I am super interested.
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Don't Tread On Me
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With Spencer
The Adorable Streetrat does not follow you to your table. She looks at you, her face marred with surprise and frustration in equal measure. As you look at her after sitting down, you notice another pair of urchins has materialized, two older boys in a similar state of apparent poverty. Neither looks older than 13. They share the look of irritation and surprise, and begin to walk off with a confident, speedy pace, melting into the crowd without issue.
The girl stays a moment longer. "Yer not gonna las' long 'ere, guv, wiv that friendly lark. Word o' advice, is all, it won't work ou' fer ya most o' the time". Having apparently spoken her part, she leaves at a much faster pace, running through the crowd, sewing back and forth like a needle, and disappearing on a route presumably to a nearby alley leading into the city. A few moments later, a silhouette flashing across one of the buildings abutting the back street.
The piece of paper, once opened, is likely not what was expected either. A crudely drawn face, looking like it was scribbled by a child, covers most of the faded sheet, with the words 'Comizerations from the Lamp-Street Urchins', the misspelling accompanied by terrible handwriting and uneven letter size. Your wallet still sits in your pocket, jostled slightly but otherwise unmolested.
With Miles
The Precocious Peddler's face shifts as you speak, belying his familiarity with the excuse. Regardless, the smile persists, and disengaging from your embrace brushes his attire down and speaks in the same smooth voice he employed before. "You're accent's strange, my sunny friend. We don't get many of whatever type you are down here, that's a fact. Do you even know what an Echo is? I expect not: well, I figure it's my civic duty to give you the tour of pecuniary affairs down here. Echoes're minted by the Bazaar, reputable sorts like myself trade in them. Not everyone's as straight laced, you see, and so there's a fair number of currencies round here. Anarchists'll tell you Echoes are for Bats, and some scoundrels believe them. Glim, purple crystals'll get you places. Rings of Rostygold'll buy dangerous favors, Jade'll get you others. Secrets and pieces of information're as good as real gold down here, 'specially to the right listener. There's Brass too, but I'd never recommend dealing with them red-eyes, last of all to a surfacer. Anystreet, the Mandrake's not too hard to find."
The man details directions quickly and clearly, and you find yourself remembering them easier than you thought you would. You're apparently only a half an hour at most from the Mandrake, if the Peddler is to be believed. He hands you a business card with an address, 'Widow's Tea Parlor, basement, back room, knock five times', and leaves with a wave, making a beeline for a more Neathy-looking couple. While he leaves he turns his head to speak. "Good luck there, new friend: Mandrake's an odd place, full of valued customers. I'd stay away from anyone looking to poetic, and try not to talk to a Bohemian, if you want my advice". He waves, and is gone.
The Adorable Streetrat does not follow you to your table. She looks at you, her face marred with surprise and frustration in equal measure. As you look at her after sitting down, you notice another pair of urchins has materialized, two older boys in a similar state of apparent poverty. Neither looks older than 13. They share the look of irritation and surprise, and begin to walk off with a confident, speedy pace, melting into the crowd without issue.
The girl stays a moment longer. "Yer not gonna las' long 'ere, guv, wiv that friendly lark. Word o' advice, is all, it won't work ou' fer ya most o' the time". Having apparently spoken her part, she leaves at a much faster pace, running through the crowd, sewing back and forth like a needle, and disappearing on a route presumably to a nearby alley leading into the city. A few moments later, a silhouette flashing across one of the buildings abutting the back street.
The piece of paper, once opened, is likely not what was expected either. A crudely drawn face, looking like it was scribbled by a child, covers most of the faded sheet, with the words 'Comizerations from the Lamp-Street Urchins', the misspelling accompanied by terrible handwriting and uneven letter size. Your wallet still sits in your pocket, jostled slightly but otherwise unmolested.
With Miles
The Precocious Peddler's face shifts as you speak, belying his familiarity with the excuse. Regardless, the smile persists, and disengaging from your embrace brushes his attire down and speaks in the same smooth voice he employed before. "You're accent's strange, my sunny friend. We don't get many of whatever type you are down here, that's a fact. Do you even know what an Echo is? I expect not: well, I figure it's my civic duty to give you the tour of pecuniary affairs down here. Echoes're minted by the Bazaar, reputable sorts like myself trade in them. Not everyone's as straight laced, you see, and so there's a fair number of currencies round here. Anarchists'll tell you Echoes are for Bats, and some scoundrels believe them. Glim, purple crystals'll get you places. Rings of Rostygold'll buy dangerous favors, Jade'll get you others. Secrets and pieces of information're as good as real gold down here, 'specially to the right listener. There's Brass too, but I'd never recommend dealing with them red-eyes, last of all to a surfacer. Anystreet, the Mandrake's not too hard to find."
The man details directions quickly and clearly, and you find yourself remembering them easier than you thought you would. You're apparently only a half an hour at most from the Mandrake, if the Peddler is to be believed. He hands you a business card with an address, 'Widow's Tea Parlor, basement, back room, knock five times', and leaves with a wave, making a beeline for a more Neathy-looking couple. While he leaves he turns his head to speak. "Good luck there, new friend: Mandrake's an odd place, full of valued customers. I'd stay away from anyone looking to poetic, and try not to talk to a Bohemian, if you want my advice". He waves, and is gone.
Well, it is a fairly true recreation of a Fallen London devil. If you want more in that vein, I cannot recommend Fallen London highly enough.
I'll get to work on a character sheet right now.
I'll get to work on a character sheet right now.
Before I get started on a character sheet, I'll just run this by you: counter-cultural 1920s-era Devil [since I figure hell time and earth time is not 1:1], hepcat, jazz-enthusiast, economics or music teacher, ardent capitalist, embodies Romanticism-esque infernal ideas of individualism and self-determination without the strong hand of oppressive government. Lesser demon, dislikes the aristocracy, wants to strengthen ties between the Inferno and Earth to stimulate trade and the exchange of ideas. May or may not be a devil-bee magically controlling a body made of paper.
I think I would be interested in this, but I do have a rather odd and derivative character in mind. We'll see what happens. Also, "Hey, Mick"
Super interested.
With Miles
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 Mandrake, 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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
With Spencer
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.
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 Mandrake, 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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
With Spencer
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.
A clarification about folks who have died: unless they drown, they don't really change for the worse when they come back to life. Most people cite a small headache, and a slightly more melancholy disposition, but other than that there are really no changes. A few mention having a lovely chat with a boatman, but this is largely held as superstition.
@Malkin@Henwen posted
@Malkin@Henwen posted
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