doorbreaker

"Steadfast despite her taste for honey, delightfully dashing and quick-witted to boot. But alas, a tad too frugal with her purse. Nobody's perfect."


15 November, 1893 (your Lodgings) [Permalink]

"Best buy some polish"

The shoes squeak a little, but fit well enough. You see your reflection peering back up at you. And that paper you lost under the dresser. And the new holes in the skirting board. My, they are shiny.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A golden evening"

The last rays of sunlight slant across the garden and turn the silver fountains to liquid gold. The scent of jasmine is sweet in the air. You sit, hand in hand, on cool grass, and watch the moon rise. It is entirely peaceful. Later, back at home, you receive a small gift. Moon-pearls, of course.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"The Affluent Photographer"

The figure is blurred, as if he moved his face from the camera as the shutter opened. Perhaps he had reason to be camera-shy. The words on the back read 'Spite, September 1885. March?' You can make out a stamp next to the date. It's the mark of the Affluent Photographer, who works from a fashionable studio near Veilgarden.

September and March. Odd. Could this be a reference to the reclusive Calendar Council of revolutionaries? Is the Affluent Photographer involved? You'll get to the bottom of this, no doubt.

Thunder grumbles, far across the Unterzee. A stray breeze tugs the photograph from your hand and tumbles it away.

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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A couple of weeks of bliss, after which you get tired of him and spring your trap."

The poor soul is frightened witless! He showers you with jewels to distract you and escapes first chance he gets.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A solemn procession"

You stand on a glass crag, waiting for the sunrise. A crowd surrounds you. They would be considered ugly in the waking world, with their many-jointed limbs, their lipless mouths, their avid faces. Here, they are limned with golden light and crowned with leaves. You wait together as a greater light grows in the East - a light like lions and amber. All at once, you raise your arms and shout, and the shout goes up like day.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"Down to darkness"

Here is a city of gold and red granite. The inhabitants walk gossiping in the streets, sipping dark wines. They are dressed for a warm day, but it is the night of the Neath here. There is an air of celebration. As with many languages spoken in dreams, you understand the meaning without understanding the words: a great disaster has been averted, the King's folly is ended by the Princess' cunning, the heralds of night are bound. Yes, the sun is gone, and no, the places below ground are not what had been taught, but perhaps that's for the best, considering. And the road to immortality is much eased. Therefore - they toast you - let us be remembered well. You wake. There is an unexpected beetle in your hand.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"Down to sleep"

Here is a city of gold and red granite. The inhabitants walk gossiping in the streets, sipping dark wines. They are dressed for a warm day, but it is the night of the Neath here. There is an air of uneasy celebration. One by one, they go down the stairs into the soft white glow, their eyes wide and tender. You approach the edge of one of the pits. The scent is sharp, unpleasant. You wake.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A mortal dread"

You stand on a glass crag, waiting for the sunrise. A crowd of monsters presses at your shoulders, breathing deeply, eyes agape. You barely move. The sun humps above the horizon, like a bull raising itself from sleep. The crowd of horrors around you bellows in delight. You sink to your knees, hands over your ears to block the sound.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A Spotted Gentleman"

A lawn by a river; a breakfast table with toast and tea; an elegant sort in morning-dress of marigold silk, quirkily spotted with black. You speak of the charms of the Surface, the arrangement of the streets under the Bazaar's regime, the iniquities of serpents. The odours of newly cut grass and a muddy sort of decay linger strangely in your nostrils, and you find yourself quite put off your toast, but the gentleman is charming company. There is a sun here - low in the sky, swollen, a peculiar orange hue, but the sunlight is warm.

When you return, it is the light that lingers in your memory. "Retain what you may," he told you. "It will protect you, although not against serpents."
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A thrilling afternoon"

You ride a fast light boat down a nocturnal, rapid-wracked river! It barely seems to touch the water - it skips and leaps like a dragonfly. The pilot is a stern woman in an unfamiliar uniform: she laughs with delight each time the boat bucks. The deck is flooded with moonlight, though the moon is a curious chilly blue. "We'll be there soon!" the pilot shouts back to you. But you wake before you arrive. You know you always will.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"Hell is empty"

The rain comes down like God's rods. The clouds above boil with light. Figures dance giggling in the rain - figures with hot orange eyes. Devils? But they don't look quite like devils. Their limbs are jointed oddly, their faces are guileless.

