#the not-drowned zailor

[the-avaricious-meddler]

Rowan was born pre-fall and is in her 60s-ish. Both Vil and Namkuzu are beyond human lifespan- however Namkuzu appears in their mid to late 30s, and Villanelle appears in her 40s-50s.

All my curator OCs are beyond human lifespan, as are The Violet/The Orchidous Regent, The Grey/The Spiraling Monarch, and The Tower of Ash and Graves.

Glaszen (Namkuzu's failed attempt to create an artificial fingerking) and The Forgotten Meddler (weird Irrigo clone) are younger than Namkuzu but still beyond human lifespan. The Forgotten Meddler resembles Namkuzu when they were about 40 (albeit as a silhouette). The Dream-Watching Showman is in his late 30s.

The Overworked Assistant/The Overworked Enforcer, one of the POV characters in you are loved by the city, is in his mid 50s.

And The Not-Drowned-Zailor (SSeas PC) was in his 40s when he became a drownie.

How many people here have ocs that are over the age of 30?

Doesn't have to be a PC, can be any character within the universe

[ambereddragonfire]

Sunless Skies OC Charles if he was a pokemon trainer!

Whooper was his first pokemon as a kid and they went onto adventures together!

[elleryhart]

The Might, Reborn

Ellery's shitty little ship has disappeared for a while. She's not in the docks, but her Captain Hart is safely in London, clearly not lost or drowning. Interrogation of her clay Zailors earns nothing but silence on the matter, but investigation into the local ship manifests make no mention of the boat having been lost.

When it comes out of drydock, The Might of the Frail is something to behold. Her full name is on her side, freshly painted --just like the rest of her. Much like her Captain, she has begun her story anew, dangerous, strong, a new force to behold in Wolfstack's Docks.

She, and her Captain Hart, demand your respect.

[riots-unterzee-au]

Scrap 1

“We need to talk.”

The voice of the ship’s surgeon breaks Steve out of his thoughts, and he tears his gaze away from the false-stars shining weakly above them. He finds Sam fixing him with a flat stare, and Steve sighs.

“Is this about-“

“-Yes it’s about the state of the ship,” Sam cuts him off.

Steve sighs again. “It’s still floating, isn’t it?”

“Barely,” Sam says, “but you didn’t see the way it pitched when Clint and Thor started loading up the stone-“

“Well-“

“-And,” Sam barrels on, “we probably would have blown up on the way here if your ghost of a First Officer hadn’t emerged from his cabin just long enough to literally pinch a leak in one of the engine pipes closed.”

“You saw Bucky?” Steve asks quickly, perking up.

“Not the point.”

“How did he look?”

“Not great,” Sam says flatly, and then softens when Steve feels his face fall. “He just… he needs more time,” he adds.

Sam’s voice is gentle, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and Steve can only nod weakly. Whatever marked Bucky, stealing his memories and most of his humanity, it isn’t letting go easily.

“But he won’t get that time if we all sink and die on our way back to Fallen London,” Sam continues, determined.

“Are you suggesting we stay here?” Steve asks dryly.

They both look up, unwillingly. The massive, distorted stone shapes looming above them almost seem to move in the flickering lamp light. The one that still has a face is watching them.

“Yes, I want to live on the Salt Lions,” Sam says sarcastically, but there’s a shiver in his voice. He fixes Steve with another unimpressed look. “What I’m saying, is that zailing on a ship that’s about to break down isn’t exactly good for morale. If we do make it back…. I don’t know how much of the crew will sign on for another run.”

Sam doesn’t need to say that he might be one of the zailors not to return. He doesn’t want to lose another crew, it’s obvious even if he doesn’t say it.

“Point taken,” Steve says, his shoulders falling. “We need an engineer.”

“Need,” Sam repeats with feeling. “I mean, what we really need is a new ship, but I’ll settle for an engineer.”

“I’ll try to find one,” Steve promises, but he’s not sure this load of sphinxstone will pay for repairs and a new crew member.

Sam nods, and they turn when Thor hollers that the boat is loaded. The tension on the ship is obvious as Steve boards, everyone tightly strung and huddled around the running lights.

Clint is smiling as always though when he turns away from the deck weapon. “Back to London?” He asks.

Steve shakes his head. “The Cumaean Canal, we’re going to meet with someone for The Director on the way.”

Clint’s nose wrinkles at the mention of the one-eyed man, but he doesn’t say anything. His shoulders are squared as he spins back to his gun.

They launch from the small dock cradled between the feet of the massive stone lion, gas lanterns fading behind them, and in no time they’re swallowed up by the inky blackness of the Neath. Bats chatter and screech somewhere far up above them, nearly drowning out the sounds of the dark water against the hull.

Steve triple-checks that their course is set correctly and then heads below deck, where the pained whine of the engine is nearly deafening. The door to the First Officer’s cabin is locked, and there’s no response when he knocks as loudly as he can.

[sunlessea]

❛❛ IF I WERE YOU, i'd give up talking, 'cause soon you'll be a dead girl walking.

giselle is an envoy zailor visiting london as an ambassador from venice, a city finally sunken, half drowned, into the 'neath at no behest of the masters of the bazaar. overrun with rogue fae who refuse the masters and their ilk passage into their claimed city, they've established sunken venice as their territory, making them yet another faction sharing the zees. / artist.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @oleworm For the general swap :-) I saw you'd like to read about Parabolan weirdness and Zailing and I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy! Downed and Drowned and Never Found Zee Captain and Zailor OCs, general rating, 1621 words.

