#the honey-addled detective

[jane-d-ankh-veos]

Some drawing practice in search of a more stylized approach. And at the same time, experimenting with combining May's canon design with my old attempts.

[winding-maze]

I'm so, so happy we've been getting more glimpses of The Honey-Addled Detective in Fallen London! The Stripes of Wrath ES was such a delight, and it makes perfect sense that the Tigers would continue to haunt him, in a way.

Also - "He's easily misinterpreted" is the most meta thing anyone has ever said about the Totally Not Sherlock Holmes.

[world-of-advice]

[geraldofallon]

Fallen London’s True Identities

Sherlock Holmes as the Honey-Addled Detective

[strangelittlelad]

sure thing mr honey addled detective. yeah you're definitely not high right now

[waterlogged-detective]

Wow he’s just like me fr

[bizarrebazaar13]

ok so due to the sleepy I might not be able to elaborate on this as much as I wanted. but.

given that the honey addled detective is a Sherlock Holmes reference, isn’t it weird that we don’t see a Watson counterpart? especially given that “Holmes and Watson but supernatural” is an established adaptation genre (the particular crossover of the Holmes stories and Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos is more common and more popular than you might expect).

however. Holmes and Watson meet essentially by chance; Watson returns from war in Afghanistan and is looking for a place to live, and runs into an old acquaintance, who introduces him to another man looking for someone to share rent payments. that man is, of course, Sherlock Holmes, and from there both of their lives change drastically.

in mask of the rose, Harjit comments that with London (and crucially, its rulers) now underground and cut off from the surface, England’s colonial influence is much weaker. Watson was wounded in the battle of Maiwand, during the Second Anglo-Afghan War. the war was fought as part of the real life “Great Game”: a power struggle between the Russian and British empires in Central Asia.

so, in the Fallen London universe, would the battle of Maiwand ever have happened? maybe not. is it possible that Watson and Holmes might have met some other way? of course. but specifically in the context of Fallen London, it seems unlikely. Watson says that he “had neither kith nor kin in England” upon his arrival in London in A Study in Scarlet, and he specifically made his way to London in order to recover from his wounds. a spooky underground cavern is probably not conducive to rest and recovery.

assuming Holmes was born in 1854, he would have been only eight years old in 1862, when the fall happened, which (to me) rules out any possibility of him and Watson meeting before the fall. for context, A Study in Scarlet takes place in 1881, well after London has fallen. so we are left with a Holmes without a Watson.

Jeremy Brett, who played Holmes on screen for a decade, once compared Holmes’s relationship to Watson to “a drowning man clinging to a raft”. if the honey addled detective is indeed a direct reference to Sherlock Holmes, he makes for a very tragic one indeed, and that makes him extremely compelling to me.

[gmalaart]

The Spectacled Beholder

Name: Doctor Emon Cavendish

Gender: Left it on the surface (he/they))

Height: 6'2" (188cm)

Occupation: Enquirer, working under the Honey-Addled Detective’s wing.

Prominent skills: Watchful, Shadowy, Persuasive

Prominent quirks: Subtle, Heartless, Hedonist, Steadfast

Reputation:

Dr. Cavendish hasn’t been in London long but they’ve surely been busy. It isn’t uncommon to see them skittering through alleyways and avenues alike, keen eyes flitting this and that way in search of opportunity. Not much is known for sure about them, just that he came from the surface and took to the city like it was his to begin with. However, there are rumours about a brother they apparently have on the surface, about their previous life being an overly sheltered one, or even about their academic pursuits being a front for activities tied to The Great Game. For now, the doctor hasn’t sworn allegiance to any faction yet, and their intentions remain a bit of a mystery to any prying eyes.

Personality:

SUBTLE; despite their eccentric appearance, Cavendish is nothing if not discreet. They’ve apparently spent a lot of their life avoiding people’s scrutiny and they prefer to be a fly on the wall rather than the centre of attention.

