#fallen london writing

[staring-at-my-keyboard]

A Companionable Evening

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The lovely @torturingpeople and I decided it would be really cute if his tender pathologist and my Atlas read together some evenings in the hotel, and I got carried away with it. Both of our characters are chronically sleep-deprived but they can have some peace, as a treat.

OC intros

POV: Tender Pathologist

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Fluff

Light Angst

TWs

⇾ drug mention (laudanum)

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As I spent an increasing amount of time with Atlas, cultivating our unlikely yet pleasant friendship, one of the things we shared in common became increasingly clear:

We were both very, very tired.

For me it was due to the combination of perpetual stress that was the inevitable result of being in Dr. Hanna’s orbit for an extended period of time, my frequent taking of laudanum, and a rather poor sleeping schedule— when sleep is not interrupted by seizures or nightmares.

For Atlas it could have been any number of reasons, although from what I knew about him it was fairly safe to assume nights were no kinder to him than I.

Regardless of the cause, our shared fatigue was something I took an odd comfort in: behold, I was not alone in my struggles. There was someone near me that understood the absurd amount of willpower it sometimes took to rise from a chair, or to summon speech. Silent reading became an enjoyable shared pastime of ours, and I admit that my grin was not altogether dignified when he told me I was the only other person besides Thomas that they truly enjoyed doing so with.

Often enough to be a pattern, but not often enough to be constantly expected, Atlas— or more rarely, albeit by a small margin, I— would drift to sleep on the shared chesterfield. The other would take the lowered book, mark the page, and tuck a blanket over loose shoulders. The inaugural gesture was my own when Atlas fell asleep in front of me for the first time, Atlas then replicated it in kind when he witnessed my slumber, and it had become a tradition. Evenings like that were infrequent and therefore cherished, as oftentimes Atlas would be out or working, and I would already be turned in for the night or recovering from the latest tonic-clonic seizure, if not drifting on a sea of laudanum.

One particular instance of this pastime sticks out to me as an especially fond memory, and I am sure you will soon see why. It was an evening like any other of its sort, me flipping through a sort of sensational fiction work called a ‘penny-dreadful’ that Atlas introduced to me as he read some monograph, when I noticed him begin to nod off in the corner of my vision. A fond grin twitched at the corners of my mouth, only to immediately disappear with surprise when Atlas’ head dropped onto my shoulder as opposed to the arm of the couch. 

I froze, unsure of what to do, knowing his aversion to touch and unsure if I should wake him, or if that would only cause pointless distress. When I accidentally shifted as I deliberated, however, Atlas only released a sigh, and I decided to leave him be. It was not long before I myself began to feel fatigue’s pull at my eyelids, and leaving little room for doubt I allowed myself to lay my head upon Atlas’ own. It was surprisingly comfortable, him being at just the right height to prevent my neck from needing to maintain an especially strained position, and my eyes were swift to close.

Hours later found my back to be the stiffest it had ever been.

That was some of the best sleep I have ever gotten.

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[artisanoftheredscience]

Been awhile since ive posted here so. Uh. Mem

[wantedbythemasters]

I was going to have April briefly appear in something I’m writing and I think I’ll have her use sign language? I know canonically she communicates with writing but sign language did exist by Victorian times, though it was discouraged to be used, but maybe that taboo doesn’t exist in the Neath. Especially since there are other non Victorian England cultures present that influence Fallen London.

[elleryhart]

there once was a person whose teeth chomped in fight rings of the Neath they were lanky and tall saw writing on a wall and absorbed the nightmares it would bequeath

[violant-apologia]

thinking about mithridacy as a treacherous breakdown of logic itself...

not simply implying falsehoods using truths, but constructing an argument with factual proofs and sound logic to reach a false conclusion.

it's impossible in our world (like the other advanced stats), but you can imagine someone looping an argument around impossibilities inherent to the neath and using that to draw whatever conclusion they like from the facts

[thedeafprophet]

The Players Of The Last Game Of The Marvellous

So last summer I did a lineup drawing of The Light Fingers crew, so i thought it'd be fun to do another lineup this year.