The Judicious Boatswain’s knuckles went white as he gripped the railing. They were still zailing at a fast pace, headed back from the Khanate towards London with a heavy load of cargo, but… Would it be in time? He flinched hard as his Captain swept past him, his nerves having been frayed nearly to bleeding. “Captain, we need to talk. The crew is uneasy, and I hear there’s been talk of-” He called out to her back. She turned, and he regretted saying anything nigh-immediately. Her gaze was a thousand metre stare that cut into and through him like a scrimshander knife, eyes wide and empty. “Talk of what.” She said flatly. The Boatswain’s grip tightened a fraction further. “Nothing, Ma’am. Go rest. I’ll make sure it’s handled.”

The Captain did not move or breathe or blink for long enough that the Boatswain started to hold his own breath out of fear, but eventually she grunted in assent and turned her haunted gaze elsewhere. The hems of her coat dragged as she curled into herself and turned the corner, shambling out of sight. The Boatswain shivered. A young zailor ran past and he caught them by the arm, ignoring their cry of fear and surprise. “Find the First Mate and tell them they’re to act as Captain until we reach port. And for G-d’s sake, to make sure everyone gets extra rations. If the Quartermaster complains, tell him I said to shove it.” He ordered. The zailor nodded fretfully, gave a squeaked-out ‘yessir!’, and then bolted back in the direction they came from. The Boatswain sighed, shaking out the stiffness in his joints as he followed after his Captain. He already had a very good idea of what he would find, but it was nothing less than his duty to make sure. A knock went unanswered. So did a concerned greeting. Finally he steeled himself and shouldered the door open, one hand on his pistol just in case something went very badly. 

… As expected. The Captain’s quarters were entirely empty. No sign of her beyond a scattered pile of increasingly illegible papers, some old scratch marks at the corners of her windows, and a needlework prayer to Stone knocked to the floor. The Boatswain blanched and returned it to its place on the desk, unwilling to risk a zee-god’s anger on top of their already precarious situation. With luck, She’d be waiting for them in London once she recovered. —

Somewhere beyond the mirror, a form moved slowly through a jungle, gliding through the underbrush as easily as water. A wheel jutted from her spine, spokes spinning as she maneuvered. Steam and coalsmoke billowed from the corners of her mouth with every breath. “Call all hands to man the caps’n, see the cable floked down clear.” A tinny phonograph recording sang within her chest, keeping her on time. Capstan shanty. Raise the anchor. “Heave away an’ with a will boys, for ol’ London we will steer.” Her anchor lifted, bit by bit, and she picked up her pace as it no longer dragged behind her. Ships don’t have voices with which to sing, per se, but song has a way of coming through anyways. Her wooden boards creaked as she stooped under branches. “Rol-lin’ home, rollin’ home, rol-lin’ home across the zee.” The phonograph insisted, crackling softly. Her wheel spun as she turned gently to starboard. Home. Had to come home. No North Star to guide her down here, but her compass-heart knew the way all the same. As sure as Stone’s warmth. “Rollin home to dear Old London, rollin’ home, fair land, to thee.”

A rustling in the undergrowth had her shifting her stance onto her stern, movements slow but deliberate. A gun-arm was raised, and the soft glim-lamps of her eyes narrowed in focus. A tiger padded out from behind a tree, vegetation whispering against its fur. She lowered her weapons. No threat. “Well, aren’t you an interesting sight.” The tiger purred. When she didn’t respond or move, its tail flicked. “What are you doing out here?” “Heave away, you rollin’ king! Heave away, haul away! Haul away, oh hear me sing! We’re bound for London ci-ty.” Her phonograph played, a gentle static hiss clinging to some of the words. She swayed in an invisible current. “Ahh, I see.” It said, stretching languidly. She tilted her head, the ropes and lines of her hair pulling taut against their cleats. “I won’t keep you long, then. I wish you fair winds and following seas.” After a long moment, she nodded, a slow dip of her bow. The tiger disappeared back into the greenery without a sound. Smoke puffed from her mouth as she exhaled, angling herself port and starting on her slow, steady journey once more. Home. She was going home, as all ships do when a voyage is through. Her keel would keep her upright and true. She travelled like this for centuries or seconds until a familiar sight came into view. A mirror in an intricate frame, containing an image of a gas-lit hotel within. A sign that she was nearly home. Her bow breached the glass like a hand through water, and she passed through. The Devoted Captain took a deep breath as she pulled her coat taut around her. She paused for a moment, getting her bearings, when her eyes fell on the fountain in the middle of the lobby. Not the zee-water she craved, but water nonetheless. She trudged over and knelt by the edge of it, trailing a hand in it to bring some to her lips. She drank deeply, like this. Her throat felt like she had been smoking, perhaps, but she couldn’t recall why that would be. A tall and smiling man approached, and sat on the edge of the fountain next to her. She regarded him balefully. Interrupting my drink, she thought to herself. He leaned down to rest a bearded chin in one hand, tilting his head at her. “Are you here to check in? A wind of Fate in your sails has blown you right into my lobby, after all.” He said. The Captain just barely held back on telling him where he could shove his lobby. A sudden ripple of laughter through his shoulders anyways made her wonder if maybe she hadn’t thought that as quietly as she had meant to. She settled for staring at him while pointedly (and loudly) sipping at another handful of fountain-water. “Hm. Very well.” He sighed fondly. “Another red-sky morning, perhaps.” She wiped the extra water off her face with the back of one sleeve and snorted. “Doubt it.” She said, standing up and shaking the wet from her hands. “I’m leaving.” The Manager smiled even wider. “Fair winds, Capstan.” The Devoted Captain turned to him, brows furrowed. “Capstan?” “Hm? I believe that’s a part of a ship, or a variety of shanty pertaining to it. Isn’t it your job to know that, my dear?” He teased, eyes crinkling. “No, you… Urgh. You called me Capstan. The hell did you mean by that?” The Captain near-hissed. “I called you Captain, you must have misheard. Perhaps you have some zee-water in your ears?” The Manager insisted. She clenched her fists by her sides and took a very deep breath to keep herself from doing something very inadvisable, and then turned and stalked out the door. The Manager waved to her retreating form with an airy laugh. Ah, no matter. He’d convince her to stay eventually. —

