It is my hope that my countless tirades on love have not gone out of fashion, or worse yet, out of the want of minds. Perhaps, even in such dire circumstances, this season of love is an acceptable time to indulge one’s waxing and waning thoughts.
It is a choice for all of us to pursue the matters of one’s heart; of course, we cannot choose when these matters strike, or which target our heart’s arrow shall aim towards. All one can hope for is for the alignment of circumstances, a fortuitous occurrence within one’s heart and one’s mind. A conjoining of one’s interests and one’s primal desires.
It is, of course, not a crime to not follow one’s heart. Emotions may sway us towards a goal, yet the mind knows such goals can be, ultimately, destructive. It is wise, then, to pave the road with caution. It is hard to know what is good for one’s self. Warnings of one’s own body are to not be taken lightly.
I find it hard to know what the correct choice is.
Perhaps, one day, the heart and the mind will cease their fray of hauntings and release one’s spirit from their hostage.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Four
by Cassius Mortemer
Ladybones Road; A district and a street in the West end of Fallen London. Most notably known for attracting spies and detectives, and is the center of Hell’s businesses. It houses the base of operations for devils in London: a Hell away from Hell in the Brass Embassy, not too far from Dante’s Grill…
“Why didn’t I think of checking here first…” the Author asked no one in particular.
The Brass Embassy stood tall and brassy, with glowing windows of emeralds, rubies and topaz. Abstract patterns, strange dials and springs, winding pipes… It looked like a massive, vaguely building-shaped engine of some colossal machine. Devils walked the streets, gossiping, shopping, going about their own business in their flamboyant fashions. Oh dear lord. How was he supposed to navigate around here?
At least, he supposed, the Introverted Devil will stand out in the crowd.
The Author aimlessly wandered down the streets around the Brass Embassy. Devils, on multiple occasions, approach him with confident smiles… only for their interest to falter once they realize that his soul had already been taken. He left a trail of disappointment wherever he went. At least that didn’t change.
“You seem lost, dear,” a Curious Devilless purred. He waited until it was clear that she wasn’t going to leave, despite his lack of soul, then he answered.
“I’m looking for a friend,” he said.
“Oh? Perhaps I know them.”
Somehow, the Author doubted that. But he told her all identifying information he knew. At least, what he remembered at that moment.
“Are you sure he’s a devil? Did he have a fork?”
“He doesn’t sound like a devil, are you sure?”
“Madam, I’m very sure of it. His eyes shone like brass,”
The Deviless considers the information for a moment longer. A slender finger tap-tapping a soft cheek.
“Could it be the fellow I saw before?” she asked herself. The Author waited – patiently – for elaboration.
“You know, I may have seen someone like that heading for Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour just a few moments ago!”
Clathermont’s, known for being the spies of London’s favourite haunt. The Author never pegged the Devil for a player of the Game.
“Thank you,” the Author said, “I’m sure I’ll find who I’m looking for.”
The Author turned to leave, straight to Clathermont’s… and the Devilless followed him. The Author ignored her for now. Perhaps she’ll go away? The Author had more pressing matters than wondering why a Devilless is following a soulless man. Like finding his soul.
Soon, the giggling devillesses and flamboyant devils were replaced by couriers, aspiring detectives, and (unsurprisingly) more dull-faced citizens who had recently lost their souls.
There. Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour. The Curious Deviless giggled behind the Author. They crossed the road. There. He could see people inside. He opened the door. A bell clinked above him. No one paid him any mind. There. A figure dressed in all black, his back facing the door.
It had to be him. Blond hair curling out from beneath a hat (the devils called them fedoras). Narrow shoulders. Slender fingers. But the Author hesitated. No, there is no time for that. He took a breath, readying himself to speak as he approached the Devil. The Devil followed one of the ladies he had been talking to around a corner. The Author jogged after him, but what is this? As soon as he rounded the very same corner, they were already out of sight.
News of Art, Art of News
Dreams Of Weddings – The Shopkeeper In Viric Blesses Londoners!
This Feast of the Exceptional Rose, an exquisite new opportunity has show its wings. Wearing a suit painted in Viric has set up shop for those seeking thrill and romance. Four persons of prominence have provided experiences for the Shopkeeper to distribute, all of which, of course, shall remain anonymous within our little paper.
Once one has purchased a dream, chosen the desired qualities, and signed a contract, a whole lifetime of married life comes to them in their sleep. Over three periods of sleep, to be precise – three sessions of dreams, three seasons of romance within three nights.
Naturally, our reporters have tested these dreams, and we must say – it is no scam! This, dear London, is the genuine article experience! To the very end, yes, the dreams are immaculate, and the Viric is strong. What could one learn from the love of these Londoners? If you have the echoes to spare, dear London, we encourage you – visit the Shopkeeper in Viric! A true artist of dreams.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Is she the one?
I fear it is impossible tell through such inaction – intent, after all, is not pursuit.