Editorial
Blood from marrow, it feeds the sinew and the nerves. Intricate systems like complex clockwork, not parts of a whole but a whole, themselves, together. Each vital, necessary. They cannot exist independent of each other; they cannot function without each other.
What makes something paramount? It is the intricacy; the gentle, marvelous commingling of parts. A vital necessity of togetherness. A perfect whole rather than a sum of parts.
The glue that holds the whole together is, perhaps, more difficult to pin down.
Is it an inherent gravitas, a power that permeates all aspects of being? Like the Earth below, pushing and pulling and guiding through the reckless ether of life?
Is it ambition and strife, the want of life and the thirst for success? Like a beast acting on instincts, fighting with everything it has?
Certainly, whatever the cause, the undeniable factor is exquisite ability. To tie the loose ends together, to gather the minutest of details and utilize them to one’s advantage. To not simply know, but to use knowledge to its greatest potential. This ability, one must concede, can be simply attained; though the secrets of greatness are not available freely, the locks guarding them fall apart at the simplest scrutiny.
It is not in my nature to boast. I shall not resent judgement, though I want you to know I wish for all to break from the mundanity of their own perceived inadequacy. There is much to be learned, shall one be willing to listen.
Art of London
Liberated London
Chapter I
by Heubristics
It began, as many revolutions began, with dissidence. Then sedition, then insurrection, then at last one mass violent upheaval of rebellion. The people took to the rooftops and the alleyways and the undergrounds. There were knives in the dark, bullet casings in the street, incendiary pamphlets raining from the skies. And there were bombs. Tin-can bombs improvised by urchins. Grenades introduced years before their time by infernal precognition. Irrigo bombs fashioned from eyeless skulls. Fire bombs that burnt out secret police stations. Gas bombs fired into crowds by Defense Constables. Bombs that exploded into words that got inside your head, exploded into clouds of poisonous butterflies, exploded into aerosolized emotions of surrender.
And there were bombs that turned off the lights.
The Liberation of Night! That was the name and the rallying cry. That old ideology from cold and distant shores, found root in London’s revolutionary underground, based on two simple ideas: light was law, and the stars were tyrants. Anyone could support the Liberation; all you needed to start was a brick and a lamp to chuck it at. But if you wanted to support it even more…there were ways.
The donation of certain items: banned books containing illegal theories, linen that absorbed light, human remains sizzling with unearthly energies, beetles and brass and comfortable clothing for operating in very cold conditions. The raiding of repositories and the silencing of authorities who poked their noses where they weren’t welcome. And eventually, help with testing. Take this back to your cell and use it on your next mission. Tell us: how many lights turned off? Which sources stayed on? What effects did the Neathbow have? How did the soulless react? How many died?
There were more than just Liberation, of course. Some revolutionaries rallied against the injustice of immortality for the wealthy few, not for all. Others fought against the trampling of worker’s rights, the subversion of government by foreign powers, for new untested forms of self-governance. Some fought for defense of their home. Others fought for nothing at all.
Where there were bombs, there were revolutionaries. And there were many revolutionaries, in the run-up to the final uprising. There were revolutionaries when one Master fell from public view and a new Master rose; when a new false-star appeared in the heavens and new lights popped up in the West. Revolutionaries during Whitsun and the Parabolan War. Revolutionaries during the Hinterlands Crisis; the Century Ban; the Parisian Mirage. With every new injustice, another heart awoken to act.
First there was dissidence. The Iron & Misery Strike was broken quickly, but the Caminus Yard Shutdown held out for over a month. The photo of a Clay Man shielding his fellow picketer from a Neddy’s truncheon filled countless front pages in revolutionary magazines. The Ealing-to-Moloch People’s Protest was reported to have over 15,000 marchers in attendance. Calendars for 1900 rained over London the day after the Century Ban was announced.
Then sedition. A dozen new cells came into existence the night the Phoenix Scandal broke out. Rioters blockaded the Bazaar Sidestreets in the wake of the Parisian Mirage. Mutinous zailors whispered of shattered mirrors and corsair’s oaths. Hinterlands regulators stopped their patrols around Ancona’s Haven, for fear of Tracklayer ambush. A current of the Wax Wind was let loose upon Mr Cards’ First Marvellous Masquerade Ball.