HEARTLESS; simply put, Cavendish doesn’t much care for the wellbeing of others. They’ve seen what it does to people, caring too much, and they’d rather avoid the hassle. Close relationships are quite alien to them due to this fact, but he’s amused when people try to form one (and someday, someone might sneak through one of his cracks)

HEDONIST; on the surface, the good doctor was said to be a bit of a shut-in, rarely leaving his family’s abode unless strictly necessary. Those restrictions are far behind them now, as they set out to sample all that London has to offer (especially the honey that their Detective friend is so fond of).

STEADFAST; despite their many faults, Cavendish is known to be a person of their word. That word may be bought with coin, secrets or favours, but outside of exceptional circumstances it is a matter of first come, first served.

+bonus: ALLERGIC TO BOREDOM; Cavendish has curiosity in spades as well as an overactive mind that can’t go very long without entertainment. A discerning mind will realise that this is the prime reason why they struggled in high society and why they decided to delve into Fallen London instead. Their smile is brightest when discovering something new and slightly scandalous (perhaps a bit too bright). Due to this they are also quite attracted to all manner of non-human beings found in the Neath.

Example Dialogue:

"Miss Bean,

If we are to cooperate in our investigation I must INSIST on getting rid of those wounds all over your person. I am acquainted with matters of the flesh and its rending (as I am sure you garnered from the scar across my own face, hah!) and I know that leaving a wound untreated is sure to cause unnecessary bleeding at the most inopportune time. If you were to leave a dripping trail of blood behind us right as our investigation is coming to its climax, why I fear I would have to abandon you there and then! And I would so miss your charm. Meet me in my lodgings within the next three days, I have some medical supplies left over from my latest errand for the Department of Menace Eradication.

Ever your servant,

Dr. E. Cavendish”

[violant-apologia]

Checkup

or; an Introduction to Marian Agnes Cook

featuring @waterlogged-detective's wonderful darcy doe!

words: ~1k

give it a read on AO3 or below the cut!

The surgery is out of the way. Discreet, one might call it, if the words “DOE CLINIC for those with ECLECTIC TASTES, INTERESTING DEFORMITIES or TOO MANY LIMBS” weren’t emblazoned on the door in dramatic boldface. She doesn’t bother the bartender as she makes towards the door to his erstwhile cellar. He, in turn, keeps his eyes down and continues cleaning glasses. A simple tomb-colonist  is surely one of the least odd visitors to a clinic such as this. Or she would appear the least odd, at least.

She takes the handle in her bandaged hand (her left, though she’s practised enough that she feels almost ambidextrous) and pushes it open, revealing a damp stone stairwell. Snippets of conversation echo from below: half in posh English, half in burbles. When Marian reaches the bottom of the stairs, a Tentacular Surgeoness is waiting for her.

“Thotharoorithee!” she welcomes. Marian nods, distracted by the clinics interior.

An operating table takes centre stage: rich wood accented with flecks of amber and blood. Behind it there are cabinets upon cabinets, with labels ranging from the expected (“TOURNIQUETS”) to the worrying (“AMBER LEECHES”) to the worryingly vague (“EMERGENCY TOOLS”). On top of the cabinets are myriad jars, contents variously still, bobbing, beating and blinking. Marian’s always had a strong stomach, but curiosity is not nearly enough for her to examine the jars in detail. Instead, she turns her attention to the other figure in the room — a fellow bandaged individual in an apron and gloves. He washes a bonesaw over a sink.

“Dr Doe,” Marian says.

“Just a moment,” the surgeon replies. “My previous patient had the most fascinating blood. While I’m sure it would further the plight of Science to test its reaction with your own humours, I have an inkling that you’d prefer my implements clean.”

Marian doesn’t respond, simply waiting with tapping feet and ignoring the eyeballs which scrutinise her from their prisons of glass and cork. At last, the doctor turns to her.

“Ah, a fellow tomb-dweller!” he says. “What do you need, my darling? A cure for rotting? A spare set of ears? Or perhaps,” he mutters, scrutinising Mariam’s arm, “it has something to do with this—”

“Don’t,” Mariam says, snatching her arm away from Doe. He shrugs.

“I was only asking,” he says, nonchalantly. “It doesn’t take the Honey-Addled Detective to notice the lumps beneath those bandages.”

Marian maintains a straight face and unbunched fists.