Wolfstack Docks. Almost there. The Devoted Captain’s boots thunked heavily against wood as she scanned the piers for her ship. She broke into a run when she spotted it, a little worn around the edges but not much worse for wear from her absence. Her First Mate snapped to attention first, then the rest. “Cap’n! We were hoping we’d find you back here. We got all the crates from the Khanate unloaded already, but we’ve been waiting for you.” They said, clasping her hand in theirs to shake firmly. “I owe you all an apology. Things got bad at zee, and I am sorry about that. But right now, I want nothing more than to get back on board my ship. Anyone who needs shore leave can take it, but I…” She gazed hungrily at the deck. “I need to feel her boards under my boots again.” The Judicious Boatswain studied her, not unkindly, before laughing gently. “Well, don’t waste time on our account. Go say hello.” He said. Some level of tension eased in his shoulders as she grinned. The Devoted Captain hauled herself up onto her ship, forgoing the gangplank entirely. Once up she immediately took to running her hands over the railings, relishing the wood under her skin. She was home. More than that, she felt like she was whole again, like some part of her own body had clicked back into place with her return. Her crew returned a few at a time, mostly just trying to keep out of her way as she did her rounds. A good few were taking up her offer of shore leave, it seemed, but not so many that they couldn’t zail. The Fidgeting First Mate joined her at the wheel, hands clasped behind their back. “So where are we off to next, Captain?” She laughed. “How about the Court of the Wakeful Eye? It’s been a while since we’ve paid tribute, and with luck, Stone’s light will bless us as we pass.”

The First Mate inclined their head with a smile. “Sounds like a good enough idea to me.”

The Captain curled her fingers around the wheel, took a deep breath, and prepared to zail once more.

[the-avaricious-meddler]

List of my Non FLondon FBverse OCs:

Misc high wilderness:

The Grey (Judgement) The Violet (Judgement) The Tower of Ash and Graves (Messenger) Mr Spirals (Curator) Mr Hearthstones (Curator) Mr Shells (Curator) Mr Machines (Curator, baby) Mr Blades (Curator) Mr Moons (Curator) Mr Clays (Curator) Mr Bones (Curator)

SSeas/SSkies:

Bailey, The Precocious Captain (Skies PC) The Not-Drowned Zailor (Seas PC)

[vake-hunter]

Acceptance into the House of Chimes results and which Master is playing Chimes in those results

this is fun and cute little details about the Masters

An innocent (Pages)

A fresh face among the jaded horde! No doubt you will achieve great things one day. But watch yourself: in Fallen London, innocence is a commodity like any other. 

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and grasps your hand in a spotless white glove. It feels like shaking a branch wound with spider-silk. 'Most optimate friend!' it whispers. 'Welcome to our Chamber of Delicacies!'

An Extraordinary Beauty (Apples/Hearts)

Persuasive 20

That skin! Those eyes! That delightful nose! Nobody can resist you!

Mr Chimes glides across the floor and surveys you up and down. 'My dear, my dear,' it says. 'How very appetising to have you here with us. Will you tilt your head to the right a little? Just so. Just so.'

A Player of Games (Iron)

Watchful 20, the Boatman's Opponent 1

You are an emperor of the chess board. You shuffle tiles and playing cards with dazzling speed. Rumour has it that you have diced with Death itself.

Mr Chimes approaches: the clicking of its boot-heels on the floor is like bone dice thrown on marble. It hands you two mah-jong tiles. Engraved on the back of the Winter tile is the single word 'WELCOME'. On the back of the Plum tile, you read 'LUCK IS THE PREROGATIVE OF VICTORS.' 

A noted trainer of Weasels (Apples/Hearts)

1 x Araby Fighting Weasel

The weasel-fanciers of Spite speak highly of your expertise with the genus mustela.

Mr Chimes is suddenly at your elbow. It inhales deeply. 'Oh, toothsome, my dear,' it says. 'Toothsome. Let the little fellows run free, by all means. Someone will manage the results, I assure you.' 