This time i tackled the main characters from Heart's Desire, including my own PC in order to not have the poor monkey tiny on the ground next to everyone

[zeebreezin]

A Reputation of Some Importance:

Months of planning have gone into this moment. You stand atop one of London’s crooked rooftops, and wait for a ship to pull into dock. The sensation of standing atop a precipice strikes you, of a hundred men scattered across the continent and beyond at your back, of the people you know will venerate this day, even if they never know you. You can almost see it, the Moonlit Chessboard’s spectral pieces sliding across the Zee. Power courses hungry in your vines. White is in Check. Your move. This action will define your reputation, for better or worse. Be sure you’re ready to do this.

A Chancy Challenge Your Watchful + A Player of Chess quality gives you a 55% chance of success.

-> Let It Be Enough.

Checkmate (success!)

The plan is a delicate one. Weeks were spent on the bait alone, engineering a craze for cut rubber jewellery that would lure the Belgian King to celebrate the sudden influx of wealth, stolen from their colonies’ resources & the people that slaved for them. A Reckless Playwright and their many Trendsetting Sycophants become pieces on the board, and soon the tasteless trend takes hold. A few in Brussels convince their king to descend, to shake a few hands below, a show of solidarity with a weak and grasping city. And so, it begins. Matadi, Mombasa, Luanda, Khartoum. Written games of chess are carried through the jungle & across the savanna, moves marked by the banks of the Nile. Forces inside the Congo and out are ready. The reports of the atrocities are drafted, journalists arriving in Brussels while the Belgian King descends below. Once the news is confirmed, the word will break. The Belgian King descends in an amusing display of poorly concealed exuberance. He does not stay for long - a party, a conversation with a few of the Ministry, a nod from the Traitor Empress. It’s unnecessary to your plan, but you seek him out. The disguise of house staff is an easy one to wear, a decade of training sliding on like a second skin. You say nothing to him, of course. But you look him in the eye. You trust only one Licenatiate for the job. The Ravenous Acumen has never failed you when it comes to methods of death, and the toxin is a precise thing. Applied delicately to the stem of a wine glass at the Belgian King’s last meal within the Shuttered Palace. He sets zail hours after. The poison will not kill for hours after application, a corrosion of some core drive leading to lethargy while at zee. It’s the timing that’s critical. Too early, and they risk the ship turning back towards London, towards palace doctors who will know what they see. Too late, and the toxin will be deemed impossible under the sun’s law, and be rendered inert. You see the White King tipping back in your dreams for days, slowly, slowly, slowly. The Belgian King lapses into unconsciousness just after his ship enters the canal. He is dead before the water bleeds into surface tone-blue. No cause of death will be found, laws bent against the forces of the White. No poison could do this, of course. He passed peacefully, in his sleep, and none above will know the agony he died in. Lawmakers arrive home to chaos, to demands for liberation. Belgium will try to hold the colony, of course, those far from the scene. You’ve catalogued their dreams, scandals, and left a bounty for the opportunists. Dossiers left in convenient locations, a flank unguarded. Red will snap up the blackmail, and break their front further. A willing and necessary sacrifice. But the Congo will stay free. All these things come to pass far from your cluttered study. The pieces fall one by one, and now others make moves of their own. Your work is far from over, and it may never truly be over. Much was lost for this, but much will be gained. So many, so far from you now, may finally know freedom, and that knowledge is as heavy as it is peaceful. Those in Wilmont’s End breathe whispers of a Tenebrous Rook, of the unknown that struck down a king. You raise a toast, alone in your study. Is it enough? Have you done enough? Have you earned what you have gained? Would she forgive you, for what you had to do to get here? On this night, at least, you know the answer.

[alexis-royce]

New Academic design for Firmament 2 tomorrow; they’re breaking out the finery to mask their sheer terror about the possibility of running into that thing again

[crow-caller]

I had fun with the crunchy collage but today got into more artsy design. So I've done like 10 pages. so. I'll do more and share them when ready :3c

Text is from Creatures Of Heaven, my Forbidden Ship fic

[staring-at-my-keyboard]

Haven pt 3

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part 1 . part 2

The longest installment and final part of @torturingpeople's tender pathologist coming to live with my own OCs! Just three fellows being soft.