“But where are my manners?” the doctor says with mock concern. “I’m speculating about your horrifying deformities when I’ve yet to even introduce myself. Doctor Darcy Doe, at your service.”

“Rithoree!” comes a burble from behind Marian.

“And you’ve met my assistant already,” Darcy adds.

“Marian Cook,” Marian replies. “You’ll pardon me for not offering you my hand.”

“I was right, was I?” Darcy cackles. “Well, let me have a look at it.”

“Prepare yourself,” Marian warns, beginning to unwrap the bandages on her arm.

“Whatever it is, my dear, I’m sure I’ve seen something an order of magnitude more gruesome.”

The final layer comes off, revealing a dark green mass beneath. A tangle of stems, thorns and leaves that rustle as she unwraps. They keep the form of an arm and hand, but the cut stems are clearly visible: pruning, to keep the bramble in line.

“Ah,” Darcy nods, “You’re a veteran. I never did get involved in that ghastly campaign myself – the whole ‘fighting for one’s religion’ thing is all rather gauche, wouldn’t you agree?”

Marian suppresses a sigh and stops unwrapping.

“I don’t see the issue, though,” says Darcy. “I hear these growths have a tendency to return when clipped. And you seem to be keeping the whole thing quite adequately under wraps. Ha-ha.”

There’s a pause before Marian speaks.

“My condition isn’t typical, even for a vet,” she says. “Their stems are painful, but they’re more like brands. They’re static. Mine…”

“Yours…?” Darcy prompts.

“The Law-Furnace that got my patrol left the others as topiaries. I thought I’d escaped with only my arm as casualty, but soon learned otherwise.” She peels back bandages on her hip, revealing leaves and the beginning of a bud. “When I bleed, I scab over in bark. When it falls away, there’s plant-flesh beneath.”

Darcy ponders for a moment, stroking his chin for effect. “I may have a solution for you. It might seem outlandish at first, but I bid you hear me out. Have you considered… not getting injured?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing for forty years!” Marian retorts, “and I am bloody sick of it. I joined the army to see the Neath, for chrissakes. I can’t spend the rest of my life cooped up in some old mausoleum, never risking a scratch or bruise. I will get injured, thank-you-kindly, I’d just like to heal instead of turning into a damned rosebush!”

Marian’s outburst over, she calms herself. The thorns on her arms turn back inward, having jutted themselves out when her anger flared. Darcy, who was waiting patiently for her to finish, speaks again.

“There’s no need for theatrics. I’ll cut to the chase: I’m not able to help you. But I know some people who might be.” He turns and rummages through a draw for a moment, before producing three business cards. “They’re rather far afield, but given your stated aim to explore, that shouldn’t trouble you overmuch.”

Marian takes the cards. Some list places she’s never heard of; some are in languages she does not understand.

“…Thanks,” she says, moving to leave the clinic.

“And I’ll offer you an echo for some cuttings.”

Marian rolls her eyes.

“Make it two.”

[autisticrosewilson]

Thinking about the JayGrant married in Vegas au again

Jason wakes up slowly, a delicious ache in his lower body and far less pleasant throbbing in his head. His mouth tastes like cheap vodka and he can still feel the burn of Everclear in his throat. Before he even cracks his sleep crusted eyes open he knows the bed beside him is empty, strange that he doesn't recall them waking him up when they left.

Regardless he peaks out from the nest of blankets at the hotel room, bathed in the barely there light of dawn. It's maybe seven or eight, far earlier than he cares to be up. The room is more or less as he remembers it, sans the trail of clothes from the door to the bed. The real miracle is that they'd even made it to the room. He fully intends to go back to sleep when he feels it. Something constricting the bend of one of his fingers, warm metal he certainly doesn't recall leaving with.

Sluggish and sleep addled, he slowly unswathes his hand from the blankets to move it into his line of sight. A ring with a metal band and a faux diamond he knows immediately will turn his skin green when he starts sweating. He blinks at it a few times but it doesn't disappear.