A true patriot (Wines)

1 x A Copy of your Patriotic Adventure

Your writings inspire the youth of Fallen London to a frenzy of patriotism!

Mr Chimes takes your arm and guides you into the lobby of the House. Its grasp is like the clutch of a winter tree. 'We respect loyalty to an ideal,' it says. 'One of the more austere forms, perhaps. But a true realisation nevertheless. No?'

A masterful cat-chaser (UH I ACTUALLY DONT KNOW? Veils maybe?)

Shadowy 30

You have honed your skills in pursuit of the city's most evasive felines. They speak your name with respect, if not quite affection.

Mr Chimes steals up on you from behind, but you turn just before its gloved fingers touch your shoulder. It chortles. 'Who can stalk the stalker, eh? Welcome to my House. Ware the Bell!' 

Not to be crossed (Iron probably)

Dangerous 20

There is something disquieting about your appearance. It's hard to pin down, exactly. An aura of suppressed violence.

Mr Chimes strides toward you. It holds up a hand in greeting. Or in warning? It nods once; it turns to go. That is all.

A crown in shadows (Wines)

1 Fate

Royal blood? Can it be true? On the wrong side of the blankets, no doubt. But that's what they say.

Mockery or respect?

Mr Chimes steps aside for you and makes the gentlest inclination of its head. 'We will bring you a bottle of something a little special,' it avers. 'We are delighted to add another crownable head to our collection!' Hm. 

Allergic to brass? (Spices probably)

1 x Nevercold Brass Sliver

The touch of the stuff hives your skin and blears your eyes. It makes you weep tears of blood. This makes you an object of some fascination at parties.

A bewildered Master

Unthinkable!' the hooded Mr Chimes shrieks. 'Impossible! Unprecedented!' It seems quite cheerful about it, though. It does insist you demonstrate the weeping-blood business, unfortunately.

Exceptionally Talented (Cups/Mirrors. Possibly Hearts/Apples but almost definitely Cups/Mirrors)

10 x Confident Smile, Persuasive 100

Both ladies and gentlemen pause immediately before speaking your name. There is a quality to that pause which is not easily described.

A friendly thing

Mr Chimes' hand spiders along your arm. 'My dear,' it coos. 'If only my tastes ran to... well, perhaps if your blood was a little cooler. No matter, my dear. You will be treasured.' 

The Rooftop Dancer (Veils)

Shadowy 60, Route: The Flit 1

You know the ways of the Flit like few others. They say you can reach the summit of All Christs' spire in the space of a single breath. They say you stole a feather from the Topsy King's hat. They call you 'Pussyfoot', but in a good way.

An avuncular approach

Mr Chimes drifts up like a scrap of silk on the wind. 'Good evening! Good evening indeed! You're a swift and circumspect maker of ways, aren't you? You are indeed! How very much to be admired.' 

An Unparalelled Grotesque (Maybe Wines because it has blue eyes)

10 x Hard-Earned Lesson

In the decades since the Fall, no-one has ever looked quite like you. Thank God.

A long silence

The bluish glimmer of Mr Chimes' eyes is steady, but you sense an obscure emotion. 'Well,' it says at last, 'why not? Why not indeed.'

A Visionary (Wines. Not Pages due to wording. Royal we makes it Wines)

A Person of Some Importance: A Significant Individual

You have made the Square of Lofty Words your playground. You have cowed the women and men of the University. Your ideas are simple in outline and intricate in implication. They will be remembered, perhaps, when everyone in this room is dead. Except Mr Chimes.

A debatable honour

‘Dear friend,' Mr Chimes murmurs confidentially. 'We have often read the surveillance reports on your speeches. We have commended your texts to the Ministry of Public Decency. We look forward to hearing more of your thoughts.'

A Prisoner of Despair (Fires)

Melancholy 4

Can your misery be so deep and unrelieved that even Mr Chimes has taken pity on you? Or does it simply hope you'll be a diverting mascot?

Mockery, or Hope?

Mr Chimes bears down on you, robe flapping like a tent in a hurricane. Its voice is an alto shriek. 'Come along upstairs! It's warm enough. It'll steam the chill out of your heart. And, here - ' It hands you a candle. 'It'll light you to bed.'

A Speaker of Truth to Power (Iron)

Forceful 3, Subtle 3

You've said the wrong thing to the wrong people once too often. You're going to be a lot of fun.

An ambivalent welcome

Mr Chimes perches on a high carved chair like a black gull on a cliff. A footman approaches with a silver tray bearing a single card. It reads: 'SILENCE'. An announcement? A suggestion? An instruction? Or is Mr Chimes just being difficult for its own inscrutable entertainment?

A Possessor of Impossible Table Habits (Who knows. One who knows table manners I guess)

What are you - no. No! Such things were not to be dreamt of! A fork cannot be put to such uses! Close your mouth! Close his mouth! For the love of all that is holy! DON'T TOUCH THAT SPOON!

Mr Chimes arranges an audition of sorts. You are served a hearty meal of beef-steak and winter vegetables, and provided with all the cutlery you might require. You perform the operations for which you have become notorious. After a suitable time for the onlookers to recover their composure, you are admitted to the House.