OC intros

POV: Tender Pathologist

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Angst

Hurt/Comfort

Fluff

TWs

⇾ none!

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“If you could refrain from describing what… precisely occurred in that hallway with that man, I would appreciate it.” Thomas said to me quietly as we stood outside his and Atlas’ dark wood door.

“Oh, of course.” I nodded, trying to convince myself I was agreeing out of friendship and not fear of what would be done to me if I disobeyed.

We were standing in a dim, plushly-carpeted hallway between several apartments, one of which belonged to the couple that had dared to extend affection towards me. The building we were in was large, and apparently equally ornate inside as it was outside: elaborate carvings and ornamented sconces characterized the outer and inner walls, and the carpet beneath us was of a Persian pattern heavy on whites and blues (so different to red). If the main building were not enough, the polished wood of the door and shining metal doorknob set into the middle (an odd choice, although that seemed to be common through all the residences here) did well to suggest that where Thomas and Atlas lived was far from cheap; the pair were clearly well-off.

As I mused, Thomas withdrew a set of keys from somewhere on his person and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal an entry parlor of surprising size that still managed to have an air of coziness. As I looked around, noting the open kitchen set in the corner almost opposite of the entrance and the nearby dining table, I realized this was less of a parlor and more just the main area of the apartment.

The floor was soft and dark red, not quite reminiscent of blood, and the carpet cut off abruptly for the kitchen and table. In my direct line of sight from the door was a pair of rather opulent matching armchairs with an end table and lamp between them, all in front of a large marble hearth that had a smattering of rather expensive-looking keepsakes on the mantle, all below a gorgeous painting of a castle bathed in moonlight. Along the same wall as the hearth were bookshelves, stretching from floor to coffered ceiling, packed with tomes and the occasional barely-bound set of papers. The wall opposite of the door had a large chesterfield couch, standing lamp beside it and coffee table in front of it, that sat right next to a hallway extending further into the apartment.

In one of the armchairs sat Atlas, warmly lit by a roaring fire and book open in his lap, who had subtly jumped at Thomas and I’s entry.

“Mountain-Sherd, the pathologist is here! I have managed to wrest him from beneath that horrible man, and he has accepted a place with us.” Thomas declared happily.

Atlas quickly rose, flapping his hands gleefully as he approached us before taking my own. I noted with interest that, for the first time in my knowing him, he was not wearing gloves. The skin of his hands felt… odd, but before I could scrutinize them further an excited voice drew my attention back to his face.

“Marvelous! You can take the guest bedroom, for as long as you like! Perhaps we could change it to further suit your tastes over the duration of your stay. We shall read together every night if you wish, and take tea every afternoon. I will show you my lab, and perhaps you could resume your career.” His smile grew. “There is much to do together. I am glad you have decided to stay with us. I am glad to be your friend.”

My vision blurred, yet my immediate fear of having another seizure was promptly dissuaded by the feeling of moisture tracking down my cheeks.

I don’t think there had ever been an instance in my life that I cried from happiness before then.

I was as surprised as I’m sure Atlas was alarmed, his excited speech becoming a litany of apologies and inquiries as to what was wrong. I could only sob in response as I brought my hands to my face in a vain attempt to wipe away what was now a waterfall of tears bursting from my eyes.

“Thank you.” I barely managed to choke out, far beyond the point of feeling any humiliation over my broken voice.

I was promptly pulled into an embrace. While I could not see for the life of me, the superior height led me to realize it was Thomas who had wrapped me within his arms. My sobs only grew stronger when I realized just how alien the feeling of a warm, genuine hug was. I managed to summon the strength to wrap my own arms around the man that held me, and as I clutched at his jacket and wept into his shoulder he swayed us from side to side.

“Go on, go on.” He muttered into my ear. “You are safe now.”

Not realizing it was even possible until after the fact, I cried even harder as relief and joy and stress and fear, along with the exhaustion I never allowed myself to show, descended upon me like collapsing stone.

