#oR FEDUCCI??? DID THAT?????

[shazzbaa]

FELLAS IS IT GAY TO,

hilariously I actually initially won against Feducci, and went back to find out what happens when you lose. IT TOOK SIX TRIES (apparently sam REALLY didn't want to permadie for some reason, idk) which I am headcanoning as Samuel just going back over and over again because WHY DIDNT KILLING HIM WORK???? But this means that the big shock for me on actually finally losing was that Feducci makes 0 effort to justify the fact that he didn't permakill you. He lances you and you're immediately dead and he absolutely COULDVE just hacked u to pieces and he just???? didn't I guess????? Feducci what r u DOING

Anyway we all had a great time thinking about how very gay it is to impale a guy with an entire lance and pin him to a tree and then decide not to permanently murder him.

I had been planning to do more of the Persuasive route next; I'm sure Sam will be So Normal in high society after this.

(I'm having fun discovering Fallen London myself with friends, no info/explanations/future knowledge in reblogs, please! AND OMG THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO LEFT SO MUCH LOVE ON MY LAST SKETCH... YOU ARE ALL A DELIGHT, i had no idea there were so many feducci-likers LMAO)

[waterlogged-detective]

🖋for ask game for your OCs

Oc Asks

🖌️ - Do they have any hobbies?

Another of Doe’s hobbies is dueling! He believes it to be the gentlemanly way to settle arguments and definitely not because he has a crush on Feducci. Or that he keeps getting kicked to the Tomb Colonies and that’s all someone can do to keep themselves from being bored. Did I mention it’s not because of Feducci already? Doe would very much like to remind everyone of that fact. The fact that he doesn’t duel because of Feducci.

Oh man. Look at the time. Is it getting late? It’s definitely getting late. 2pm you say? Much too late. You’ll have to continue this conversation about how much Doe doesn’t like dueling because of Fe- oh man he forgot his name. He forgot his name because it isn’t important.

He does *not* have a crush on Feducci. Doesn’t even know who he is, in fact.

[sparingiscaring]

A meeting of the Grand Hellbound Railway convenes. The Unsettled Stalker has a proposal for the replacement of the Head of the Tracklayer's Union, and no one is happy with their choice.

(Or, a short, unproofread account of Wadiya's most recent board meeting, because it's funny to imagine)

That's what Wadiya expects, anyways. Her boardroom has been cultivated through trial and error, a board made not to find agreement easily, but to be predictable in their periodic disagreements. It made it easier, for the days when Wadiya's teeth danced in agitation, when their claws flexed and unflexed with some unknown stress, when their tongue felt sticky and ooze-covered, and when words did not come.

They knew their enemies well. Well enough to never cancel a meeting for something as trivial as "being unable to speak". Where one would agree, where one would disagree, it was as simple as flesh and blood were.

His Amused Lordship was concerned with money. More money, more agreement. Less, and the no came swiftly. And, grossly, he seemed more agreeable when Wadiya was... what did he say? "More presentable?" Bah. He'd earned his terrorization from their Steed.

April always agreed to what Wadiya was really interested in, and always raised her hackles and wrote against what Wadiya was only pushing through for the Company's sake. A good one. An honest one.

Feducci always agreed to bloodshed, and denied anything that removed it. This was a passenger railway company, so he was often unhappy. Just like April and Wadiya.

The Efficient Commissioner was the simplest of all. She never was happy. She always said no. Pulling of non-dancing teeth to find an "aye."

His Amused Lordship would say no until they cleaned the blood and viscera from their face. April would say no, because the Replacement wasn't challenging enough. Feducci would suggest the railroad funds be diverted into funding some thrilling bloodsport. And the Efficient Commissioner would say no.

Wadiya knew something was wrong with their proposal, read out by another in her stead, saw an immediate "aye!" from the Efficient Commissioner. And when His Amused Lordship looked at her gore-stricken face (she'd not had time to clean since the last hunt) and still gave a hearty agreement, without any pressing. Their nerves calmed somewhat with the pushback from Feducci - all was well and normal, insisting that the new Leader of the Union should be concerned more with sport and hunting and animal-wrangling than with anything else. One growl, and a tap to the little plaque reminding them of their job fixes that, although the man glares from behind his bandages, as he always, always does.

When Wadiya looks to April, they see the stack of paper, all laid out in front of the seat where April had sat. And then, too, they hear the sound of the meeting-room door slamming shut, as April readies to depart, likely redoing her best disguise.

Hm.

Unlike her. She never flees.

Wadiya motions for a recess, and stalks around to the papers, scanning them, the words repeating into an infinite pattern.

Ah.

Alright. April was upset.

Hm. How strange.

Wadiya wasn't upset. This Tracklayer was a puny thing. Worm-like. Crushable. April could destroy him with the heel of her boot, if he was so troublesome! And his benefactor...

Well, that was the most pathetic master of them all. Wadiya had humiliated it. It was submissive. It was nothing.

Hm. Was April upset that a Lackey of Mr Fires wasn't challenging enough?

[warabola]

💜🏵

💜: top 5 favorite npcs

Oh man the absolute hardest right off the bat. There are so many good NPCs in Fallen London.

Feducci - I'm not as obsessed nowadays, but you can thank Feducci for me being here in the first place. When I first got into the game, I was enamored with Tomb Colonists on sight after one stabbed me on the road randomly-- and despite learning the reality later, Feducci was the character I needed to know everything about. I wasn't here for elections but I heard about the end of his term and it cemented my love for the game.

Cornelius - Complicated. I am so sold on any interesting tomb colonist, but despite my excitement to meet him, I somehow managed to hit a glitch during the Railway that actually got Cornelius onto my board without ever having spoken to him. I still don't know how I did it, and FBG Support doesn't either. But his responses on the board make me laugh so he stays, and I also adore a guy who's into weird stuff.

