Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick, Orphanage at Fiacre's Foot. Well, it is for me, but my orphanage is on Childcake Street.

I opened the letter:

"Wensley,
You may not escape what you have done. I know where you are.
I know why you are there. I will meet you at the junction of
Takepenny Street and Bad Monkey Row, at Midnight.
We must discuss the plans you have. If you do not turn up, the
Constabulary will know everything you did on the surface.
x"

Oh. Him.

Watchful is increasing...
Shadowy is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
Nightmares is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" quality is now 1!



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

Mycologenes - a rousing star or a fading affair?

The recent Blemmigan fad brought with itself more than just streets filled with beakless fungi. The Mycologenes, as these secretive poets have become known, are the admirers of the Blemmigan-inspired poetry known to be talked about only under one’s breath and recited only in the back rooms of the most scandalous establishments.
Reading through the works of the Blemmigan Poets, one finds themselves asking:
How long before the frail heart of London accepts these great works? (And, immediately after finishing a poem - where is the nearest pair of stockings?)
Well, dear readers, we of The Goosey Gazette believe in progress! We believe in openness! We believe that art, no matter its form, should never be hidden in the seedy backrooms of Mr Apples’ parlours! For this reason, for the first time ever, the next edition of our humble paper will include a poem penned by an anonymous Blemmigan Poet!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
have you ever zailed? What do you say of the beauty of the zee?
K.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear K,
I have had many a journey on the zee in my time (and many a zailor). The vast beauty of the cruel waves. Stone, Storm, Salt. It is not a safe place, it is not always tranquil, but the zee is like love should be - unpredictable, lethal, oh so irresistible, and absolutely unconquerable.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

1/27/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


If there is one thing we strive for here at the Gazette, it is consistency. It is integrity. We want our readers to know they can rely on us, trust us. We do not want to be just another pawn of the Ministry, or a fading nub on the metaphorical Rubbery of the journalism industry. We want to make our mark on the world by bringing the artists of the Neath together.
For this reason, no artist shall be excluded, and for this reason, as promised last week, we are bringing to you a poem from a Blemmigan-inspired poet. For this reason as well, this edition took a day longer to publish, as the poet insisted on utmost secrecy - and, let me tell you, dear readers, blindfolded meetings at a musty basement of a Spite brothel are the peak of secrecy.
However, I ask you not to panic, dear readers! As the word spreads and the community becomes tighter, the Ministry shall not pursue us anymore! The Society shall not hound us anymore! There will. Be. Freedom. For the Arts!

Kindly yours,
R.


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

Letters From The Surface, Part II
More Postage
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

That night, I trudged over to the junction of Bad Monkey and Takepenny. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, so I watched spies running like maniacs, under orders of players.

The mailman saw me, again, and brought me a second letter. I would read it once I got back to my Townhouse.

I waited. And waited. A hunger broke, but I waited still. A silhouette approached myself, and I felt a fear.

"Come on, you know I bite less than you."

Shadowy is increasing...
Austere is increasing...
Steadfast is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" Quality is now 2!



Again
by an Anonymous Blemmigan-inspired Poet

Streets lit by candles, together
We tread, breath laced with wine
But drunk from each other,
Your bed we soon find.

Our thighs so plump with want,
Arms yearningly entwined,
Lustily I drink your taste part
of you now in me inscribed.

“Oh, lover, ah,” your name on my lips, a moan,
We are a spectacle for the audience of us,
In a private performance our bodies we join.

Secret wish, can these moments never pass?
An eruption, Aphrodite rising from foam,
Our breaths still together as we draw our last,

And prepare for the second act.


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

Tristam Bagley’s unfinished masterpiece - a brief review of The Bell and the Candle

Not too long ago, one of our reporters was present at the Empress’ Court during the premier of one Tristam Bagley’s forgotten opera, The Bell and the Candle, revitalized years since cancellation. Our reporter has at last recovered from the experience; they gained back the control of their left eye and the spontaneous fires on and around their body have ceased. Another of our reporters has interviewed them and compiled their thoughts on the play into this brief review.

The Bell and the Candle is unlike any other piece previously seen, at least within the Earthly sphere. Incredibly tantalizing, joyfully titillating, and infinitely erotic, the play is sure to provoke deep thoughts as well as metaphorical (and literal) fires in your heart.
Reportedly, the metaphorical fires are rekindled with unforeseen passion; our own reporter has found themselves among no less than six barely-clad aristocrats with red cheeks (and not only).
The music truly shakes your whole being. Despite the peculiar choice of instruments, mostly glass and bone, the sounds of strings and drums echo within your being for days after. The two leads, titular Bell and Candle, performed magnificently. Their voices were strong and sure, and, despite the serious blood loss, they have performed to the very last tone.

The seven hundred and seventy seven members of the orchestra, as well as the cast, are making swift recoveries, hopefully returning to their homes by the end of the next year.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I am gazing into eyes I shouldn’t gaze into. Eyes behind cosmogone glasses. They may not be strictly forbidden, but I know there will be a painful end. What should I do?
Please, answer.
F
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear F,
Life is to be enjoyed, and love doubly so. Don’t run away from happiness now only because it may not be there later. In the long run, the happiness will outweigh its lack. Follow your heart, whatever path it may lead you down to. However, beware of the secrets these eyes may know. Secrets behind mirrors are dangerous ones, and those eyes may be the lights of guidance or of misleading.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

2/17/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


Ode to your Bosom
By R. J. Frogvarian

As you hold me close
To the source of your love
That evokes in me prose
Unknown, before, in woe.

Those precious mountains!
My tongue encircles the peaks,
Your breath slightly falters,
Smiles across our cheeks.

Now we lay together bare of clothing,
bare of restraints on the soul,
the mind, the shame, nothing,
nothing stopping two halves wanting to be whole.

And nevermind those only looking down on our love,
And on those who, as we, dare love.


------------------------------------Art of London ------------------------------------
The Sixth City
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Paris, 1908.
A cloaked figure approaches the Monarch.
The Monarch asks what the figure's business is.
The figure speaks.
It says it wishes to buy the city.
The Monarch gives off a hearty laugh.
The Monarch, once again, asks the figure's business.
The figure introduces itself as Mr Wines.
Mr Wines repeats its statement.
The Monarch appears confused.
Mr Wines offers the Monarch anything they want.
The Monarch considers.
A man appears, scarred from a fight.
He holds a gun.
Mr Wines is unfazed.
The man shoots.
It is a direct hit.
The Monarch looks to be angered.
The man puts on a cloak himself, then offers the same bargain.
Five days later, on February 14, Paris falls underground, coating London in so-called snow.
A Sixth City has come.


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

The Duchess - a victim of love?

Mystery surrounds this lady of cats. Who is she, really? What secrets can one so close to cats learn? What lurks in the basements of the palace? However! One question, more than the others, and true of all those in the Neath - why here?
We, dear readers, are convinced we have an answer to this mystery! We believe - it is for love!
Our sources speak of a man in the Duchess’ past. One she was willing to sacrifice much for, though, in the end, ended up having to sacrifice much more than planned. As it is with many rulers, of course. This decision cost them both much, and brought forth a great evil. Still, she remains faithful and committed.
Our own Empress is said to have made a deal. And, truly, who is to blame one for love?


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What is a good way to make friends?

Aeo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Aeo
It never hurts to have honey on yourself. Dreams are the way to go! Mind not the vulgar Ministry that forbids our precious dreaming. It is a time without darkness, and the Marches are welcoming to small picnics with those you love and admire.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

10/27/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

My arrival to the Neath was just before Hallowmas. How many years ago now I cannot recall. Treacherous time. It is a charming tradition, that of secrecy. Masks, confessions, revelry the likes of which the surface could only ever dream of. All endorsed, of course. All par for the course.

Traditions are to be upheld, to the extent of one’s want and like at least. In keeping with such, here’s a confession for you from yours truly, dear London.

I despise my predicament. Not a day passes when I am not filled with anger and anguish at the position my love had wrought. To see one you respect indulge in such self-destruction… it can drive a person mad, truly so.

This Hallowmas is the beginning of the end. Another candle for the count. Everything has been prepared. I made sure of that. Only the necessities, of course. There is no longer a need for careful protection. A gentle flower has thorns. Thorns turn into barbed wire, coiled around a being. The being, under the protection of its own deformity, plunges through crowds towards a singular goal. Certain destruction.

I have made more than just simple preparations, of course. Double the pain. I shall accompany dear Rebeka. I shall not be allowed to cross the gates.

All shall be Well.


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

What we can wish for
by Wilbur

Once upon a time, there lived a starfish who wanted to become a star. It spent its days in the ocean and, at night, came to the surface to watch the stars, dreaming of being among them.

One night, as the starfish rose above the waters, the moon was big and blue, and so close the starfish thought it could reach out and touch it. After a while of silence, the starfish sighed.
„Oh, if only I could be a star…“
The blue moon turned to the starfish.
„You wish to be a star?“ it asked.
„Oh, yes, very much,“ the starfish replied.
„You already are like a star, I think. You spend your days hidden and come out at night, as if to accompany me,“ the moon said.
This made the starfish happy, but it still wasn’t enough. It wanted to shine as bright as the stars above.
„But, can I be a real star?“ it asked.
„No… I’m not sure,“ the moon sadly replied.

For many nights thereafter the blue moon remained, keeping the starfish company. They emerged together at dusk, talked through to dawn, and watched the stars together, though the starfish still wished it could be one of them.
One night, one of the stars themselves came down to the surface of the ocean. Its light turned night to day. It spoke to the starfish.
„You want to be one of us?“ it asked.
„Yes!“ the starfish replied with a glimmer of hope, „Yes, more than anything in the world!“
The star smiled. „You already are a star inside. You are only so gloomy and cloudy, you do not let your shine come out. You do not need any glimmers or sparks. You only need to let your brightness out and be happy.“

The star faded back into the sky, and the starfish remained hopeful. It continued wishing to be a star. It tried to make its shell as bright as it could be and came up every night to gaze at the stars.
However, as time went on, it realized it liked being itself. It liked the warm sun during the day. It liked the water. It liked to converse with the moon throughout the starry nights. It did not make it want to be a star any less, but it calmed it down, made it happy with its life.

One night, as the starfish talked to the moon, it did not come up to gaze at the stars. It came up for its own happiness.
As this realization came over the starfish, its body started shining, bright as a real star. It floated up above the ocean waters and, just as the stars could come down, it rose to the sky.

And became one of them.


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

Hallowmas - The Season Of Fog, Masques, Confessions

Hallowmas! Oh, the fog that hides spirits past, present, future. The time has come to don your masks, dear London, and attend one (or all) of the many balls and parades organized around our fair city. Disguise yourself, and confess your regrets.

This year, Attendants roam the streets. Convoys of the Bazaar, they are here to unburden us of our woes, listen to our sins, uphold ancient promises. Seven of them appeared, early in the morning brought out to the pyres, emerged only as bearers of their mask. Let the Fool judge you.

The Masques, of course, balls of extravagance. St Dustan’s, of the Devil Mask. Pavilion of Butterflies, of the Moth Mask. Wreck of St Elmo, of the Crown Mask. In compliance with the spirit of Hallowmas, attend these balls. Don your masks. Speak to the Fool of your tragedies.

With keeping with the traditions of Hallowmas, we at The Goosey Gazette have decided to publish (anonymous) confessions of you, our faithful readers, our dear Londoners. Find this week’s confessions on pages 7҉̷̶̶-҉̢8̵̴̀̕.

So, dear London, as the night is dark, as blood is red, as our hearts flutter at clandestine meetings by the Hallowmas candles,

enjoy yourself, dear London.


--------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------

I need to tell someone. My guilt is too much to bear.
I have killed so many - the captain, the games operatives, I failed to save my beloved Constable. I have written a newspaper in her name. I have got rid of Jack but still the shame remians. I left the orphanage, a damned place of hell I left it. I should have put it to flames but I couldn't bear to hear the screams. I was weak. I had seen too much death to see more. Whenever I have nightmares I see the faces of those I have killed. Those I have failed. Its too much to bear.
- Old Man

I still have it, A WORD BROKEN uttered from the mouth of a king turned beggar, and I will not share. The agents and Constables may try to take this knowledge for themselves, but only those who walk in the Courier's Footprints will truly appreciate the beauty of this Correspondence.
- Masked Midnighter

Submit your own delicious confessions to us for publishing until the end week of Hallowmas.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it so, that perhaps not all doom is justified?
Ponder

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Ponder,
By many merits, it never could justified.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/26/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Sins spread through generations. The sins of our forefathers haunt us to this day. The sins of our offspring bring shame to our graves. What was it all for when the children forsake their parents? What is it for when the parents neglect their children? Hate breeds hate, even through time. Pain brings only more pain. There must be care for the world. Firstmost, care for your kin, as often your kin is the closest of the world. Have respect for those who are dead, care for those who are alive.

Is it wrong to, in kindness, bring pain? To aid in folly? Self-destruction? Mayhaps. Is it folly in itself to cajole one out of harm's way? Or to join?

Be wary of your actions. Do not bring unnecessary pain. Strive to do good.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XIV
Vital Information
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

It was two weeks after that, when something new happened. I had been accustomed to prison life at this point, but I learned that one of the Cheery Man's goons was in prison. Figures.

We met at mid-day to trade information. When I mentioned my adversary, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

"What happened?"

"I am trying to steal a diamond. He thought this was out of spi-"

"THE diamond?"

"Yes."

"Guess you should be glad you aren't on Mr Fires' bad side."

"How do you know that?"

"If you were, you'd be dead. The Orphanage burned down two days ago."

Watchful is increasing...
Shadowy has increased to 150- Shrouded in Shadows!
An Occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" Quality is now 14!
An Occurrence! Your "Remembering the Orphanage" Quality is now 1-Haunted by Flames!
Your "Counting the Days" Quality has gone!



Starless
by Rowley Ruskin

In this place that is two places, the sea embraces the sky. Beyond the gate you see the infinite night and feel the cold wind of the High Wilderness upon your face. The sky has opened to you.

You allow the Flukes to enter first. That is their right. Their tendrils are restless as they rise. The water crackles with heat. There is a song in the air. A song that threatens to burn. HOME. They sing their wordless chorus. HOME. Their voice shines brighter than the stars. HOME. And then, in a tone that can almost be described as gentle: OUR GRATITUDE.

You watch them disappear into the night. The Neath grows darker in their absence. Your crew breathes a collective sigh of relief as the energies of the Correspondence quiet. Their anxiety disappears with the Flukes. They do not understand.

"Captain." Your navigator remains restless. "Consider the price."

You look to the impossible vastness of the heavens, threatening to consume you whole. "A small price, all things considered."

You give the signal. The sound of the engines is impossibly quiet after the Flukes' song. Together, you take to the sky and claim your place among the starless nights.



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

An interview with a celebrated artist

It is my pleasure, dear readers, to present you with a wonderful and rare opportunity. It is so that our own humble Gazette was a guest of a great contemporary artist of London, one who has already written classics. We were blessed by their presence not only last week, as they have presented us with a story, but also today, as they agreed to a rare interview.

Without further ado, on the centre-page spread, Professor Reinol von Lorica.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I would love to meet again.
Rayn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Rayn,
Meet me in the depths.
edited by Frogvarian on 5/26/2019
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

9/15/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Perhaps I am prepared to face my demons. There are only a few, after all, however haunting and powerful they may be. Or perhaps it is I that is the weak one.

I have concocted a plan. I’m still content with my purpose, of course. Such things are not to be forgotten, thrown away like a paper ball. Yes, my purpose still stands. However, it does not have to stand in the same way. It can be nudged, adjusted, rebuilt, even. The purpose does not have to manifest the same all the time.

There is Violant, there is Irrigo, there is the Correspondence. Powerful tools, if one knows how to use them well. I cannot act in haste, of course. Such things take time. Bit by bit.

Rebeka has been whiling away her days. The scars on her body make me shiver. She seldom smiles in a pleasant way nowadays. The well, the well, the well, it calls to her. The contract is clear, still burned into my mind.

I shall have to accompany her, yes. Afterwards, however, there can be freedom.


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

Journal of a Dead Man
by Samuel James

'It couldn't have been an animal, this happened in the middle of a city'

'Then what else could have done that? It couldn't have been a human'

'I don't know, but it couldn't have been an animal either'

'Don't be ridiculous, it was some madman who did this'

'Then why do the corpses look like they were torn up by mountain lions?'

'I don't know, he probably used metal claws or something'

'Metal claws, yeah sure'

The onlookers talked among themselves as police removed whatever was left of the bodies of old Jules and the young factory worker Henry, it took them some time to identify the remains due to the state they were in. There wasn't a whole lot left of either of them in the first place.

At least their respective families will save up on funeral costs somewhat since they'll be able to just bury them in soup cans.

But that didn't make it any easier for their relatives.

Jules' death hit his granddaughter Lacey the hardest. She loved the old man, she was fascinated by the stories he told her when she was a child, much to her father's dismay who hated how his father filled his daughter's head with wild fantasies of monsters and all manners of creepy and terrifying creatures stalking the darkness.

And that's exactly what got Lacey thinking on what it could have been that tore Jules to pieces like that.

It wasn't a human or animal.

But rather one of the creatures Jules has been talking about his whole life.

'Don't tell me you believe in this nonsense as well' Lacey's childhood friend Liz said to her.

'It's not nonsense, when you think about it for a second or two, it makes perfect sense' Lacey said as she thumbed through Jules' journal, looking for any mentions of demons or anything else that might be up and about at night.
Liz rolled her eyes at her friend, 'that's how they always start, grandmother says Jules started out the same way, at first he said the monsters made perfect sense and then he descended into mad rambling and raving about demons, ghosts, vampires and all kinds of other creatures'

Lacey ignored her friend's words as she kept looking through Jules' diary, finding mentions here and there about something stalking the streets of Warumsgrad at night, but he didn't go into detail about what it could have been.

With a sigh Lacey closed the journal and placed it on the small table next to the recliner, 'I wonder where he got all of this information from' she muttered to herself moments later and looked at Liz, who only gave a shrug in return.

'I don't know, other old crazy people? Maybe he found some occult book? Uh he heard those stories in a bar full of superstitious people?' Liz rattled off some options on where Jules could have heard about the creatures, all of them met with a slow shake of Lacey's head.

'We'll just have to do some digging on our own' Lacey said and got up from the recliner, smoothing out her skirt and looking back at Liz, 'and I think I know where we should start'

Liz let out a sigh and got up as well, 'the crazy drunk who's been yelling at bushes in the park?'

'No' Lacey said and shot her friend a dirty look, 'I mean Jules' room, he's been hiding something there from me and my father, so I figured that would be the best place to start'



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

A Week Of Uneventfulness Impair This Report Does Not

It is with regret that we have to say - there are no news this week.

No news of art, certainly, perhaps none at all. All is quiet in the Neath, or, as quiet as can be. Rats bicker, bats flutter and chirp, cats sit their silent vigil of secret keepers. Even Jack has not shown his smile. Dames and lads walk, arm in arm, at a casual speed, as this is the week to do so. A gentle calm spreads around the streets of London.

On these blessed days, there is nothing exciting, not even a bit to report on - perhaps, of course, apart from the nothing itself.

Despair not, though, dear London! Despite such sloth all around, this reporter has hope, the hope of another week! Yes, as the Earth moves through the vastness of cosmos, a new day shall arrive, a new week. The calm will lift, yes it may seem sad but it is fortune that brings us the end of it. There are only so many days of rest one can use, London. Soon we will be thrust into another bout of happenings, hunted by boredom only to escape its grasp so expertly that you will look back on this week and think, have I ever truly enjoyed the calm?

Enjoy it you may, can, and should, dear London. This reporter will humbly see you next week.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I who I thought I was?
Concerned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Concerned,
Are such judgements truly up to us?
edited by Frogvarian on 9/16/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

10/6/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Boatman is a good friend of mine
by R. J. Frogvarian

The boatman is a good friend of mine.
He smiles as my feet touch the sinking wood,
A slight, boney smile, intentions to boot,
Inviting me, “Roll the dice, pass the time.”

Such perverse joys I no longer hide,
Light vanishing as we leave behind the world
Of the living. All around the mood
Of death, and dying, and denial.

Corpses, sitting, praying not to reach the other side,
The black shores glistening with pain and regret,
I only take the cup and shake it a while.

On my lips sits a slight, boney smile,
Moments that, while I live, I will not forget,
As the boatman is a good friend of mine.


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

Low Claim
by Chronic Dreamer
TW: Gruesome murder

There was an old man living away and alone in his cottage. This day, two villagers who hated him deeply came for a visit. Without greetings, the intruders bind the old man to a wall. While keeping him as their audience, one beats the man while the other heats up a branding iron in the fireplace. They then take turns burning and beating, malicious grins pulled across their faces.

While the two took recess to gobble the old man's food, he freed himself and fled. Unhappy with their missing play thing upon their return, the two decide to methodically destroy all the old man had. The old man did not get far before a third stranger finds him. The shadowed figure takes a cast iron poker with four prongs and impales the old man; the red tips sizzle as they pass through and out his back.

A little girl who cared for the old man hurries after hearing rumor of the two villager’s nasty plan. She finds the villagers drinking and eating in the old man’s kitchen. Without the two noticing, she rushes upstairs to see how badly the villagers had treated her friend. She finds him unmoving, slumped over with a wicked poker through his chest. She confronts the two villagers and screams at them. The villagers, mortified, flee, claiming they only went as far as poking him with a branding iron.


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

Famous Artist’s Last Performance - A Duel Of Life And Death

Barely two weeks ago, the announcement of a duel to true death between the Renowned Performer and V. S____, a critic, made rounds in many artistic circles, our humble Gazette included.

Today we bring you the results of the conflict.

S____, as the one challenged, was also the one to pick the weapons. He chose a classic - arming swords.
The duelists met at dawn, heavy mist sat low on the pavements of the Forgotten Quarter.
A reporter of our own was, of course, present, herself a good friend of the Performer.

The bout began. Both men were skilled. A slash. A sidestep. A parry. They traded blows, gauged each other in the morning cold.

Then, in a flash, it was over.

S____ fell to the ground, a terrible gash across his chest.

The Performer smiled. A cigarette was lit. He said his goodbyes to our confused reporter.

Then, his own sword pierced his chest.

As life slipped away, the reporter knew, the duel is not over yet. The men shall fight now, again, on the other shore. Only one shall return.

She waited, patiently.

Then, one of the corpses moved. It was S____. With a grim, gloomy glare, he sat upright. His face fell into his hands.

“I have never known such grace.” He reportedly said before leaving into the darkness of the morning.

We shall all miss the Performer, dear London. In his honour, raise your glasses high tonight.

Remember the art, London.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
So many changes, so little time. I wonder, is the world kind, or cruel.
Wonderer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Wonderer,
There are ups and downs in life. Turns, twists, loops, dead ends. Life is like a boat ride, really, in that it ends only in death. Might as well try to get a little joy out 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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

10/13/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Thoughts creep into my mind. I swat at them like flies. Equally unwanted. Thoughts of betrayal. Uncaring. Selfish, dark thoughts. Their very existence is a concern. To me, to those who might discover them. It is peculiar to feel alone while surrounded by love.

I suppose it is fear of what is to come. I would rather draw my sword before the gun can be aimed. I do not want to act upon these thoughts. I truly do not. I would prefer for things to smoothen. Wouldn’t we all?

Perhaps I am afraid I will be the one holding the gun.

There is the certainty of pain. In the back of my head, prickling, stabbing knowledge that there is no easy way out.

We cannot predict the future. We cannot plan for it. Only prepare.