Sitting up slowly he scans the room a little more thoroughly. The shirt on the ground isn't his, longer in the torso and slimmer in the shoulders, and he's never heard of the band on the front. There's aspirin on the bedside table his back was toward and a bottle of undoubtedly room temperature water. He starts reaching for the folded up note next to it when something on the dresser catches his eye. A piece of paper, innocuous if not for the clearly printed CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE proclaimed boldly at the top.

Scrambling out of bed gracelessly he ignores the pulsing in his skull in favor of getting a closer look. The signature is definitely his, the same practiced calligraphy drilled into him by the teachers at Gotham Prep and encouraged by Alfred, spelling out his name. His given name, not even an alias. Maybe it would be worse if it was an alias actually, considering he's legally still dead.

The other name is one he's sure he's never heard before last night and while the last name gives him pause he brushes it off quickly. While it would be just his luck, he's sure Grant Wilson doesn't have any affiliation Jason might know. The poor bastard is probably just a random civilian, who is now, at least by law, unfortunately bound to a dead boy. His condolences really.

Going back for the note doesn't tell him as much as he'd like. The paper is a folded up receipt for cigarettes and honey barbecue beef jerky from a gas station somewhere in the Midwest and the handwriting on the back is done in half dead pen, the scrawl clearly rushed with several places where words or phrases were crossed off, the script slowly tilting downwards like Grant was writing at an angle.

So I guess we're married. *Scribble.* Probably an asshole move to leave before you woke up but I had something to do that really couldn't wait. We can meet up later if you're still here *scribble* I already put my number in your phone *scribble*.

P.s. keep the shirt ;)

Jason re-reads the note, more out of instinct than anything, all the little detective gears in his brain analyzing the handwriting and looking for double meaning behind the words but it's all background to the growing thought that it's too early to deal with this.

He ignores the aspirin in favor of just flopping back over into the bed, crawling under the sheets still warm from the night before. He falls asleep again staring at the ring on his finger, half formed daydreams and fractured memories of warm hands and sharp teeth and an accented drawl slowly pull him back into the haze of slumber, and he pretends he doesn't notice the scent of someone else's sweat and Cologne lingering on the pillows, or the warmth still clinging to this side of the bed.

[sith-shenanigans]

Amias Arling | The Calescent Inquisitive

[art by Gaudeamus_Igitur on Toyhouse]

Profile:

Ambition: Heart’s Desire

Primary Quirk: Subtle 12

Secondary Quirks: Steadfast 10 / Maganimous 10 / Ruthless 10

An individual of indistinct but not particularly mysterious gender. Watchful and Persuasive. Uses they/them pronouns.

Correspondent, specialized as a Crimson Engineer. Married to the Infamous Mathematician and Roguish Semiotician, forming an Endlessly Invigorating Union.

Their in-game profile can be found here.

History:

Previously the Artful Detective, having come to the Neath chasing a disinherited, indebted Society lady. After a stay in New Newgate caused by a sudden attack of sympathy for the target of their investigation, they escaped and began their career below working with the Honey-Addled Detective. They were satisfied to spend most of their time on Moloch Street for a few months, with occasional forays into Veilgarden to satisfy their more artistic side (‘artful’ was always a bit of a double meaning), but the deeper mysteries of the Neath drew them in before long. Courier messages for a few extra moon-pearls—but if you steal them, you get to read them. Expand your social circle, and you have so many more contacts for your cases. (And while you’re climbing the social ladder, you might even make a true friend or two; they still exchange letters with the Cloistered Diatomist.)

For a little while, it seemed like they might turn towards the Great Game. People are puzzles, they’re fond of saying, and their moral streak and sense of propriety don’t usually apply to the people they set out to betray. But the more they got used to the Neath, the less they found they cared about the Surface powers and their secrets—except that those secrets could be currency.

A sponsor took notice of their dogged pursuit of information and suggested that they join an expedition to the Forgotten Quarter. An expedition that, it soon came out, they would be leading. When they got their hands on the Correspondence Stones (before Virginia swooped in, thank you), they felt a spark that grew into a slow-burning obsession. The symbols that marked the Bazaar’s spires; the language of suns.