Then insurrection. The firebombing of Concord Square made front page news even across the Zee. Ladybones Road was temporarily sealed off after a detonated Ironic Device repealed the laws of economics. September’s trial was interrupted after Judge Wickes was taken captive by the Free London Army. The Magistracy’s holding cells overflowed with enemies of the state.The Ministry of Public Decency declared martial law.
Then open rebellion. Once more, the flags of Free Spitalfields hung from the rookeries as they had in ‘97. Revolutionaries and soldiers fought across the streets and alleyways. The prisoners of New Newgate Prison overthrew their jailors. The Constables broke down into civil war. Foreign allies from Khan’s Shadow and Raajasi Varchas traded gunfire with golden frigates of the Grand Geode and ducal fire ships from Mount Palmerston off London’s shore.
And then, in one big blast, the culmination of both decades and centuries of preparation: Liberation.
News of Art, Art of News
Hurlers – Icy Cold, Not Remarkable
As the next step in the journey towards Hell, the Great Hellbound Railway has opened the doors on the Hurlers station. The icy wastes of Hurlers are cold enough to make one wonder whether Hell had finally frozen over. Even in the chill of the Neath, such temperatures strike as unnatural. Combating the heat is a (generously provided) ginormous stove installed within the railway station, powered by candles, hellish laws, and starry words.
Besides the railway station, one might also find a jewel boutique, a quaint little shop sanctioned by one Mr Stones, a branch of former Lord Mayor Virginia’s spa – not to be confused with a mere crater filled with hot water (the spa crater is, of course, properly marked) – and herds of goat demons.
Goat demons that, might we add, are entirely friendly and entirely everywhere. They are rather pleasant to chat to, favour games of chance if one is bored, and are all willing to take a pleasant (that is, if you consider the smell of wet fur and ammonia pleasant) soak in the aforementioned spa pool with the adventurous traveller. Lest we forget to add, the presence of goat demons within the pool is, of course, up to the goat demons, and thus to be always expected. The religious sorts are not to be fearful or appalled – the goats are at their best behaviour.
Apart from the aforementioned vistas, there is nothing more of note in the vicinity of the Hurlers station. When out on a stroll in this new horizon, make sure to dress warm!
That Behind The Veil – A Tragedy Behind Closed Eyelids / An Oneiric Spectacle Of Viric And Honey
The thin membrane between dreams and the waking world has a strange relationship between the sides it divides. Such is doubly (or perhaps only) true in the Neath. Parabola, the land of dreams bordering Hell, has for one or another reason pushed against this divide more and more in the recent months.
It is not uncommon for one to visit this realm through the use of prisoner’s honey. Were one fortunate enough, it is a simple matter to employ the services of an oneiropomp to guide their dreams in a desired fashion. Now, a new novelty in the world of oneiric – and, indeed, thespian – arts has emerged.
That Behind The Veil, the newest innovation in theatre. An production from the Oneiric Company, an independent project of various actors and writers from all over London. The play concerns the tragic life of a late banker, the mysteries that led to his death, and the price we must all pay. It is a vista of a life, from an end to the beginning.
Much more than that, That Behind The Veil is an experimental immersive experience. The mixture of specifics is up to the audience – one can wear the eyes of the main character, one of the many supporting characters, or perhaps be an invisible onlooker. Indeed, the attraction of this play is also in its delivery, as the entirety of it is played within one’s dream.
To be more exact, it is still a play, full of audiences and actors, where the stage is simply the land of dreams. Through a safe combination of viric gems and droplets of prisoner’s honey, all are swept away, together.
We are rather amazed by this breakthrough, although it has always been coming. What is art, after all, if not a communal hallucination?
We dare not reveal more than we should. Tickets to this highly pleasant and recommendable play are now at sale at Mahogany Hall, with performances every other weekday night, precisely at midnight.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
These blue skies, afterglows of successes, at least the parts we let shine through the clouds – don’t you wish we could see it all?
My dear,
Every cloud has a silver lining, unseen without the sun’s rays shining through. Oh see how silver compares to azure. Think not of what could be, but of what will. Wish not for blue, wish for but a sliver of silver to weave the tapestry of life.
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