I simply want the time to pass faster, is that so much to ask for? Perhaps, when I blink, it will be another month entirely.


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

Them
by Samuel James

Their search of Jules' room turned up nothing but a few stray papers of shadowy figures scribbled onto them, and the usual items one would keep in their room. 'Face it Lacey, your grandpa was simply mad' Liz said when she pulled another stray paper out of a drawer, turning it over she saw the familiar scribbled figure she's seen on the other pages.

'He wasn't always like this though, something must have driven him mad' Lacey retorted as she looked over the papers they've uncovered so far.

'Yeah, old age' Liz said in a sarcastic tone and turned to Lacey, 'old people eventually go crazy, some sooner than others. Grandma Lena went mad a few years ago, couple of years before that grandpa Harris went mad as well, it happens to all old people' Liz was getting tired of Lacey's search for something that might not even exist. They've turned Jules' room upside down and found nothing but mad scribbles.

Lacey shook her head, not believing that it was old age that did that to Jules, 'didn't seem like old age to me. One night he was fine, telling me and my brother stories of his various travels, then the next day he's muttering about shadow people and constantly looking over his shoulder'.

'I've heard of sudden onsets of madness like this, it's nothing new' Liz said with a roll of her eyes and shoved the page in Lacey's hands before making her way over to the door, 'let me know when you find something that's not another drawing of a "demon"'.

Lacey grabbed Liz by the sleeve of her dress, 'come on Liz, you were always up for an adventure or two, why are you backing out of this one?' she asked her childhood best friend.

'Because I have things to do today, mother needs my help with her garden and then I have to bring some fresh herbs to grandmother when I'm done' Liz said, which was enough to make Lacey let go of her sleeve.

'Well alright then' Lacey said, a little bit quieter than her usual tone. And with that Liz disappeared down the hallway and out the door.

---

It wasn't long after Liz left that Lacey gathered up the papers she's found and headed down the street to Hazel's place, the poor girl hasn't been alright ever since she found Jules and Henry all torn up in that alley and she could use a bit of a distraction, but she spent the last month locking herself away in her husband's house, refusing to let in anyone she didn't know.

Lacey walked up the few steps to Hazel's house and knocked a few times, calling out 'Hazel! It's me, Lacey!' she said, waiting for an answer, but she didn't get one. After a long enough pause she continued, 'It's been weeks since anyone has heard anything from you and we're slowly getting worried!'.

Lacey waited around for a few more moments before deciding that Hazel might not be here, but is instead probably with her grandfather in the countryside, far away from the city where she stumbled upon a scene straight out of a nightmare. She was about to turn around and leave when the door was suddenly flung open and a hand shot out, grabbing Lacey by her elbow and pulling her in, slamming the door shut behind her.

'What the-! Who do you think you are!' Lacey yelled and turned around to face the person who just pulled her inside. Who she was met with was a rather disheveled looked Hazel, 'Hazel? I almost didn't recognize you for a second' Lacey said, now much calmer than before.

Hazel shushed Lacey, 'not so loud, you don't want them to hear you' she said in a harsh whisper.

'Don't want who to hear me?' Lacey said, now in a whisper.

'Them' Hazel simply replied.


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

A Brief Report From The Museum Of Mistakes

After months of waiting, the moment is finally here, dear London. One of our very own reporters has been approved for entry into the Ministry of Public Decency’s coveted institution, the Museum of Mistakes.

While the trip, for such an opportunity, was brief, and the matters legally restricted for us to write about, there are a few interesting bits we are obliged to share:

  • The paintings, all covered by a cloth, only sneakily peaked unto
  • The statues, always missing an important part
  • Molds in dishes, murmuring
  • Wax figurines, stuck mid-play (were they truly wax?)
  • A crystal orb with a singular blowfish within

The trip was not just for pleasure of journalism, it was also the business of mistakes themselves. The Ministry was reluctant to let us enter, however the fact we had mistakes to offer smoothened out the dealings.

The nature of our mistakes, of course, shall not be disclosed; they can, however, be viewed within the Museum itself. Not that we recommend such foolish things as attempting entry.

Some of the mistakes were of the more speculative sort. Was that Lord Mayor’s shoe? The Contrarian’s torn coat? It is hard to say what a Master-

Ah, perhaps, we have said too much.

Rest well, dear London.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I only want the best for them.
Yearning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Yearning,
There are many places to look before the last.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

11/17/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

We don’t always make the best of choices. Sometimes, one simple decision is all it takes for things to go to ruin. An unwise purchase, perhaps, a wrong word to the wrong person at the worst possible time. Unwillingness to confront one’s feelings. We all are plagued by some thing and there is a common trope in the things that plague us.

It can be hard to face one’s own mistakes. It is rare that an individual intends for things to go wrong - at the very least, intends for things to go wrong for them. All we can do is hold our head high and plunge deeper into the fray.

For it is always better to be alive than to regret at the worst and last moment.


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

Erroneous Assumption That There Will Be a Tomorrow
by Sevenix




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

Death Of An Author – Who Shall Take Reins After An Untimely Passing?

In recent news, the untimely passing of the author of a well-beloved fictional series had shaken the artistic world, makers and audiences alike.

The dearly departed was an author of a rather enviable age – enough so that his hands had stopped working and his tongue had fallen out. As one can imagine, this is a rather big dent in the continuation of his work. The author had already been transported to an unspecified Tomb-Colony under the false moonlight.

As the future of a yet-to-be-finished work is now uncertain, a meeting was called and shall be held within a week’s time by a consortium of prominent authors, a few men of the Ministry, and the one and only Mr Pages. All fans of the dearly departed’s work, of course. This consortium is to decide who of the artistic world of London is worthy enough to take up the pen and continue this magnificent work.

Some have expressed concern over this, stating that the only mind that should be allowed to expand on the words is the mind that had originally written them upon the parchment.
“What if some fool meddles in the laid-out affairs and absolutely ruins them? Or pushes their own relationship propaganda!? We can’t have that!” said an outraged reader to our reporter, “Simply get him to write - somehow, that’s what I say.”

Our reporters have not been allowed into the meeting hall for unspecified reasons. We shall, however, do our best to hunt down any information on this story as it develops.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Will sleep never come? Will peace never be in my life? Will rest ever be allowed?
Concerned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Concerned,
There are hardships to attend to. Then there is the bliss of work well executed. There will never be rest if we never allow for it.
edited by Frogvarian on 11/18/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

11/25/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Art for art’s sake, as I had often said. Art, however, is not to be locked up in a cellar, or thrown in the fireplace, or hidden from prying eyes. Art is not for the benefit of the artist - rather for the benefit of the audience.

Art is what the artist wants to give the world. An idea, a way of thought, a desire for change. It is what a person wants to impart upon a world, and such a desire should always be honoured.

Art for art’s sake, yes, however the inherent purpose of art is to be seen. Art for art’s sake, yes, however it does not mean you should hide it away. Not everything, anyways. We never succeed if we first do not fail.

The fear of being out there is inherent in us all. The conditioning of perhaps not being good enough. Of our ideas being judged, our feelings shot down so openly before the crowds. Art, however, art has to be made for without it, well.

Without art, who will ever know who you truly are?


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

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

Finally, he reached the Surface after all this time. He felt the sizzling touch of the Sun on his cheeks…
The Honey-Addled Author shook his head. No, that doesn’t sound right. Does it? He couldn’t tell anymore. He crumpled up the page and tossed it onto the ever-growing pile of failure. His failure. He needed inspiration.
He looked up from his cosy little perch on the roof of his home, looked up at the false-stars glimmering high above him. What did sunlight feel like, again?
“Maybe just a drop…?” he whispered to himself. It’s a terrible idea. He knew it was. But perhaps...

The Honey-Addled Author’s home was in a state of finely-tailored disuse. He could barely even afford food these days, let alone cleaning staff. He hasn’t sold a book in ages. Had his people forgotten him already? Are his Bohemian friends enjoying honey in Veilgarden without him, not sparing him a single thought? He wanted to join them in their revels. Who’s to stop him?

“Sorry, M’Lord. Just doin’ what I’m told,” the Burly Guardswoman blocking the entrance said. Since when were there guards in the honey-dens?
“You don’t understand, I’ve been coming here for a very long time,” he tried.
“I don’t make the rules. And you bein’ here is against one of ‘em,”
The Author felt his cheeks heat up in anger. He could almost hear his friends giggling at him inside. He stormed off before the guard decided to forcibly see him out.
Not allowed in honey-dens! The outrage! Was he caught honey-mazed the last time he was there? Did he do something even the Bohemians couldn’t tolerate? They didn’t tell him what he did. What a complete load of-!
Crash!


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

Value Of Struggle - The Divisive Nature Of A Recent Interactive Work

A recent hit has struck the artistic world, a work years in the making, surrounded by theories and hearsay. Its recent release has truly shaken the foundations of everything, dividing the artistic public like none other.

Of course, there is no need to mention the work by name, as we all know it, and neither is there much reason for us to give our own review - so many others have been talking about it for weeks on end, after all.

No, we at the Gazette want to bring you something else, and that is to pose a question.

Is there such a thing as a wrong way to struggle?

Struggle, of course, one of the main themes if this work, one of many, and one of great importance. We have all struggled with it, struggled through it. We have all found ourselves questioning the meaning of it all, sighing over banalities, picking up our pieces fall after fall after fall… some of us, of course, with more kindness and understanding than others.

If is easy to pick out flaws. What if, however, the flaw was not only within the work itself? Could it be that we are simply not prepared for its greatness?

With every person, there is a difference of approach. There is, of course, an intended approach. Community. A struggle not for oneself, but rather for others. Bringing the world of art closer together. Struggling, yes, but knowing that, on the other side, someone else is struggling as well and that, perhaps, you can ease each other's suffering.

We have seen the differences in approach, London. There are those that bring pain, there are those that bring joy.

Is there a correct one?

Well… that is truly something to consider, dear London


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Again, I struggle. Will I never be worthy? How can one become what others would welcome?
Struggling

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Struggling,
It is not up to us to decide what others welcome. This, of course, you know. Perhaps it is time do ask them what such things are.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

12/15/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The season of Lacre is upon us!

Feel the caustic burn of this white and cold substance. Oh how it flakes, this false snow of our host and jailor. What secrets does it hold? Soon, a figure of red robes will leave trails in this snow, intent on taking but never on giving. The cruelty of the season.

Moreover, the joy to be found within the cruelty. Nomen to roam the streets, Tears to lead them. Londoners, huddling around fires, intent on staying the holidays within their chambers. Togetherness that keeps us content. Presents unwrapped in clandestine meetings underneath a decorated tree. Dinners to be enjoyed with those we love.

A bottle of wine, perhaps? Rest now your tired eyes. The year has been long. Arduous. For just a moment, do not mind the worries. For just a while, think of a brighter tomorrow. Windows wrapped in a blanket of snow, hushed sounds to lull you to sleep.

Rest now, London, for you have a life to live.


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

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

Now, the Introverted Devil rarely ever speaks up. Normally, this is the part where he would play hero by breaking out of his shell and saving that oddly annoying fellow he came to adore. Just like in the Author’s books. Instead, the Introverted Devil was staring at them, somewhat mortified.

“I assure you, you do not want my soul,” the Author tried.
“It’s not stained. A little lost, but not stained by any means. Kind. Well loved, once. A hint of sorrow even,” The Churlish Devil said.
The Introverted Devil hated this part. With some willpower, he forced his legs to move..! Backwards. He bumped into one of the other devils, the one now holding the honey.

Well… used to hold the honey.

Almost every jar of honey slipped from his arms, crashing onto the floor. Tiny shards of glass scattered. Some particularly sticky ones got stuck on their trouser legs. Prisoner’s Honey treacled between glass shards and cobblestones. The Introverted Devil felt his heart do a pirouette in his stomach before springing for his throat.

All eyes were on him.


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

All-Bird Review - A Christmas Carol

The first of the All-Bird Theatre Production Christmas plays is here, London! As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

A Christmas Carol, classic of a literary giant, a heart-warming tale of ghosts and generosity. In the main role of Ebenezer Scrooge, the troupe had quite a surprise for us - a real vulture! We must say, the performance of this star actor was truly phenomenal; we could practically see the transformation from a scary and imposing being to a bird of a warm and noble heart.

The ghosts of past, present, and future, were all hauntingly well portrayed by owls, whose hoots echoed through the silent night in the most bone-chilling of ways. To round out the presence of ghosts, a hawk in the role of Jacob Marley was just the kick both Ebenezer and we needed.

The technical production of this play, more of which we can surely expect moving forward, is also exquisite. The audio as well as visual effects, none of which we dare spoil in such a short review, are something that surely is not possible without the help of avian features.

One of the first theatrical adaptations of this sombre tale, A Christmas Tale by the All-Bird Theatre Troupe is sure to capture hearts and smiles of all ages and walks of life.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I done enough as of yet?
Waiting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Waiting,
The work never stops, oh, no, we can never rest I’m afraid.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

12 days ago
-------------------------------------- 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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5 days ago
-------------------------------------- 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,

R.


------------------------------------ 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.
Resting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5 days ago
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:
https://gooseygazette.art.blog

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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
dov
dov
Posts: 2580

11/11/2019
Frogvarian wrote:
------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Fallen London - The Crossword Puzzle
by Senforza

...


Fill it out on the centre-spread page.

This is amazing! Thanks a lot!

--
Want a sip of Hesperidean Cider? Send me a request in-game. Here's an_ocelot's guide how.
(Most social actions are welcome. Please no requests to Loiter Suspiciously and no investigations of the Affluent Photographer)
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

12/23/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There was a man long ago. A polymath, an explorer; a man of riches. First, a sailor. He contributed to the monarchy, his family prospered. He searched for a treasure untold. He zailed the Neath in search of power, of Law. West, south, east. North. His riches and fame fell into Obscurity. They still exist, in the far and long away. For his family to claim, for his dynasty to prosper. The man had lost his name. His name is the key. The Name is the key. His children, their children, children of their children ever after, Seek to gain their prosperity. They give up everything only to gain nothing.

There was another man, loyal to the forefather. A humble servant, a trusted friend. He knew of the folly. Still hee aided his friend. Forever so loyal. This man never had children of his own. He took only an apprentice, raised them as his own. This apprentice grew alongside the forefather's kin. A loyal and humble servant, a trusted friend. Again and again and again. An unending chain. The Servants aid the Seekers. Willingly, they give up their name. Erased with Irrigo. Contract written in Violant. Never shall they forget. Never shall we forget.


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

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

The Introverted Devil held his breath, counting the seconds.
One, two, three…
They’re all staring at him. The Author’s green eyes, wide as saucers. The Churlish Devil’s sulfur-fire blues…
Seven, eight, nine….
There was not a sound in the Forgotten Quarter. Not even the whispering wind that never fails to unnerve newcomers. Even the horse statues seemed to be staring at them.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

“What… did you do…?” the Churlish Devil asked.
The Introverted Devil forced himself to suck in a lungful of air. The Churlish Devil had released the Author who was, frankly, surprised to be alive. With his soul.
“It was an accident!” the Introverted Devil said.
“An accident is one or two jars breaking. You already lost a few before coming here,”
The Introverted Devil looked just about ready to run. The Author was already doing so. The Introverted Devil watched the Author dart past dead trees and horse-head statues. He chuckled sheepishly, barely making any noise.

Then he sprinted after him.

The Introverted Devil had absolutely no reason to follow the Author. None at all. Not even a little bit. The Author wasn’t that far ahead.
“Wait for me!” he yelled. The Author stumbled, jerked his head back so fast that the Devil feared his neck would snap, then slowed down for him. Despite his better judgement.
“You’re not taking me back to them, are you?” the Author asked in between huffs of breath. The Devil merely shook his head and kept running. If they were worth chasing, the other devils will catch up to them in no time, after all.

The Devil ended up leading the way out to some side streets of the Bazaar. It was safer than the Forgotten Quarter. For now, at least. They slowed down to a walk and the Devil bit his lip. Where do they go now? What is he going to do now? Those devils knew him personally. They’ll find him and get their revenge. They’ll… where is the Author? The Devil looked around wildly, searching for the by now familiar shape of the Author. He spotted him staring at a stall selling jewels. The Devil rushed over and pulled him away.

“This is no time for shopping! Just… don’t look at anything!” The Devil said, dragging the Author away by hand.
“I’ve never been here before,” the Author said, awestruck.
“You’re not important enough,”
“Hey!”
The Devil sighed. He didn’t feel like explaining this to him right now. He has other matters to worry about that doesn’t include watching someone of very little importance get lost in the crowd. He had to warn him, though...
“Also…” - The Author stops his pouting and looks at him - “Don’t fall in love.”


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

All-Bird Review - The Star of Bethlehem

As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

Ever since the Fall, many reforms of the Church of England had been put into place to accommodate the knew worldly knowledge. Truly, our faith and believes had been shaken. Even with radical changes, the slightly satirical new retelling of Christ’s birth is sure to stir the waters.

It is, of course, a play for children, designed to teach good morals and a supposed origin of one’s faith. That, of course, does not mean that adult audiences will not find gratifying moments and surprisingly humorous comedy. The parrot in role of an innkeeper who sends the holy family away is a rather great comedic actor. In a similar vein, the three heart doves in roles of Mary, Joseph, and little Jesus were a beautiful sight, and the bluebird angels sang rather pretty.

The inclusion of devil-eyed crows as the three kings was, however, a rather surprising moment. Such acts surely allude to current debates within the Church, radical ideas of devilry surrounding one’s faith. Their gifts of golden honey, while par for the course, were perhaps a little on the nose.

Nonetheless, we still encourage you to give the play a try, London. It is sure to enamour your littlest ones and hopefully bring your own mind to intriguing topics.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Tired, now, so tired, so many hours behind, so many hours ahead, yet I sleep through them all.
Disappointed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Disappointed,
Truly, so am I.
edited by Frogvarian on 12/27/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

26 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian

Day I
The urchin stood knees-deep in lacre. He was covered head to toe in soot after his daring intrusion through the chimney. The winds of the unterzee howled around his golden hair. Distant snores of great stone boars. He took a deep breath, one filled with salt and thunder. A blade ran across his palm; a droplet of blood in the vastness of white. In a wicked metamorphosis, from the lacre rose a replica of the boy - the urchin’s noman.

The two smiled at each other, pure white eyes facing eyes filled with stormy skies. Hand in hand, they ascended back to the Neath’s streets.

Day II
The first one came in the deep night. The day had been filled with conversation and play, joys interrupted with a heavy knock on wood. The two figures inside froze and turned. Looming in the entrance of the humble rooftop hideout stood a tall cloaked figure. From underneath the hood peered two glowing eyes, darting between the two boys inside. With a heavy cough it cleared its throat; the air was filled with a heavy, intoxicating smell.

“You have caused quite a stir. There is now interest, yes. Consider this a simple warning.”

It stood there only a few moments more, and then, just as fast as it had come, it was gone.

Day III
There was more tension on the third day, yes, though smiles were still exchanged. Despite the cold of the roof (and the cold of the noman’s body) the two felt quite warm. Yet, as they had feared, another knock interrupted their conversation.

The figure spoke, in a tipsy tone of voice.

“I am not one to dissuade from pleasure. There is a certain… quality we desire in a story. With a little nudge…”

With that, it was gone, and in its wake only wine and questions.

Day IV
There is much that a bottle of Greyfields will do to the mind. Neither of the boys had noticed the light reflected from the next figure’s robes. There was much blushing and holding of hands. Hot breath on breath and a single tear shed. The two danced - if it can be called dance - around a candle, enjoying the company to the fullest.

This visitor did not speak a word, only observed, took notes, and left quite soon.

Day V
All revels have their price. As usual, it was a headache. Still, the two remained in each other’s arms, and talked. When the next visitor arrived it was polite enough not to knock.

“Some are pleased with the two of you. Some doubt the value. It is clear that there will be consequences. Simply put, there are secrets that are beyond normal value. I would advise you to consider.”

As it had departed, the two sat in a stir. In each other’s embrace, they pondered of what their bond might reveal.

Day VI
“Most unscrupulous! So preposteriting in nature! Bards have never sung such spurnous tales as this – the bond of man and no man! Or… boy and no boy! The pellucidious depth of feeling, we are quite impressed. Yet salacity rises to the surface! Commingling of despicablenesses brings to us the impenetrablest of choices. To go down in the books, to be told and untold for ages to come. To thwart such wiles of secret unearthing, we musn’t fall into complicitude, no, to be eternally so vigilant is our predicament!
“Be warned, you in fatuation, for there are prices to be paid… for knowledge! Now, though, for me to abscond.“


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

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

The Author followed the Devil down Blackfinger Street, past the Bridge Without and countless stalls of all sorts of wonders he has never seen before.
“Is that a… what is that?” The Author asked. The Devil followed his gaze.
“What? The whirring contraption?”
The Author’s eyes seemed to sparkle with curiosity. The Devil was smiling, despite himself. He made sure to hide it as soon as he realized he had it. The Author, despite the Devil’s low-effort attempt of restraining him via hand-holding, was absorbed in his surroundings. Pointing out curios and oddities, asking about things he’s never seen before… The Devil found it increasingly difficult to focus on his own problems.

“You live in Veilgarden, don’t you?” the Devil asked while the Author was fawning over some wines. The Author looked at him, seeming a little dazed. As if his mind took a moment to catch up with his words.
“What..? Oh! Yes, Veilgarden. Are you taking me home?”
“Yes. Well. Just somewhere not here.”
“What’s wrong with your home?”
“I don’t want you there.”
The Author gave him that look again - an offended pout with brows furrowed together - and the Devil still didn’t feel like explaining to him how that wasn’t meant as an insult.

“Yours is just… easier,” he muttered after a little while. The Author didn’t say anything. The Devil was biting his lip again, fangs digging into his skin this time. He knew exactly what was happening. It was completely normal for a devil. It’s their nature.
“Deep breaths, don’t fall in love…” he said. He could almost feel those spires looming over him, watching him. Could almost feel the crowd pressing closer, threatening to keep him here forever.

The Devil pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. The Bazaar Side-Streets were packed with brilliant souls, and he could smell each and every one of them. It’s too much. Other devils don’t go through this, of course. Other devils don’t get overwhelmed by the very thing they should be yearning for.
Just a little bit more, he promised himself. Veilgarden isn’t that far…

They squeezed past a particularly dense crowd and the Devil held his breath. He doesn’t know why he’s so sensitive to souls, or why no one else wasn’t. He doesn’t-

“Are you alright?” the Author asked. The Devil shook his head, stifling a sneeze. The Author pulled his hand free from the Devil’s, earning him an annoyed scowl. As if he would disappear the moment he lets go.
“What are you…?”
“What’s wrong?” the Author said, “Is something bothering you?”
The Author eyes the handkerchief still pressed against the Devil’s face. The Devil shook his head again and grabbed his hand.
“Not now!”


The Devil’s head was pounding by now. There’s just too many of them. He surges onwards without any mind to direction. Eventually he became aware of the Author pulling him forward, instead of the other way around. He didn’t even try focussing on his surroundings anymore.
It’s just too much for him…


Poor Edward
by Idelia Lockwood



See more of their work...


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

All-Bird Review - Halmet

As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

The Bard’s great tale of a Danish prince is one oft replayed and rewritten, perhaps in an attempt to bring modern audiences to enjoy the classics. While the All-Bird Theater Troupe does not present any special story gimmicks, it does, of course, bring its own novelty to the table.