Alongside this, the woman they had been chasing—no longer another disinherited lady, but a Cordial Huntress, and one of their most vitriolic friends—had passed on rumors of a card game that would grant the winning player their heart’s desire. Those rumors began to pan out. They came into possession of a Cardsharp Monkey and made arrangements with a Bishop. They continued their archaeological pursuits in the Sunken Embassy, and earned enough brass to buy a spread of secrets that would take them from their drafty room to lodgings in the Bazaar. They got closer to Court with the sole intention of putting on the Topsy King’s impossible opera, and were nearly bludgeoned to death by a mob after their ‘practice run’ of an original symphony in the Correspondence.

When they returned from Venderbight—the opera not being appreciated by the Empress—and then Port Carnelian, it became apparent that their exile had overlapped with Benthic’s most troublesome pair of scholars: the Infamous Mathematician and the Roguish Semiotician. Their renewed courtship was the terror of the University; the marriage was a brief respite. Especially when the three went directly from their honeymoon to a zee voyage, allegedly for research. (The Mathematician and Semiotician certainly got some done. Their new spouse was busy convincing a One-Time Prince of Hell that they were far more terrible and callous than it; before and after that, they were keeping the ship running, though they spared as much time as they could to look over the Mathematician’s analyses of the places where zee became mirror and the currents that caused and ruined them or listen to the Semiotician’s delightfully unwise theories about drownie-songs.)

This peace didn’t last. Shortly after, at the conclusion of a line of lexical near-death experiences and brushes with madness, the ex-Detective penned a work that did to the University what their compositions had done to Court, and it was clear that they had moved on from murder cases and missing heiresses for good.

They followed this up by leaning on their place at the cutting edge of a new science, cementing their possession of a laboratory they badly needed, and only then—when they finally had an actual leg to stand on, academically speaking—delivering the dreadful news: they had been solving one last case all this while, and the Senior Reader’s murderer was none other than Summerset’s Provost.

This went over very badly, but Benthic argued a strong case against turning them out of the lab. It would, at this point, hurt the university more than it protected it. Perhaps it would be enough to shutter the planned Department of the Correspondence—in accordance with the Masters’ wishes—and keep away the students. And revoke funding, of course. Academic marginalization. The organized cold shoulder from both colleges. There would obviously not be a professorship. But so long as they were, on paper, someone’s hired and entirely-non-University-affiliated assistant… proper Correspondents aren’t an echo a dozen. Ones who will turn out research without commensurate pay, even less so.

There was a bittersweet sort of celebration at a certain flat in the Bazaar, that night. What they ended with was much less than they could have gotten—but it wasn’t the nothing they could have been left with, so long as they kept up the facade that it was something much more insulting. After all, who can bear being stripped of status without being stripped of the obligations that go with it?

Some fires burn slowly. The Calescent Inquisitive knew they could live with being one of them.

Personality:

Amias is amiable and charming, but in the somewhat nervewracking way of someone who regularly sits at Scandal 7 and doesn’t care until exile is nearly imminent. Their curiosity serves them well socially, as does their previous occupation; getting people to talk about themselves, and listening with genuine interest, are some of their best skills. They consider themself a “former introvert”—in reality, they just find the Neath’s social atmosphere a lot less discouraging. They want things on the other side of convention, and to an extent always have; what they could never get away with on the Surface is often only discouraged below. If you’re the exact right kind of unapologetic, you can pull it off.

They are, as a rule, exceptionally patient with their own plans, if much less so with others’, and too clever for anyone’s own good. They’ll spend months setting up affairs to avoid blowback they can’t handle, but they’ll also break into the Constables’ headquarters just to solve all the unsolved cases and leave the files stacked nearly on a desk.

Unsurprisingly for someone pursuing the Marvellous, the Calescent Inquisitive is best described as driven. If something interests them, they’ll pursue it, and everything else be damned. With that in mind, the rest of their contradictions fall into place; they believe in loyalty and a certain kind of propriety—if one that only ever aligns with Society’s by accident—and they make some effort to care about most of the people they meet, but they have a set of priorities, and they don’t feel the need to make those priorities fit anyone else’s. While they’d prefer to achieve whatever they’re focusing on with the minimum possible amount of harm, they won’t discard that focus for law or money or ethical qualms. Sometimes, at best, they’ll reevaluate what they want more.