Orphaned in a Grisly Accident (I want to say Veils due to what we know of its collections)

Mr Chimes likes tales of blood and terror. It likes tales of butter and whimsy too. Tales of blood, terror, butter and whimsy are like music and water to one dying of thirst in the Desert of Cymbals. The tale of your parents' death at the hands of the Dairy Kings will bring breathless listeners to the fire for a hundred nights.

Not a dry eye

You tell the tale, long and horrible as it is. Mr Chimes convulses with... Mirth? Pity? Fear? Black-liveried footmen watch impassively while its shoulders writhe and roll, and its eyes shimmer like topaz deep in its hood. At last it subsides and you are admitted to the House. 'Step carefully,' Mr Chimes flutes.

An Artist in Ivory (Wines was the Khan of Dreams, but this could be Spices talking. Or Cups/Mirrors.)

a Scholar of the Correspondence 1

You have carved flutes from femurs and trinkets from tibia. Your sigil-circled skull sits in the grandest gallery of Veilgarden. They whisper that when you die for the last time, Mr Cups itself will come for your bones.

A pale horse

‘A little gift,' Mr Chimes informs you. 'Something to recall the Khan of Dreams by. Since you seem so keen to commemorate him.' Do you? Or has Mr Chimes misunderstood the nature of your project?

A wanderer of Parabola (Mirrors)

7 x Memory of Light, A Game of Chess 9, Is Someone There? 10

In your dreams you have seen the Mirror-Marches, the Menagerie of Roses, the Castle of Forests, the nests of the Fingerkings... even though you may forget them when you wake. But there is a light in your eyes.

A light in the darkness

‘Yes,' says the Master quietly. 'The mirrors know your name. The serpents have your scent. The rivers of roses will not drown you. The apples of glass might lie quiet in your hands. If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn. You are very delicious.' 

A zub-mariner! (Spices from voice but sounds like Fires from excitement about boats)

1 x Zubmarine, An Experienced Zailor 3

You are charting the unknown leagues beneath the zee.

Mr Chimes lopes towards you across the stone floor. 'Marvellous!' it shrills. It pumps your hand excitedly. It's like grabbing a nestful of velvet spiders. 'You'll fit right in here. Grab a seat.'

A killer of renown (Iron)

A Bringer of Death 1, 1 x Ravenglass Knife

Even in Fallen London, where bloodshed is as common as glim-fall, your name is whispered with apprehension. 

Mr Chimes approaches in utter silence. It hands you a rostygold knife, hilt-first. Engraved on the blade is the word: MEET. That is all.

A font of devil's tears (Want to say Cups due to smell but could be any)

Connected: Hell 20

Did your masterwork really make a devil weep? It must be true. Mr Chimes has the tears there in a little bottle. Wait. Is it drinking them?

A chuckle in the hood

Mr Chimes drapes a companionable arm across your shoulders. It smells of dust and winter starlight. 'Devils despise that kind of humiliation,' it confides in you. 'I laughed for days. Come on upstairs.' 

An Oenologonaut (Spices)

1 x Greyfields 1868 First Sporing, 1 x Greyfields 1879, 1 x Greyfields 1882, 1 x Black Wings Absinthe, 1 x Morelways 1872, 1 x Broken Giant 1844, 1 x Strangling Willow Absinthe, 1 x Fourth City Airag: Year of the Tortoise, 1 x Cellar of Wine

No-one has plumbed the secrets of the grape, the hop and the blood-apple more deeply than you. You can identify the products of vineyards that have no name in any human tongue.

Fond Sighs

Dear one,' says Mr Chimes warmly. 'Pleasure is a wilderness. We are its cartographers. Let us embark, you and I, on the catalogue of delight! Our journey begins here.' 

A Liar among Liars (No idea)

1 x Appalling Secret, 1 x Uncanny Incunabula, 1 x Extraordinary Implication, 1 x Searing Enigma, 1 x Whispered Secret, 1 x Cryptic Clue

Who can ever believe your stories? Truth is mingled with falsehood like blood in milk. You are a prince of rumours. Or is it a princess? Who can ever be sure?

An impassive audience

Mr Chimes listens to your stories of star and sea and shadow. It neither nods nor shakes its head when you suggest certain relationships between the Mountain of Light and the troubling thesis of Mr Darwin. It is motionless when you venture a hypothesis as to why only six symbols of the Correspondence can be written together on one paper. When you begin to discuss a matter of wells and candles and the Third City, it raises a finger. 'This is false,' it murmurs. 'Let us ensure it remains that way,' 

A Legendary Calumnist (Apples/Hearts)

Scandal 7, Persuasive 100, Watchful 100

Your barbs and insults and the twisting satires you've spawned have been the bane of the lowly and the great alike. All fear the savage edge of your tongue.

A cautious welcome

‘My dear,' Mr Chimes whispers. 'Be kind to the little ones, will you? Not all have your advantages. I admit you only on condition that you choose not to bite.'

‘I know a man.' (Probably Wines)

Connected: the Masters of the Bazaar 5

If it can be called a man. Step aside, peon. I am already welcome here.'

A hearty welcome

Come in, come in! A place by the fire is prepared for you. The table is set. The brandy rises from the cellar like the laughter of friends! Forget the petty troubles without. You have earned this night of peace.' 

I will scream until your House rings with the Words of the Thunder! (Probably Wines)

Stormy-Eyed 5, having Recurring Dreams: What the Thunder Said 10

I am the storm, I am the wind, I am the rain! I demand admittance! Defy me and I will blow your House down! 