Returning now are the two stars, the raven and the dove of Ravemeo and Dovette fame, in the roles of Hamlet and Ophelia respectively. We must say, the two do have a rather pleasant chemistry (and a knack for tragedies).
The dove did not excel so well in the portrayal of Ophelia’s madness, coming out more as a mild hysteria, though such state was, of course, short-lived for the character.
Hamlet himself did a fantastic job, even through the caws and cawks, the magnificent soliloquies were as heart-wrenching as always.

A quite exciting appearance was of Halmet’s father - for the role of the ghost, the production had managed to secure an albino raven - and even a (perhaps) real bird skull for poor Yorick. The rest of the cast was exquisite, of course.

The technical side of this play was rather simple, as the others in this Christmas trio had been. For a rather wonderful effect, the production claims to have used lacre of all things to produce non-lethal smoke. Such a secret, we are sure, will soon get patented.

All in all, we had immensely enjoyed this production of Hamlet, and have it on good word that it will continue playing for the subsequent couple of weeks before (for now) retiring.

That, of course, concludes the trio of plays by the All-Bird Theater Troupe for this festive season. We hope you you, just as we, have enjoyed it immensely.

We wish you pleasant a holiday season, London, and many sleepful, snow-covered nights to come.


The Starveling Interview - A Rare Occasion Of Feline Insight
by Rubbered Ginny

One of our top reporters has recently decided to perform quite the feat. Indeed, the Starveling Cat, a menacing companion indeed, had been interviewed! Quite thoroughly, might we add. Do find this journalistic gem on pages 7-14.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
It was not me! It was the devilry! The Prophessed that spoke to me!
Innocent

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Innocent,
I am afraid the decision is not up to me. Though, if it were, I am afraid I would not have mercy.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

26 days ago
THE STARVELING CAT! THE STARVELING CAT! I WILL TRY MY HARDEST ‘TIL IT KILLS ME FLAT!

Yes, the Starveling Cat, menace of larders, subject of songs, stalker of places best left to their own devices – and recent resident of my very own larder. As I first found the wretched thing, wrapped in a package left for me by an ‘anonymous admirer’, I considered it a menace and a pest. Who wouldn’t? Its hiss makes one’s eardrums ring, its claws cut to the bone, and it smells like a drownie orgy. But then I got to thinking – for a beast as notorious and well-known as the Starveling Cat, we know so very little about it! What wondrous knowledge could a creature this enigmatic and this infamous possess?! Mayhaps this was not a cruel joke of fate, but a golden opportunity presented to me on a silver platter! So I silently thanked my mysterious benefactor, and I got to work!

The first hurdle I ran into was luring my new furry friend out of the larder. Any attempt to enter it was met with a furious whirlwind of claws and teeth, accompanied by hisses so potent and deep they made my gums bleed! I decided to find another approach before I lost my other eye. Being forced to eat outward due to my larder’s inaccessibility, I visited a lovely café near Ladybones Road, deflected any questions regarding the copious amounts of blood on my face and whether I would like some bandages, and enjoyed a few cups of black darkdrop coffee. It was while I was nursing my third cup, trying to lead the heavy liquid past my bleeding gums, that my eye was caught by the beautiful floral arrangement on my table. They were false, of course, made from coloured paper and scented with perfume… and a little gem-cut figure of a bee was sitting in one of the petals. This is when I decided that it was bound to be more fruitful to procure a lure (ha!) for the hungry beast instead of attempting force.

By the time the gas lamps had been dimmed, I had hired some very foolhardy and eager chefs to prepare a scrumptuous buffet in my humble lodgings. Three courses consisting of the finest fruits of the zee the Bazaar would part with, pies and pastries, several large vats of varying puddings – the small fortune I paid for the assembly of this meal was only topped by the second fortune I paid to get its remnants removed from the carpet. But it was worth it, for the Starveling Cat was out of the larder! It waited patiently for the final course to be assembled before it pounced. As the chefs fled the room, I remained as long as I was able, attempting to ask the Cat some light questions regarding its opinions on the current mayor, the newly instated import taxes regarding nouveaux branches of love poetry, and the weather. The chefs swear that they heard *something* come in reply, but the cacophony and the blood in my ears prevented me from picking up anything. Maybe that’s for the best, as the chefs were only able to tell me about any of it after they had concluded their lengthy stays in the Royal Bethlehem Hotel. Suffice it to say, I did not manage to take any notes, and I left the ordeal rather peckish and scarred. But is that not true of most things worth pursuing?

After the feast, it seemed the Starveling Cat’s ravenous hunger had been momentarily satisfied, and it had taken the opportunity to take a stroll through our fair city. Staying on its trail proved easy enough – the sounds of screaming from society ladies with torn whalebone corsets and the angry hissing of street cats could likely be heard all the way to Polythreme. After bribing a few urchins and a quick snogging session with a Desolate Artist who claimed to have seen the beast, I managed to follow its trail all the way up to the peaks of the Flit. It had taken up residence in a raven’s nest at the top of a tall chimney. The raven was not too keen on his new housemate, and voiced his complaints at length and at high volumes. (His metre left much to be desired.) After artfully scaling the bricked pillar, my advances were swiftly delayed by a flurry of claws, and I decided a more subtle approach would be necessary. By the end of the hour, I was soaring through the sky, launched off a particularly bendable flagpole, and straight into the Cat’s current residence. A thick flurry of soot, fur and feathers later, I had confirmed to my satisfaction that the Starveling Cat does not have a strong opinion on the activities of our Lord Mayor, but would have preferred to see Mrs. Plenty in the office this term. I had also lost a lot of blood and most of my left pinky toe, and the Starveling Cat was nowhere to be found to answer my remaining 76 questions.

After a day of attempted rest rendered fruitless by vicious nightmares concerning a haunting marsh filled with flickering lights, I decided that I would have to carefully plan a new strategy that involved less bodily and mental harm. Luring the Starveling Cat was all well and good for getting it to occupy the same room as you, but allowing its gaping maw to be filled with food did not aid conversation any. And using physical force to make a being – nay, a CONCEPT such as the Starveling Cat conform to mortal whims was akin to emptying out the Unterzee by drinking it up. No, what I needed was a lure that kept the beast’s mouth free, yet also kept its claws otherwise occupied. Luckily, I had just such a thing.

What happened next, I will only gloss over, as despite the rebellious appeal it may hold, I would rather not the entire run of this edition be confiscated by the Ministry of Public Decadence (ha!). Suffice it to say that I was chased off by no less than seven chandlers while procuring the necessary materials, and that more than one Drownie gave up their eyes to me. By the end of that eventful night, I found myself drenched to the bone in the most literal sense, my soul ached like a festering tooth for weeks, and I still haven’t gotten my Peculiar Enhancements to stop twitching erratically. But the interview, dearest reader, the interview was a success! Let me now enrich you with the knowledge I have gleamed from speaking to the Ruler of the Roofs!

Firstly, it may surprise you to know tha-


[Oh dear. As soon as your gaze makes contact with this last paragraph, the paper bursts into flames in your palms. Stomping it out takes minutes, and your new boots are ruined! Still, it may have been worth it for the glimpse you caught of the contents. They remain seared onto your retinas for days.]

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

19 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian

Day VII
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.

Day VIII
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.

Day XII
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.
Pleasing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

12/1/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Moon
by R. J. Frogvarian

The moon was fancy data. A distant page to observe, study, learn from. Countless hours we have spent gazing upwards, watching this silver disk. Its patterns, phases. The secrets whispered by its light. There were great many things to learn. We now know them all.

The moon is a curious public. As we have peered into it, so it peers into us. A well of light, so baffled by its observers. Now the light comes down, many rays as many peoples, yearning to know more. Beckoning us to come up and join them, each night, softly asking their many questions.

The moon will be a logical rope. The only thing left for us to do. The only outcome we can end on. Questions, answered. Agreements, made. We will know each other, us and the moon, and we will climb upon its rays, up, up, to join it among the stars, and to be propelled further yet. Through the moon, up high, we will become something more.


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

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

The Author found himself sprawled on the ground. Several small jars were scattered onto the cobblestones, one or two broken, and a darkly-dressed stranger was busy fumbling about between them. The Author spots a pair of darkly tinted glasses amongst the jars. Does it belong to the stranger? He reaches for them the same time the stranger did. Their eyes meet.
By god. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. A yellow so bright, it almost seemed like…
“Sunlight,” he whispered. The Devil took his glasses and put them back on.
“‘Scuse me,” the Devil mumbled and proceeded to pick up what’s left of his fallen jars. Is that Prisoner’s Honey? Does Hell export honey? He seemed a little somberly dressed for a devil. Not to mention a little clumsy and awkward.
“Ah, excuse me, is that Prisoner’s honey?”
The Introverted Devil stiffened, then locked eyes with the Author - tinted glasses slightly askew. His lips moved but no words formed. He got up, clutching his jars, and hurried away.
But the Author wasn’t done with him.

“Wait! You missed one!” he lied, rushing after the Devil. The Devil didn’t seem to notice or perhaps even care what the Author had to say. He didn’t even change pace. The Author managed to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back.
“I said wait!”
The Introverted Devil stopped, stiff as a rattus-faber corpse during sackmas. How can a devil be so mousy?

“Where are you going with those?” the Author asked.
“None of your business”
“Actually, it is. I am a very well-known official in the honey-dens,” - not a complete lie - “I would’ve recognised you if you were a delivery boy.”
From this close, the Author could smell the sulphur on the him. There was no doubt that this man was a Devil - at least, no doubt in heritage.

The Introverted Devil shrugged the Author’s hand off his shoulder and started walking again, a bit more casually. He didn’t attempt running when the Author matched his pace.
“The Forgotten Quarter,” he finally says.
The Author’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared in his bangs. The Forgotten Quarter? What the hell would you need Prisoner’s Honey there for? Why would you need it there? The Author opened his mouth to ask as much, and the Devil interrupted him.
“I don’t know what it’s for. I’m just doing what was asked.”
“...Ah,”

The Author kept walking alongside the Devil. The Devil, no doubt uncomfortable with his entourage-of-one, pulled his shoulders up to his ears. They got all the way to Daughtry’s Passage before the Devil finally spoke again.
“Why are you following me?”
“Am I not allowed to?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The Author shrugged and offered him a wistful smile.


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

The Advent Season Is Upon Us!

Rejoice, one and all! The 1st of December is here, and with such, the time of Advent. Soon, lacre will fall upon our shoulders, and a red-cloaked taker will visit us at our door. Such frivolousness is to come later, of course. For now, the various sellers and street urchins have begun distributing cards fancily painted with depictions of many Christmas’ characters.

Each day, perhaps, we will find a small gift from the stars, awaiting at our doorstep. With a cup of hot chocolate (or another beverage of your choice) in our hands we will open a small window of our advent calendar, the chocolate inside melting slowly on our tongues. We would light candles, of course, yet we are not so foolish as to truly do so.

Truly, London, this is the season of joy and jolly, on which we come together, us and our loved ones. Greet your neighbours with a smile, and do not forget to be kind.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I perhaps not doing enough? Or is it just a time of drought?
Worried

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Worried,
We all experience lulls of feeling. One moment there is bright fire, the other only embers. They can be rekindled yet; they only need more fuel. A little rest. The flames require time and effort to come back to life.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

12/8/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I love her. Too much, perhaps. From the days we have played together as children. From the moments we have spent together in the class chairs, in the tree branches, on the doorsteps of our rooms. I loved her through the storms and through the waves and through the falls.

I love her and I am determined to help her. That is my purpose, after all. Purposes be damned, Law knows I would help her no matter what. There is no coming back from beyond the snow. I know that well. Could I deny her? When I look into those tired eyes. How much pain and suffering can one soul bear? Not all by her own choice. We don’t get to choose why we live, perhaps only how we do it.

I love her and I will remain after she does not. I could never follow. I will hold her hand as her rowboat slowly departs for the Gate, our fingers slowly parting, neither of us wanting to truly let go. Or, perhaps, not both. I could never be angry with her. I have supported her decisions. I like to think I have helped her find the right path. We may not get to choose why we live, but we get to choose how we do it.

I love her and I will weep silent tears for years to come.

Perhaps the snow will not be so cruel.


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

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

Another good distance of silence. The Devil still didn’t chase him away. The Author took that as an invitation.
“I noticed that you were not particularly bothered with those broken jars earlier...”
“You may not have any of these,”
“Not even a drop?”
Finally, the Devil stops walking, right on the side of the street. He was looking about, left and right.
“Do you need a cab?”
The Devil ignored him. How was he going to hail a hansom cab when his arms are full and he was trying his best to disappear into his own coat? The Author hailed them a cab, making sure the Devil gets on first. Mostly so he won’t just run away.

The Devil furrowed his dark eyebrows together.
“I don’t need help”
“That doesn’t mean you do not deserve it,”
The Devil pressed his lips into a tight line, but didn’t protest.
“You’re very easy to push around. Rather uncommon for a Devil”
The Devil continued to ignore him. The Author started grinning.
“You’re not dressed as flamboyantly as your hell-mates, either,”

The entire ride to the Forgotten Quarter kept on like this. The Honey-Addled Author asked question after question, all very innocent and polite (in his opinion). The Introverted Devil made a point of staying quiet, hiding deep into his own coat.
“Alright, I know you’re just ignoring me out of spite, but we’re already here and you’re about to burn a hole in your seat. Why are you so nervous? Surely it can’t be me, I’m a human!”
“It’s not you,”

The Author waited for an elaboration with barely-concealed impatience. The Devil sighed and shook his head.
“It’s the devils waiting for me,” he said, then got out of the cab, barely waiting for it to stop properly. The Author, obviously, followed.

Turns out, devils aren’t only unkind to humans. They also seem to enjoy bullying their own. The weak and the vulnerable. Like the Introverted Devil. It still wasn’t apparent what the honey was for, but the rowdy bunch of devils took every single jar. They were roughly grabbing, shoving, and teasing the Introverted Devil, and the Devil didn’t even attempt fighting back. The Author knew better than to directly interfere. Mostly.
“Excuse me, what is the honey for?”

The devils stop their teasing to stare at the Author. As if just now realizing he’s there. The Author cleared his throat.
“Just out of curiosity, you s-”
“Oho, what’s this? Brought a friend with you?” the Churlish Devil taunted. The Introverted Devil looked away.
“He’s not my friend. I just met him,”
But the Churlish Devil was still smirking. He approached the Author, and the Author attempted to avoid that. The Devil grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Not a bad soul, I must say,” he said.
The Honey-Addled Author didn’t know whether he was flattered or afraid.
“My good sir, my soul is not for sale!” he said.
“We’ll see about that.”


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

Festive Plays At Midnight - All-Bird Theatre Group Takes The Holidays!

While it has been some time since we have heard from the All-Bird Theatre Group, they have now announced their comeback with a full kabang! Introducing three new plays - a reenactment of A Christmas Carol, a festive Hamlet, and a Neath-based retelling of the classic tale of Bethlehem (fit for even the youngest of believers).

These plays will hit the midnight stages from the very first day of lacre-fall, and will be continued up until the tail end of the holiday season. Returning bird stars will all be present in various roles, and the production team promises a truly unique audience participation experience.

Best of all - attendance is all free! Donations will be accepted during performances or at the Mahogany Hall box office.

We shall, of course, give our impressions once the plays hit.

Do not be shy, London, support art, and we hope to see you there!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I’ve not felt anything for a long time.
P. Dying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear P. Dying,
There are dark and bright days. On the poles, one can overtake the other. There is a need for balance, always. This too shall pass.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

10/20/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Today’s modern age is so reliant on timekeeping. Our minds race with ticking seconds. Gentlefolk wind their clocks and watches imported from the surface. Tick; tock; tick; tock. Bells in their towers still ring their sad, needless chimes.


It is as if one’s mind might malfunction when not in the presence of a timepiece. Seconds unperceived are seconds wasted. Sit a while and listen. Listen to the screams of your own thoughts. The silence of others’. The night all around you. Whispers of choirs.


The Neath does not like Time. There is a certain judgement that comes with such, I suppose. Earth’s secrets shall not be judged, no. We are all secrets of the Earth, whether by choice or by circumstance. Time shall have little meaning to us, now. Such is to be Lawless. Such is to be a Londoner.


Sit a while and listen. Listen to the flow of your presence. The drums of the future. The wheezing of the past. How long has it been since you last looked at a clock?


Life is not a linear procession of events.


Life is to be lived.


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

Woods In Winter
by Silurica


"I last saw him in the woods one winter - surrounded by black bark and white snow. It was Vienna, long ago. I proved myself there, and..."

Find more of their art…


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

The Clown - A Review Of Contemporary Drama

The recent debut of a comedy playwright, The Clown, is a matter of apparent controversy. This dramatic play, a truly psychological study of character, has its supporters as well as naysayers. Here is our own humble review of the piece.

In the main role, with a stunning performance, J. Bird portrays the titular clown, a funnyman with little fun in his heart. Throughout the play we learn of the bozo’s dark past and woeful current circumstances which cumulate into a breaking of psyche and burning of a town. Mr. Bird gave a seamless and terrifying transition from a fun-loving funnyman to a murderous lunatic.

The production of the play was phenomenal, the effects, especially the blood, were truly state of the art for theaters. The makeup and costuming was top-notch, and the inclusion of the audience was one never before seen. Yet another show of the technological innovation in art that Mahogany Hall truly holds.

The use of comedy within the piece as a metaphor for our own society was quite thought-provoking; laughter and tears permeated throughout as reactions to said comedy and thusly the feelings of the characters to the society itself, sometimes intermingling into a sort of crying laughter.

The piece does, however, feel too long in its meanderings. The point it presents is clear and well-examined by the half of the second act. Moreover, the action and the emotion of the third act is so full of feeling and empowerment that it would’ve been worthwhile to either extend it or bring the catharsis of it to us sooner.

Overall, we at the Gazette hold rather positive feelings on The Clown, and encourage anyone to give it a view.

See you in the theater, London.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of time?
Edge

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Edge,
The very wait itself.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

10/24/2019
Delicious friends,

Hallowmas is here! The season of Confessions, of course, is upon us. To celebrate, we at the Gazette would be delighted to help you confess your own sins and regrets!

Send us a Confession in any way you desire! Until the very end of Hallowmas, they shall be - anonymously, of course - posted here, within The Goosey Gazette! Do not fear, London, share with us your secrets.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

2/25/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a boy at the edge of a forest. He lived in a small, single-room house with a small bed, a pot to cook with, and a book of stories. He fed himself with what he found in the forest, fruits, fungi, furry creatures he hunted, always taking only what was necessary for his survival.
One day, as he ventured into the forest, he heard a cry of great pain. Then again. Again. Cautiously he followed the sound. Very soon he came upon a clearing. In the middle of it was a fallen tree and under it, a great crow twice his size. The crow shrieked and cried and shook, trying to free itself from under the tree. The boy watched with awe. Then, slowly, he approached. The crow’s eyes darted towards the boy. It watched as he walked towards the tree and pushed. He pushed and pushed and pushed, until the great bird was free. It shook once more and let out another shriek. The boy could see its wing was broken, and though the crow was calm, he could see pain in its eyes. He took a few branches from the tree and bound them with vines, making a support for the wing. However, it was getting dark, and the boy could not linger. He placed a rabbit, the result of today’s hunt, in front of the crow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise,” he said. And it was true.


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

Letters From the Surface, Part V
A Letter for Someone Else
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One of the orphans ran down the stairs. He said, "A letter."
The letter was addressed to a one Mr. Netae. I recognized the name. Mr. Netae was one of my acquaintances, who once poisoned me unprovoked. I considered the dilemma carefully.

I walked to a smoky flophouse, the address of my acquaintance. ... They had been scandalized! Off to the tomb colonies! Five minutes too late. My adversary began to snigger.

Later that night, I couldn't remember what had been done for the scandals.

Steadfast is increasing...
Shadowy is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Irrigo" quality is now 7!
An occurrence! Your "Letters From the Surface" quality is now 5!



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

Lady in Lilac, artist drenched in Irrigo

It is a wonder that this Lady can even be remembered.
The Feast is behind us, dear readers, and with it has gone the Lady in Lilac. There are few - and possibly none - who can match her skill with the needle, and a few with a brush, perhaps. She is, undoubtedly, one of London’s most wonderful artists. Not only for her skill, but also for the nature of her craft - making all of London your canvas, after all, is a worthy stunt - and, much more so, her existence. Bathed to the core with Irrigo, she easily evades memory. For this reason, we have tried to procure a photograph of the Lady; alas, it seems that not even cameras are willing to remember this Lady’s image. See you in a year, Lilac!

We do hope you yourself have gotten one of her tattoos, dear readers.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I escape?
Yearning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Yearning,
patience is the greatest of virtues. Work hard.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/2/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------
We do not always succeed. We do not always get what we want. We do not always end at a place we expect, or would like. In situations like these, it is important to keep your goal in sight. Do not falter, not for even a second.

In times like these the world may seem hopeless, the end much to far away. It is as if you’re grasping at straws, drowning and unable to save yourself. It might be maddening. It might hurt. Preserve.

Do not be afraid to show emotions, dear readers. They are but fuel for your art - and, truly, what is a better fuel for art than feeling? Burn with rage, glow with joy, radiate disgust and let your sorrow kill light. There is no shame in expression. It is what makes us human and it is something none shall ever take from us.

As the Bard said,
We are all actors and the world is but a stage.


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

Letters From the Surface, Part VI
A Foolish Mistake
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Eventually, Mr Netae returned to London. I went to their home, at the same time my opponent did.
I remembered a moment that they had deceived me, Mr Netae.
He had just arrived in London. I was badly wounded from a fight in the sparring rings of the hill. He offered help.
I accepted, only to be fatally poisoned.

Mr Netae walked out of their home, ready to go to the University. I stopped them. My opponent chuckled. It seemed that they knew each other, as they began arguing.
One of the Special Constables began to make the rounds. I had to end this.
I took my prison shiv, and shanked both of them. The Constable arrived. He accused me of treason against the Masters of the Bazaar, recognizing Mr Netae and associating us two.
I dismissed these claims, but remained on guard.

This is the intermission of the Letters storyline. This story will return later.

Shadowy is increasing...
Dangerous is increasing...
Heartless has increased to 2!
Steadfast is increasing...
Suspicion has increased to 7-A Desperate Fugitive!
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 6!



The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

That night, the boy worked tirelessly. He took his bed apart, the wood and the sheets becoming a much greater support. The next day again he ventured into the clearing. The crow was there, watching the boy with shining eyes. Strangely, he noticed, the bird seemed smaller than the day before. Shaking the thought away, he got to work. He removed the makeshift supports and tended to the wound, applying various ointments and herbal remedies. He affixed the new supports - they fit quite well. Once again, he placed his prey in front of the bird - this time a fox.
He sat in front of the bird, watching it intently.
“Why were you stuck?” the boy asked. “What had happened to you?”
The bird only cawed and pecked at the fox, still watching the boy. As the crow ate, dusk began again, and it was time to leave.
“I will be back again. I promise,” he said. And it was true.


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

What can one learn from the art of the Tomb Colonies?

Shame, disgrace, death itself. There is much wonder to be found within (and on) the bandages of the Tomb Colonies. It is a place of sorrow, but also decadence. What could one learn from the art of such a place?

Well, dear readers, I am sure not few artists of the Neath have ventured into the Colonies before, thus you are no doubt familiar with some of its eccentricities.
The fashion, of course, incorporates bandages quite well, combining them with beige, grey, black, and the occasional white garments.
The poetry is full of melancholy never before seen - and, on the other side of that coin, of passion never forgotten.
From there, the variety diminishes. A few plays from those able of body, though they are rarely more than dry. Books, mostly memoirs.