We stayed like that for a length of time that was impossible to determine, only measured by the weakness in my legs and the sizable damp spot I left in the fabric of Thomas’ clothing once my tears finally ran dry. 

I drew away; despite the thought of remaining enfolded within those arms forever being a rather appealing one, I knew it was equally illogical. That and, some small part of me dared to imagine, hugs would not be the scant rarity that they always were before.

Thomas’ gaze bore into mine, but it was not with the all-pervading cruelty or expectation of obedience characteristic of Dr. Hanna’s own stares– no, it simply held a tender concern, the utter darkness of his eyes providing a lovely contrast to what I was used to.

“I am alright.” 

Neither of us knew if that were true, but I imagine he dared to hope it would be as much as I. Maybe one day I would be completely rid of that writhing, rotting part of myself that was disgusted by the distance– this betrayal– of Dr. Hanna; that insisted I return, that hoped with a giddy fear and misplaced loyalty that if I went back quick enough he would show mercy, if he even noticed my absence (of course he would notice my absence).

Maybe one day.

For that moment, however, I simply did my best to brush it aside and bury it deep, refusing to acknowledge its babbling as Atlas approached with an offered mug of tea. The saucer below it held a small collection of snacks and sugar cubes, and Atlas’ own face held a comforting smile that still brimmed with nervous worry.

“You’ve said nothing wrong.” I found myself reassuring him, taking the offered porcelain. “I was simply… overwhelmed. It was a positive overwhelm though; I don’t think I’ve ever cried from happiness before.”

“It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?” Thomas piped up in a light tone as he and Atlas began shepherding me to the dining table. “My own first time experiencing such a thing was with him, as well. I still recall how terrified he was that he had done something horribly wrong.”

“Of course I was terrified!” Atlas replied as we sat– Thomas beside me, him opposite us– the choler in his tone undercut by an embarrassed amusement. “Imagine giving a gift you are unsure of, and the reaction of the recipient is to burst into tears!”

Thomas only hummed fondly before reaching across the table with an open hand. Atlas accepted.

“You give people so much joy, my heart, that they are unsure of what to do with it. You are lovelier than words can express.”

Atlas blushed, and smiled like a newlywed, before leaning forward to bring his partner’s hand to his lips.

You would be forgiven for assuming me to feel bitter, or awkward at this display, but for some reason I did not. That automatic desire to seek out Dr. Hanna was still present but significantly reduced; something about the way Thomas and Atlas treated each other, something about how they openly viewed the way Dr. Hanna treated me, helped me begin the long journey of realizing that I myself would receive far more genuine affection at the hands of this odd, besotted Victorian couple than than what was even possible from Dr. Hanna.

My heart settled, and I smiled from behind my mug of tea. Thomas’ earlier words rang in my head.

'You are safe now.'

[3/3]

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[artisanoftheredscience]

Incident Reports From An Unidentified Revolutionary

@fallenlondonficswap @the-avaricious-meddler

Hi Void! I'm the person who got you for the Secret Swap! I had a lot of fun with this prompt, so I hope you enjoy the fic! :) I've also posted it to A03, which you can find here. The fic will be under the cut. Enjoy!

Prompts Used: The Masters, Revolutionaries, Light Fingers related content, Games

Incident Report for March 18XX 

Writing this from an undisclosed location. Please destroy your copy of this once you’ve read it. Can’t afford to blow my cover. 

I’ve ingratiated myself into a Ministry’s internal affairs department. I won’t say which, for security reasons, but let’s say that it has provided me with much closer access to the Bazaar. I hope to study their movements and provide clearer information about the suspected activities of MF.  MF’s sudden interest in certain industries must mean something, though as of yet I cannot determine what. I am under the impression this may be an attempt to encroach on MSP’s territory- infighting, perhaps?  Given that MF and MSP have not been outwardly hostile before, I can only imagine there is more going on there. 