The cloaked thing bows before me!

I fling gusts of squalling rain at its head! Then I race through the dusty corners and crannies of the House of Chimes with a cleansing breeze! I bid lightning spring from its spire in celebration! The Master insists I hang my oilskin on the hatstand before I drip on the carpets! 

The Inescapable Arm of the Law (Spices I believe)

investigating the Rubbery Murders 12, ascending the Reliables list of Mr Pages 3, Connected: The Constables 50, Connected: The Great Game 50, Watchful 100, 1 x Antique Constable's Badge

Your eye pursueth the malfeasant as the wrathful eye of God pursued Cain across the desert. You have returned wedding rings to costermongers, cats to dowagers, and stolen hearts to sorrowful tomb-colonists.

A nervous flutter?

We are most pleased to see you here,' Mr Chimes shrills. 'You are an ingeniate of great note! But perhaps you should limit your investigations in this House, eh?'

A Blood-Cousin to Predators (Veils probably)

1 x Ancient Hunting Rifle, a Procurer of Savage Beasts 1, 1 x Fairly Tame Sorrow-Spider, 1 x Bengal Tigress, 1 x Araby Fighting-Weasel, Dangerous 100, Watchful 100, marked by the Eater-of-Chains 3.

You have brought the great beasts low and walked in the footsteps of the fierce. You have turned fang and cunning, spine and venom and brute strength, against the monsters who wield them.

A peculiar passion

Mr Chimes inclines its head to you. 'Beasts. Beasts beasts beasts! So many beasts, such little time. Perhaps you could turn your energies to the pursuit of troublesome humans, hey? Why waste your time hunting those who cannot speak? Or sing? But welcome welcome!'

[starfoam-archive]

The Endless Zee

Something is wrong.

Everyone knows that the zee is perilous, and those that don’t are fools or have never had reason to learn. The zee - the ocean below the Earth’s surface - is as perilous and merciless as her sister above, and much more unpredictable. Zailors and citizens alike fear its power, its strangeness, and its unpredictability.

But never could have anyone dreamt of this.

The Gentle Dreamer, privately named Lorelei Snow, has drowned at Zee. She has drowned at zee fourteenth times.

But she’s not a Drownie, the siren-zombies that sing sailors to their doom, and she’s not a ghost, or a wraith, or even a Tomb-Colonist, because she’s the only one who knows that she’s died.

Like most who die intact in London, she wakes from her death in her own room each time she drowns, the death little more than a fading dream. Such is not strange, but for the fact that she wakes at the same day each time - August 16th, 1876, her first day working as a Zailor. No matter what ship she boards, what choices she makes, no matter how she changes London, she drowns at Zee and wakes.

Today is August 16th, and for the fifteenth time, the Dreamer has boarded her first ship. She will not let it be her last.

[neathnights]

Drown an informant

[previously on]

She has gone to the Constables. She must be silenced.

→ Drown her beneath oily grey waters She has to go near the river at some point. The Drownies can have her.

→ Offer a less lethal solution Perhaps she doesn't have to die. You could tell her to run and perhaps earn some money in the process.

Too late to save her You are approaching the meeting place on a bridge when you see two zailors lunge and push her over the railings and into the river. From the grey waters rises a chorus of tuneless, triumphant song.

Already starting to run You do not have to tell her twice. The informer is on her way out of the Neath. She buys your silence with a little of the red gold given to her by the Constables. She speaks of an estranged husband on the surface. A potential future under the sky. You do not see her again.

[oneirophasia]

Originally Philomela saw the Unterzee as it was in her parent’s stories - a sublime place of danger and beauty and mystery, spoken of in a tone of reverence. But she was not an adventurer. She went to sea to recover Bosch’s remains, and when that turned out to be harder than expected she became caught up in a surprisingly profitable merchant route that wound through half the Neath. But her heart was loyal to her home on London, with her beloved wife, the Laconic Libertine, and their roguish son, Jankin.

The sea is also jealous.

After an ill-advised journey into Frostfound trying to sate the whims of the Fathomking, Philomela was met on the docks with a report that her son had vanished from his ship. She had given birth to Jankin at sea, as the result of a series of rashly optimistic decisions which she came to regard as portentous as he grew into a rebellious and poetical young man who defiantly became a zailor himself, and this was exactly what she had feared would be the result. She chose to grieve in her cabin; and when she returned to London, she found that her wife had become the Lugubrious Libertine and then vanished from the city herself.

Ever a creature of habit, Philomela continued to drown herself in her work. Collecting sunlight from Aestival was always part of her usual trade route, but now she regularly lingered on the beach until her skin began to burn. She started to listen to sermons at the Chapel of Lights out of more than mere politeness. It worried her officers, and it especially worried the Cladery Heir.

The Heir was the oldest officer still aboard the Mesektet (and had in fact signed onto the Drakaina), and she and the captain had grown close - Philomela had put extensive effort into helping her overcome her own obsession with her parentage, and they had had a brief affair during a particularly nightmarish trip several years earlier. The Heir saw cause to return the favour, out of a mixture of duty and personal concern, and gave Philomela what support and comfort she could. And eventually, she convinced the her to finally finish what she started.