Then, the Colonies prevail again, in the most early of art forms. The paintings of the Colonists are something beyond exquisite. A picture is worth a thousand words, and these paintings show thousand times more. Pain, sadness, yearning, and all with the simplest of paints - and, sometimes, a few droplets of blood.

Do not be afraid to show such emotion, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Why does time seem to never pass in this wretched place?
- Desperate

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Desperate,
That is no way to talk of a home. Whether that home is wanted, or even chosen. A home it is. And its quirks it has. It is not up to us to pass Judgement, and it is not up to us to pass time. Time passes - we simply need to accommodate.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/10/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Spring is in the air! It would be, now, were this the surface. The days would grow longer, nights shorter, sun would tickle our skin as a lover emerging from under the white sheets. As it is, there is only darkness. Yet it is not to be feared! As the lacre melts fully, the perfumes of the Feast dissipate, as we return to our common lives, intrigues, loves, and heartbreaks, do not be stuck in longing. The surface was then, and this is now. Embrace the Neath, dear readers. Let the Neath embrace you. For all the mess and the Bazaar, it is still our home, and our new home.

Do not let your home be taken away.


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

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

That night the boy gathered meats, vegetables, and water from a nearby stream. He set a small fire under his pot and started on a stew. In the morning, he grabbed the pot, a small wooden bowl, and some bread and ventured to the clearing once again. Once he arrived the crow’s head shot towards him, its eyes shining with expectancy. The boy set the pot in front of it and dipped his bowl in. He then sat in front of the crow again. Was it smaller again? But the support was still just the right size… Again he shook the thought away.
The crow waited and watched patiently. Once he was seated it dipped its beak into the pot and ate.
“Are you the queen of this forest?” the boy asked, “Or its protector?”
The crow said nothing.
“I hope you don’t mind me living here. I don’t take more than I need, I promise.”
The two ate together in silence, the boy dipping his bowl into the pot from time to time, until there was nothing left. Dusk had settled in, and it was time to go.
“I will be back again. I promise,” the boy said. And it was true.


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

“Jack-of-Smiles” art exhibit shakes all Ladybones detectives to the core

While we can never be sure which Jack it was, we can be sure that the rather gruesome display yesterday at the centre of Ladybones road was very provocative and, yes, artistic. The Constabulary is busy with righteous rage and all the private eyes are turning towards uncovering this particular culprit - the case of Jack is hot now more than ever.

We at the Gazette, however, look at this display in a different light. Bloody and cruel, yes, it was still an exhibit of great artistic prowess, not to mention a rather profound understanding of the Correspondence. With the four bodies arranged as four symbols, there were clear spaces for other three letters. We dread not speculate on the implications. However, we are more than happy to point to the artistic importance of this Jack’s display.

Times are changing, London! A new wave of artists is coming - instead of pen and canvas, they use the world around them to shock and bewilder.

We are rather excited to see where this new artform leads the Neath.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
How does one enjoy life?
Restless
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Restless,
It pays to live fully. Maybe try zailing.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

2/2/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


I have been zailing lately. It is a noble and dangerous profession, to be a person of the waves. As noble and dangerous as the zee itself, and just as beautiful. Truly, there is no calm like the zailor’s calm, and no fury like the zailor’s fury. It is an awe-inspiring duality.

Just like zailors are as the zee, so the artists are as the art. We are hard to grasp and define, so varied yet so similar. Soulful, incorporeal when at our best. Celebrate your hard work, sires, madames, and all others; for it is not without blood and sweat that our work bears fruit, just as it is not without blood and sweat that the zee does not swallow the zailor.

R.


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

Letters From the Surface, Part III
Down from Above
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

"You bite less than me? Why do I not believe that?"

"Because you are arrogant. You think you can steal that diamond? It's the size of a bloody cow! Not to mention the fact that you do not know how to be silent. You are also doing it out of spite for us- me, the Constabulary, and all of your attempted victims."

"Ha! Right there! You say you bite less than I, but you just spat out insult after insult! I am capable- the Constables have me on their side! I am sought out for my knowledge of a secret alphabet!"

"Since when do you have a brain? Ambition clouds all thoughts! Especially your own ambition. You insufferable git!"

"Since when do you have a ______ heart? Or even a gut? You are a coward!"

Silence.

"At least I have capability, and know my limits."

"Get the hell out of here. If we meet again, I'm pinning a Sanguine Ribbon."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Steadfast is increasing...
Daring is increasing...
Subtle is increasing...
Heartless is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" Quality is now 3!
An occurrence! Your "An Argument at Midnight" Quality is now 1!



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

Decadence and Mahogany - the newest exploits of the Mahogany Hall

Here at the Gazette, we celebrate arts of all shapes and sizes. That, of course, includes our good friends at Mahogany Hall. Magicians, comedians, tricksters, and, of course, actors.
However, in the newest development, a new act is joining the stage, or so the rumour has it. Dear readers, we have it on good word that, starting this very spring, rat fights shall take place at the Hall! You can be assured that all Rattus Faber present are consenting and eager to attend these mock fights, in some cases even willing to die for the glory!

You heard it here first - go and grab your tickets!


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

Dear Mother Goose, have you ever been to the beautiful, beautiful NORTH?
Lion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Lion,
please do not seek me out. Consequences will follow.

Dear Mother Goose,
It's like we don't even know each other any more. What should I do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My dear,
sincere conversation is the best way to get things flowing. That, and good wine. A combination of both just to be sure. Open your heart and your wounds, and let them open theirs. There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing but loss, and loss is never an eternal void.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

2/9/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


Think about love, dear readers. Think about your loved ones. Think about not only the people, but also the things, activities. It is important to think on love. For what force is more powerful than love? None! The stars may think Law is the absolute, those opposing them may think lack of it is where strength lies - but all of them are wrong! The Bazaar itself knows this. The Masters know - though some may be losing hope - that it is true. It is the core truth etched with Correspondence into the heart of the Universe; vibrant! Intoxicating! All-consuming. Love is what makes us human, dear readers, and it is something no one could ever take away from us! From the Empress herself, to the stuffiest of bureaucrats, to the most soulful of artists, love is what makes us us! We have all wept over love lost, long or freshly, or never starting, over love unreciprocated, over love unwanted.
The Feast may be time for lovers and spouses, strangers and soft kisses, but I implore you! Think on all love in your life. Love fully! Love unrepentantly! Love to the very day Stone’s light fades from your sight!
For it is not a curse, dear readers, but a gift to us from the Earth itself.

Love!
R.


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

Letters from the Surface, Part IV
Another Letter
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I walked back to my Townhouse, then down into a Third City Sub-Temple I resided at. I opened my letter.

"Wensleydale,
I have heard that you are significant in London. What happened?
One must think-if you are significant, how obscure are others? Do some want to be out of the picture?
Anyways, have a rose-petal."

A rose-petal? I suppose I can deal.

Watchful is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 4!
You now have 1*Surface Rose-Petal



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

The Feast of the Exceptional Rose has arrived - Love and poetry awakes in London!

Love(!) is in the air! Hearts alight with passion as lovers and strangers alike don masks and shower each other with affection, touches, gifts, secrets. The Feast is upon us, and Feast we shall - on each other, on small chocolate hearts, on the poetry of the heart.
This season, love is the main focus for the world of art, more so than usual. Buskers and lounge poets have begun penning their stories full off emotions, brushed off on their Shakespearean sonnets, and, undoubtedly, captured the hearts of many a Londoner. Indeed, this season is, as always, wonderful to capitalize on the secrets of the heart!

So show us your poems and your songs, dear London. For what is more wonderful than love?


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Will you attend the Feast this year?

Masked

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Masked
Look for feathers touched by moonlight.


Dear Mother Goose,
I have kissed another during the feast. I fear for what my beloved may think. What should I do?

Kind regards,
Confused

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear, Confused
Do not fret over such smallties. Love is love, and love it shall remain. The balls are masked for a reason. You may very well have been kissing your beloved - in a very clever disguise! No matter. Simply give your soul and mind a rest. Drink a cup of tea. Kiss your beloved with more passion than ever before.
All shall be well.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

2/17/2019
This week's edition shall be postponed by a day or two due to the Editor laying sick.

R

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

9/8/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Descent
by R. J. Frogvarian

“But what if you disappear?”
“I will return, in an uncertain amount of time.”

I made nothing of it at the time. It seemed almost routine. You roped your waist and descended into the dark abyss. Slow, steady, sure. I should have spotted the fear in your eyes.

I stood guard every day near that wretched hole. Not a bit of light dared penetrate the darkness. The rope was still stretched and tightly wound, twitching ever so slightly with any bigger movement. I waited and the days went by. Other guards gave nods of your progress, ever so sparse. Then.

The rope went limp.

It all seemed so routine and now I was scared. I would like to say I tried to pull the rope out but I have not. I would like to say I tried to help but I did not. Only a thousand yard stare and my mouth agape.

Others have returned from the darkness. They solemnly shook their heads and said little. I know you're not dead. They say you are not dead. I hoped you were dead. The dead do not haunt me as much as you do.

I have ventured into the darkness before, of course. We all have. There are depths into which none dare cross. Only the foolish ones have no rope and no guard. Only the truly desperate ones cut their ropes.

I still wait at the edge if the darkness. Lantern lit. The rope, limp. I await even the smallest tug, a sign of return.

I am so very, very scared.


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

The Zong of the Isle
by Ultimoto, Hershel Ingram, Elias Pembleton III, and The Avid Perfectionist

Oh gather round me bully boys!
For a tale of Mutton Isle
Of RNG and devil-girls
And a mask that's really vile!

The horse that rides a bicycle
A well that's not (so) swell
The wheels they clack mechanical
And the wounds the zailors quell

The mayors come to celebrate!
But Virginia's only dour
Her hat is threatened by the 'Lloyd
And she's done within the hour

A telling of the mayors past!
The mayor in a chair
Feducci never ever showed
And Jenny was quite fair

A vision from the men of Zee!
The Mountain, the lights, the Flukes!
Sample the feast you scallywags!
Accept your newfound dukes

Hop on, and catch a fish me lad!
The fish are sure to bite
And if they hang us out to dry
Set us up some dynamite!

We wait for the lady in the hood
The RNG is hell
The drowned man slowly, slowly stirs
We'll join them in the well.


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

The Devils’ Circus Takes The Train Stage

It seems that with the election of Lord Mayor Virginia, there are other devils keen on showing their colours. Whether they agree with Lord Mayor’s candidacy or not, the Devils’ Circus has just arrived by the way of Moloch Street train. Their tents are now propped up around the station, a collection of twenty four small yurts spread around nearly chaotically.

There are many wonders to be found within the circus, including a mirror hall, flame jugglers, rubbery sideshow, misfortune teller, a remote refreshments and honey den, and so on. The circus has appeared overnight and quite unexpectedly. While we are quite excited to explore this newly presented novelty, we only have a rudimentary knowledge as one of our journalists is still trapped within the fabrics.

Mariam Plenty, the purveyor of Mrs Plenty’s Carnival, was unfortunately not reachable for a comment on this new occurence. Neither were any other London officials, and we are, frankly, a little freaked out by that.

Still, there is no reason for us to not recommend it - go on and explore the Devils’ Circus, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Is there no solace for the gloomy and the weary?
Diined

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Diined,
None know what the future holds, truly.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

7/7/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is easy to be overwhelmed. By the good, by the bad, by the bland. Overabundance is the true poison; just like not even cyanide can kill in minute doses, and honey will bring a slow death if consumed by the gallons. It is never good to ride a tide so long - one is bound to fall.

The mind, of course, if unused to a sensation. has a harder time processing and accepting it. That much may be ruinous, in a way, to begin the process of change. Yet it is always upon us to find balance, to bring an equivalence to our life. The aforementioned process, after all, has a benefit to it. Once the tides change, the impact is all the sweeter, more bitter, blander. It is the impact of the flavour that brings true feeling.

Do not be afraid of what is to come. Embrace it, with your whole heart, and let the future bring forth more courses.


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

House of Troubles, Part I
by Tuesday Next

They were halfway through their second set when Eli saw Martin in the crowd. It was a miracle he could see that much of the crowd at all--the stage lights in the inner-city club were less blinding than usual, although they were still hot enough that he felt like his makeup should be melting off. Lights like that were a side effect of doing a secret show, he figured--and not that long ago that it seemed like all their shows had been secret. Now crowds of people showed up to see them, singing along, wearing their T-shirts and painting their faces in an attempt to match the band’s elaborate makeup. The House of Troubles was just over the edge of success. They weren’t one of the big names (yet, some would say), but they opened for them enough times to be recognizable.
Eli strode across the stage, half-singing, half-yelling the well-practiced lyrics into the microphone as the crowd whooped. This wasn’t exactly planned—normally he and Doug would yell into each others’ faces during the tag of this particular song—but he had to get a better look at the crowd, make sure the face he saw was really who he thought it was. Besides, the crowd, at least, would forgive him a little change in behavior. He was supposed to be the Madgod, right? And how could he claim that name, that persona, if he didn’t break the rules once in a while? Never mind the fact that he was starting to have to hold back flinches when fans called him that. He could still use the persona as an excuse if he wanted to.
It was him. The lighting was bad, and they hadn’t seen each other in years, but Eli could never forget Martin’s face. He’d seen it often enough, first in second grade, then almost daily until high school graduation. Of course, he usually associated that face with his sister’s, as the three of them had been practically inseparable for most of their young lives, but mercifully, he only saw Martin, not Marina. At that point, Eli made up his mind. He had to track Martin down after the concert, just to talk to him. Maybe meeting with someone who knew him before the Madgod and the House of Troubles would help with how he’d been feeling recently. At that moment, Martin looked up, not yelling, not singing, just looking. Their eyes met, and someone looking close enough may have been able to see past the butterfly wings painted on Eli’s face and realize just how tired the Madgod looked.


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


Ravemeo and Doviette – The First All-Bird Play Takes The Mahogany Stage


A new production of the Bard’s immortal “Romeo and Juliette” has just appeared at Mahogany Hall, having already premiered earlier this week. This production is curious, however, for its unusual casting – all the actors are rather well-trained birds.
In the role of Ravemeo is, of course, a raven. This bird fit the character simply perfectly, the rash and violent nature of the main character combined with the black brooding of love.
Doviette, played by a bleeding-heart dove, was another wonderful role. The gentleness of the young maiden, as well as slight rebellion of her actions, and, of course, the final death have all been beautifully portrayed. The origin of this actress is, despite our best efforts, still unknown.
The rest of the cast was suitable, though largely unremarkable, consisting of the common crows, ravens, and surface parrots of the Neath. For birds, however, the acting was exquisite. The ravens’ and the parrots’ mimicry of sound came in handy, and Doviette’s lines were, even if not in human language, frankly tear-inducing in their delivery.

No bird-related accidents were present during the play, either, and a pack of swift and silent Rattus Faber cleaners were employed to rid the stage of any potential white spots, a job which they had done with welcome expertise.

Overall, the production was a success, and we at the Gazette are looking forward to further adaptations (or original works) by this troupe.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I do not want to let her go. I do not know if she wants to let me go. I feel afraid
Cornered

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Cornered,
It is not up to us to choose. Everyone is their own beast.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

7/14/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is important to enjoy the little things. Listen to the wind’s whistle, observe the snail slowly slime, caress a flower’s gentle petals.
It can be a dreary world in the Neath. You might wish for the sunlight of the surface. Or you might enjoy the darkness. There are stances to be had, of course, but also a reality to face. It is dark, damp, cold, bitter. Yet it is ours.

Look at the glimmering side of life, London. The one showing you treasures, wonders, niceties, and joy. Hold the hand of those you love. Smile from ear to ear. Emotions fuel our art, and happiness creates the most beautiful art of all.

Do not be afraid to dream. Do not be afraid to be happy. Damned be all those who shun us for our joy, for they themselves lack it. Do not be afraid.

There is art everywhere in the world around us.


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

House of Troubles, Part II
by Tuesday Next

The club was crowded, loud, and already full of the smell of alcohol and sweat. Eli had been in what felt like hundreds of places like this over the past few years, but this one was different. It wasn’t anything to do with the music or the decor and everything to do with who was there. He’d been watching the door as much as he could after the concert, and as far as he could tell, Martin had yet to leave. All he had to do now was find one man in a crowd of people, most if not all of them his fans. Easy, right?
Eli pushed through the crowd, straining to see if he could find that familiar face, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, hoping, only to be met with a young woman, bright red hair hanging about her face.
“Hey,” she shouted over the music, “You’re him! You’re the Madgod, right?” She took his silent half-nod as confirmation--he supposed his face was that recognizable, especially with the butterfly--and continued, “Man, I’m, like, your biggest fan. ‘Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know’ totally changed my life. Can I get a selfie with you?” It was all Eli could do to keep from sighing. Yes, he’d wanted this life once, but now, after so many late nights and hearing the same fannish statements over and over again, it was getting stale. Eli put on his ‘smiling for the fans’ face and positioned himself next to the young woman long enough for her to pull out her phone. However, just as she was about to snap the picture, Eli finally saw Martin walking by.
“Sorry!” he said to the woman, “I have to go. There’s someone I’m supposed to meet…” It was only halfway a lie. He dashed off, leaving the fan with a blurred image of her idol, and chased after the familiar man. This time it was Eli’s turn to put a hand on someone else’s shoulder.
“Martin?” he asked, “That is you, right?” For a split second, he had a sudden doubt. What if he had been wrong? What if this was just someone who looked like his old friend? But his fears were abated as soon as the other man turned around, smiling. It was definitely him.
“Eli Bereth,” Martin said with a smile, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Why’re you here?” Eli asked. He vaguely remembered a conversation where Martin mentioned that he lived in this area, but that didn’t explain how he’d heard about the concert. The only advertising had been on the band’s social media, and far as Eli knew, The House of Troubles wasn’t exactly the sort of music that his friend usually listened to.
“One of my coworkers is a fan of yours,” Martin answered, “he told me about this show when I mentioned I knew you, and I thought I’d try to catch up.” Right at that moment, someone backed into Martin, almost sending him smack into Eli.
“Sorry!” the person yelled, then they looked at Eli, recognition dawning on their face. Eli called, “C’mon,” to Martin and walked away, to a different area of the club. The fans were inescapable, it seemed.
“This isn’t the best place for talking, is it?” Martin commented, “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else. I can’t hear myself think in places like this.” Eli, who was used to not being able to hear himself think, nodded. It was an impulsive decision, sure, and really he should’ve stayed at the club, but what was life without adventure? God knows he needed a moment of escape.
“Go ahead,” he told Martin, “I’m gonna get this shit off my face.” It would take a moment, but it’d be infinitely more convenient to go out without the butterfly. Besides, for the rest of the night, he was going to be Eli, not the Madgod.


------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------
Mayoral Elections Are Upon Us – Candidates Revealed! Vote For Change!
The Mayoral Elections are here once again, dear London! We now know all of our candidates; the business woman, Mrs Plenty; the deviless scholar, Virginia; the famed medium, Madame Shoshana. We at the Gazette are excited beyond belief to report on the on goings of the election. While we do plan on staying apolitical, we also believe that engaging in your local government is one of the most important a citizen can attend to. Vote for change you want to see, London! Vote for what you think is best.
From our point of view, all the candidates are known lovers of art, thus the choice indeed boils down to policies. Let us see what sorts of campaigns they will lead!
As the elections are only starting, we at the Gazette are running a popularity poll. Vote for your favoured candidate! The results shall be published with the next edition!

Please, vote!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
I feel as if in a web I have spun for myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Cornered,
We catch ourselves in the strangest things. It is then up to us to create a way out. As slow as it may 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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

7/22/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

To truly know oneself is a chore. An identity is something to be discovered, built up over decades, found in the gutter of one’s subconscious. It is tiresome, it is messy, it is a dive deep into one’s psyche. To truly know oneself is a curse and a blessing; to reach such a point is a journey few dare to fully undertake.

What makes an identity? Views, opinions, favourite flavours of cake; who you love and how you love them, the way you let the world see you. It is a daring act, to express oneself. Foolish, some might say, in a world that is not kind to the different. It is a sort of performance art in itself, to be so daring. For one’s body to be the canvas upon which they paint their identity, as if to tell the world: Judge my every move, for I can take critique with a smile and criticism with a fist.

Do not be afraid of those who reveal their wings, London; be afraid of those who would rather hide them from you, as they are the ones with evil written upon them.

Like a rubbery emerging from sea foam, embrace your self.


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

House of Troubles, Part III
by Tuesday Next

A few minutes later, Eli walked out of the club, his smile at the rush of quiet and cold air only intensified when he saw his friend standing on the sidewalk.
“Took you long enough to get out here,” Martin said, “I was afraid you’d gone back to your adoring public and forgotten about me.”
“Nah,” Eli shook his head, a stray droplet of water falling from his hair, “I needed a break from the adoring public.” He wore a hoodie over his shirt, although the tight black pants he’d worn on stage were still there. He had tried to wash his stage makeup off, but the combination of his hurry and the low water pressure of the sinks in the club’s bathroom meant he was left with limited success. What had once been a vivid orange and purple butterfly was now a collection of smears around his face. He looked a mess, but hopefully no one would recognize The Madgod based on just a few smears.
“So, did you drive here?” Eli asked, looking around the street as if expecting a car to just pop up. Martin laughed and said, “With how awful parking is around here? No, I just took an Uber. Anyway,” he added, “you wanna get something to eat? According to Google, there’s a 24-hour diner nearby, and I could really go for something cheap and greasy.”
“That sounds fucking perfect,” Eli answered enthusiastically. It wasn’t quite the adventure he was expecting, but it was the journey, not the destination—even if the destination still sounded really appealing. Cheap, greasy food in the middle of the night with Martin? They hadn’t done something like this since high school, when they were too young to even act like they knew what they were doing. He could think of no better oasis.
“Great.” Martin tapped his phone screen a few times, “looks like it’s within walking distance, if you’re up for it.”
“Works for me. Legs could use a good stretching.” In the early days of the band, his legs would almost give out after a performance, leaving him held up by adrenaline and little else. Nowadays, he could manage it easily and even preferred walking around afterwards, “Which way?” he asked, beginning to move in the direction Martin indicated.
“So,” Eli said after they were moving in the right direction, “How’ve you been? It feels like it’s been a lifetime since we talked.” In a way, it had.
“I’m doing pretty well,” Martin answered, “Finished my Masters last year, right now I’m part-timing at a museum while I try to find someone who’ll hire me for something more substantial. How about you?”
Tired. Burnt out. Not sure if I can keep doing this. Eli thought.
“Fine,” Eli said, “Band’s doing well.”
“I could tell. They really seemed to like you up there. I don’t really do the whole metal thing, but that coworker who told me about the show? He just about exploded when I told him that I know you…” As they kept up conversation about the present, exchanging anecdotes about their daily lives, Eli felt his lips curving upward and settling into a resting smile. He liked the other members of the band. They’d never felt like family, but they harmonized as people as well as musicians, and he couldn’t see himself anywhere but onstage with them for as long as he could manage. But he didn’t have the same history with them that he had with Martin. They didn’t have the same inside jokes, the same shared experiences, and he couldn’t separate interacting with them from the exhaustion of being in the band like he was now. But then Martin had to ruin it.
“So, how’s Marina doing?” Martin asked, “I haven’t seen her since your mom’s funeral.” Eli almost stopped in his tracks. Why, of all things, did Martin have to bring that up? The one thing about home he’d been trying very hard to not think about, and he just throws it out into the open.
“She’s fine, I guess,” he said after a moment, once he could make himself walk again, “We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Since the funeral?”
“Yeah. Since the funeral.” He’d barely been able to look at his sister after they’d seen pictures of the drunk driver that had hit their mother, the man’s House of Troubles T-shirt still visible in the mugshot.
“You haven’t talked to her since then? Why not?”
Because Mom was killed by one of my fans.
“Dunno. Too busy with band stuff, I guess.”
“Oh.” Martin half-nodded, “I guess that would explain why you left so soon after the funeral too.”
“Yep,” Eli said quickly, then pointed at a dimly lit neon sign up ahead of them as eagerly as if he was actually hungry, “Oh hey, This must be the diner. Let’s go on in.” Hopefully Martin would take the hint. He wanted to chat, to take a break from being tired and upset, not become more of both.