For someone with such a defined list of priorities in their head, though, they don’t know themself as well as they think. Those priorities don’t help them self-analyze so much as stand in for it—they’re often unaware of their own emotions or desires, shrugging off all but the strongest and most consistent. They consider grudges inconvenient; they enjoy the Neath’s frequently-bizarre luxuries, but with a kind of patient efficiency the Bohemians would (and often do) find slightly unsettling. They take a surprising number of people to bed, but they don’t understand why people insist on gossiping about it—they’re not going to stop, unless their spouses decide it’s a problem, and there’s rarely any kind of great secret in it. They lie freely, if they feel the need, but rarely break promises. Hurt them, and they might well forgive you… just as soon as you’re no longer a threat. Everything is either a passing fancy or a project.

One might almost think that they didn’t start playing the Marvellous to win their heart’s desire—or even, as they’ve suggested, to discover the boundaries of what the Masters can grant—but to find out what it was.

[curiouscalembour]

so I'm making a little flondon themed pin bag insert!! and here's what I've got so far:

(for refrence the bag is the persephone moth ita bag)

ribcage insert: it's gothic, it glows in the dark, and honestly the scariest part of fallen london is the bone market

bat wings: normally I'd do a moth, but i mean. it's fallen london. london was stolen by bats, some very important characters are bats, you can hatch bats! bats!!

and then, top to bottom, left to right:

compass pin: the only direction marked on this is NORTH, and i wanted to sneak a seeking refrence in somewhere

held hands and reversed torches: headstone markings! again, gothic vibes pkus death being strange in the Neath! (i forget where i got these from)

pigeon enthusiast button: pigeons were a popular victorian pet, and also after playing the Columbidian Commotion i really couldn't leave this one out! (forget where from)

gaslamp pin: the only light source in the Neath, and iconic (vintage, found in a donation thing)

the neathbow buttons: my personal favorite aspect of the Neath!!! i have a special interest in colors, so fun forbidden colors with strange effects? i adore!!! (me and my partner made these, I'm not planning on selling any, i just printed out game images and stuck them in a button maker, which i hope was okay to do)

blue lepidoptera: despite all my moth pins, this was the closest i could get to a frost moth, my second favorite aspect of the neath! (gifted)

victorian cat pins: these make me think of the duchess, among other characters! (the cats are pangur and grim respectively, from @pangur-and-grim !)

Sherlock Holmes and Edgar Allen Poe Buttons: i had to include the Honey Addled Detective! "you see, but you do not observe" reminds me of how much depth there is in this game and the lore. "All that we see and seem is but a dream within a dream" reminds me of the Is-Not, and just the Neath in general! (from a meuseum, i think?)

ideally, I'd like to get a pin on here for each of the masters, and then one for each ambition as well! (a card themed pin, a star, a... dead bat? and a knife! or a red honey jar)

i almost considered putting my hermit crab on here, but i think i could get a better suited crab pin. additionally i want to put something train related, and maybe a gothic sun?

[mackerelsoup]

Title: A Penchant for Mead

Summary: A watchful recluse with a need for money alights upon the Honey-Addled Detective’s doorstep and shenanigans ensue.

Word Count: 1.2k

It was 5:30am and Barnaby Wilkins had already had enough of Fallen London. Not even out of the door from the room it spotted a rat – and not The Dubiously Shrewd Rat – scurrying away with a fat piece of what was certainly Barnaby’s bread clutched between its paws.

Barnaby narrowed its eyes and bleated an obscenity beneath its breath. The rat was not worth pursuing, Barnaby certainly had bigger worries. Afterall, it was what Barnaby got for renting from the first landlord it had found down here. Still, it couldn’t help lamenting the foolhardy decisions it had made that had landed it in New Newgate Prison in the first place. It had certainly intended to come to Fallen London, unlike the poor fools who had wound up here without intention, but still… It shook those thoughts away, and focused on what it needed to do now. Find that detective.