With the Heir’s personal and professional help, Philomela managed to give up her sunlight addiction and the lessons of the Chapel, and laid out a plan to find Bosch’s remains with an efficiency borne of apathy and spite. The Icarus in Black was built in one trip, shot four times, and immediately sold. The Unsettling Seer was freed from prison, then placed in a rocket and set on fire forever as a gift to the Fathomking. She funded the Bandaged Poissonnier’s masterpiece and ate it without her tongue ever noticing. Abominations of science and witchcraft were acquired and disposed of with deranged disinterest. The price of a stubborn postman’s package - Bosch might have called it a dead man’s chest, but she was not inclined to romanticise it - had been her family and years of her life. She saw the nature of the Unterzee, and it wasn’t dangerous, or beautiful, or mysterious. It was stupid, and it was going to pay.

When she finally claimed Bosch’s remains, it was with the last drops of reverence in her body that she returned to London and gave them a proper burial. Then she and the Heir retired to an enormous mansion full of zee-trophies, and lived there together, proud, sour, and satisfied, for the rest of their days.

I started playing Sunless Sea about a month ago and my first captain who lived long enough for me to get attached to them was Bosch, only the one name, of the corvette Unearthly Delight.

Who is Captain Bosch, really, and why do they never appear to remove their diving suit? The crew has ideas:

Eccentric

Immune system disorder

Protection from sunlight

Secretly a Drownie or a Rubbery Man

On the run from someone they pissed off in a former identity

Actually a persona shared by multiple crewmembers; perhaps you will get to be Bosch on the next voyage, if you stay with the ship long enough to win the secret ballot

Someone tried to hide a cache of smuggled souls in a diving suit and the diving suit refused to give them back

No one’s sure if that last one is even possible or just a zee-ztory, but certainly Bosch had exactly the kind of “all the secrets of the Zee will reveal themselves to me if approached with a spirit of daring inquiry and reasonable safety precautions” attitude that you’d expect of an possessed diving suit, and being a renegade bag of souls obsessed with mediaeval surrealists adds a layer explaining why they got on so well with the Pirate-Poet, and so poorly with Devils and Pentecost Apes.

Alas, the Unearthly Delight was ultimately mobbed by angry parrots, and Bosch’s daughter Philomela has since gone to zee herself in search of her “Father’s” “Bones”. (Don’t look at Bosch; she was named by her other dad.) Perhaps some part of the diving suit survived the wreckage intact…

[chrismerle]

Action Romp part SEVEN

@nicxan

holy cow, two chapters in less than 24 hours, and I more or less know how the next one will go. I’m on a rollllllll~!

anyway, I love these two. I especially love using these two to torture my best friend. it fills my soul with light.

the rest of the fic is in my ‘ACTION ROMP’ tag, if you’re interested. I would link, but tumblr is tumblr.

i’m not even done with the fluff yet, i’m hopeless

Shai is in motion in an instant, only to come to a halt after just a few steps. The ground just gave way; they watched it happen. Charging forward is probably not their best bet.

So they creep forward carefully, testing each step to be sure the ground beneath their boots is stable. When they reach the edge of the hole, they drop to their knees beside it, but it's too dark to see anything. All they know is that there's water and that the hole isn't too deep.

They hold a hand up, and almost immediately one of the bugs is investigating the glim. They snatch it and crush it in their palm, only to mutter a quiet, "Fuck me," when it stops glowing once it’s been crushed. Granted, more are quick to arrive, so instead they simply lean forward, sticking their arm down to get a look at what's going on.

"Go see if there's a bottle or something in that pile over there." They aren't even sure who they're instructing, but that's not really the important part. They hear paws scuttling away a second later.

They still need to squint, but the light of the handful of bugs is just bright enough for them to have some idea of what's going on.

Danny is standing in the water, his arms lax at his sides. It's barely up to his mid-chest, and he's just staring straight ahead at the opposite side of the small cavern.

The water should still be rippling from Danny's fall, but the surface is as smooth as glass, as black as soot, and free of any reflection. They really don’t want to have to touch it.

There's a clatter as Diego sets a bottle nearly his own size down at Shai's knee and peers into the hole. They cut a glance in his direction to see him fidgeting with his hands as he asks, "How're you gettin' 'im outta there?"

"Awkwardly," they decide after a second as they sit back up, to instead start dropping the bugs crawling over their claws into the bottle. With nothing to stopper it, they instead plant one palm over the mouth and use the bottom of it to smash one of their claws off against the ground. The bugs cluster on top of the shards of glim as Shai drops them into the bottle as incentive not to fly away. "Go grab the blanket from the bed in the corner."

Diego lopes away again, and Shai turns their attention to the mirrored tunnel. By the time Diego is dragging the blanket back, Turritopsis is back, a mechanical rat dangling from one tentacle. Shai's eyes narrow slowly, before they wave it off and take the blanket. They twist it into a hasty rope and tie a loop into it, and tug it over their legs until it's looped around their thighs. "Turritopsis. Lower me down."

They take the bottle in one hand, curling that elbow around the trailing end of the blanket. They wobble as Turritopsis lifts the blanket before they catch their balance, like sitting on a swing.