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


Mayoral Election 1897 - Popularity Votes Coming Through!


Dear London - thank you all for voting! The results of our Gazette’s popularity vote are in:


Among yourselves, you have decided that the most attractive of candidates is Virginia, with Mrs Plenty just behind, and Madame Shoshana hanging lower yet.


We at the Gazette, of course, aim to remain sideless, though we cannot forgive ourselves a few stray comments.
It is peculiar for a devil to be making such headway, though we believe this simply shows London’s progressive nature, even a desire to purify London, as Virginia plans to do.
The second and third place, of course, are not to be taken as losers - opinions could change as easily as hats! Mrs Plenty has a bold (if unknown) plan for London, and Madame Shoshana plans to be a saving grace to us all. The policies of all candidates are so far unknown at best, maybe more so to the investigative sorts.


It is, as we see it, anyone’s game, London!


Alas, this little poll is only for the pleasures of our speculative readers! The real voting begins - today! Off to the polls, London, for it is our civic duty!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Will rest ever come?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Cornered,
After many tired nights.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

7/28/2019
Due to the timing of the Election, this week's edition of the Gazette shall be posted tomorrow, with news on the results!

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

7/29/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I do believe there is a sense of greater good in all of us. We fear for the future, we want it to be the best it possibly can. We, of course, cannot predict the future. There are possibilities, of course, some more plausible than others. There are many who say they have had a glimpse into what is to be. There are those who had deduced the progress of things long ago. There are those who know the secrets of the Neath.

It is noble, of course, to want to save what is dear to us. To fight for what we believe is right. Yet there can be folly in the short term. Future is a thing of mystery, thusly it is something beyond the scope of what we can know or see. When a seer sees the future, they see what will be, yet the true unknown is beyond even that. We can never plan, only prepare.

I welcome our new Lord Mayor, Virginia, and am eager to see what her leadership will bring. For the purity of soul - London had truly needed a spa for a long time.


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

House of Troubles, Part IV
by Tuesday Next

The diner’s waitress didn’t bat an eye at the two men, one overdressed for three AM anywhere, the other in black skinny jeans and a hoodie, but instead seated them quickly in a booth by a foggy window, told them someone would be there to take their orders, and went back to the front and whatever was on her phone. Eli immediately opened his menu, blinking a couple of times as his eyes adjusted to the relatively bright light of the restaurant.
“So,” he said, lowering the menu and looking over the top of it, “one of the appetizers is something called blueberry pancake dogs. Wanna see what the hell that is?” Martin hesitated before saying, “Sure. Sounds interesting.”
“You don’t think they, like… flatten dogs, do you? With blueberries in their mouths?” Eli grinned at his own joke, his smile widening when he heard Martin chuckle.
“I doubt it,” he replied, “can you imagine how much of a fit PETA would be throwing over it if they did?”
“Oh yeah, I can see the billboards now.” Eli laughed, back at ease, “So I’m also thinking of trying those chocolate banana pancakes. Sometimes you just need a flavor combination that just doesn’t make sense.” Martin snorted, and Eli could’ve sworn he’d seen his friend’s eyes roll.
“Chocolate and banana isn’t that weird, you know,” Martin pointed out, “You just think it is.”
“I think, therefore it is. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“No. No, that’s barely even close to how it goes. Points for trying, though.” Just then, a different waitress came by and took their orders. After she left, Eli leaned back in the booth.
“Man, this is nice,” he said, “I needed a break from the whole band Madgod thing. It’s fucking exhausting.”
“I’m sure,” said Martin, “having to be on all the time like that must wear you out.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t have to be on all the time. Sometimes we’re just traveling. Then it’s playing cards with the others.”
“So do you ever regret doing it? The whole band thing?” Eli paused, considering, then shook his head.
“Nah. I still enjoy performing, and god knows I can’t see myself doing anything else. But I can’t really talk to any of the other band members, not like I can talk to you, or other people from home.”
“Not Marina, though?” Eli scowled at Martin’s mention of his sister’s name.
“Look,” he snapped, “I promise you she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore than I want to talk to her, so let’s just drop her as a topic, okay?”
“I doubt that she doesn’t want to talk to you, unless she’s changed drastically from the last time we talked.”
“Maybe she has. Or I have. Can we please talk about something else?”
“Eli,” Martin looked down at the table, took a breath, then looked his friend in the eye, “I need to tell you something.”
“What, did you talk to Marina recently?”
“Yes, actually. She’s the one who told me about your show tonight. Not my coworker. She saw on the band’s Instagram that there was gonna be a concert here and she called and asked me to check up on you.” Eli’s eyes narrowed, the purple and orange smears on his face wrinkling into creases as he nearly snarled, “What?”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Oh, is that what she calls it?”
“She said she’s afraid that you might be feeling alone after your mom’s death.”
“And whose fault is that?” Eli’s face was still hidden by the menu, but his grip on it had tightened, his knuckles whitening.
“What are you talking about?” Martin asked, “it’s not anyone’s fault.”
Eli slapped his menu down, “I guess you don’t have the whole story, then.” He sighed, took a deep breath, then stared into his friend’s face.
“Do you know why I left town right after Mom’s funeral?” Eli asked. Martin hesitated before giving his answer.
“You said it was band stuff.”
“That was a lie. As soon as the funeral was over, Marina told me that I shouldn’t go home. That she needed to handle this without me.”
“What? Why would she do that?”
“The drunk driver who killed Mom,” Eli’s looked down at his hands, now resting on the table and clenched into tight fists, “He was one of our fans. One of my fans. He had my goddamn butterfly on his t-shirt.”
“That doesn’t mean it was your fault.”
“Try telling Marina that. Clearly she’s so afraid of what I do that she got you to fucking spy on me.” Eli stood up, bracing his hands on the table, “Well you can go back and tell her that I’m just fine and fucking dandy, although I’d be better without-”
“Elijah.” Eli stopped in his tracks. No one called him Elijah. He hadn’t even heard the name in ages, not since he was a teenager and his mother was scolding him for his latest stupid stunt. Martin continued, a steel in his voice that hadn’t been there before, “Your sister was worried that you might be feeling alone after your mother’s death. Like she is. All she wanted was to know if you’re okay. After this, I don’t know what to tell her.”
“Don’t tell her anything,” Eli growled, sinking back into the booth. He crossed his arms, glaring at the placemat in front of him like it was suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet, “She’ll just use it against me.”
“Is that really what you think?” Martin asked, “Because I don’t think that’s the Marina we grew up with, or the Marina that called me. I think she made a mistake, and she wants to make up for it. I know she misses you.” He leaned down, trying to look Eli in the face, “And I think you miss her too.”
Eli blinked, and if his eyes seemed wetter, it must have been the light, or maybe the sweat from the walk causing some of the makeup to slip into them. After a long pause, he said softly, “She misses me?”
“Yes,” Martin replied, “Enough to talk me into going to a metal concert.”
“Tell you what,” Eli said after another long moment, “I’ll call her, and we’ll talk. You don’t tell her anything about this, because I will. Got it?”
“Works for me,” Martin said with a nod, “Now where do you think our food is? Staff here’s sure taking their time.”
“It’s what, three something in the morning?” Eli looked at his phone, then looked up. If there were tracks in the makeup remnants, Martin didn’t mention them. “They’re probably too busy wishing they were asleep right now. Oh, and speak of the devil,” he added as the waitress arrived with their food.
The rest of the time in diner passed peacefully, as Eli stuffed his face with pancakes, Martin nibbled at a sandwich, and they both discovered that pancake dogs were surprisingly decent. When they finished—Eli insisted on paying the bill—they stood outside, each waiting for their respective transportation and reflecting on the type of Uber driver who would pick someone up outside an inner-city greasy spoon diner close to four in the morning.
“Hey,” Eli said, “let me see your phone. You’ve probably still got my old number in there.” When Martin handed it to him, Eli quickly updated his cell number, then handed it back, saying, “Make sure you text me or something. I wanna keep in touch.”
“Of course.” Martin typed up a quick text and sent it, causing Eli to feel a buzz in his pocket, “In case you get sick of playing cards with the rest of your band.”
“And so you can tell me when you get a better job.” Eli smiled and added softly, “Thanks.”


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

The Mayoral Election Is Behind Us - First Lord Mayor Of London Revealed!

Dear delicious denizens! The election is behind us! We know the results now - of course, we also know that there is no longer a Mayor in London! As the Jovial Contrarian had revealed, as his last act, he asked Her Majesty to abolish the post, and instead, London now has a Lord Mayor.

This post, without further ado, of course belongs to Lord Mayor Virginia. The devilless has swept the polls, her plans of a spa and purity of soul surely speaking to many. We at the Gazette, apolitical as we stay, are still excited for a breath of fresh air in the Lord Mayoral office, and are eager to see the building of her proposed spa.

Glory to the victors, honour to the defeated, and power to the artists!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Why calisthenics?
Confused

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Confused,
It is the noblest of exercises.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

8/4/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Little indulgences can be forgiven, even if one’s stomach ends in aches. Pampering oneself is not a crime, after all. Each spark is to be stoked into brightness, even if it takes one’s own initiative. Wonders are what fuels them, transforms them into flames.

Wonders, the stuff of dreams. Dreams coming true - well, that is the specialty of artists. To bring the works of the mind to the canvas of the world. Anyone can be an artist, as I like to say. Everyone should.

In some ways, I would call it a crime to not indulge. To deny that which makes us us. A single decision can stand between regret and content.
In a similar way, I would call it a crime not to help the indulgence of others. To douse the flames instead of stoking them. To put a lock on want and gulp the key. It can be monstrous, to be denied.

It is my hope there can one day be fires within all of us.


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

House of Troubles, Part V
by Tuesday Next

Eli was surprised to discover that the high from spending time with a friend that didn’t see him as the Madgod hadn’t worn off by the time he got back to The House of Troubles’ RV, which was parked in a tiny lot near the club. The lot was silent, only the RV and a few other cars standing up from the dark ground. If Eli had to guess, at least two-thirds of his bandmates would be in there, depending on whether Barron had met someone interesting. Either way, he didn’t hear anything as he approached it, so whoever was there was most likely sleeping, which suited him just fine. He had a phone call to make.

Eli leaned up against the side of the RV, staring at his phone. His sister’s contact entry stared back at him, a stupid selfie they’d taken together not long after The House of Troubles’ first show. She had painted a small butterfly on her cheek, a miniature of the face-covering one that had become his trademark. Once someone had asked him why he chose a butterfly motif and whether it fit the ‘Madgod’ image. He’d answered that being the Madgod was all about chaos, and what could be more chaotic than a creature that completely transforms itself? It wasn’t the best answer, but it had been less embarrassing than the truth—his mother had loved butterflies. She had taken her children to a butterfly garden once, and Eli would always remember seeing a massive cloud of the insects, their wings fluttering as they flew around. His butterfly had transformed into a memory of her death after he’d seen it on her killer’s shirt, but maybe now it would transform once again.

Eli took a deep breath, then hit the call button. As the phone began to ring, he realized too late that it was either too late or too early in the morning for her to be awake, but hopefully he could at least leave a voicemail. He leaned harder against the side of the RV, his legs jellylike and held up only by adrenaline until finally, he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Marina, it’s me. Shit, did I wake you up? Sorry. Anyway, I ran into Martin after my show tonight…”


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

Et in Arbor Ego - A Walk Through The City of Roses

Arbor, the city of marvels, the city of roses, built on and by and within dreams.

Last year, the Envoy from Arbor had visited our fair London. They appointed an Ambassador to this city of Rosers, and allowed a few to pass through its magnificent streets. Recently, one of our very own Gazette’s reporters had such same privilege; a visit to the city of Arbor.

The currency of Arbor, as it had been revealed, is Attar. Rose powder made of dreams, congealed at one’s eyes at the sight of the city’s marvels. Only those who truly see the wonders of Arbor can gain Attar, and with it, they may proceed to even more astonishing sights.

Foreword, a concern. We at the Gazette would like to express bewilderment, if not outright worry and outrage. It is a law in Arbor that the artists must be kept in cages. Cages! It is a disgrace, surely, a prohibition of art. Arbor is a city of labour, though no wonders as such could be built without the artistic spirit. Indeed, we propose that even the most common of craftsmen can be an artist! Fashion, architecture, even common carpentry are all to be used for art. It is our hope that this will not stand between us and Arbor in further relations. Nonetheless, without further ado.

First, Near Arbor. A place for craft – labourers, merchants. At the gatehouse there is a market. Each stall is filled with amusements and joyous knick-knacks. Our own editor left with a deck of tarot, each card a masterpiece on its own. The inhabitants – the Near Arbori – do not seem to notice these wonders. They do not have enough imagination, enough wonder, so the reasoning goes, to accrue much Attar.
Second, Far Arbor. This is the true place of dreams. Towers in incredulous heights, buildings of impossible architecture, palaces littering the streets and the skies. The inhabitants, the Far Arbori, don gowns with trains that gather crushed petals as they move. The Near Arbori cannot see the wonders of Far Arbor, for they are lacking in Attar. The city is guarded by walls, and surrounded by jungles.

Within Arbor, beyond the Attar, there are rumours of another city. Grander, more beautiful. The envoys do not want to speak of this place.

Such was the experience of ours within the dreams of Arbor. London’s Ambassador has requested entry for citizens of London, at least for visits. Though the opportunity is rare, it exists. Seize it, London, may it reveal itself to you.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh, how many times more?
Unprepared

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Unprepared,
As fools learn.
edited by Frogvarian on 8/4/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/12/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

You will, inevitably, make mistakes. It is inescapable. To err is so human. They may cost you dearly. They may inconvenience you, merely. Either way you will, inevitably, make mistakes.
Everyone needs to own up to their missteps. With head held high or bent down low, either way there will be a price to pay. It is not up to anyone else to fix, perhaps only to help soften the fall.
Be careful with letting your mistakes slip through your fingers. They do not forgive. They do not forget. They need to be silenced for good.
Everyone makes mistakes. No matter how far up the Chain. Do not let others suffer for what you have done. A well-intended failure is still a failure. Do not cost the lives of others.

There is only your own self to inconvenience.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XIII
Counting the Days
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I had been told that my sentence would last a total of one year. Perhaps I could escape sooner.

Day 3
The Stuttering Fence came up to me, and said that a new prisoner arrived. This one deserved it completely.
The cell number was scratched on a wall. Cell G-4N7. So... G Wing, 4th floor from top, Block N, and Cell 7.

An occurrence! Your "The Prisoner of G-4N7" quality is now 1!
Counting the Days is increasing…


I visited the cell, and found no one. However... Is that a sorrow-spider?
Oh no.

An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 13!
Suspicion is dropping...
Nightmares is increasing...
Dangerous is increasing...
Counting the Days is increasing...



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

Exclusive - The Quest For Mr. Tears, The Longest Living Noman

In a recent development of art performances, an organization lead by one Kid Nullman has revealed an ambitious plan. This gentleperson is bent on cultivating the longest living Noman in history of London. Aptly named Mr. Tears, this Noman is planned to be kept alive for a whole year. Though many say this is strictly impossible, for reasons beyond our control, this would in theory make Tears the first Noman to live to it’s birthday. Whether it lives until then is up in the air, though even coming close to the snowy season would make Mr Tears a wonder of longevity among its kin.

Their plan involves a rather large, ridiculously so, amount of a certain rare vial filled with lacre to feed Tears over the course of its life. Nullman, as well as his society, have already gathered a handful of supporters to gather these resources. If you fancy yourself one such folk, you can send Nullman a handful of First City Coins to show your appreciation for the act, as well as to directly support it.

We, of course, encourage engagement, London. This is truly art in the making! Nullman’s plan is currently said to take nearly four and a half years until only the start of Mr. Tears' life. An exquisite piece! Become one with art, London. Support Mr. Tears.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Could I have done better?
Tired

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Tired,
A million times so. Do not be so hard on yourself. The self is the start of being kind.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/19/2019
From now on, the Art of London section shall come before the News section, to give the various contributing artists more recognition.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

6/3/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Change is a part of our existence. We change, constantly. Every second, our very bodies change and rearrange. Time and space changes and bends and fluxes. Each moment, one’s whole life could turn over for good. In many moments, it will.
Sometimes, change is oddly subtle. A small shift in the paradigm. Barely noticeable yet so uncomfortable for its strangeness. Such change likes to travel in packs to completely turn a life around. Seemingly unrelated events can lead to an enormous change. One moment, there is status quo, the other, chaos. One moment there is the comfort of the routine, the other, the taste of adventure.

Welcome change into your life. It is what fills our life, drives it, gives us a reason to continue. The very promise of a better tomorrow. The very fear of a dark future.

It is what gives us life.


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

A Lie and a Truth
by Chronic Dreamer

A farmer lived simple, his world right and tranquil
No one ‘ere did bother, none cared cause hassle
He tended to his land, few else could matter
Until came she, the witch of lies, wanderer Fos Tanther

Noble farmer ask she, her voice alluring and queer
Would you spare home, my body aches from tour
Bow does the farmer, in agreeance he leads her the way
Little to their knowledge, both hearts would be entwined

I must tell you this, for it is quite dire
How you appear here one day, unaided and without means
My door is ever open, no one shall I rebuff
But I have naught to offer, scant nourishment of muff

‘Tis fine for a roof, I needn’t much else
Could you be a dear, and tell me your wealth
Your farm is so lively, and your appearance quite fetching
‘Tis little to wonder, what spell you have to tie me here

Your flattery’s too kind, others think elsewise
Though you must be mistaken, neither farm nor I are lookers
A temptress I assume thee, despite I let stay
As I have said, I shall turn none away

His sight touched her heart, truth in tongue as well as thought
Her beguilement did not pass, enchantment held no sway
This man did yet keep her, honesty to fault
Her myriad of tricks yielded no fruit, her soul saut part

The night did roll in, a spark of passion then grew
These two became one, a lie coaxed in by truth
In tune with their clash, their hearts quite wavered
Neither could ever change, natures stout ‘ner tapered

In all of their difference, they managed to keep together
A farmer’s small home, Fos Tanther laid claim
None could trouble him, no one dare enter
A secret affair by two so stark, no one would think, not even those brought

Love is a string, binding even those who differ profound
Blind shan’t foresee who they might covet, they’re open to all
Let these words make lesson, to all who are willing
Yet whomst turn down, equal a villain


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


The Interpreter Of Dreams Takes London By A Storm

We all have been plagued by dreams. Many an artist have taken inspiration from dreams, honey or subconscious. What to make of dreams, however? What meaning to infer from nightmares?
The famous Dr. Scholmo has studied dreams, psychology, Correspondence, and the Neath itself for a long time in pursuit of revealing the meaning of dreams. We at the Gazette have visited the Doctor several times. The interpretation ranges from enlightening to bladderdash, of course, however it always brings unique insight into one’s mind. The Doctor succeeds in striking a cord of the human soul, if absolutely by accident. His speeches are, naturally, easily described as art within the field of psychology. He has produced rather fantastic results with his patients, and even though his services are rather prestigious for the common Londoner, we recommend paying him a visit if your nights are plagued by unrest and strange visions.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
How to tell him? There is little I can do.
Concerned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Concerned,
It is not always up to you. Bite your tongue. Support. Let the responsible figure it out.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

6/9/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I was never one to forego a purpose. There is a meaning to life, after all - must be. So hard to find, of course. No matter, once found, it must be latched onto like a lifeboat. It is what I did, devoted myself to my meaning, my purpose.
Art is a purpose, in a way. News are a purpose. I am not going to pretend, however, that it is so ultimate and necessary to my life.

I have found a meaning in others, helping and reminding and guiding. It was my purpose from the day I was born, now I know. Though I may have signed away at a later age, I was always destined for, well, at least something like this. My happiness, I truly believe, comes from the happiness of others. It is only through my actions bringing the well-being of others that I can truly bring forth my purpose.

Meaning, of course, is not a one-time goal. It is not something you achieve easily and then die happily. It is eternal. It encompasses your life. It guides your every step. It follows you throughout, it is something you must adhere to, and something that you do adhere to, without even realizing it. It is the work of destiny that brings forth your decisions. We may be free to create our own, yes, but still we act towards this very purpose.

For one, I am very content with my purpose. I embrace it. I live and love for it.

For another, I am so terribly sorry, dear Rebeka.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XV
Casing the Remains
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Fires was a fool to leave me alive. Now I can wreck it's plans.
I remember what Vaughan said to me. Clarabelle was in love with the Orphanage, because of a Moon-Miser.
The moon-miser... Was my endgame- is my endgame.

I stroll through Spite, and see the remains of an old building. The Orphanage itself.
No one was left alive, but the Special Constables remain alert. Time to be one with the shadows.

A plan forms, in the back of my mind. But for ethics' sake, I must cash in favors.

The urchins are willing to spread my good name through the Flit. Now I can analyze the Orphanage from all angles, with the help of some escapees.
This opportunity is mine, and mine alone.

An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 15!
Casing shows your progress in the venture.
You've lost 1* Favors:Urchins(new total 0)
You now have 1*Favors:Criminals



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

A Rubbery Lack of Artform

Through an anonymous, trustworthy source, news of the Rubberies living on Flute Street have reached the ears of our Gazette’s reporters. Most important for us, of course, was the art - though what we have found was surprising.

There are, of course, past experiences with Rubberies as artists, albeit under the supervision of a human. They are joyous and yearnful musicians, ecstatic to express themselves, yet in the depths under London, where Flute Street and its residents exist, there is an alarming lack of art.

Truly, despite the beauty of the amber streets, the Rubberies seem to not have any way of expression of their own. A few theories we have are, of course: oppression, lack of imagination, fear.

Further investigation is required, and shall be reported upon.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it right to feel this way? Is it not indulgence in itself?
Special

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Special,
Do not be afraid of your feelings. Examine them further. There is truth to be found among the grain. Indulgence need not be incorrect. Remember your calling.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

6/16/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Nothing lasts forever. Things come to an end. It is the natural way of things. Life, death. Creation, destruction. Beginning, end.
It has been an immense pleasure to publish Letters from the Surface, all the way until the story’s completion - today. We bid farewell to this tale, though, most hopefully, not to Sir Wensleydale, the author.

Though we are sad to see the story go, we are eager to work with Sir Wensleydale in further endeavours, new stories, open reaches. The story had truly been a beacon of light for the Gazette, and, hopefully, fun and an inspiration for our readers.

Without further ado, let us commence this week’s edition.

Still, you have been a beacon of light for this small paper. To many great stories to come, to inspiration, to art.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XVI
Penning a Letter
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I wrote a letter, up to one of England's colonies. It went like this:

"To Anyone This Concerns-
London is a hub of intrigues. All scandals that you hear of are true. People go mad in pursuit of knowledge. The Empress has lost most legal power, and her replacements have plots against each other. Many speak of revolution, but said revolution is worse for the common man.
It is also an opportunity for wealth. My venture down here has become more of a permanent residence, and I have been in pursuit of a diamond that is not a diamond. Art is also flourishing.
Write to the papers! Tell them stories of the Fallen city of London, and it's predecessors! And yes, it has predecessors!