Infighting could be good for the cause, but I worry too much will destabilise London before we are ready to deal with the consequences. Total liberation cannot be achieved if half the city is obliterated by a tyrant’s temper tantrum. Again. Back to the usual reporting- today under the guise of delivering permits, I snuck into the back of one of MF’s processing plants and witnessed an unusual altercation. MP had apparently been visiting; abnormal behaviour, as MF and MP are not allies as far as we are aware. We may need to look into that- I will see if some recent censorship has MF’s grubby fingerprints on it. The Ministry of Public Decency has been used for governmental overreach by other Masters before. Perhaps MF needed something covered up. Then again, no such conversation was had. It was mostly pointless, unnecessary bickering. Perhaps the two have some dispute. I will have to ask those who keep a closer eye on MP if it has been acting strangely lately. Perhaps something to do with the printing presses? They are technically machines- MF may have some claim, whether real or imagined. That could be an interesting angle to work if we wanted to pit them against one another. 

Regardless, the conversation was mostly whispered, so I did not get a clear picture of what exactly they were arguing about. I have a feeling it may come in handy to get a better idea later.  I will have to ask around and see what I can find. 

I will report with more information later. For now, au revoir. May the month serve you well. 

Collected Notes on The Frigid-Hearted Professor

I have been hearing reports through a mutual associate that there has been reported engagement between MW and The Frigid-Hearted Professor (henceforth abbreviated Professor FH). Professor FH is not usually the type to become involved in any of MW’s ventures, which is why this stood out to me. 

His history is much easier to find than I would have expected. Respectable background, sudden and intense fall from grace alongside the fall from the Surface, a rocky history, a brief period of something resembling a normal life, and then he completely fell off the map. It’s a tale as old as time, down here. The Neath takes as much as it gives. In this case, it has definitely given more than it has taken. I will admit I feel a bit sorry for the poor fellow. I cannot imagine the isolation is doing him any favours. Well, I would feel sorry for him. He has been, according to various sources, buying up a great deal of Black Wing Absinthe. Which is likely not a good sign. I am not as familiar with the stuff, but I have a contact who has dealt with past Vake Hunters. They are… not the easiest people to get along with. Something about that one specific bounty drives people to lengths most would consider untenable. The reward money is a great deal of money, enough for most people to live comfortably for the rest of their lives, and for future generations to do so as well.  Still, I don’t think I believe that is what is drawing Professor FH to this particular hunt. From what little I’ve learned about him, I don’t think money is a particularly strong motivator. I mean, he lives in the Marshes. I can think of few places worse to live in than those awful, awful marshes. 

I digress. When I discovered the issue of the Black Wing Absinthe, I presumed that MW had been keeping an eye on his purchases and was perhaps monitoring the situation itself. Which would be unusual, but alcohol of all kinds does fall under its domain. Perhaps MW suspects some sort of illegal smuggling? Given Professor FH’s history of (admittedly petty) crime, that is not entirely unlikely, though I doubt it would have been enough to warrant such personal attention. MW is not the kind of Master to do its own work. It has servants for that. 

Perhaps some other plot of its has Professor FH as a key element? Who knows. It may very well simply have hired him for some sort of work. It would not be the first time for such things. Either way, I suggest we keep an eye on their interactions until we can know for certain. Whatever Professor FH and MW are getting up to, it could be troublesome. I would not like to have to work around the two of them if they were in league with one another. 

Either way, however, there’s nothing much I can do for now. I will send a follow-up if I learn more. May the month serve you well. 

Incident Report for May 18XX

I’m sending this letter more as a warning than a formal report. Please follow standard protocol with this missive once you’ve read it. 

MW and MSP are fighting again. It appears to be more viscous than their usual fare, which leads me to believe it will begin to bleed out across several areas of London. Commerce, at the very least, will likely be tense for some time. I’d also suggest informing any operatives working closely under/around either to take caution. Now seems like a very good time to get one’s head severed from their body for minor offences. MW and MSP were spotted in a small stretch of processing facilities in Spite; I believe there was disputed Ministry territory nearby, and they had come to sort something out, only to end up in a conflict. They left the area rather disturbed- I believe that factory will remain abandoned for some time. 

I managed to get close enough to record their conversation. Below is a transcription of their conversation. Read at your own risk. 