Furnace Ancona - Feels like it's self explanatory. I've helped with unionizing efforts and management, and it's not easy. That alone makes her peak character. Her story is just so good and I wish there were 100 more places I could talk to her. I want to look at her character design all day.

Jovial Contrarian - He was super popular in the fandom when I first joined so I thought I wouldn't be into him? Jokes on me, I love an argumentative person any day.

Tie between The Manager, His Amused Lordship, and The Bishop of Southwark - First is thanks to Heart's Desire, the real world tie-ins, his love story.... and just how weird he is to the player character, honestly. The other two feel obvious because they're just good? Reggie said hey we're breeding creatures here and tackled me and I haven't been normal about him since. The Brass Grail is up there as one of my favourite stories. HAL is just great.

Honourable mention to the Sigil Ridden Navigator and the Cladery Heir as my favourite Sseas characters, the Fatalistic Signalman and Clay Conductor in Sskies, and the Crimson Captain for being my Main Companion despite having so little story, I so hope he gets more story.

🏵: what accomplishment are you proudest of in the game?

Actually a very difficult question! I'm a fairly recent addition to the fandom, having only joined maybe two years ago? And I'm terrible at optimization in lieu of forgetting what I was doing and instead wandering around after the lastest story I find interesting, so I don't have many unique or impressive achievements. That said, I have finished 3 ambitions and one ending of Seeking. And I have every renown to at least 40!

Honestly, I'm more proud of making an interconnected story between my own characters and friends' characters, but that's not really in game.

[hellhoundmaggie]

✨, 🌺, 🎯, 🥊, 🍀 and 🍩 for your Fallen London OC!

Some basic info to start:

If Katrine Nilssen were an official FL character, she'd probably be called the Impulsive Soprano or something like that. My least autistic OC, Katrine is a true social butterfly, going wherever the tales of Fallen London take her. A True Child of the Neath, heroine of the Battle of Wolfstack Docks, former governor, devotee of the Nocturnal artistic movement, assaulter of the Wilting Dandy. Will always do the right thing...when it's convenient. Currently pursuing her Heart's Desire. Ask her to sing at your party!

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

I think it sounds Swedish!

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)?

Katrine is currently married to the Master Jewel Thief, but doesn't have strong feelings for him. She remembers her romance with the Once-Dashing Smuggler fondly, but her heart truly lies with Mr. Pages. She conceived a passion for Pages and its creative vocabulary when working as one of its Reliables; she will do almost anything for it, even against her own Revolutionary sympathies. She imagines becoming Pages' mistress and basking in its attentions in their book-laden love nest. She has no idea that Pages is 1) asexual and 2) probably still fondly reminiscing over its time with my MotR OC Effie, whom I imagine is now one of those Resolute Governesses who take over player townhouses. But hope springs eternal!

🎯 -What do they do best?

Katrine is a coloratura soprano, which means she has a light voice suited to the kind of virtuosic leaps, runs, and trills popular in 18th/19th century opera music. Her favorite song to perform is the Jewel Song ("Ah! je ris de me voir") from Gounod's Faust:

But she is happy to bring her talents to popular music as well.

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

Katrine loves being in the middle of things! Whether she's brawling with one of Feducci's champions, on the track of some murderer, or having one of her operas performed at Court, she loves knowing secrets and being the center of attention. Her biggest weakness is her impatience: she wishes she could do everything right now! (Me too, Katrine. But the candle refills on its own time.)

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

Katrine is very loosely based on Jenny Lind, "The Swedish Nightingale" who is thought to have inspired several of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales.

Her dynamic with Pages is also a bit of a reversal/subversion of the Christine/Erik ship in The Phantom of the Opera. This time, it's the beautiful soprano targeting the monster that hides its face. But Katrine isn't nearly as unhinged as Erik, nor does she have his resources and drive.

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?

None that Katrine knows of, though I'm sure she's made some enemies during her adventures. Maybe if Pages' and Effie's romance restarted in earnest, she'd target the poor old woman. But she'd probably prefer to bide her time and wait for Effie to either die permanently or get decrepit enough to earn a one-way trip to the Tomb-Colonies. Then Katrine can make her move.

[the-noted-collector]

I'm gonna put this out there now because The Eccentric Host (Edward Byrne) keeps rotating in my head and I find it funny when people tease him about being this way.

Important thing to note is that Edward is gay. There's a whole thing about that but that's a lot more emotional then I'm gonna get here. Two facts that relate to this is;

He's a terrible flirt. Just awful at courting people. His current attempt includes duelling to the death as a romantic outing and anonymously leaving flowers around. Did not even think of asking the dude to dinner or anything until he got a intervention because he kept filling this guy's schedule.

The person he's trying to court is Feducci.

[warabola]

My favourite headcanon'd interactions with the Intemperate Director are, naturally, with their board. Which consists of Feducci, Jovial Contrarian, September, and Cornelius, so safe to say they did not pick the board to be cohesive or come to easy agreements as much as to liven up their week with the usual meeting and occasionally fuck up the board room. Besides that, they seem to attract and be drawn to devils that make everyone across the political spectrum nervous, specifically the Crimson Captain and Michael the lawyer. The Silvered Assistant is, alas, still married to a certain nightmare. She was 110% behind the Youthful Naturalist as well, to the point of falling out with her previous patron, The Implacable Detective, about it. She was, at one point, close with the Implacable Detective.