Professor Wensleydale of Hardwick"

Persuasive has not increased from 200.
Making Waves has increased to 25!
You've gained 10*Influence(new total 43)
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 50- Master of Communications!
An occurrence! Your "Spider in the Web" quality is now 1-Honest!
A Defender of Truth is increasing...
An occurrence! Suspicion is now 15- Imprisoned!
An occurrence! Scandal is now 15- UNTHINKABLE!


The papers devoured this letter. Constables from the surface began showing up. I'd seen this intrigue through.


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

A Celebrated Artist of the Surface Arrives in London This October

In the latest piece of art news, we have a tasty treat for loves of music, especially violins. A celebrated violinist of the surface, certain V______ M__ shall arrive to our very London this mid-October to grace us with her wonderous music.

We know, of course, that the lady cannot stick around for long. Her all-round trip shall take only a day, a few hours of which will be dedicated to her performance. Do make sure to grab your tickets, London....

...but, of course, just that wouldn’t do for our Gazette! We are giving out tickets to front seats in a contest of sorts. The details can be found in the middle-page spread.

Besides seats, a stand-in area shall be open to the public - once again, courtesy of our very Gazette! We had to pull some strings to make it happen, London, we are sure you will appreciate.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What if I lose her?
Denial

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Denial,
Place your trust in the right place.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/16/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

6/23/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

If you love something, let it go, as they say. This applies to people, of course, though pets as well, to an extent, even opportunities, or items. It is against our nature, in a way, to let things go. There are ways to cope, of course. Close your eyes, pretend it never had been in the first place. What the mind no longer considers the heart cannot hurt. What the eyes cannot see could possibly be only misplaced. Waiting for you, perhaps, at your doorstep, at your aunt’s house, propped against the clock as if counting the minutes until you reunite once more. One may fear opening the door, knowing in the back of one’s mind that the fantasy will not become reality.

It is, of course, ridiculous to think that the world revolves around one’s needs. It is equally ridiculous to think that no part of the world revolves around them. It is simply preposterous to think there is no care for a particular thing, or a person, a feeling, or a position. Where there exists possibility there exists want, and care. People have a lot of care, after all, and the need to put it somewhere, to utilize it. To cherish, to protect, to raise and see grow. To teach, and to learn.

To love something, truly, is to be able to let it go, to give hold to that primal instinct, and to trust that, if it is meant to be, you shall be reunited once again.


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

Artwork of Idelia Lockwood
In a special edition today we bring you the paintings of one artist going by the pseudonym Galvatyr (do press onto the name, will you?).


Hotshot Blackburn and The Tree of Liberty


Poor Edward


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

Mahogany Magician’s Act Goes Awry, Audience Evacuated


During last Saturday’s performance of an illusionist (whose name we shall omit, for the sake of discretion) there had been quite the unexpected and unfortunate twist. Whilst most of the show went by without a hitch, the Illusionist able to pull wonders out of their sleeves and bewilder minds with ease, the last act, consisting of mirrors, deadly pendulums, and audience interaction, went horridly wrong.

It started quite usual – a few volunteers, the contraption had been set, the Illusionist strapped to a chair. The mirrors were prepared, the performer reciting his speech, instructing the brave volunteers. The illusion began, and then, in a short moment, everything went horribly wrong. One of the volunteers, just a little too close to their mirror, stood there, missing their cue. In a short moment a maelstrom of misfortune swept through the stage. The control of pendulums was lost almost immediately, the doves fluttered into the air, the Illusionist was decapitated. The audience, fortunately, was ushered towards the exits in haste and none of the seated folk were injured. Besides the Illusionist, who is now in the process of recovery, the volunteers and assistants were all only injured. The one who had caused this accident, however, had disappeared, though our sources say they had been seen entering the Labyrinth of Tigers accompanied by several cats.

This short surge of excitement has, of course, not impeded the good spirits of the audience nor the Hall management, and all shows shall continue as normal. Investigations of the causes are in progress.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
How to contain one’s feelings?
Brooding

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Brooding,
Yelling at the zee always helps.

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/24/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------


The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

The next morning, the boy opened his eyes to the branches and the skies and the chirping of birds. His bag was under his head like a pillow and his cloak placed gently on his body. He looked around; he could not find the crow.
“Dear crow?” he cried out, “Have you shrunk so much I cannot see you any more?” His voice grew quiet, “Or have you finally flown away from me…”
Slowly he gathered his belongings. As he fastened his cloak, he heard singing, a gentle tune and a soft voice.
The boy followed the song. It lead him to a stream near the clearing. At the stream there was a girl, around the boy’s age, singing a song, bathing. Her hair, black as the night, reached down under her waist. Her head was topped with a crown of flowers. The boy was barely able to breath. He smiled, so filled with happiness, and sat onto the grass. “So, I have healed you after all,” he whispered and hummed along.
After a few glorious minutes the girl spotted him. She smiled warmly, grabbed a blanket of leaves and wrapped it around herself like a dress. With bare feet she walked on the grass towards the boy. Her right arm was held within a perfectly fitted support. Bright eyes looked at the boy.
The girl stopped two steps short of him. The boy stood up.
“I must thank you so,” she spoke. Her voice was like the ringing of a bell, like the gentle caress of a summer wind. “For your kindness, for your care. For your understanding.” She stepped forward and placed a kiss upon the boy’s cheek. Again, she smiled.
The boy’s face flushed.
“I only did what was right,” he murmured, “Nothing more.”
“You did much more,” the girl said, “If not now, then before. You are as much a part of this forest as any blade of grass. You never take what you do not need, and give back to the land whenever possible.
“My name is Val,” she continued, “And I would be delighted if you were the protector of this forest.”
Tears appeared in the boy’s eyes. He wiped them away. “I- I am not sure if I could-” the boy stammered.
“I believe you could. It is what you have done for so long. You love the forest... “ the girl’s face became flush as well, “You-”
“I love you,” the boy said. And it was true.


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

Letters From The Surface, Part VII
Welcome Back
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick
I had just arrived back in London. On the islands, I had received letters of praise and belittling. One such letter was from a fellow at court:

"I have heard of your work overzee. I am sure that when you return, you will receive a warm welcome from the noticeably powerful."

When I returned, I began hallucinating. A jungle. But I could return to London, no nightmares remaining.

When I entered the Shuttered Palace, I knocked three times. I came to write another opera. After that, all shall be well between us. I was greeted fondly, but cautiously. I then found my rival, writing a film of slanderous material.

Well. This would be interesting.


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

Public decency rampant in decadence; Art strikes back in irony

In the latest display of the Ministry – yet another public burning of books – the men of the aforementioned organization have gotten their comeuppance. Just earlier this week, as the men were burning volumes of (what they deemed to be) scandalous poetry, a certain zee-fairing epic written on the back of bandages was included. This epic, rather long and written on bandages of a length to match the work, welcomed the flames with a gusto, as if aware of what was to transpire. Slowly, the flames crept up, inching ever so farther away from the flames - and directly to the cart of the Ministry. Oh what a display! Not even fireworks bring us such pleasure! While lacking in coloured flare, it was brilliant. The men nigh trampled over each other in an attempt to douse out the flames, one’s jacket even catching from the effort. In the meantime, busy hands of bohemians, artists, and even one brave Rubbery worked together in an effort to save what could be saved. In total, nearly a fourth of the works to be burned had been recollected! (Even including one of our own Gazette’s editions)

All of London shall rejoice today, dear readers. The works have been, naturally, brought to a safe place for archiving and occasional midnight readings.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to go in life when things seem so stagnant?

Reph

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Reph,
The zee is the best place to think about the future. There is freshness all around. Try the honey, dear.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

3/31/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Freedom. It is what we all desire. Freedom from chains, freedom from responsibility, freedom from life. It is not easily attainable, as all will attest when asked. Those denying the pain of existence are simply lucky in their current situation. Not even the aristocracy is free from absurdity. Down here, in the Neath, now even the very final release escapes us. Light has made us apart with Death. Is it much to ask for? Would you rather live forever or ever after?

Enjoy life, dear readers. It is what we have, so full of wonders that never deplete. Even in a lifetime, even in ten, there are wonders to be re-discovered, re-experienced. Enjoy the wines, London. Do not let this freedom be taken away. Let not those who rule use you in a way they have for so long. Let not those who claim to want to free you condemn you to darkness. Revolt in your own way, London. Be free again.

The bed upon which I slept in Polythreme was a slave.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part VIII
At Summerset
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I'd written my works. As I roamed London, I decided to visit Summerset College. Perhaps, eventually, I could be a Professor. Many thought I could become a Poet-Laureate. If so, London would be much better.

My opponent had provided materials to the University, including no less than 35 branded hearts.

I found a rose-petal among the supplies. Interesting.

Watchful has increased to 150- A Focused Brilliance!
Letters from the Surface has increased to 8!
Suspicion is increasing...
You've gained 1*Surface-Rose Petal (new total 2)



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

Art of Polythreme; Scream it Out Loud

The talking lands of Polythreme are a sight to behold. Shores of a thousand stones, stones of a thousand voices, people of a thousand hearts now only one. It is a harsh landscape, yet one full of soul, of yearning for softness, whose people are born into life sentient and with an inherent insanity of existence. The Clay Men of Polythreme are mournful by nature, and despite many religious types doubting their ownership of a single soul, we at the Gazette are sure they have. This suspicion is based solely and faithfully on the art of Polythreme. Yes, dear readers, we, as many others, have had the opportunity to see the art – hear the poems of the Pirate Poet, observe the statues and statuettes of the Clay sculptors, so dynamic you would swear they are alive, behold the screaming stanzas of zee-faring epics written upon equally screaming parchment.

The art of Polythreme is every bit searching for meaning. It is the pinnacle of existentialism. The search for meaning is never ending, in any living being. We wholeheartedly love and recommend this art. Make sure you prepare enough napkins for the tears.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to help those in need without feeling a sinner while not helping the random stranger?
Concerned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Concerned,
To help is ennobling. Charity work is the way for the gentler folk in privilege. Do not look for how - simply look at the act itself. Help whenever possible.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

4/7/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There is a certain hunger in all of us. It is human nature to be so curious, to the point of destruction of the self. Why is it that a person would torture oneself so? For what? To know? To relive? To keep alive a legacy, or continue one? To atone for a sin? Or, simply, for hunger. Oh, how many lives has it cost. So much pain, so much suffering, all self-inflicted and still the result of an outside force.
Who is to blame? The fool that trusted or the traitor who gave the order? Both of them, monsters in their own right. One more tragic than the other, certainly, but with no less blame. It may be folly to follow your heart. Follow the voice.

What do they find in the cold? Oh, how one would love to know. This hunger, this thirst for mystery uncovered.

It is human nature to be so curious, but it is not for humans to know all.

All shall be Well.


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

A Hell to Pay
By Wolf Grim Rine

Wolf was a 26 year old man wearing a monocle on his left eye, a black top hat, white suit with a blue tie and carried a cane. Despite it being perpetually night it was a nice day in The Neath. Wolf had a modest house next to the observatory as well as a pet raven on his shoulders. “Hello good sir.” Said a Devil who walked up to Wolf. His eyes were a brilliant crimson and glowed in the dark cavern. “We at The Brass Embassy have need of your services Mr. Rine. With your tact at conversations we feel you may be able to handle a problem for us.” He took out a card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “We expect it to be handled with due diligence.” The devil tipped his hat and vanished in a burst of flames with a haunting cackling echoing. The area he stood also had visible scorch marks. Wolf took little notice of the dramatic exit as he was quite familiar with The Brass Embassy. He then looked at the card it had an address “666 Asmodeus Boulevard” He nodded and tossed the card away as it quickly burst into flames. Secret messages from devils tend to destroy themselves stead of requiring the reader to it made things so much easier.

Wolf tapped his cane against the door and waited no one answered. He sighed and tapped again harder to make more noise. Still no answer. He checked to see if the door was locked it wasn’t he then entered the room. The address was that of a one floor townhouse. It had a bedroom a small kitchen, powder room and one very dead woman. Wolf rolled his eyes as he walked up to her. She’s been dead a day or so, she had no eyes he couldn’t decide if they were gouged out or if she in general really had no eyeballs. Given the city either option was totally plausible. He decided to poke her with his cane as he looked down in mild contempt as if her being dead was more an inconvenience to him then her being dead was to her. Artemius flew over to a wardrobe and started speaking in a high squeaky voice. “Clue!” Wolf walked over to it petted his pet bird and pulled open the drawer.

“Ah interesting.” There was a soul in the drawer and Wolf figured it was the woman’s soul. Only a moron would keep their soul on them so maybe it was somebody else’s. The soul was not fresh not one itty-bit and made him cough at the smell, he threw it across the room and the jar shattered as the soul wailed and dissolved into oblivion. Wolf then brushed himself off and let Artemius get back on his shoulder. “Well this was a waste of bloody effort.” He started to walk away when he heard a noise. “A zombie would be deeply inconvenienced.” He said turning around to see indeed the woman was standing upright. Wolf rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose this was so not what he needed right now. He splayed out a hand and streams of green energy burst from his palm as it hit the woman. “Speak you stupid creature.”

“Urgh… I…. Saw… A… D-D” And then she collapsed dead.. Again Wolf just shook his head and left.

Wolf tapped on the door to The Brass Embassy and out came a devil male who smiled. “Ah did we settle our affair we sent you after?”

Wolf glared at him he was used to Devils. “No and you shouldn’t take me for an idiot.”

The devil looked mockingly offended. “Me? Insult one our best associates?”

Wolf gestured behind the devil and a second more important looking male devil walked up to them. He wore a monocle that made his left eye shine brighter than normal, and held a glass with a wailing soul in it it also had a martini olive in it. “Yes gentlemen?” The second devil asked.

Wolf wasted no time. “Your friend here tried to get me to offend the noble Brass Embassy with returning a spoiled soul to him. Hell knows what he was intending to do with it.” Without missing a beat the more refined devil put his glass down on a table then pinned the other by the neck against the wall.

“Spoiled Soul?” He said with intense malice in his voice. The other choked as he struggled to get loose one think he could teleport but maybe devils can interrupt another’s teleporting.

Wolf took no emotion to this affair and took a rat to feed Artemius and then looked up with the refined devil alone. “We are terribly sorry to have a devil attempt such a poor excuse for a scandal. We shall mail you compensation.” He bowed took his glass back and closed the door. Wolf picked up a small piece of ember off the floor where the dead devil was and smiled.

“Well too bad they trust me here.” And walked away.

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

The Seventh Letter

It is a rare opportunity that we get to see such a play. At least once a year, on the request of Lilac. In the hidden-away theaters, the lost parlours, the backroom stages. The play is infamously known, not only for what and how it depicts, but also for what it achieves. Even those with little attunement to the going-ons of Fallen London, an observant viewer can figure dark secrets from this simple play. The origins of it are hard to be found. Just who would so willingly give up such secrets? We suppose there is vengeance to be found.

There is little to be said of this play that had not been said before. We may revisit it one day again. For now, dear readers, beware the Seventh Letter.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I doomed myself?
Seeking

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Seeking,
Oh, so easily and so willingly, and so long ago.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

4/14/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The scarlet stockings. We all know the ones. Red like blood, sewn to invoke the deepest desire. Soaked in violant, they say. One can only agree, so hard it is to forget them.
Imagine your fingers running down their length. The silk so soft, the skin beneath so warm, the flesh so soft and tender. Heavy smell of perfume, intoxicating, playing with your senses, making your head spin. Your lips touching, red on red, your face flush with desire.
They are not to be removed; do you yearn to take them off? What are they worth without the wearer? Just one look is enough to send your imagination wild.
Poets have cried for them, zailors have drowned for them, the Masters may deny any attraction but still they must know.
Wrapped around the torso, a warm breath on your cheek. Sweet dreams, London.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part IX
A Weeping Scar
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One night, I was up late, writing a short story. I was about to enter a plagued sleep, when...

SLASH

I ran in the general direction of the noise. Mr Netae's home. They were dead. Dead of slicing. Four scars, in the shape of Correspondence.

I poured salt on the corpse. Perhaps that would burn it.

But it did not burn. Not a candle.

I wondered what was next.


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

Lavish lascivious lifestyle liberates London’s leading

It is no surprise that London’s elite love to indulge, in matters artistic, culinary, sexual, even vicious. In a recent turn of events, a certain society has been gaining following from the high echelons of the purebred Society. The Cult of Dionysus, as they are known, has been a society of artists and those of lesser social standing. Not few of us here at the Gazette have been to these gatherings, and we can attest to the parties being rather, well, unfit for the Ministry.
In the past week, new members have been showing up to the gatherings. What do Mr. ______ and Mrs. _____ have in common? Where do the newlyweds ________ venture every evening? How many Londoners involve themselves with polyamory?
Dear London, how we wish we could talk more of this… Better yet, we shall invite you all! Be not afraid to show up, the directions are encoded in this very edition of the Gazette. You know what to look for, London, and we look forward to you.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to find you?
LuFul

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear LuFul,
The zee eternal.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

4/21/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I had a dream.
I was bound by many chains, in a dark room of an unbefitting size. My clothes were in tatters. Many mice, hundreds, nay, thousands of them, perused around me, gaping, chittering, looking at my bound form. I could barely move. The mice brought me food and drink, thrice a day, and ate with disgusted fervor. I spent my days swaying from side to side. Leg to leg. Right to left. Endless loop of mindless entertainment.

One mouse stood out. Watching. It started to sway. Side to side. Right to left. In rythm. I stopped. It stopped. We began again. Slow, swaying, from leg to leg, together we shared this moment of strange connection. I felt it understood.

I woke up.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part X
A Particularly Ruthless Spy
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Another letter, among the junk. This one was addressed to "the Professor of Spycraft". I was shocked. I am not a high-ranking piece in any of the Game's machinations, nor do I consider myself a careful observer. Take my work on the Correspondence.

The letter exploded like a Molotov Cocktail. It read,

"I have heard of your work. I am a fairly new piece to the Game, so I figured I might ask you: what is the purpose of it? Also, might you train me in the art of espionage?"

I shuddered. I barely knew that myself. As for my skill... One might scoff at me for attempting to teach that.

I receded into my study. I continued to read. I began to pen a reply, but that haunting image did what it does. Seven is the number in many things. Even scars, memories, and stains.

After a night of increasingly haunted sleep, I awoke, somehow refreshed. But I was locked in from the outside.

Watchful is increasing...
Shadowy is increasing...
Dangerous is increasing...
Persuasive is increasing...
Nightmares is increasing...
Suspicion is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
Subtle is increasing...
A twist in your tale! You are now At war with a single person!
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 10-Known to the Shadows!
You now have 1*Surface Letter
You've gained 1*Whispered Hint

You have moved to a new area: your study


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

The (Un)Forgotten Artist’s Final(?) Work Comes To Light

The publishing of this work is controversial. Its content even moreso. Was it a truly bold move, a stroke of genius so viscerally real that we are afraid to even consider the possibility of a genuine motive? Or was it a mad rambling of a mad man, bent on destroying even the last semblance of peace with this epos?

Either way, it thoroughly shook the readers to their core. There was blood. There were riots. There was denial, and there were tears. It is a handful to swallow, dear readers. Like red meat sitting in your stomach for days on end, so painful to digest. Like the sweetest candy, rotting your teeth simply by its presence, too late does the pain come, too late do you realize the destruction you have brought upon yourself by opening this can.

We can only wonder at the meaning of this. We can only speculate on whether this was the last stroke, or only the first of many more to come. There is no telling whether the chaos will rail on, order will be established, or the fire die down, uneventfully.

What is left is only to wait and see.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it all for naught? Is this the end?
Stuck

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Stuck,
It is our hope that it is not.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

4/29/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There are stances to be taken. Even with leadership structures in place, the world is a wild place - and the Neath double so - though that, of course, does not mean the higher powers go out of their way to protect. Survival of the fittest, perhaps, the most adaptable, yes, the most willing to carry out justice, certainly. We are social animals, and our society hinges on the few capable. Do not sleep on the injustices of the world! Take up your arms, London. There are villains to dethrone. They will not go easily, but they will go. When the arms of Law are too short, we need to take it into our own hands.


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XI
An Escape Attempt
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Now, what happened? Who locked me in my room? More importantly, who knew my address?
I had a key in my dancing slippers. I took them off, and found no key.
Now I was ticked. I couldn't just stay here, below the Fourth City. If I could... Nope.

I lit a cigar. The room gained it's scent. If I couldn't leave, I could smoke the intruder out!

I failed to get out. A letter slid under the door. I opened it.

"You had your chance. Never again."

My mind raced. Why was this happening?

...That bleeding bastard.

I took my bejeweled cane, a gift from a lapidary, and swung at the door-knob.

Success! Now to catch the ______!

Watchful has increased to 160-A Focused Brilliance!
Shadowy is decreasing...
Dangerous has increased to 155- A Terrible Power!
An occurrence! Your "At War With a Single Person" quality is now 2!
Wounds is increasing...
Subtle is increasing...
Heartless is increasing...
Melancholy is increasing...
Daring is increasing...
You now have 1*Cane-Shank



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

Rise of Photography - Painters Demise or a Rising Artform?

Photography, the for-years up-and-rising technology, has been a subject of controversy in the artistic circles since its conception. Though it lacks the vibrant colours and subjectivity of the painted work, it gives a new (if grainy) perspective on the world. Gone are the days of the painted portrait, people instead opting for the quick fix of a photograph. Gone are the still lifes, the planars, the starry skies.
Do not fear, however! This simply means new opportunities arise for art, for expression. New mediums, new media. A new set of skills, to be sure, is always useful. One needs simply to adapt to circumstances, and new paths shall open up before them. Why not try to combine the art of photography with the art of painting?

So take up your lenses, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I lost my mind?
Drunk

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear, Drunk
There are many more ways to do such a thing.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 85

5/5/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Monograph on the impossibility of press
by R. J. Frogvarian, Correspondent

[The following text is intercut with Correspondence symbols; nothing is set on fire, but your eyes water and sting, making it very hard to make out the words.]