MW: We think you are being purposefully obstinate to get a rise out of Us, and We will not be falling for the bait. We have better things to do than feed into your delusions. MSP: I’m the delusional one? Me? You must have hit the bottle too hard today. I am being perfectly rational in my demands. 

MW: We will concede nothing! You have not won. You are the one insisting that We give up something that is rightfully Ours. 

MSP: You are such a sore loser. One would think with how often one has lost in all things, that you would have gotten used to it by now. MW: We are- no. We have already said our piece. You are pressing your luck. You always do this! You always insist on being covetous- first with your encroachment on our territory, and now with this petty dispute of yours. It is a bad look on you. MSP: You are just too frightened of facing the consequences of your own failings. I suppose I cannot have expected better from you of all people. Your own failings got you stuck down here, and you’d rather play at being allies than actually-

MW; We are done with this conversation! We have nothing else to say to the likes of you. If you wish to whine some more, we suggest finding someone who will care to listen, because it will not be us. 

MSP: You are running away with your tail between your legs! Again! Upset because I am right-

MW: Good day!

After this exchange, MW stormed off and MSP began to look a little twitchy, so I made the decision to get out of the building before it started on a rampage of its own. As you can see, something has definitely happened between the two of them. I am unsure as to what, but it spells terrible things for London’s immediate safety. I will report back with more information once I’ve determined what has caused such intense conflict.

May the month serve you well. 

Compiled Notes on The Avaricious Meddler 

Recently I’ve received reports of rumours involving supposed fighting between The Avaricious Meddler (henceforth abbreviated AM) and MF. This intrigued me, so I have decided to do some digging into the matter.

The first thing I ought to note is that it is extraordinarily hard to pin down a consistent history for AM. Frankly, I could not even tell you how old they are. It does not help that AM has a decent enough cover-identity that discovering what they are up to at any given moment is near impossible. Though, I do find that particular skill of theirs highly intriguing. Would that half the people I know were so good at blending in. We’d lose far less operatives, surely. 

Regardless, what I can tell you is that they appear to be causing MF a world of trouble. I have never seen MF so obviously irritated. Well, more so than usual. MF is always irritated. I cannot speak to what AM is doing to cause this- I have noticed one of MF’s usual henchmen, whose name I dread even abbreviating in case it summons him like an evil spirit, has been suspiciously active. Not in his usual ways- activity at the Docks has slowed down considerably. No, something else is going on there. I would bet both my arms that it has to do with AM’s sudden uptick in activity. Perhaps AM has stolen something? Foiled some plan? Skipped out on coal taxes one time too many? I will have to ask around some.

Perhaps I will ask around the University. There has been some kind of hubbub in those circles as of late. I cannot say for sure any of these facts are connected, but one never knows? In this line of work, I’d not rule anything out. 

And until I get confirmation on just what AM is planning, I will have to discreetly keep an eye out for them. I wonder if I can get into some of their usual haunts. I’m not one for the rooftops myself, but they have been spotted around Urchins a number of times. Maybe one of them will speak to me. That is all I have to share for now. May the month serve you well. 

Incident Report for June, 18XX

I witnessed today an encounter between MH and MV that may be another sign of the increased infighting between the various parties in London. 

MH and MV are not a pair I usually see in my observations. MH is not the most sociable of them, from what I have gathered, or at the very least keeps odd hours, and MV is volatile enough that most of the others avoid it. And yet there they were, outside a set of factories in Spite, conversing. If I did not see it with my own two eyes I would not have believed it. 

I immediately set myself up to continue observing. In Spite, pretending to be engrossed in the fabric market is an excellent way to keep oneself faded into the background. I did end up having to buy several yards of cheap linen, but it was worth it to get a sense of what they were talking about.

It seemed to be a rather heated argument of some kind. I couldn’t get enough of it to compile a transcript- MV speaks rather low at times- but the gist of it seemed to be about a debt to be repaid. Perhaps those rumours of MV’s struggling factories were not too far off. I ought to look into it. Another project for the list. Whatever the case may be, the reminder seemed to upset MV, worse than usual. MH was as jovial as ever, perhaps moreso. It must be owed a great deal. Or it delights in causing its companion grief. 