Surprisingly, before going North, the Indefatigable Doctor was my only committed character. Yes, it was the Squirming Reprobate, but considering.... everything, at least they had someone. They were previously married to the Master Jewel-Thief but, well:

The Heedless Novice is a terrible person, and has yet to be deterred from her unpleasant fixation on the Bishop of St Fiacres' after their match. She inflicts herself on him wherever she can, including at regular lunches and on her own railway board. This is as close as qualifies as a "friendship" with her. Dr Schlomo is around, but probably in the same way as that one B99 scene:

Ok I'm done complaining. Tell me about which NPCs your OCs are friends with

[freefromlightandlaw]

Sinning Jenny, probably:

You know, I used to not talk about politics that much. But then, in 1862, the strangest thing happened. Now, I don't know if you all keep up with the news, but I’ve been keeping my ears open and it seems like everyone, everywhere is super-mad about everything, all the time.

I try to stay a little optimistic, even though I will admit, things are getting pretty sticky. Here’s how I try to look at it, and this is just me.

London being underground is like there are bats loose in a hospital.

I think eventually everything will be okay, but I have no idea what's going to happen next. And neither do any of you, and neither do your parents, because there are bats loose in the hospital.

It’s never happened before, no one knows what the bats are going to do next, least of all the bats. They've never been in this hospital before, they're as confused as you.

There are no experts. They try to find experts on the news. They're like, "We're joined now by a man that once saw a bird in the opera." We've all seen a bird at the opera! These are bats loose in a hospital!

When there are bats loose in a hospital, you got to stay updated. So all day long you walk around saying, “What’d the bats do?” The updates, they’re not always bad. Sometimes they’re just odd. It’ll be like, “The bats voted for mayor?” I didn’t know they could do that.

The creepiest days are when you don’t hear from the bats at all. You’re down in the break room like, “Hey, has anyone… Has anyone heard–” Those are those quiet days when people are like, “It looks like the bats have finally calmed down.” And then ten seconds later a bat is like, “I’m gonna fly towards all the babies and bite 'em to death with my fangs. I’ve got nice fangs and big wings, I’m a bat!” That’s what I thought you’d say, you dumb fucking bat.

And then you go to brunch with people and they’re like, “There shouldn’t be bats in the hospital.” We're well past that!

Then other people are like, “If there’s gonna be bats in the hospital, I'm going to sell my soul to the devils.” And those don’t match up at all.

Sometimes, if you make fun of the bats, people will get upset. These are the people that opened the door for the bats. I don’t judge anyone. But sometimes I ask people. I go, “Hey, how come you opened the door for the bats?” And they go, “Well, the hospital was inefficient!” Or sometimes they go, “If you’re so mad at the bats, how come you weren’t mad when the last guy did this three and a half years ago? You’re beating up on the bats when the last guy essentially did the same thing five years ago.”

First off, get out of here with your technicalities. Just because you’re accurate does not mean you’re interesting. Second of all, I used to pay less attention before it was bats. If you leave your baby with your aunt tonight, you’re not going to race home like the house is on fire. But if you leave your baby with Feducci-

[redstone-sun]

FALLEN LONDON AU CHARACTERS

[neathnights]

FIND NEW STORIES: Chat with the Local Gossip

Those little eyes see all. And he'll talk about what he knows. What he doesn't know, he makes up. 

→ Going to the Carnival "Have you been to Mrs Plenty's Most Distracting Carnival? Wondrous. Wondrous! – but watch your purse. Good place to make friends."

In a generous mood "The tickets cost moon-pearls, usually. Here's a few to get you started. Have a lovely time!"

→ The first move in a Game "I was thinking about having a tattoo done, you see. I was outside the shop, and what did I overhear but..."

→ House of Chimes "I've heard tell that there's a fancy club for exceptional sorts. It's on the river, in the shell of some old clock tower. The things that go on there! They'd curl your hair and clench your toes."

Exceptional friends "You 'as to be something special to get in there. You've got a funny look about you. Don't take that the wrong way. They let some funny ones in. That fencing tutor at the Palace. Feducci. The woman in grey. They don't 'ave what you'd call specific entrance criteria..."

→ Perhaps that doesn't sound so bad "Have you seen them devils, courting honest folk and carrying on? They like people who still have stainless souls, they do. Shameful, I call it. There's a salon for those types tomorrow night..."

→ A Note about Jack "There was a copper on a bleedin' velocipede 'ere earlier. Right villainous sort if you ask me. 'E left yers a note."

[bluesidra]

The Gang as NPCs:

Emanuel: Get him on board if you need the efficiency of the Efficient Commissioner, but don't like her ties to the Bazaar. Infernal and emancipatory leanings, is easily impressed by authority. If Feducci is on the Board, the two of them might spontaneously get into violent arguments. The Bishop of Southwark won't be eligible as a Board member while Emanuel is on it and vice versa.

Ophelia: Only here because of obligation. Has a weird mix of leanings with no clear agenda, but also an extensive network of friends who can make things possible. Will continuously chatter with Palace figures during meetings and pay even less attention.

Muru: Very opinionated, but a capable Crimson Engineer (and bombmaker) who will solve engineering issues one way or another. Will probably advance the Liberation of Night during board meetings, and grill you on matters of hierarchical violence for the most benign questions. Can easily be confused with paperwork.

My Railway HC:

Emanuel got roped into this thing by Feducci and they run it in tandem. Feducci is the one with the ideas and drive, Emanuel is the one who handles paperwork, procurement and auditing. They clash on most things, except for solving their difference with violence, so any Board-Meeting has the potential to end in a destructive redecorating of the Boardroom. He runs, to everyone's surprise, his workforce with a huge amount of respect and supports emancipatory efforts. He never states why.

Ophelia took over Emanuel's place on the GHR Board after he "vanished." She's a lot more conservative, but continues the emancipatory and infernal leaning in Emanuel's memory. Since she's taken over the board, the meetings have become a lot more boring, the paperwork a lot more lax and there is overall less passion in the project. At one point, when public interest in the Railway has tapered out, she unofficially handed over the reigns to her friend Muru. She keeps her position as public facing Head of the Board, while signing off any decisions made by the shadow cabinet. Why she did this is yet unknown, as is why she chose to collaborate with a ardent LoN-supporter despite her ties to the Judgements.