I̛̟̯̺̩͚̕ͅt̴̗̝̰̻ ̛͉̖̹̳͜ì̻̭͍͔̲͢s̢͕̣͕̤̣̪̥ͅ ̴̷̫̮̘͞t҉͎͙h̜̜ẹ̻̰̙̘͔ ̜̪̮̟̳̬͖ţ̪̞̻͙̜̣̳r̶͉̲̖̹̪͖̹̜͢u̡̧̜̗̭̯̝t͈̰͔̺́̕h̷̡̲̙̳͙̜̰̘ ̖̯̹̬̰̠͝o̷̢̠̣̼̳̪̱̮͓͟f̴̜̪̫̪̝͟ ҉̳̠̭͝t̵͖h͏̢̝̻͠e̴͈̯̖̬̥̙ ̀͡҉̻̙̘̰͙m̪͔̻̪̻͟͝ͅͅa̝̯͚̞͎͢t̳͖̣̝͟͡t̩̣̹̼̦̭͙͠e̶̥͠ͅr̛̭̖͓͡͞ ͟͏̟̤̫͍͓͓̝̀t̴̳̟̳h͟҉̫͈̲̜͍͕̜ḁ̫̣̣̞̝̕͞ͅt̯̜̀ͅ ̬͖̣̱͈͝s̥̜̘̞̤̣̮̪ơ̟̳̥̥̹̹̩̭m̷̨͓̥͈̱̟͡ͅͅe̛̯ ͇̲̩̘͍͉͔̝L̵̨̜̼ͅa̢̻̰̺͉̝ͅw̸̻̰̝̲̖̹͙̙̕s̛̙̹̺̯̼͎͠ ̡͖̥̼̥̤͟ḑ̷̟̘͉͖͖̥̮͖o̦̳͞ ̷̶͍̼̬͚͞n҉̼̤̣͖̥̠̳̱ͅo̶̸̩̤̹̭͖͓t̴̡̖ ̩̘̕w̲͙͠o̫̹͢͡͝r͉̣k̼̖̙̰͎̞͡ ̡̲̜͕͎͉̻a͉̲͞s̸̙̠̙̰̣̫̤̜͝ ͙̞̗̹͔͢͡p̟͖̙̰͓̫͜ŗ̹̹̳o̜̗̰͚̞̮̰̭͢p̵̡̯̹͚è͔̩̺͈͔͉̥r͡҉̵͓̖̥̪̣̫̦l̡͈͔͠y͈̱͔̥̗̬̕ ̥͇̖̭̪̯̭̱͡ạ͓̰s҉̞̗̬̱̠̝̤̲̀͜ ̬̳̪͚͜͠ţ͍̺̪̯̮̞̪h̼̙̖̥́ȩ̝̟̞̞y̶̨̫̻̞̞͈̥̦͜ ̦̰̙̝s̷̹̗̰͓̤̘̥͜ͅḩ͓̖͉̩͞o̤͓̳͕͢͠u̵̩̱̺ḻd̮̜͔̺͇͢.̡͚̞̪̗͎ ̨̥͕͎̱̲͟N̬̩͖o͔͚̥͎͙̙͉͕̦t͇͉͚͎̮̖̀ ͢͏̳̳͠m̥͙̜̺a̴͓̩͍̹̦͠ṋ̷̞̞̤͕͙y̡̧͉̹͔̘̮ ̱̳̫̦̗̟̝c̛̺̳͚̳̣̫͘͜ͅa̕͏̯̮͚̖͚̭͔n͖̖͢ ̺̮́ș͔̣͉͍̩̹̘͘e̯̦̪͔͈͖̰̖͢é̦̲͕̙̣͕̲ ̛͕̮́t̴̗̭͢h̡̙͈͢i̛̱̯͓͘s̨͇̗̻͈̞̝͇͕,̣̩ ̷̸͉ͅs̘̙͍̜̰̥̤o̷̰̳̮̺̪̦͈͡ ̵̻̝̦̥̳̣̞f̛̫͎̟͙̜e̺͕͡͝w͙̭ ̼̠a̢̙̜̤r̶̖̬͉̠̰̹̟͟͞ͅe̗͔͘ ͓͔̻͡͠g͉̘̬̗̀i҉̡̻̺͉͔ͅf̻̥̻͔̗̤̠͉͢t̨̺͇̞̥e̗̟d̼̰̜̣̲͕̞̟͘ ҉̜w̷͉̳̮͕̻̦̹͝ͅi̷̭̱͕̕͠t͕̗̯͖̖̬͖h̙̳͞ ͎̤̬̦̺̕͘t҉͏̼͕̳͉̫h̸̸͈͉̣̟͙͟e̢̼̲͇͖̮̯͈ ̨̭̬̩̤͘s̡̺̪̝̀i̶҉̗̳̤g͉͙͠h̪̱̟͓̳̙͘͜t̷̻̬͈̗̞͕̗͎͝.̷͕̟̲̰̥̪̣̰͟ͅ ̷̩̜͚̯̣͙N̛͔͕̤͚̟o̢̤̲͎̝͚͢w̸͡҉̪̖̖,̕͟҉̹̙͕̺̠̪̪͕͔ ̥̦̬͙͖͈̦̦ͅt̛̻͜͡o̴̫͡ ̶̶͔̺̪̱͚d̸̘̰̩̖̼͜į̭̲̘̰͞͝v̸̹͈̜͙ͅͅé̥̝r̭̬g͏̗̫͙̝̜̟ȩ̶͏͓̙̻̖͚̳̱ ̛̞̝͕̟̠̟a̗̭̜͎̙͍̪͖̼ ̫̦̯͉̺̹͘͡l̹̣͔̺̥̰̭̹͟i͈̬͎̥̞̥͢t̵̠͍͎̬͚̗̜͡t̸̖̺͎͢ĺ̛͔̬e͈̙̕ ̹̯̣̮̙ͅ-͍͝ ͏̼͓͔͙̮͞ͅw͓h̶̢̟͎͙̪̳͎̹̜͙á̝̱͉͈̪̹͢ţ̴̝̼ ̯̻̺̝̱̞a̞̰͉̩̫͢ͅr̶̛̬̙̙̪͡e̶̢̳̟̭̝͓͔̭ ̵̠̜̫y̘͈̹̩͓̹̯͘o̵̶̰̩͕̳͖̮̕u̼̭̖͉͇̣͢ ҉̹͉̻̫͟d̛͚̙ò̤͖̲́͜i̸̖͔ͅn͏̻̝̩͓̦̻̜g̼͜͝,̦̹̹͈̩̙̩̕͜ ̷̷͉͖̪r͈̤̝͖͖̱͟ẹ̖̗̟͉͜a҉̥̠͚͇̦̞̤̹̹d̵͝͏͈̖̙̞͚͉i̶̷͖̹̠̙̦n̪̻͢g̢̦̼̲̝͕͘ ͏̦̯ͅţ̷̰h̫͚̹̗̦̼͠ͅi̷̬̞̯̘̪ͅs͎̫͉̘̝!̵̮̳̣̤̫̙?̨̟̲ ̧̯͇͙̘Ỳ̲̬̼͔̙o̶̙̞̼̭̭u̘̺̞̳̦ͅͅ ̡̞̤͓̗̙͢w҉̞͖̱͓̬͙̥͘e̵͚ͅr҉̘̰̰͇̳̖̮̳e̷̦̫̭̞͝ͅ ̤͍̰̘̗n̢͚̼͔̙̪̪o͉͚̝t̵̠̤͖̠͜ ̵̛̮m̨̮͕̯̻̼̜̮̕͘é̷͎̟̼͓a͢͏͕̱̫̫̳̰̘̱n̨̖̮͔t̢̲͕ ̵̨̪̩͘ţ̨̤̫̣͕͚̘̫ò̖͓͕͟͡ ̨̥̱̦̮̹̲̦̟͠s̜͉̩͓̘̭̪̮͘͡ȩ̵̻̘̲͓̹̘̪̖e͏̢̹̺͍̹̣͓͕͙ ̱͙̤͍̳͙̹͇ͅt̛̼̣̖̬̦̲̲h̵̫͈̤͖̮̗́i̹̝̰͍͎̮s̶̗̗̤̟͇ͅ!̣͕̞̳̟̟̀ ͚͈̟̬̯̝̖̤͘͟͟I̵̤̝ṭ̡̳͕̗̱͔̰̥͓͡ ̴̡̺͈̺͚͔͓i̩͇̻̻̙̬̻̠͎͝ş̦̪͍̫͖̹̟̬̖ ̺̱̞̥̬̲̖͘͞a̵̤̰͉͙̰ḽ͈̮̣̭͙̜͡l̵̷̟̥̘̠̀ ͕̦̠͇͡ḁ̛͔̹̙ ̙̫̤̲̳͘͡ͅj̶̟̭͙͖e̲̮̗̬͖͉̮̘s͇t̶̖͎̤̮̪̤̞̥̝,͎̻͕͍̮͇̦͢ ̡̗y̠̩͓̥̗͔o̜͈̺̤̺̭̻͟ͅư̵̴̦͇ ̛̖̼̫͈̮̲̤s̶̨̙̩͞e̸̮̙̻̕e̷̪͙̬̦̪͟!͏̰̤̀ ̥͇̩̯̫͎͇̖͈Ą̛̪̘̙͓͈̼̺ ̶̢͙̖r̨҉͖̝̭̮u̮̭̻̬s̡̞͙͕͙̘͕̗̀͞e̛͎̺͕̱͉!̸҉̸̭ ̧̫̦̥̲̤ͅF̵̡̖͘o̤͙͇̲̳r҉̣͖̞͖͝ ̴̲̹̣̰̰̦͖͙̥̕I̟̞̭̳͝ ̸̲̬̥̬̭n̴̝̞̼̼͈͕͚̝̝͢͝e̢̥̜̦͎̘͔̜͟è̶̹̻̩͔͔͇͟d͙̪̺͎̮͜͟͞ḙ̟̻̙d̰̺ ̻̮͔̖͎͜a̕͠͏͙̞̟̻̳̲͈ ̨͔̞̬͎̤̻̠̦͟t̛̩͓̟̲̫̪̼e̶͔̜̭̣̣̦x͖̦̮̟̠͙́t̡̳̲͚̗̦̹̜̜ͅ ͠͏̥͉͎̙̮̜t͖̹̲̕͡o̭̟̘̩̙̺̹͡ ͈̼͘͜i̵̬͈̫͍n͍͖͎͙͈p̸̰̰̟̪̗͍͜ͅú̡҉̞̟͉̙̖t̸̢̡̼̝ ̴̛̤̯i͉͙͎͎̠̞ͅn̡̛̞̞͔͟ ̪͚̗͠p̛̗̬̫̯̳̰̣͙ļ̯̫͇̤̯͇̪̹͓a̪̤̻͈̕c̛͖̙̝̪̫e̡̦͔̪̻̬͙͞ ̷̘̝͜o̗͢f̨̩ ̠̫a͉͖͓͎̼͟ṋ̢̙̰͚͝ ̨͎͕̺̟̥ͅE̶̪d̞͔̯̞̪̀̕i̶҉̩̺͖̼͔͖t͏̟̣̝̳͇͕̯͇ͅo̴̪̼r͙̖͈̞̦̙̼͘i̮͙̣̖͘ͅa̬̗̙͖̪͚̪̦̕͠l҉̵̵̯̩̙,͎̮̺́͢͢ ̜̭͟t̪̳ơ̵͎̝̩ ̨̨̗̤̲ͅs̀͏̻̪̙͓̳͙̖͉i̱̖͍̱͕͖̤̫͈͜͠g̸̫̱̖̥̰n͈̰̤͖̗͢a҉̡͕̜̟͎ļ̨̯͈̻͎̙́i̴̩z̜͘͝ͅe͕͔̺̬̦͞ ̸̭͓͓̳́d̞͚̙͔̠̭ͅͅḙ̼̲̖̖͍̟̟͙͝a̴̶͍̗r̟̼͎͠ ̷̹̫̞̪͔̱ͅR͚'̛̙͇̳̤̭̮̘̥̕ş̸̳̻̩͇͔̰̝ ̭̰͓̜̙̪̫͎́r͜҉̘i̙̕s̨͇͇͕͕͚͎͍͖͟e͚̜̞̻ ҉͖̻͡t̼͉̞̗͎͙͟͟o̲̙ ̴̨̻̗̘̘̤̣̬̞̪t̵̝̲͜h̵̡̞͉̰̳̼̠̤͉ḙ̹̀͢ ͕̩̱̯̰̣s̫͚̻̗̲͕̻͞t҉̳̖̥̭̭̫̥̭͜a̷̖͇̙͝ͅṭ̢̨̻̜̫̲̯ͅu̡̜̞̟͚̬̪͜͡s̷̶̬̦̙͖ ҉͇̜̜̰̱ò͖̝͎̬͜f͈̀ͅ ͏̤͔͚ͅa̛̝̗͍̤͓͖̗ ̫̞͓̝͟͠ͅC̸͏͉̻̯̭̳ó̯̟͟͠r̷̢̙̼̫͎̺̤̕r̯͍ę̵̣͓̪͈̬̜̜s̱̰͙̻͍̣͉̲͡ͅp̪̟ó̦̜͈̘͙̣n͈͔͚̣̥͎͇͚̮͠d̜͓͉e̝̱͔̣͕n̷̖̻͉͜ͅt̢̛͎̦̭͠ͅ.͍̞̘̰̥̫̭͍̕͞ ̫̻̮̕ͅN̷̩͉̪̱̩̟͎ạ̶̢̯̮̘̣̱̕ṯ̤̘͉̣ͅų͉̼͝ͅr̩̹̦̳̦̠a̻̙͍̫̙̯l҉̶̟͟l͈͈͕̱͎̞̪͡͠ͅͅý̘̝́,̴̱̩̰͓͍͚̙ͅ ̭̜̹̟͍̜͚̙̀Ì͔̞͔̠ ̤̪̥̥̮͜c̳͈̕͘a̳͔̟͎̖ǹ̩̫̖̙͍n̰̲̫ọ̱͕̱̩̗̦ṯ̨͎̥̳͔ ̴̢̛̳m̵̭͚̜̻͟a̯͉k̶̮̥e͎̰̩̥ ̬̘̠̞̦̯̻͟s̮̮̲̺u̗̼͈̲̲͘ͅc͙̻̪̼̝͎ͅh̴̼̦͜ ̨͎̖͖͙̹̞͜b̞o̸̬̟̳̞͙̜̜̕l̡̼͇͡d̴̶͎ ̘̺c҉̳̜̟̗͖͙̗͍̦l̷̺͍̜ͅa̫͉͉̤̥i̡͏͈̪̯̜̺̘̙̻m̘̱̱̰s̻̩̖͎͘ ̠̯̫̬̖a̢̨̖̹̼̲̞̙s̲̯̠̟̲ ̨̨͇t̩͖̪͕̤h̢̢̬̜̀o̥̻͜͡ś̶̠̟͖̯̦͎ę͖̘̥͎͓̘͝ ̶̹̯̦͡o͖̣̬͕̙͟f̛̯̺̙̰͢͝ ̖̟̙͞t̷̙̖̹̬̮̠̙͇ͅḩ̪͔̳e̴͈̜͓͙̼̰̰̬̟ ҉̩͕ṉ͙͜o̢̨̬̦̮̝̜t͎̼̳͍̩̘ą͚̹̹̜̖͘b͉͇̗̹̟̞̮̣͝͞l͓̯͖̳͟͝͡e̡̳̣̫͔ ̭̻̀p̵̙̥̩ŕ̰̭̬͖ò̲ͅf͇̗̮̮̼͍̝̳͉́͢͞e̖͓͍̥s̢̟͔̝̹̗̼̞͓͜͢s͓̺͍͢͜i̵̸̩͖̖̻ó̮͎̲̥̥̭͇͍͝ņ͈͕̭̺̱͘͢,̵͇̼͓͕͍͡ ̺̩̕͜s̕҉̗͢o̦̝͇̯͇̮̲͘͟͠ ̡҉̥͈̹͉͕͙͉̪I̷̛̪̯͕̰̠͘ͅ ̶̤͉̺̝̻̜̘̳͍͞o̗̤p̴̨̟͈̳̠͜ͅt̵̮̯͖̻͓̝͈̹̕͜e̺͇̣̻̬d͎͍͍̩̫͓͉ ̶̷̴͙͇̭̮̘͎̗͖̺t̤̹̪̝̝̫o̧̟̮̩͖͈̰͕ͅ,̢͉̠̀ ̹̫ͅi̴̳̖̰̦̣͎̰n̛̝͈̤̥s̶̠̙͈͙̞͈̞̙t̷̝͟e̷̤̞͎͙̮̬͢͠ạ̞̥̖͔͔̪́ḏ̬̣͙̠͔͉͍͢ͅ,̵̥̞̳̯̫̻͓́ ̡̫̖͎̰̼̟ͅw̛̱̝͚̗̗̖̤̙̹͡͞r̻ì͡҉̺̠̮̱̜̪̲̺ͅt̸̛̖̩̞̝̘̗̦͟ͅe̟̻̹ ̷҉͚̗̦̹͔̹̬ͅt҉̵̥͉͖̞͉̲̹h̶̩̻̣̳̀ḭ̣̘̣̤̗̩͞s̡̖͘.̻̯͈̮̘̀͟ ̜͓̪͙̮͎̦̀D̢̜̻̤͓̗̩͚o̭͈̝̱̜͔͖̹ ̜̬͈̱̕ẹ͚͇̀n̙͍̞̩͜j̮̬͎̠͍͚o̴̯̼̰ý̢̳̠̤̀,̯̱ ͍̯̫́͡͠d͈̯͎̣̯ȩ̛̦̝̮̺̝͔͍͖͚͘a҉̯͍̱̗͚ͅŕ̥̤̙̺̥͟s̸̙̯͍.̼̙̥̖̪ ͈̞͔͇̰̲̫͘͞I͏̠̟̩́t̤̭̦͎̬̝ ̻̫̻̲d̡̡͈̖̹͉͟o̺͎̭̣̠̟͉̲͟͝e̵̶͖̜̖͚̞ş̟̰̫̙͡ ̶̨̨̦̜ͅͅt͇͓͍̹̗͇a̶͕̞̳̫͔̹̜͞k̬̝̞̤̯͉e̷̴̷̤̭̲̬͔̘͚̲ ́͢͏̝̹̖̱a̷͙̱̳̘͈̲̤̠͢͡ ̸̧̞̳̠͙̗͕̤͟ļ̞̠͠o͙͕̥̺͡t̙͜͢ ̷̫̕o͈̻̩͖̻̜͞f̸̧̰͎ ̶͍̠̳͖̫̹w̬̞̠͉̦͈̭͢ǫ̴͙̘̙̹̖̦̣ŕ̸̬̬̱̤͈̹̗̜͔k̠̝̬͖͖̩̞͡ ̮̥̬̬̫̺̘̱̗̀ǫ̟̹̦̬̱̞͠f̴͕̬f̶͏̪͚ ̣̲̝̗͖̻͡o͉̦̝f̶̞̩̬͚̮͓̥̦̻ ̟̱̖̩̙ͅm̡̥̥y͚͟ ̸҉̮͙̘͎̬s͚͚͙͚̪̭͎͘͜h̡͚̝̤̘̻͙̻̟͜ͅo̧̝̘̜u҉̮̰̙̦l̠̞͕̳͠ͅd̷̡̰̰̹̹̱è͏̫̩r̴̹̳̰̯̮̲s̙̻͉̣̪̻̝̗͖͝.̳͔̦ ̱̞̞̥̳̟͜Ṯ̞͈̮̖͎̩̖̼͢i͍̹͡͠r̛̮̱̦̬̺̩̖̜͢ì̝̤̳̜̭̣͡n̛̝ͅg̷̣̞̺͖̳̞͉͞ͅ ̴̛͇̝d̶̵͇̮͕a͏̴͔̜̣̕y̵͈͙͔̳̯̩͇ͅs̝͓̲͕̖͕̬͢,̗̗͟ ̘͙̺̀͜t͓̗̮̙̜͘͜h̝͖͉͜e̛̙̣̼͇̗̻̭̰͠s̡̛͏͇̝e̡̗̹͡ ̵̞̳̘̤̤̤̼a̶̜̺̟͓̦̥̲͟͝ͅr̡̖̣̦e͙͖̲̫̣̕.̟̬̱͉͜ͅ ̷͓̱̕Ḫ̬̭̙͈̖̥͞o̟̖͖͢w̝͈͈̠̠͎͘͝ ̧̢̟̫̺̕à̧̨͈̦̼̟̲̩͈̫r̫͉͉͖͙͇̮̺è͓͖͖̭͓̟͜ ͏҉̢̯̘ͅy̵̹̻͍̪̭̜͞ǫ̵̭̪̬͓̙̯u͚̗͕,̷҉̟͙͉ ̼̬̫̞̬̺͈̩͡͝i̸̴͉̤̪͝n̜ ̸̧̭̜̣̰̬̤a̛̼̺̩̻͙̲̤̖͟͝n̷͙͕̘͞y̩̭͍̲̫ͅ ̜̣̝͇̝c͠҉̖̞̪a̸͏̳͉͕̤̼̘̯͙͜s͔̺̥̣̝͝e͕͓̤?̟͕̪͠ͅ ̯̟͚͍̺̞͟H̦̭̳̻̫̗͍̙̥o̦̫͠w̸̨͙͖͖'̸̨͇̪̗͚̻̤͖s̴͎̦̪̤͠ ̸͕̭̫͟t̷̟̗̻̞ḩ̺͓̜͖͙͎e̴̮͈͜ ̯̤̥̬͎̟k̛͖̤̗̖̰̬̘̜i̙̘͚̳͔͇͟d҉̣̠s̞̼͍͡?̸͚̱̻̳̮̼̖͈͘ͅ ̡̦͇̟̳̹͝͠T҉̱̦̻̝̼ͅh̭̼͕͖̗͞ͅͅe̛̞̹̬̪̭͠ͅ ̛͎͍̜̘͘w̶̼i̸̸҉̫͓͍̙̳͚͍f̡͕̠͍̙̀e͏̥̦?̸̞̮͈̪̕ͅ ͙̳̹̟̩̩͝ͅH̠̫̠o̼̯̰̞̳͓̱̕͢w̶̡̥͚̗̫̜̹̮ ̷̲̻̰̻͖̲͔̥à̵̻͍͚r̩̮̹̕͝͞e̶̩̘͟ ̜͖̣̀y̡̟̜̳̝͖̫͘o͝҉̮͓͇̳͕̼ͅu̷̼͔͈ ̨̭̝͇̰s̺̥͖̘͙t̵̥̦̕i̹͓̺̯̖̙̻͕̪͡l̵̨̫̩͟l̶̖͈̠̬̣̫ ̧̪͇̹̯ͅṛ̰̘̺͚͉́ͅͅe̴̛̤̱͚͍̭̮̗͚̻͢à̴̙͍̥͔̙̰̻d̸̶̩̲͉̩̩̟͡í̸̞̩͈̰̥͕͉ͅn̬̝g͡͏͇̙̘̬̺ ̢̺͚͖̠̗̠͟ͅt̞̱͔̗̤̱͚́͝h̗͓̣̮͈̮̪̝͠i̥͓͠s͈̫̘̯̬̟͜͜͠!̼́?̝̱́̀ ̗̣̼͖͚͔̟G͖̫͘͢o̼͘o̢̙͉̞̬͓͚͞d̻͈̺̻̙͜͝ ̨̺͇͞L͙̙̬̳̯̙͜͢o̜̝̞r̵̞̻̮̹̝̝̪d͈̳̼̳͕͎̲͠ͅ,̧҉͉̭̤͎̣̳̟ ͖d̨̛̪̹͕̲o̜̩͉̣͇̥̘̯͞͠ͅ ̴̞̘̮̭̣͝t͏̙̰̱ą̞̩̭͈̺͉͘k͝͏͙̼̝͎̜é͖̠͕̻̭̰͓͜ ̵̞̤͉̕͠a̴͝͏̞ ͇̥̞͍̕̕b̸̧̝̬r͏͚̜͙̰͙̦̦͇ͅe̷̼̜̦̘̞a͏̫̼͔̗͙̩k҉̹̙̪̝͈̹̜͈.̡͔̦͈̩̦̟ ̳̜̖̹̝͕̰͉A҉͓̠n͖͍̲̬̫d̲̠͉̩̜̻͖̘̻̀̕ ̵̖̼d̘̦̫̰̹̀ò̜̟̥͍̺͢n̨̛̮̣̣̟̪͈̘͢'͍̪͢͢ṭ̷̝͕̳̙̕ ̶̗̣͙̩͘b̖̲͘è͟͏͕̞̟̻̤͎̪̞̙ ̨̬̜̠̦̟͉ͅs̢͈͕̼̦̹̭͉͈͓o̜̭̮͙̳͚̦͙͝ͅ ̨̪̞͔̀͞h̭̦̲͔̱̫̤̩͚a̶̲͎̼͘ͅr̩̘̕d͙̩͈̥̙̲̘͖ ͠͏̩̜͍̦̰̼͜o̶͍̝̬͜n̨̛̥̺̖̭ ͕͓̩y̠̺̣͉̬̗̬̹o͏҉̟͈̜͖͈͞u̙̹̥̫̘̗̤͖͓r͙̜̼̯̀s͈̞͍̕͢͞e̸͔̗͇̞͉͙ͅl̪̯̥̪̼̹̮̳͘f̴͕̟͜,̴͇̗͖̝̞͈̼̳ ̵̗͔͎̞͜͞a̸̻̹̼̼͇͕ͅl̻͙͍͟͡r̬͈̯̖̀͢ͅị̣̫̜g͏̥̳̞̞̘͘h̶̦̙̤̞̬͔͍͇ͅt̯͓̘̲̙̝͙͜?͘͏͍̳ ̧̳̰͓̞̪̯̳͠L̴̰̞o͏̧̼͙̯̤̤̹̩ͅv͙̘̦͖e̶̛͇̹̤͢ ͈̩̤͉̜̪͟͜͞y̗̦͚͜o͈͙͓̙̟ù̱̮̮̱̗͙̹͇̕r̥̺̯̣͚s̨̮̳͔͕͖͠e҉͝͏̹͖͚̗l̡̻͓͙͇f̴̡̲̼̪̻͔̞͜.̨̖̤͢͜ ̴̡̫͇͎̕I̭̬̬̬̻̻͜͝ ̠͙͘l̸̠̮͞o̤͍̼̼͓̥̬̹͖͞v̷̨̳̺͓̜̥e̖̟̹ͅͅ ̩̩̼͍͘y̸̼̲̭̥ͅǫ̸̯͈͎͈̰͈͠u̡͇͎͈͠͠.̢̯̹͙͖̝̗͓͔͝ ̨͔Ḥ̸̨̫͚͎͓a̫̼̦̯̳͔͚ͅv̛̜̙͚̀e̴̸̫̟͙̖͓ ̙̰̥a̺͙̹̝͠ ̨͎͖̗̀g̴̸̨͇̪̲̻̰͚o̸̜͖͙̕o̝͙̠d̨͖̹̩̤̯ ̶̷̗̬̜̹͞ͅd̺̣̜͈̦͍̗̲̀a̧̛̼̻͔̫̱͍̠y͏̖̠̤̣̻̤.̪͍͢

