[u]With Miles[/u]

The streets of London are not as orderly as one would like. None are named helpfully, and you are sure you saw more than three sings reading "Traitor's Lane", each for a different street in a completely different part of the city. According to the directions, the journey from Wolfstack to the [i]Mandrake[/i], apparently located in a neighborhood called "Veilgarden", is just a half an hour walk up what surfacers know as the Thames but Londoners universally call the "Stolen River". The directions did not mention, however, the massive theater that would be passed by. It looked a domed Colosseum, all paneled in dark wood and rich gold embroidery, lit up like a bonfire in the stark contrast of the permanently-black sky. The people which spilled from it and gathered around it looked much different from the average citizen of the fallen city, the soot-marked or torn clothes replaced by colorful dresses and black suits, looking suitably dashing from even such a distance. 

As you round a corner and the crowd of wealth passes from your vision, you see a dapper looking man, tall and thin with a wiry mustache, clad in a slightly less rich suit than those around the massive hall. He sidles up to you quickly, matching your pace as you walk and standing at a distance he would no doubt call discrete, but would likely come off as 'presumptuous' or 'd----d close'. His voice is sultry and deep, a voice fit for the stage or public speaking, though hushed and subtle, in a casual tone despite the trickle of excitement you detect.

"Welcome to the Neath, surfacer. I hope you're enjoying London; even without the Empire she's the jewel of the world, you see. I would feel remiss as a Londoner if I did not offer you her most sublime and marvelous new commodity, the joy of artists and detectives the city over: Honey! Delicious and beautiful, and cheap at three spoons for an echo! A bargain for a newcomer to this wonderful city, you see."

The Precocious Peddler waits eagerly for your reply, his entire attention flatteringly invested in your next words.

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[u]With Spencer[/u]

After having been politely escorted from the boat by the zailors, eager to be done with their business, you find yourself in Wolfstack proper. Walking from the pier you find yourself at a wall of depots and shops, the waterside streets thronging with traffic. The quality of the crowd has improved, though not exceedingly, and though hard-looking zailors can still be spotted easily the crowd is more 'earnest blue-collar' than 'dangerous cut-throat'. For brief spells it is easy to forget that one is underground, the crowds of people still just everyday men and women trying to live their lives to the fullest. The rug is pulled from that illusion when Neathy peculiarities make themselves known; a man with a squid for a face and putrid green skin or some other nonsensical sight utterly alien to anyone but those who dwell in the darkness of this cavern beneath the world.

After having walked a few blocks, you hear a voice behind you. It is a small voice, from down near your waist, not two feet from you. It is a little girl's voice, marred by an accent at once both completely unfamiliar and absolutely indicative of destitute poverty. If you turn, you can see a small girl, fair skin and fair hair marred by soot and dirt, mismatched dirty faded clothes, each telling of the different radiant color that it used to be. She is short and thin, beady eyes and a scar on her left ear.

"'ear, guv, got a message for ya', real important he said". She holds a slightly crumpled piece of paper, dirtied by presumably her handprints, looking at it with an intense gaze, as though trying to commit the thing to perfect memory in just a short time.