Muru has basically forced the Calendar Council into a regular meeting, while running a railway on the side. They're the decision-makers behind Ophelia's puppet court. In principle, he doesn't care about railways and thinks of them as a tool of oppression, but if you give him a locomotive, his eyes will glaze over with tech-enthusiasm. Then, he's shut up for a while while he plays with his new toy. He is terrible with any sort of bureaucracy or paperwork, so if faced with it, he'll eventually agree to anything just to get out of this boredom. If promised the involvement of bombs, he is a lot more likely to agree. While any constellation of the Calendar Council is hard to herd, the Jovial Contrarian is mainly here to tutor his eventual successor, which makes the meeting way less of a headache than they could be. The Bishop of St Fiacre's and the Dean of Xenotheology are usually calling in sick for the meetings.

Railway players, what would OCs be like in the board room? Whose interests would they be for and against? Would they be ripe for bribery, or would they be swayed with obfuscation or Respectability? Would they have any unique interactions with other members of the board?

Betty would be very disinterested in the board, but would feel obliged to come along because of the players' acquaintance with her. She would mostly be for Urchin, Labour and Revolutionary interests, voting in favour of a charity charter and basic necessities like benches and access in the train cart. Anything promoting Hell or Society would be an instantenous challenge for her.

Betty would be easily swayed with obfuscation, taking it at face value after a moment of uneasy consideration. No amount of respect would get her to agree with you; it might have the opposite effect.

If she is on the same board as Sinning Jenny, she might be seen whispering to her and engaging in an entirely unrelated conversation. With the Contrarian, she sends him a death stare if he comments after being unconvinced. With the Commissioner, the two might share a knowing glance if both of them agree on a matter brought forth.

[the-relentless-inspector]

A crowd had gathered in Hastings Square, in part eager to learn which of the candidates on the platform before them should become the new mayor, in part eager merely for a spectacle. Yet in this gathering, there were two whose attention did not waver from the empty spot that should have held the previous mayor instead.

This came at no surprise to any who knew these two. During Feducci’s reign, some had suffered and some had thrived; some had quietly arranged themselves and some had seethed; the Implacable Detective and the Inspector, like the terrible gaze of justice, had fixed their attention on Feducci’s every move, catalogued everything from misdemeanors to murders.

At last, the Detective permitted herself a sigh and a remark. “He should be standing there, and in handcuffs.”

“You believe the evidence would suffice now, then?” There was a gleam in the Inspector’s eye, sharp yet eager.

“From anyone else, it likely should. From his political opponent and a supporter of hers… I wouldn’t trust it, if it weren’t me. It’ll have to be ironclad.”

The Inspector retrieved the latest stack of notes from his coat. “I have found-”

“Good people of London,” began the luckless official who had been made to give the results. “I shan’t keep you in suspense.” Though his voice quavered, all listened now. “You have elected your new Mayor. Please come forward, sir.”

To the cheers of the crowd, the Jovial Contrarian wheeled himself forward, beaming yet bemused.

All the response the Detective made was to reach into her coat, and produce a new notebook that she pointedly held beside the battered one that had been her constant companion throughout Feducci’s reign.

“He has promised similar things as you, madame,” remarked the Inspector.

“Then we ought to watch if he’s struck by inspiration to do the exact opposite again.”

“I shall.”

An explosion cut off whatever vow the Inspector might have been about to make; smoke rose above Blythenhale in the distance.

They glanced at each other; more was not necessary to communicate their purposes.

The Inspector, cutting through the crowd like a sword, made towards the source of the sound, that he might save who or what he could.

And the Detective, like Fate spinning a thread ready for the scissors, wrote a lengthy note in the well-worn notebook. After a moment’s reflection, she added a note in the new one.

[thecrypticbirds]

@alcarohtareseere Fixer bros!

Most of the support I saw on a skim of the thread was for Feducci, but the Campaigner seems to be picking up as more people talk to her. I don’t exactly blame them, but somehow she doesn’t inspire confidence in her altruism the way Jenny did. (I’m gonna miss Jenny </3)

Also, Courier’s Footprint? That sounds important but rings only a very distant bell.

(xKit isn’t letting me reply to your replies for some reason, grr.)

[jazelock]

Leigh

The Sia thing was obvious, although even you hadn’t known about Merissa.

(Even Sia has cards she holds close to her chest, it turns out, secrets underneath the mask of free banter and freer affectionate gestures.) And for all of Selene’s paranoia, it is laughable how much of an open book she is with you. You do not ask for her musings to rival Shlomo on dreams and the language of the rubbery men, but you let her pour them into you as you pour both of you two more glasses of ‘79. When she mentions her distaste for the soul trade, you praise the joys of abstraction until you have her on the verge of spitting fury. When you swing your legs over her windowsill and glimpse her attempts to transcribe tentacled burblings and whistles, you tease her for her ridiculous fondness for the creatures. You make no secret of your revolutionary connections and spare no details when recounting the most recent melting of a statue of Fires or bombing of a meeting of financiers that sends scraps of paper flurrying through the air, although always after the fact, of course. She might not turn you in, but you wouldn’t put it past her to sabotage you. (Some days, you bring up Sia, and she makes an aborted movement with her hands before she tells you to stop. You swing mid-sentence into talking about your latest attempt to place a firecracker in a church font or the scandalous story you heard last night down at the docks, yes, all over the Duchess’s boudoir and onto a ship bound for the tomb colonies.) You don’t quite live for the sound of her choked laughter generously interspersed with “Goddammit”s and “For fuck’s sake, Leigh”s, but you bask in it like one of the Duchess’s put-out felines.

So when she vanishes for a few days, you assume it’s Sia again. She’d gotten better about it although you’d noticed that she had made no attempts to contact her yet and occasionally would return from a rare visit to Veilgarden noticeably quieter.