F̛̼͖̗͚̣͙̥͓̖̀u͚̣̲̙͖͔̱̘ͅr̢̬̞͕̮̗͚͓̀ṱ̮̠̤̹́h̛̳̗̞͖̦̣͙͙̳e̴̬͞r̖̫̹͉̪͉m̪̮̺o̙̘̤̣r̞̗͔̤̠͟e̳͔͘,̸͍̦̹̪̠̮̖̭̕ ̳͚̥͔t̢̹̘̹̥̞̗̜̦͝h҉̫̲͔͇̬̘e҉̘̮ ̥̯̘̦̠̮ͅf̮̙͎̘̝͖̮̺á͔͔̞͢b̨͓͡ͅl̹̼͠ẹ̢̮̗͙̭͖̙͞d̩̖͕̘̣ͅ ̶̱͕̼͕͙̕g̸̭͈͙e̸͟͏̯̘͇n͕̯̯̝̦̺̳͟͠ṱ̵͉͍̜̀͟r̡͍̠̲͠ỳ͎̲͇̰̥̱̦̘ ͍͍̣͖̜̖̼͠͞s̷̮̦̳̱̫̝͞ͅo̺͖̱̠̰͜ ̶͈͖̳̖̟̮͕̥̟́̕o̢̫̼̫̭̥v̢̲̟͙e̝͎̟͍͡r͕̱̰̠͈̥͚ṭ̼͟a̢̻̥͖k̡͉̠͇͍e̙̬͍̙͔̗̯͎͜n̡̰̹̪͓ͅͅ ͓̺̭̪̫̟̦͎͢w̛͏̘̙̼̯̭í̷̩̥̫̭͙t͏҉͈͈̤̬͉͍̠͕̹͜h͕̪̮͉͉͈͕͚͠ͅ ̨̛̬͔͖́i̫͉̭̕t̴҉̫͚ṣ̴̷ ̵͇̲̠̲͍̹̫͓̕͠ͅǫ̦͙̭̜̟̬̤̤ẁ͕͙̰̠̩̻͓͠n̠̰͎̟̩̞̘̤͝ͅ ̬̻̯̬͜a̴͔͙̭͈͍̗b̜̦̯͓͚͉̭ͅş͎̘̱̳̞̥̯̯͢e̜̣̮̪̲̹͈̕n̷͓̙̯̩͎̤͞c̡̘̗̳͓̤̀ȩ҉̞̦̹,̵͕͍͜ ̩̮͍̪̠̬͕͟͞w̞̙̙͇a͓̟̯̠͙͍n̨̝̠͚̖͠t̶̡̻̱̱̰̮͘i̗̜̮͞ṋ̡̡̠̩ǵ̺̳̼̳̙̜̻̻̝ ̥͘͘c̵̺̠̙o͈̬͖n̵̢̻̖̟̖̼̗͙͕t̢͕̦̖̳̠̗͟ṟ̨̣͔͈̖̬̜̤ó̘̖̖͡l̸̵͎ ̸̨̖͈̮̹͉̬͙ͅa̶҉̲̖̪n̨͖͎̬̤͘ͅd̳̺͍̣̭̮̯ ̭͓͎͓̖͚̟̰͘n̤͢o̭̦͙͈̗̪͇͚t̻̼̟͓̲̝͙̘͜ ̡͎͖͙͉̠̫̬͙͉m̩̖̦̜̘̳͍͡o̸̹̱͉̼͇͔̺̤̭r͎̤̖͟e̴̛̼͉̰,̰̪͉̕͘ ̫̪̪̳̱͕̜͖̩͜͢a͏̣̥̭͍̗͖̭͔͈n̪̜̮̥͖͓̟d̶̨͖͍̥̬̠̘ͅ ̷̩͉o͏̟͙̲̞͔̹̦h҉̥͎̱̮͉͈͈͝ ̠̙͍͠͡ͅb̛̹̖͟͞o̰̗̣͕͞y̛͈̞ ͟͟͏͚̯̟͇y̶̡̜̲̯͝ͅe҉̷̧̜̭̤̮̹͚̲̗̭s͙̝̮̞͢ ̵̜̟͎̜̳̹̫Ì̧̤'͏̤m̵̟̜͕͎͉ ̴͏̵̼̘̯͇̭j̨̝͖̠̜̺́́ų̵̤̱̼͘s̙͍̞̙̮͕̭̥͎t͓͙͠ ̵̨͚̺͇͓̞w͉͙̻͍̤͓̠͕̘͜͠r̵̶͎̞͍͓̘̪̙̥i̢̝̳̳̮̜̕ț͔̻̞͍̱i̶̯̖͘͝n̘̟͉̗g͎̲̬̲͙̖ ̠͕̣̗̼̙̪̰̙m̸̱̯̝̕͡o̹̯̖̖̺̗͍͕r̸͈͉̤͓͉͉̣̱e̶̼͈̝͘.͔̙͔͓̘̺͞ ̣͍̼̖̞̦̮ͅI̹͚ ͚͎̣͜n̺̯̲̺ḛ̷̺͇̤ẹ̶͎d̛̜̰͖͟͢ ̴̘̲͔̦̲͕̳̹̞̕t̩̬̺̭̞̕o̯͔̺̹̭̩̥̰̠͠ ̨̱̝͕͞f̷̸͉͉̺̦̙͙ị͈̝͕͔͙͜ͅl̶̵̬̗͎͢l̶̞̯̤͚͞ ̘͍̦̭̣͕̳̀̀o̷̜̗͢͢ṳ̝̤̟̠ͅţ̹̯ ̪͖̦̣̳̤̕s̺̪͕̪̮ͅp̴̞ͅa͔͉̹̮͙͖͘c̛̦̘͕̥͉͙̗͢e̗̲̠͚͓̬̣͢͡,͘҉̧͍̙̺͖̻ ͍̤̤̱̘̺y̖̥̕o͓̼̮̕u̵̡̮̣̞̦̯͉̩̟͝ ̷̵͎͕̹͕̼͝ͅs̵̛̘̣̙̻̦͡e͖̤̳e͉̫̹̠̱͎̝͇̼͘̕?̶̲͇̣̮̙̦̺͠ ͉̼̦̳̙̯̫Ẁ̧͔̣͇̪̝͠ͅe̶̗̺̻̖͢l̝̺̪̥̰̻͓̠ͅl̴̯͞.҉҉̧̪̩ ̡̻͉͘͜H͕͓͙̻̳̲͚̬̗́͜ơ̴̥͙͟w̧̤͝ͅ ̱͟a̠͇͕͎ͅr̩̕e̻̱͢͡ ̨̨͏ͅy̙̞̪͓͕̥͡o̶̧̩ư̡̮͙̯ ̨̪͇̣͎̜̮͟a͕g̹̭̠̟̟̰̞͘͟ͅa̻̙͖̘͇̜ͅi͔͔͕̭̥n͈̪̰̮?̨͇̮͞ ̸̠̝̗͉̯̪͞͠W͈̬̮͡h̴̶̘͉̼͇͙ǫ̴͙͖̙̫̗̮͓̖̖ ́҉̩̻̺a̵̧͓̼͔͈̰r̸̙̺̞̳̯͖̣̼͘e͈͝ ̷̧̹͇̹̠̟̹̥̳͘y͙o̳͍͙͎̥̲u̮͖̱̥͠ ̪̺a̼̝͢g̴̝̠̖̪̮̬̠̕a̷̘̘͚̪i͏̵̢̟̳n̛҉̪͙̖͈̩͈.̵̮̣̩̬̕ͅ ̼̣̪̠͎̀W̜͕h҉̺̯͞a̻̺̝̬̭͡t̴͖͇͝ ̟͕̘̩̝͜ą̙͙͔̙͚͈͉̀r̢̲̼͘͢e̦̙͢ ̨̛̫͚̟̪̲͉͝y̨̖̰̰̩͜o͢҉̻͔̤͕u̘͎̝̳͈͕̰͚.̙͈̜͠ ̵̜̭̪ͅY͡͏̺̜͈̦̖̭̳̮̞͞o̵̧̬͈͍̺̬͙̤u̻͙̦̯̹̘̕ ̨̝̣s̜h̸͏̜͙̯̭̜̩̥̜o͉͓͢͜u̸̧͚̹̗̝͟l͕͕̦d̷̘͚̠͕̖̲̤ ̺̱͎̼̤̙a̢̱̖ș̳͖́͜ḱ̦̱̯̳ ͕͚̦̱̠̻́͞ţ̙̟͡ͅh̡͓̘̬̪̳̗͡ͅͅe̠̠̮̱̹͍̕͜͞s̪͇̞e̮̦̭̣̺̤̩͠ ͏̪̮͔q͉̟̲̗̫̺͎͕u̡͎͔͟͡ȩ͕̦̝̞͢͜ͅș̨̦̲̪̯̀͢ͅt͏̺̲͡i̖̠͘o̶̝̣͠͝n̢͕̟͚̗̝̹̰͘͞ś̭̺ ͢҉͓̞͎̲̞̲͉͘a̢͍ ̢̭̬̗̮͇̤͈͎͠ͅl̢̝̺͜į̷̼̱͓̯̩͞ͅt̷̠̘̼̫̟̣̯̰̝t̴̹̫ͅl̡̜̤͟e̡̲̯̤͎̞͉ ̙̘̬ḿ̤̦̦͡ͅo̶̥̤̦͓͙͚̮͙̤͜r̮͙̬͈͖̪̰͉e͇̱͖͇̩̺͙͙͘͡.̢̱̪̝́ ̹̳͓̫̪D͎͖̻͕́i̷̛͙̩̕d̵̜͙̫̼̗̺ ͖̠͎͜ý̘̳̹̖͉͍̬̕o̡̨̖̰̗͚̜̹͠ų̴̝͜ ̡͇̞̱͙̪͢l̫͍̗͉̹̜̹͘ò҉̗͇̰͎̫̦̠̼s̤͙è͖̞̪̭̬̠͠ ̷͔̟̣̭̠̦̺w̨̫̗͙̬e͏̯̦̬̝̠̕i̢̟̙̫͝ǵ͘͏̰͓̻̯͖h̥̣̝̀t̵͍͇̮͇̬̼̞̫̀͢ͅ?̠̼̩̙̙̪́ͅ ̸̧̘̜O̜̮̺̣̘r̼̙͝ ͔̥͕̞͉͢͞ͅg̢̦̤̣͇͙a͜͏̱̘͚̬̮̣i̟̖̲̰͖̤ǹ̞̺̦̭̻̼̥̝ ̸̥̫̯̘͍ͅi̺̙̲͙̝͘͢t̵̤̫̣̺̱́͞?̷̯̲̤ ̘̜͍̠̘͙͍̥̳͢I̯͕͙͓͎'̼̞̮̬̰̼́͘͡m̵͈͇͙͇̪̜͓ ̗͕̦̖̖́͘ͅǹ͙o̴̬̺̻̘̻̞͈̪t̴̢͖̖ ̵̷̺͇̬̖̼͔̱̬j̨̹̰͖͎̖͓̮͘ṵ̣̝͓̹̩d̨͚͍͕͓͠g҉̠͔̹̥̤͙̲̫í̶̩͎͕͕̝̣̥n̙̯̭̻͚̳͘͝ͅg̣ ̺̟̟̭̠̱͕̮͡è̶̳í̺̩̱̯͉͓͕͜t̟̦ͅh̠͇͚̫e̶̡̦͓͓̜̣̪͉̣͓͘r̶̟̭̜͘ ̮̫̫͇͔͍̰̝͘w̷̮̗̖͔á̤̺͜y̵̘͓̻̱̗͉̟̝̝.̨̨͇̮̫̟͈͍͖ ̵̗̼͖͞I̜͖͝͝͝t̡̥̼̘̺̗́ ͏͇͖̤̯̩̙i̢̳͙͝s̘̝͟ ̸̣͢ń̸҉̝̩̝̠̺a̵͇͜t̡̟̝̪͓̯u͍̱̲͍̮̳̜̱̥͢͜r̗̻̦̥͘͜a̴̸̮̹̘̖̺̰͇l͠҉̶̗̗̲ ͕͇̤̖͢t̤̥̲ǫ̗͎͙̹͇̱͞ ̛̠̞̙̺̘̬c̼͉͇̪̤h̶̼͓̹̕̕a̵̛̰̻n̵͎͕̫̻̝̲̘̞͟ͅg͏҉̠̫̦̳e͞҉͈͕̺͚̟̗̼ͅ.̧͈̗ ̶̨̹̳̪̥̱̗́I̸̶͔͖̖̪̤̜ ̙̟̪̟̥͉d̠͖̣̺͢͡a̮̪̗̞̗̫̠̤ͅt̰̖̙̫̼̭͚̙͝e̢̗̞̬͙̝̠̫d̺̯̱̟͈́ ̥̲ṯ̪͍̼̞̜͇̮ḩ̶̘͕̱i҉҉̮ś̡̲̖̗́ ̨̭̺͜g̴̗̺̰̺̪̞̰̱͘͝i͈̫̳͓͘͢r̭̺̪̖̜̯͟l̢̡̗̞̥̙ͅ ͎͉͈̗̤̳̀ơ̺̺͚͉̞̠͝͞n҉̣̗̘͜͞c̷̩̪̖̙͕e̶̘͉̕.̘̯͍͕͈̪͘ ̡̮̝̣̭̻̠̠N̸̛̯̫̟̫͍ò̴̴̻̯w̟͉ ̡̺̱̹͎̫̤̦h̡̘̬̲̳̝̰͉̞e̡̺̼͔'̧̰̲͚̣̪͉͈͞s̫̠͉͓͜ ̢̀͏͚͇ạ̴̥͓̣̤ ̺̟͚̬̙͙ͅb̵̸̟̹͈̖͡o̷͓͓̟͍̬̲̯͡y̙̹.͚̙̜͕̯̬̲͇͝ ҉̸̤̫̹͓̝̞T̵͓̬̺͉̭͓̕͜h̗̯̟̜̳̦̼̀ͅa̢̹͉̜̩͘ͅt̬̻̯͕͞ ̥̤̱͎̻͈͈͟i̧͙͍̪̲s͍̺͘͜ ̷̹s͏̡̙̟̙̺̤̠̼͎i̡̼͎̙̱͖̭ͅm̸̹̹̺̘͍̻p̭̜̠̭̮̱͞͞ļ̖̫͠ͅy̪͞ ̺̫͇͉̻̼̩h͇̣͚̹̜͈͜ǫ̵̭͈̠w͏̷̜ ͏͓̮̘̳̯̼͢t̷̮̠̀̕h͚͍i̛͙̼͡n͔͉͙͉͉̕͞g͓̪͘͡s̫͎͕̠͈͓͢ ̝̟́a̶̛̞͉͕̼͚̻̩̺̟͡r̸̰͉̯̭̹̞͖͙͠e͎̙͓̗.̴̳̺̤̞̝̤͉̥ ͇͍̭̲̠̹Ù̥͞ͅp̸̺̠͟͞ ̵̟͇̥̟̹̯̘a̘͙͟n̞̘͎̕͜͠d̸̛̪̘͝ ̫̲͇̳̙̝͢d̷͙̪̲̺o̜͚̱̖w̡̢̤̟͡n̼͔͡.͏̺̤͈̖̙͍͙ ̷̢̙̗͈̯͙̫̙̖D̷͇̝̜a̠̘̻̮y̪̣̜͔̭͞ ̺͉̘̦̙̬̲̝̳a̘̟̙̖̘͉̘̩n͕̘̝̩̲̼͝d̹̳̥̀ ̶̷̜̙̟̭͓̬̺̖͈ǹ̞̣̼̻̥͈̗̣i̶̳͔͈̫͘ͅg̴̛̫͍͚̻͍̬̞h̵̨̝͔̥̙̩͓͟ț͎̪̖̭̰̩̬͞.̶͓͈͔̜̹̻͚͕̕ͅ ̵̟͓͙̩͓N̛͖̦̼̭̙̣̪͔͝o̶̵̼̘̩̦̮͉͍w̵̲̫̪̪̳ ̤̬̫̺̪̺Į̰̬̝͉'͖͍͓͉͓ͅm̳̞͘ ͖̹̪͔͖̳̫w̶̜̥͇͞r̢̛̭i̢͉͍͘t̨͇̞͖͇̹͉͇̭̣i̧̟͈̕n̜͟͜͞g̮̹͇̼̬͙̟̼̯̀́ ҉͖̳̹̘̠̪̜͇t̸͖̮̮̖̟ḫ̴̳̮͢i̶͖̱͍̹͕͡s̶̞͇͍͠ ̢͎̳͚a̷̫̱̹̭n͓̫̜͜d̞̫͕̘̞̼̩͞͡ͅ ̧̟̺͉̣̪̙n҉̡̭̤̺͈è̵̯͍͔̻̹̪̱x̛̦̘͎͔̟͚t̴̡̜͙̮̲̻͟ ҉̻̝͙Í͉͍̭ ̸̩̲̰̺̺w͙̼̫͢i̯̥̦̻̯͡ͅḷ̨̣̳͙̪ḻ̤ ͉̰̦̪͔̣͔̤̀͞n̻̤̝͔͖ơ̴̪̟̬͙̱̣t̼̞́ ̠͉̳b̠̱̠̣̳̫̦̮́e̷̺̜̩͎̣ͅ!̧̳͍̖̘̘̫́ ̝̜̙̗͔T̥̹̀̀͟h̖͇͕͔̣͢ą͉̞͙̣͎̰͔̝͚͢t̛͙͞ ̸̀͏̥̜i̵̢͍̞̩̪̬̯̜̫̥s̶̲̤̻̟̝͓ͅ ̨̟̟́a̖̘̫͈ ̷̩̱̗͓̘̯͙̩͜͝c͏̶̢͍̰̘͉̘̟h̝̱á̲̼͔̩̜͙n̶̸̶̪̝̫͍̦̳g̵҉̣̜̦͇ȩ̴̦͇̫͔̭̲͙͎̰͡,̼̦͍̫̲̬̟̩̹ ̨̫̦͚͠á̮ĺ̴̘̞̳̬̲̱̗̬͢s̡̡͏̹̮̬o̮̯̘̱̦̼.̛͖͓̭̝̟͟͟ ͔͉́́͟A̛̙̞h̭͎̼͡ ̡̼̣̠̘̤͉ẁ̵̦̻̘͓̰ͅḛ͎̟͙̤̞l̶̴̠̝̯̮̟͟l̷͍̲̻͞ͅ.̻̰͔̻̗̲̗͝ͅ ̱̫̪͔̥̠̫N̩̠̪͔͔̭͙͢͠ó͏͍̭̠̹̝̹͉͓͔w̺̳̟̭͓͜͡ͅ ̵̴̺̭̠̘͠I͏̹͇̜́ ͏͏͚̘͉̱̱h̸̸͎͇͎̙̘͉͝a͖̞̤͘͢v̲́e̵͍̼̹͎̟̭̠̥͎ ̛͓͉t̘̳͈̬͈̘͚̦̞o̳͔͡͡ ͎͍͞g̨̠͚̜̹̝͢ǫ̭͔͙̩̥͎͡.̹̱̥̗̞̕ͅ ̸̴͈͉̘̼̭̗D͍̗͈̟ǫ̪͇̰͕͍ ̖̼̰̹͖͓͓t̶̰̮̀a͝͏̠͉͇̤ķ͇͓͇̝e̖̗͍̫̬͇̱̥̕̕ ̶̡͉̳͍͖͓̭c̥̬̹̱͎̮͍̘͡͡a̴̢̨͕r̝͓̗̬è͏̭̦


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

Letters from the Surface: Part XII
The Chase
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I chased the criminal. His movements were quick, but not quick enough. As I entered my townhouse, I caught up with him, and shanked him.

Some of the urchins, later, came up to me and asked why the parlor smelt like blood. I gave no answer.

I read one of my letters. I would have, anyway, but a Special Constable opened the door. I was accused of permanent manslaughter.

This is bad.

Shadowy is increasing...
Dangerous is increasing...
An occurrence! Your "Suspicion" quality is now 10- Imprisoned!
At War With a Single Person has increased to 3!
An occurrence! Your "Letters from the Surface" quality is now 12!
You have moved to a new area: New Newgate Prison-Again!



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

Rubbery Symphony Bewilders Her Majesty’s Court; Critics Stunned, Silent

The most recent work of the Court’s artist-in-residence incorporated a rather bold factor, that is, it was inspired and played by a troupe of Rubbery Men. The gentlepeople of the court were stunned, to the point of no reviews having come out to this day as the critics, presumably, lay in their beds, contemplating the art they had witnessed.

From our end, we are not afraid! It was a wonderful performance by the Rubbery troupe. While their ability wit the instruments was limited, their passion and pure joy of the act were what brought this piece to the status of truly high art. The tune itself was jaunty, but solemn, energetic, but yearnful. We cannot wait for more such pieces to appear, and wish the best to the musicians.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Should I let her know?
Uncertain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Uncertain,
Things are never as simple as they seem, I know. Do not hide from your feelings.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/23/2019

--
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.


Gone NORTH.

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