It said something further to its companion, and this seemed to be some sort of tipping point. MV got in extraordinarily close, and then it appeared to bite MH.  Admittedly I nearly blew my cover out of shock. I know that MV has never been the most sociable of the Bazaar, but I never in my life would have expected to see it bite another of its fold in public. It must be under a special sort of duress. 

Whatever this debt of its is, it must be causing a great deal of trouble. Perhaps we can use this. I will endeavour to find out what is going on so that we might use it to further our own goals. Until then, may the Month serve you well.

Incident Report for July, 18XX

I am going to quit this life and flee back to the Surface to raise goats in some far-flung mountain. 

I have been investigating the aforementioned incidents that have been plaguing London as of late. It’s tedious, stressful work, wading through records about trade and any odd rumours about their activities. It’s been a lot of work, but I hadn’t made much progress. Until today. I met up with someone who works rather closely with one of the Masters. They’re by no means a confidante, but they hear much more than the average Londoner. I chanced asking them about my research, and they looked rather tired for a moment. They then proceeded to explain that for the past several months, the Masters have all been at one another’s throats over a disagreement. I asked what kind, and after a long period of silence they explained that the Masters had, in a moment of unexpected levity, deigned to play a game of cards together. This had, apparently, gone horribly. As in, broken furniture, bones, and alliances horribly. Some of them are still not even speaking to each other. Every Ministry has felt the effects of their terrible moods. 

Hearing this admittedly made me want to slam my head through the table. Which means all of this infighting, all of these strange shadowy movements, all of the anxiety I have experienced in the past few months, all of it was because of a game of cards!? And not even one of the important ones!?

What a waste of time. Well, at least now we know what has been happening. Perhaps they will get over this petty squabble soon. Perhaps something new will have them all taking sides again, and the cycle will keep continuing until the next city falls on our heads. It doesn’t matter. All we can be sure of is that they will continue to be a problem until our plans succeed. 

I don't even know who will read this. My lines have been dead for weeks. I may be the only one left in this circle. No matter. I will keep doing my job. I will keep my eyes on the shadowed movements of our oppressive tyrants and my fingers in every plot to thwart them. For all of London’s sake, the show must go on. May the month serve you well. 

[thegreatyin]

communal correspondence lessons are going great, thanks guys

[gmalaart]

[A letter is left amidst the rubble of your old apartment, carefully addressed and really rather conspicuous amongst the ashes.]

Dear Mr. Hollingworth,

If this letter reaches you somehow, congratulations on not being actually dead. If it does not then congratulations on being the first to achieve true death and have me be a witness! Either way, there is much to be celebrated.

I am going to assume that our brief relationship as physician and patient has come to an end, so I will leave my notes on your case here for your perusal, in case you decide to go to another medical practitioner in the future and might need the material I collected.

Attached is also the bill for the last session we ever shared together, though you will notice I cut the cost down considerably since my service was lacking enough that you might have ended up a pile of soot on the ruined carpet. I must admit, that thought ruffles my feathers quite a bit so if you are really alive somewhere, do let me know that I wasn’t such a failure to drive my patient to self immolation.

If you are indeed dead, disregard that last request.

Enjoy yourself, wherever and whether you are.

Ever your servant,

Dr. E. Cavendish

[house-of-mirrors]

Entering Parabola unintentionally is all too easy. Entering with purpose is a greater challenge, but not outside the skill set of most people. Exiting Parabola when you haven't attracted its fickle attention is simple enough, but leaving when it hasn't decided to let you go is most difficult indeed. [...] Leaving too quickly will have a deleterious effect on your body and psyche. You may not develop nitrogen bubbles in your blood, but dreams can still hurt you. Shards accumulate in the mind, and phantoms can follow you to the waking world. The mirror is hungry and takes from those who try to bypass its channels.

Happy birthday to @the-insouciant-scientist with this fic about traveling through Parabola! I had fun exploring this setting, crafting prose, and integrating the Neathbow.

Read it here

[esteemed-excellency]