Barnaby nimbly weaved its way through the throngs of residents of the apartments below its own attic room and ignoring their greetings, pushed out onto the street. It shielded its eyes from the harsh sun peering its way through the smog of Fallen London and fished out a note it had written after eavesdropping on a couple exiting the pub across the street last night. The word ‘detective on Moloch Street’ had caught its ear while it nursed a tankard of ale at the pub and Barnaby had strained to hear more, although it could make out nothing else. It had hastily jotted down what it had gleaned, and dropping some tarnished pennies on the table, headed back to its lodgings.

Barnaby needed work, and quickly. Despite its attempts to learn about Fallen London before coming down, all its plans had gone awry when it was betrayed by the pair of talking four legged beasts that had led it to the entrance to the dingy world, and one event after another had left it trapped in the confines of New Newgate Prison. No matter though. Barnaby had decided that for now, detective work would suit its nature to always hide in the shadows, and it was determined to get that work from this detective.

Moloch Street…

It glanced back across the street as a few drunkards pushed their way past the short-statured sheep. Glaring at their backs, Barnaby looked back across the street and noted that the bar it had visited last night was open. It was as good a place as any to start looking for directions.

Back out on the street, a mumbled thank you and a few more pennies tossed behind the sheep as a token of its appreciation, Barnaby looked back down at its note. Now it had a lead. The bartender – a tall, round woman with a shrill laugh – had noted the streets Barnaby should follow to reach Moloch Street. A few more pennies and she added to her notes an addendum that would help Barnaby avoid getting shanked by following one of her previous instructions. Nothing would get her to reveal the Detective’s location though, but Barnaby was certain it could figure it out. Everything about the Detective indicated that he was as paranoid and shrewd as Barnaby itself, and Barnaby was convinced this was enough to locate the good man.

Carefully folding up its now invaluable paper, Barnaby began following the directions given to it. Though it had memorised the paper, it suspected nothing was worth throwing away in this den of iniquities. Some worth could probably be extracted from it still.

30 minutes later, and Barnaby’s shiny shoes – at odds with its guernsey sweater, a relic of its own upbringing – were reflecting the lights swinging concerningly from the streetlamps that lit up Moloch Street. The street was oddly quiet, but Barnaby supposed that with a lack of industrial activity, and full of spies that primarily worked elsewhere, there was no reason for the street to be all that active.

It made sense why the Detective had chosen to live here, Barnaby reflected, thinking about the detectives from Earth, who all seemed to be as upstanding as they came.

It took only another 3 minutes of straining its neck to peer up at the cluttered houses for Barnaby to decide which house might contain the elusive Detective. Only one house seemed to be alive, its lower windows boarded up and silent, although quiet, eerie music floated down from a window above. A lone, green light flickered and swam behind the window as if calling out to the sheep below.

Barnaby took a deep breath, dusted off its sweater – a futile effort, the damned thing seemed to collect dust regardless of what it did – and rapped twice on the Detective’s door.

The candlelight stilled and the music ceased. Barnaby waited several minutes, and yet no one came to the door. Curiously, it tried the handle, and the door pushed open with ease.

Slightly apprehensive, Barnaby glanced back at the uninviting street and then back at the slightly warmer, yet pitch-black, entrance. It reasoned that a detective would not mind being disturbed and entered, the floorboards creaking slightly beneath its weight.

It closed the door gently, and the music started up again at once. As Barnaby’s eyes adjusted to the gloom of the house, its eyes made out the faint green light again, and cautiously, it began feeling its way towards the light, hoping this all wasn’t a big mistake.

 

It was a big mistake. Now in the room it had spotted from below, Barnaby stood before a short, potbellied man with watery eyes who seemed very… taken with his hat stand. Having ‘successfully’ threatened the hat stand, he took a swig of his honey jar and peered at the bewildered sheep blearily.

“My good si- uh, well, ma-, no that’s not quite right, sheep. Might you be the one who has been looking for me in bars?”

Barnaby frowned. How could this Honey-Addled Detective know anything about its movements and enquiries?

The Detective smiled. “Believe you me, I have my ways, I do.” He stared mournfully at his now empty jar of honey, and Barnaby had to stifle a grimace. He cleared his throat them continued, “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Trust me, I’d rather do something for you.” Barnaby said, ready to steer the conversation back on track. “I’d like to help you solve cases.”