It becomes even more likely that it’s Sia when you start hearing about the capped figure methodically working her way through the ranks of the Black Ribbon even though you know the Black Ribbon is old news for both of you. You wait for a sighting of her exiting the shuttered palace, with a conspicuous lack of blood on her. The next day, you ambush Feducci in the forgotten quarter and put a knife through his eye. You hadn’t planned for particularly dramatic timing, but it occurs anyway as you’re pulling the dagger from his eye socket and shaking a clinging bandage free from the blade edge and she doesn’t make a sound but you happen to look up anyway and meet her eyes as she stands at the top of the plaza steps. Her cap is pulled low over her face, but it’s never enough to conceal the grins, the scowls that cross her lips however fleetingly. The distance and the light, or lack thereof, here though work against you more than her choice of headwear does.

You raise your voice to carry. “Sorry. Did you want a piece?”

She flies into motion but stops just as abruptly, leaving the same shudder-stop jolting your frame. One of her hands drops from where it had been poised over her belt. Both of her shoulders fall. The hand that had been reaching for a weapon glides up to her face. You don’t remember the exact meaning of the sign she makes but you can guess the approximate intent. The two-fingered gesture she slides into as an afterthought underscores the point.

She turns her back on you. It’s too perfect to let slide, really. You don’t mean to miss. You are, some days you will admit and only to her, not the world’s best shot.

The fire in her eyes as she whirls around, dropped into an instinctive crouch at the sound of the shot, although that probably wouldn’t have saved her anyway if you hadn’t hit the column behind her, is finally visible despite the fog and the metres and the cap.

A glint of light in her hand and there are the scissors. You’re moving before the reflection can settle.

She flings her arm up, and your knife catches in the juncture between blades. The momentum sends the scissors snapping shut with a screech of metal against metal. Another pair of scissors in her left hand that you don’t see but do feel as you hiss and jerk back. Light catches on the blades aimed for your neck and you stab at it.

She knees you in the stomach, delivering a painful reminder of the scissors still lodged in the wound there. Twin arcs of blood fly as she grips the handle of your knife in her shoulder and you don’t let yourself think as you yank on the handles protruding from around waist-level.

Metal on metal. You send the knife flying out of her hand, same trick she used, that has to burn, with her scissors too. When you look, not a smart move you know, but guilty pleasures and all, there is nothing. You blink at her retreating back. What.

There is something like irritation reaching up from the back of your mind. You know she knows she won’t die permanently, and you’d both agreed there wasn’t much up there worth braving the sunlight for, and you’ll be supportive but sometimes you wish she’d just get it over with and see it’s not as frightening as she acts like it is. And it’s not as if she doesn’t gleefully send you boxes of rats whenever she can, and she’s killed, ok, fewer people than you have, but enough that isn’t it a bit hypocritical, Selene.

And, really, does she think she can outrun you? Or a bullet?

You’re not the world’s best shot, but you are much faster a runner than she is. Who needs accuracy at this range?

She swerves while you’re still taking aim, and you grin. Pull.

You weren’t aiming to kill with this one; more’s the pity as it’s a perfect hit. She stumbles before she lunges away from you. One more shot if you remember correctly, and you take it. If you’re lucky, it grazed her ear before shattering against the column.

You spin the revolver round in your hand, fingers around the barrel. It occurs to you to wonder why she’s suspended in midair for a beat more than she should be as you pull your arm back to swing, a lantern, unlit, the chain creaking--

The chain snaps, Selene and lantern both sent crashing down, oil flying in an arc of droplets that hang in the air. Oil. Your swing is stopped in its tracks by metal smashing against your face.

“Fuck-- shit--!”

Through the pain and the film blurring your vision, you feel a tug on the revolver and you tighten your grip.

She kicks you. Nausea explodes. Any remnants of vision scatter in that burst of pain.

You blink rapidly around the sick feeling in the base of your spine and stomach. Daubs of color gain shape, definition, in time for you to see down the barrel of your gun. Click.

You grin.

Your head smacks against the ground hard enough to black out your vision, goddammit, again. Bright spots dancing, beyond them, oh, that’s murder in her face and your own revolver rushing towards your face hungry for the crunch of cartilage--

There’s a faint brush of air. You crack an eyelid open. She remains frozen a moment longer with the revolver swung past her shoulder, it must have missed your face by barely an inch, why, before she hurls it away from her. It bounces once with a clatter.

You sigh. And it had been going so well. You hadn’t been losing, of course not, but even if you had, there were always rematches. Although, you suppose, this is the closest you’ve gotten to killing each other before her hesitation kicked in, so it’s progress. “You missed there.”

“Lucky you.”

“Fight me,” you counter immediately. It’s easy, this. Words, if not blows. She is staring at you though, the cap came off at some point, and it’s cute that she’s even trying to hide the calculating nature of her gaze. Calculating is good. Although you can’t fathom why she stopped then. Playing the long game. Some strange idea of fair play. More likely. She doesn’t like planning for the long game; it’s why she refuses to play you in chess. (It’s also no fun when she refuses to cheat.)

“I think I just did.” Her eyes flick to where you can feel your shirt sticking beneath your ribs. Yeah, there’ll be no getting the blood out of this one probably, no matter how many times you wash it. You’re also taking inventory, might as well if you’re going to be taking a break. You did graze her with the last bullet; there’s a line of red striping the cartilage. The other bullet you knew about, the one to her leg, although you can’t see if it exited. The jacket is a loss from the hole in the shoulder and the blood leaking from it. She won’t be happy when she realises, but honestly what was she expecting?

“Why am I still alive then?”

The corners of her mouth flick upwards. “Probably because I didn’t turn your face into butcher’s meat.” Pause. “And then cook it.”

