Some days can feel empty. There is not always an absence, but there can still be emptiness. The emptiness can be ever present. Persistent. Lasting. Days, weeks, months. It is a dreadful state to be in, truly, yet it is possible to overcome. The void is not eternal, and never has been. Fulfilment can be found in the most unexpected of places. This search, in itself, will last for as long as the emptiness remains.
Emptiness does not mean absence. There are wonders to be found within and despite the void. There is brightness within. It simply has to be dug out. This is hard, work, of course. It does not come easily. It does not come alone. Yet the start is lonely.
There is a certain emptiness within everyone. Do not give up until it is filled.
Art of London
by Reinol von Lorica
Captain Whitlock had passed.
I wasn’t as sad as I thought I would be. It was…surprising. I was there when she spoke her last. As much as I wanted to yell, to scream, to shout, to ask why she did what she did…I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make her smile one last time.
We made it back to New Winchester not long after. To this day, I wonder that if I had been a second faster, might had she been able to survive? The doctor said that there wasn’t a chance but still…
The Stationmaster’s visit certainly didn’t help. But his questions helped to clear my mind at least. Made me remember who I was.
I was a zailor once. Just like my mother. And my father, or at least, that’s what she told me about him. She showed me the ropes, taught me how to sail the Zee, manage a crew, hold my grog, and bed the engineer. Useful things at the time, and even more useful now.
I sought fame in the Skies. Just like my father. I know that’s what he did, because I see his name in every book in every library in every settlement that dared call itself a dominion of the Empire. It’s not that I want to be like him. Quite the contrary.
I wish only to surpass and eclipse his name. To carve my own name into history, just like he did. I like to call this payback for what he’s done. To me. To mother.
I’ve been summoned to attend to the matters of our late captain’s will. Other than her passing of the locomotive onto me, it seems she left much more. And for that, I am glad.
17th of May, 1905
Fabian von Lorica
News of Art, Art of News
Art of Carnelian – Poetry of Khanate, Theater of Tigers
The works of the Carnelian Coast are, for many, exotic still, just like the Coast and the Elder Continent themselves. It is for your convenience that we bring you a short insight into the works of these places, but it is still for you to discover them for yourself. We picked the two most enjoyed forms of art at the Coast, one for each of the residing factions.
The Khaganians are fans of tea side poetry. In their tea shops you can often find a poet, sat among cushions, reciting words of love, joy, wonder, and of hatred, sorrow, loss. The poems are different from those of London. Rather than providing lyrical depth, the poets of Khanate recite epics, stories of heroes told throughout generations. None of these epics have ever been written down, and it is forbidden to do so by their ancient laws. Still, the poetry is beautiful. Truly, nothing matches the feeling of sitting with a cup of tea, listening to the heroics of times gone by, not only from the Neath, but also from the Surface.
The Tigers of the Coast bring another twist to a tried art form. Their main joy is theater, however the theater of tigers is lyrical. The actors play concepts rather than characters. They convey feelings through their performance. They relay what may be rather than what is. Truths are ever only hinted at. These performances, of course, are enjoyed with a hookah. A room filled with smoke, the performers covered in a thick mist of mystery. Their voices boom and echo throughout the hall as they reveal their secrets. This form of theater is truly otherworldly.
Do not be afraid to travel, London. There is much joy in the mystery to be found on the Carnelian Coast. We encourage you to seek art, always.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of fame?
Your whole self, and much more down the line. It is the ultimate price.