Even with a light, the hole seems too dark, and they can still only just make out Danny's outline by the time they've been lowered enough to reach him. One hand lands on his shoulder, and then they drop the bottle to get as tight a grip on the impromptu rope as they can, before they dip back and, with a triumphant little, "Got you," cinch their free arm around Danny's chest.

"Up!" they snap, and they grit their teeth and hook their claws into Danny's jacket as they wobble precariously and surge upwards. As soon as Danny's completely out of the water, he sucks in a breath and starts coughing like a drowning man. They both go sprawling over the ground as they clear the top of the hole, and Danny scrambles up onto all fours to dry heave over the stone.

Shai levers themself up onto their hip, one hand landing between Danny's shoulders, rubbing his back with their knuckles. It's a long minute before the coughing fit finishes, and he sags back to sit. When Shai slides their hand from Danny's back to his shoulder and tugs, he moves easily, slumping bonelessly against their chest.

"Drownies," he offers after a moment, his voice rough. "And--so goddamn dark."

Shai's hold on him tightens slightly, and they dip their head enough to press their chin against Danny's hair for a second. "I've got you."

They're both quiet after that...at least until the mechanical rat still dangling from one of Turritopsis's tentacles squeaks. Slowly, Shai looks up at it, and they finally straighten up, extending one expectant hand.

"May I have that?" they ask, cooing sugar sweet. The blemmigan hands it over without complaint, and they hold it in both hands under its front legs while it squirms and squeaks. Diego squints at it from the ground, folding his arms. The mechanical beast is only half his size, but for a rat that's still rather impressive.

"Rat work?" Shai inquires blandly, lowering it for the bandit to get a better look.

Diego scoffs. "Not even close. Not even worth much."

"Oh, good," they muse placidly, before they grab it by its head and drop it down the hole. It hits the black water with a near silent splish!, and makes no further noise.

Danny turns enough that his back is to Shai's chest so he can look up towards their face, but he doesn't bother to actually sit up. "Spying?" he wonders, head thumping back against their shoulder.

"Most likely," they reply, watching the hole for a moment longer. "What now?"

"...Sleep?" Danny suggests, almost cautiously, like he thinks the idea is sort of silly.

Shai comes up short at that, as pondering the suggestion makes them realize that they're fucking exhausted. "It...has been a bit of a day," they agree haltingly. It's good sense, probably, and as Danny reluctantly starts to get to his feet, Shai disentangles their legs from the blanket.

---

The pair of them put only the briefest thought towards the bed and the blanket before deciding against it. They don't know where it's been, and Shai can't get the knot in the blanket untied anyway. The group winds up in the as-of-yet unexplored tunnel, away from anything mechanical that might watch them. It is, thankfully, free of mirrors and just seems to be a simple tunnel.

Turritopsis is patrolling for the time being, while Victus and Diego sleep curled up in a knot. Eventually, they'll take their turn to patrol. It means Danny and Shai get to sleep without worrying about shifts. Both their boots and Shai's prosthetics wind up piled off to the side, and Danny has just enough time to sprawl on his back before Shai shuffles over on their knees and flops down on top of him. The air leaves his lungs with an oomph that's only partially genuine, and Shai grins crookedly. They fold their forearms on his chest and rest their chin on them as they remark, "Have to keep warm somehow without the blanket."

Danny rolls his eyes, and Shai very nearly goes cross-eyed when he flicks the end of their nose.

They don't really mean to fall asleep like that. It's not exactly uncomfortable, but nor is it precisely comfortable. But given the day they've all had, Shai's not really surprised to find they've lost at least a few minutes, jolting back to the present only when Danny asks, "What did you see when you...?" He trails off, and Shai cracks one eye open as he gestures halfheartedly back in the direction they came from. Back towards the mirrored tunnel.

"Was surrounded by mirrors," they mumble in reply.

"Well, yeah, clearly," Danny returns blandly.

"Other t'an the tunnel," Shai tacks on quickly.

"It was more than that," he argues, lifting his head finally.

Shai focuses off past his ear, eyes only sliding to Danny's face when they point out, "You still have my goggles."

There's a pause for a moment, before he heaves a slow sigh and lowers his head again. "I'll give them back later," he sighs, letting it drop. His tone is...complicated.

"No one was comin' to help me," they spit out in a rush, and Danny stiffens in surprise, though they aren't looking towards his face. "No one was comin', because am impossible, and I was very keenly aware've it while I was t'ere. Jus' me an' the Fingerkings."

Danny is still rigid as a plank, and they get the impression he's very quickly trying to think of what to say, and failing even faster. They can't quite help themself when they drawl, "Am not gonna start cryin' again, Danny. You can relax."

"Stop that," he snaps, and Shai supposes they're both too tired to help it. "Just--don't tell me this isn't the time or place, either. This only ever comes up when it's 'not the time or place.' But--you know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

"I do weigh more'n you," they reason pleasantly.

"Shaicarus."

Ah, feckin' hell, there's the Very Careful Enunciation.

"Most'a the time," they concede sullenly.

Danny is still fretting, but neither of them are really great with feelings. And they at least feel...better? Sort of? They nestle their chin down towards his chest, eyes sliding closed again. It's as much of a sign as they're going to offer that they're done talking.

"Give it a rest, zailor," they murmur, cracking one eye open again just enough to look at him. "It's time to sleep."

He doesn't argue, and they're glad for it. It's been a hell of a day.