The oil. Oh, that’s terrifying but at the same time you’re strangely proud. You would be prouder if she had actually worked up the nerve to try it. “Oh, I see how it is. But Feducci’s fair game?”

“Feducci doesn’t--” She stops. You smirk at her. “What, Feducci doesn’t count? That’s rather racist.”

She rolls her eyes at you, but there’s something distant now in her expression. Sia again then. You’re not going to say anything, but really, whatever just sparked a memory of Sia probably wouldn’t have distracted her or even come up if she hadn’t stopped.

“Walking through Spite the other day.” She pauses. You stop reaching for the hidden pocket in your trousers. “I saw an urchin.”

“Oh no, not an urchin.”

She rolls her eyes. “She was talking to a deviless. About souls.”

“Oh no, not a deviless.”

“For fuck’s sake, Leigh.” She falls silent for a moment and when she speaks again, her words come in a sing-song. “I asked the little one why, if souls have so little value, was the deviless trying so hard to steal hers.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you did.”

She doesn’t reply, instead watching her hands as she runs her thumb along one of the lines of her palm, back and forth. “I woke up to the room on fire.”

The corners of your mouth plummet. “Which room?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I’ll have to know which one not to visit so I don’t inhale a lungful of ash.”

“Wouldn’t that be inconvenient for you.” She hesitates. “It was the bookshop.”

“That’s what you get for living in a firetrap. And for soulblocking.”

There is another moment of silence, and you’re watching as she lifts her eyes slowly to meet yours. They burn. “I’d do it again.” The lilting accent is gone from her voice.

“Better get used to sleeping in infernos then.” And she still protests against being brought too close to the brink of death, when she goes around and does shit like this. Really. Over soul trade, of all things. You do not voice these thoughts. You had once, when wine had left the passage between your tongue and your brain less well-patrolled, and, well. You’d learned that there are three things Selene has strong opinions about: Sia, dying, and souls. Two of which you avoid broaching and being baited into discussing as a result. A philosophy course was not what you signed up for.

“If it’ll keep some of them from being tricked into giving up their souls before they’re old enough to decide.”

She’s about to say something more, but you cut in. “You realise how patronising that sounds, right? They’re old enough to spy for you, but not old enough to make their own decisions about their souls? Anyway--”

“Spying for me doesn’t take something away permanently. I don’t try to trick them.”

“You’re fine putting them in danger. It’s fine if they die, so long as they keep their souls?”

“None of us die permanently, and--”

“Oh, that’s ironic, coming from you. Look.” You hold your hands up. “Let’s not talk about this, alright? This is silly.”

“What would you have done with the Comtessa?” she fires back.

You blink. It’s not that you don’t remember, given it’s a subject you bring up more often than not, but it still seems a non-sequitur. “Would have been hard to set her on fire, what with her turning into stone.”

“Would you have killed her?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“She wasn’t human anymore; the father had already lost her. If he’d pay you anyway, why not? Tie up all the loose ends.” You catch a glimpse of the half of her face not concealed by shadows and sigh. “What does this have to do with anything?”

The look she levels at you is cool, and you don’t like cool. Cool means sulking and avoidance until you can be bothered to find which lodging she’s calling home at the moment and coax or goad her into either getting the last word in or taking a swing at you. Unless you can nip it in the bud since you’re already here.

You’re deliberately slow in flicking out the second revolver. As if you were going to only carry a single gun on you. As you bring your arm up, you watch for her reaction, ready to counter. Just because you’re baiting her doesn’t mean you’re inclined to get punched or kicked again.

She leaps for your face, wow, ambitious, and you see blood on her trouser leg as you grab at it with your free hand and yank. She’s harder to throw than you’d like to admit, but an eye for an eye, a concussion for a concussion; it’s only fair.

Or not, as she falls on her shoulder instead of on her head. Oh well. That’s what the second revolver’s for.

You realise you are on fire in the same moment the pain reaches your brain.

For several moments, your world narrows down to agony and fuck fuck shit fuck. You pull the trigger reflexively, but you’ve no idea if you hit because fire. Some dim memory reminds you to stop, drop, and roll, but fuck that; you’re in pain and panicked but the greater danger here is not the fire, but her, and you’ve no idea what she’s doing right now, you’re not going to just drop to the ground and present a nice prone target—flames reach hungrily for your face and you slap a hand against them even as you struggle with your clothes—fuck, why aren’t these trousers coming off—

Your jacket is also aflame but that’s easier to shrug off and fling as far from you as possible and ok, where is she, she has made a big mistake not taking that opportunity to finish you off because you were trying to play nice and make hers a nice clean death with a bullet through the head but not if she’s going to fucking set your crotch on fire.

She’s not there. You look all around, you look up even, because, hello, you were very recently on fire; you’re allowed some irrationality here. It’s also dark and there is plenty of old blood on the ground given this is Feducci’s favored dueling arena, which is why you don’t see the trail at first, and did you mention having been recently set on fire?

There’s a lot more blood than you were expecting, and you ponder this as you follow the droplets before you remember the wild shot you fired, which must have hit then. You hope it hasn’t killed her off already. That would be disappointingly anti-climactic.

The trail makes an abrupt swerve and you stop, follow it as far as you can with just your eyes. You can’t see from here, but going off the direction of the drops, you’re guessing they’re going to end up leading you through one of those dark windows, yeah, because they don’t scream ‘ambush’ in the least.

There’s blood pooled beneath one of the windows. You stand to one side and listen. You hear nothing. Which means one of three things: she’s waiting just on the other side of the wall and succeeding at remaining silent, she’s not there, or it’s her corpse waiting for you inside. So, no help whatsoever.