The Detective looked confused. “Cases?”

Barnaby began to feel the prickle of sweat bead upon its brow. “Yes. Like… for people? And… rewards?”

“Ah of course!” He clapped his hands together, looking jolly once more, and Barnaby couldn’t help but cast its gaze down towards the stained and ripped carpet. It smelled faintly of honey. The Detective made such a show of pondering Barnaby’s proposal, that its heart sunk low into the ground. It was therefore surprising when the Detective jovially said, “Of course you may! In fact, you start today.”

Barnaby looked up so quickly that it got whiplash. “I do?”

“Yes.” The detective waved vaguely at a mess of papers on his desk. “Sort those for me. There should be something for you to do within there.”

Gritting its teeth, Barnaby stood and got to work.

At least it was something.

[making-me-nameless]

Looking Ahead: Ambitious Goals

Once I'm tier 2 POSI, meeting the requirements on the card to unlock the railway is pretty straightforward. Doing that unlocks a storylet in Moloch Street.

That's a problem because, as mentioned in a previous post, I don't currently have access to Moloch Street. Normally, that's one of the very first things a new player unlocks, but the storylet that unlocks it is Making Your Name: The Case of the Honey-Addled Detective, the start of the watchful branch of Making Your Name. It doesn't actually give you a MYN quality, but I'd still like to avoid it if possible.

According to the wiki, there are other ways to unlock it, but they're tied to some of the Ambitions, specifically Bag A Legend and Nemesis. The Ambitions are a set of mutually-exclusive storylines that run from the early game to the onset of the late game.

Because they're mutually exclusive, I don't want to select one until I'm sure I know which one I want. There might be other roadblocks like this one, where specific Ambitions give me access to things otherwise unavailable. If possible, I'd also like to pick one it's possible to finish in this rule set (which I'm pretty sure Nemesis is not), so that's another constraint.

Fortunately, I've got plenty of time to make my decision, because both of my choices require journeys by ship before they unlock Moloch Street, which requires POSI and so requires doing the wedding grind.

[squadron-of-damned-writes]

ii would ask totenwaltser but ii already know so. um. lapse in judgement/dodge a bullet, watch my hands (the trick of a lifetime) and procházky šestým městem

Funnily enough, Lapse in judgement/Dodge a bullet doesn't have a scene which I wanted to exist so much that I wrote the rest of the fic. I had the idea of "this is how m!preg could prevent DL-6" and just went from there. With that being said, once I began writing, I really wanted to write baby Franziska being the most responsible no-nonsense adult while three years old, which manifested itself in "Be here at 6 pm sharp, no lollygagging." I suppose that counts.

Watch my hands (the trick of a lifetime) comes from my long-term desire for Shelly de Killer to appear more and most of all intereact on friendly terms of the AJ trilogy crew, because the new kids on the block don't know him and wouldn't recognise him. (Actualy I've kind of been sitting on the idea of Shelly being Franziska's weird little girl buddy for a case or two, but I haven't gotten anywhere with it, because. No plot. Yet.) The specific scene that I wanted to write was for Shelly to do a magic trick with his signature cards, with Trucy Wright, ace magician, being entirely unimpressed while everyone else around her loses their goddamn mind, because oh fuck it is the famous assassin Shelly de Killer. Another scene I wanted there was bandaged Shi-Long Lang with absolutely no shirt on begrudgingly sitting in the car and very decidedly not looking at Shelly who is very focused on driving, because he is operating a machine with a deadly momentum among other machines with deadly momentums.

Procházky šestým městem (Eng: Walks through the Sixth City) are a bit of a special case: I do not have a scene, but I do have this sort of a vibe. With that being said, the vibe is mostly Sherlock Holmes AKA the Honey-Addled Detective AKA the Ex-Student's Self-Appointed Friend wearing increasingly more disturbing T-shirts. That being said, I've started with "a very worn T-Shirt with print of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart with big headphones and even a bigger photoshoped cheschire grin" and I am not sure I can one-up this. Eventually the singer Karel Gott is going to make an appearance.

[bizarrebazaar13]

I was gonna say something about the honey addled detective I think. but I forgot. due to the agonies.