Lightning strikes! You stagger back, dazzled into blindness. It struck at the figure on your left: and as you watch, it dissolves into a cloud of winged things, dissipating into the storm in an ecstacy of flight. The others laugh and cheer. Another lightning strike! You're engulfed in glorious brilliance, and everything goes white.

You wake, still soaking wet, skin tingling, face stiff with a delighted grin. Peculiar yells echo in your ears.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A terrifying afternoon"

You cling to the deck of a raft of silvery wood as it spins endlessly from rock to rapid to whirlpool... sailors throng the edge, firing at unseen figures in the trees, but they fall one by one to return fire. The last collapses in front of you, mouth leaking blood. "Rosers..." he gasps. You wake.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"Place a drop of honey on your tongue"

Lie back and close your eyes. Prisoner's Honey does not bring dreams to those who sample it. Instead, it physically transports them to dreams. Your body fades from the couch as the gentle humming of bees fills the room.

The nature of the dream to which you travel depends in large part on your own imaginative powers. Plainly, you are a [genderdescription] of talent and distinction! You find yourself in a meadow of wildflowers on a lazy summer afternoon. Friendly young persons of extraordinary beauty drip perfumed water on your temples, sing entrancing songs and in other ways strive to make you as comfortable and relaxed as possible.

You return to the damp, cold reality of the Neath with a nasty jolt. But your mind is afizz with delightful recollections.

[You may, in fact, sell these recollections at the Bazaar, if you can't use them in your own work.]
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"You place a drop of honey on your tongue, lie back and close your eyes, notebook close at hand."

Prisoner's Honey does not bring dreams to those who sample it. Instead, it physically transports them to dreams. Your body fades from the couch as the gentle humming of bees fills the room.

The nature of the dream to which you travel depends in large part on your own imaginative powers. This is a little disturbing, since you find yourself in a moonlit garden of white flowers and weeping statues. The statues, like the garden, are very beautiful, but the effect is rather melancholy and you are not entirely sorry to return.

The honey-den's proprietor reads your notes, and, delighted by the effect they may have on his business, gives you a free sample.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"The warmth of wine and flesh"

The group breathlessly express their admiration for your work, but you swiftly turn the tide of conversation from Art to Life - from the Imagined to the Physical.

The celebration moves to a nearby church, bringing along more than just your little group. The church is unusually decorated - with garish and cheerful chalk drawings. What happens under the influence of wine and lust is hazy, but you have a fleeting recollection of proclaiming a sacrament to love - before diving into a throb of bodies.

Only one pair had kept aside - a Jewel-Thief and an Heiress. They hadn't stayed long. They had shared something sticky and golden from a silver spoon. Then vanished into empty air. "Prisoner's Honey," the Prospective Novelist had slurred, as he pulled you back into the debauch. "The poet's finest friend. You should try it, after we're done..."
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"A New Star in the Neath"

"Oh good! It's you!" A Prospective Novelist stands on a chair and bellows at you over the Singing Mandrake's cheerful din. He is using a copy of your latest work to semaphore the message: join his group for a drink.
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15 November, 1893 (Veilgarden) [Permalink]

"You got away with it!"

My God. It worked. You've earnt your pay and you'll be the toast of the Singing Mandrake. He intends to print four thousand copies at his own expense. You hope no one ever points out the joke.
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15 November, 1893 (your Lodgings) [Permalink]

""It was not always so! Let me tell you my story-""

Are you a replacement for a child she lost? Or is her interest in you a little more carnal? Either way, you become the Soft-Hearted Widow's guest.

You deserve somewhere better, of course. But this will keep you out of the cold. It's a big improvement on the prison cell you were in such a short time ago.

[Finding better Lodgings increases the size of your Opportunities hand, and can have other advantages! With enough wealth or the right connections, you can have your own hunting lodge, paddle-steamer or merchant's palace...]