Your knife wasn’t there when you looked for it, but you still have bullets. You fire three of them through the window, one to either side of the frame and one below. When that doesn’t work, you fire upwards. Still nothing. You huff a breath of annoyance as you reload. Everything hurts, not that you would admit it or show it, and if she’s banking on that impeding your movements so that she can set up an ambush, well, that would be one way of winning but come on, tedious much? “What, are you scared? After all that talk about death not being permanent?”

Ok, if you were expecting a reply, maybe the jab about death wasn’t the best way to go about things admittedly, but you hadn’t been able to resist. Ugh. You swing your legs over the sill, wince, and take aim at the shadowy corners of the room. Nothing stirs.

Barely any light reaches the interior of the room, and you are forced to crouch and allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness. It doesn’t help much. You can see the droplets of blood closest to the window, but as they lead further in, the darkness obscures them. You’re not stupid enough to risk a light, especially not if that means fire. Not unless you can make sure she’s the one turning into a light source; there’s an idea. Although that requires finding her first. Ugh.

You don’t even try to follow the trail through the darkness. The rooms are big but there aren’t that many of them. That’s how you begin anyway. Your patience runs out before your blood does, but you still press on from room to room until lightheadedness tilts the world around you and you collide with the wall as it rushes towards you. You are very tempted to leave, one way or another, but something inside you screeches at the notion. You’re not leaving this building until one of you is dead. Confirmed dead. If it were anyone else, if it were Sia or Rando or Gi or anyone else, you would be sure they were dead. But you know from experience Selene can be...determined. You would not put it past her to still be patiently waiting for you to walk into the right room—although.

You realise that if she is crouched in a random room, or hanging above the doorway or whatever, she has no guarantee you won’t get sick of searching and leave. You’re not going to, not until you’ve managed to return the painful favor, but she doesn’t know that. If she wants to maximise her chances of successfully ambushing you, then it has to be in a location that you’ll most likely pass through no matter what. For instance, the exit. That you’d be hypothetically leaving through, highly disgruntled after a futile search, at your least likely to be on your guard, or so she thinks.

The window the both of you used as an entrance was on the back of the building. There was no door there. There are however, you note as you enter the foyer or whatever they call this, eyes on the shadows, three exits via the front. No doors, just deliberately missing bits of wall. The roof curves at the edges, you recall. Easy to perch on. Then again, she could have gone the easier route and simply be to the side of one of the doorways. You do remember that the leg shot hit. You pick the door to the left.

A glance outside, revolver at the ready, reveals no Selene. You chance poking your head out to take in the full length of the building front. Not there. Making as little noise as possible and keeping an eye on the overhang of the roof, you step outside and check around the corner. Nothing. The courtyard is an empty expanse of broken tiles and fallen pillars, and the nearest intact pillar you can see that would provide any sort of cover is at a distance you would not risk shooting from. She really did go for the roof then. Daring, although that’s still not going to save her.

One. Two.

On three, you lunge. Revolver trained on the roof, the instant you see movement, you’ll pull the trigger. But it never comes. The roof is still, deserted.

You swing around, even though you just looked, there’s nowhere in the courtyard for anyone to hide, no one leaps out at you from cover that’s not there. The adrenaline pulses out of you.

You turn once more to stare at the building. Did you give her too much credit as to her strategy? The blood loss, panic, sheer ineptitude. She’s not dead; the idea is too ridiculous. She’s not dead; you’re certain of this. You’re staring at the doorway, now on your left, but it would have been the one on the right from the inside. You’re certain she’s not dead. Why? It’s too anticlimactic, she owes you, it’s simply impossible.

Why is it impossible?

Because, you reason, clawing your way through the fog of what must now be the majority of your blood drenching your shirt instead of carrying oxygen to your brain. Because there is a dark smear next to the doorway as if someone with bloody hands stumbled and had to catch herself with a hand on the wall there.

The splatters of blood are nigh invisible against the debris of the cracked and broken pavement, but you can follow them well enough as the trail continues onto more even ground. They lead into another building and you stare at it for a moment before going around it. They resume, coming out of a side entrance. As you begin to reach the outskirts of the quarter, the buildings fall away, and you stop. You can see the Sriver from here, and the bridge that leads across it to Ladybones.

Apparently she is capable of being so discourteous. You scowl and take stock. Burns but they’re not pressing. Your face throbs, but that’s at most some cracked bone, no blood. The ugly gash in your stomach, torn flesh sticking to cloth when you pull at your shirt, is the problem. There’s no way you’re making it back to the embassy, even if it is closer than Ladybones.

The closest building to shore isn’t your idea of an ideal hiding spot, but it’s better than leaving your body out on the street for any random urchin to pickpocket and desecrate. The good news is, as you drag yourself into a dusty room, the way this is going, you won’t even have to waste a bullet on yourself. You can just close your eyes for a bit.

You and the ferryman nod at each other in the barest of greetings before he moves his pawn forward. This is routine now. Mate in twenty.

You don’t see Selene for days after you wake up, no longer burned, new skin hiding the hole in your stomach, pockets miraculously unmolested by thieves. The silence starts to grate after the fifth day. You’re still waiting for a knock on your door though, and it’d better be accompanied by at least a bottle of ‘72.

By the seventh day, you wonder if she’s still healing. If she managed to live, knowing her, she would’ve chosen to heal from her injuries the slow tedious way. She could very well still be bedridden as a result. That or she did die. Although you hadn’t seen her on the boat...but if you’re honest, you hadn’t been looking.

She hates chess.

The townhouse is where you check first. It’s a reasonable guess. It’s not her closest lodging, but it is close, and you know she hates the apartment above the gambling den. Too much smoke and noise. But she’s not there.

You check the gambling den place, because, ok, if she was injured and bleeding, she probably wouldn’t have been picky about noise and smoke inhalation. You get thrown back out the window by the new resident, wow, ok, she could have let you know she wasn’t living there anymore.

Neither of her lodgings near Watchmaker’s Hill prove any more rewarding. There’s only one more place you know she owns, but surely…

The bookstore itself escaped relatively unscathed. At any rate, it’s still open for business and the proprietress smiles at you with all the sweetness and genuineness of prisoner’s honey. No, she’s not seen the lady for weeks now. Yes, it was a lucky thing. The lady had been quite generous in agreeing to pay for the smoke damage to the books though, although it’s hardly surprising how fond she is of them. A valued customer in addition to tenant, even if she’s a quiet one, never stays to chat. No, I can’t just let you into her flat, you look trustworthy, but you never know do you, and anyone can just say they’re a friend, can’t they.

You end up climbing up to her window anyway; you’re not sure why you bothered with the landlady honestly.

The wallpaper’s a loss. The walls are salvageable. The smell of smoke and damp ash still clings to every surface. There’s a conspicuous lack of Selene here as well. A noise rises out of your throat and you spin on your heel, reaching for the window frame so you can duck your head under the glass. You stop, hand hovering. You hadn’t noticed when you entered. There are smears of dried blood on the outer edge of the window frame, just beyond where you had been about to grip the frame. Your finger would have barely brushed one of the streaks.

For fuck’s sake. Is she sulking then? She’s never pulled a disappearing act on you like this before though. Then again, she’d never set you on fire before. Nor had you come this close to killing her before. The both of you, pushing the boundaries of your relationship.

Although that still doesn’t excuse her hiding from you, back in the forgotten quarter or now. You’re upping the peace offering you expect to a ‘44.

There are four distinct streaks that slot neatly against your fingers as you place your hand against the frame. They flake off at a touch, sticking to your palm. You inhale another lungful of the scent of scorched book and damp.

Back in your embassy room, you uncork a fresh bottle of ‘79 and settle down to wait.

And you wait.

Fallen London is © 2015 and ™ Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com.  This is an unofficial fan work.

[caseybanning]

Casey smiles too, but it’s pained. “I wrote from the Black Ribbon fights exactly once, and it did not take long for Feducci to come pay me a personal visit at the Spires to warn against me doing it again. Some things are better left in secret.” They peer up at Cruz, noticing en seems to be unusually anxious. Then again, they weren’t much better off from their own trip in the Iron Republic and that excursion had only been a month. To be there years though...

“Hopefully it wasn’t for any more favors owed to comrades and old friends,” Casey remarks, trying to keep a straight face. “Either way, if you can’t remember maybe it wasn’t as important as you thought, or you might be better off not recalling. The Iron Republic has a funny way of doing that.”

Casey grimaces as Cruz mentions the lack of excitement, the hand holding their notebook almost wilting a bit in disappointment. “Truly? Damn,”  They reply with a heavy sigh. “I’m about ready to get in there to try to shake it up a bit but I’m not sure if I actually can. I’m writing now,” They wave the notebook a bit. “I mean--I’ve always enjoyed it in private but for a couple years now I’ve been writing about the ring fights as a reporter. Last few articles have been droll though.”

There’s a pause as they watch the last of Cruz’s smoke dissipate into the breeze. “Devils, you said? I’d heard a rumour or two that you went out to zee but after being gone so long I presumed you’d died or found a little home out there somewhere.”

[the-relentless-inspector]

The invitation to Blythenhale had come as a surprise to the Inspector, and, if he were to be entirely honest, not a welcome one. Yet duty bound him to answer the mayor’s summons; his personal opinions did not enter into the matter. 

When he arrived at the mayoral mansion, however, he found this conviction sorely tried. The shock he received could not have been more profound if London’s new mayor had struck him across the face. This was not a mansion, it was utter mockery given form. Walls had been torn down (even in his shocked state, he made note of the extent and legality of the rearrangements), gambling tables had sprung up in the newly opened space like so many vile fungi, chalk marks set boundaries for duelists. He believed he could make out bloodstains in some places. 

The Inspector searched the crowds for familiar faces, and indeed found more than enough of the sort he had expected: revolutionaries, intimates of devils, gamblers, brawlers… And yet the one who approached him now was most familiar to the Inspector not through his duty, but through the temporary loss thereof. It had been, he was forced to admit, Mr Inch’s recommendation that first secured him employment at the Labyrinth of Tigers.

Now, if the Inspector were to hazard a guess, Mr Inch was there to recommend him for something else entirely. A moment later, he was proven right. “There you are! Come to duel, no doubt?”

The Inspector’s jaw clenched, and with his rising temper came the fervent wish he might arrest Inch for his illegal duels then and there. Yet even if he had unshakable evidence, in this wretched city, with that man as the mayor, even he held little hope that this would come to something. 

A shot rang out; howling the wildest oaths a zailor could imagine, a woman clutched her bleeding shoulder. 

 Mr Inch continued, entirely untroubled by the scene. “Some fresh blood never goes amiss, you know.” 

“I am an officer of the Law, not a ring fighter,” the Inspector responded stiffly, his customary control over his tone crumbling. “If that is all I have been summoned for…” Choked with anger he knew he ought not feel, he turned on his heel and stalked away. 

Much as he might wish to take his leave of the twisted remains of Blythenhale, however, one duty yet remained. Mastering his mien, his posture, his emotions once more, the Inspector prowled between the gambling tables like a wolf stalking his prey, ever alert for any scrap of information about Feducci. Though what he learned ought not come as a surprise, he found it did nothing to improve his mood. Feducci spent his time at the gambling tables; Feducci took notes about every game, every duel; Feducci noted the names of London's luckiest, or its deadliest; Feducci, in summary, seemed to do very little pertaining to the duties of a mayor. 

Yet one fact remained. The games had not passed into law; they meant nothing. To his profound confusion and distress, the Inspector found the thought to be comforting. The law was the law; it was not for him to feel comfort or discomfort about any change to it. And yet, the thought remained.