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1st of January 1900


Time is Now, and apparently Now is still 1899. But let me warn Her Enduring Majesty that Now will soon be Gone, All things come and go, like the “revival” and death of the Neathly cities that came before London, and even her mandate cannot postpone this Reckoning forever. After all, what is an Empress to a God, and what greater God could there be but Time, the King of Hours himself? Yet even Time will die and be reborn as the clockwork of the universe repeats itself. Regardless, it is a second chance, and second chances do not come often.

Pale Monarch

The streets of London will ring with revolution! Or so that is the word on the street, I hear. The recent proclamation by the Empress has got the people of London up and riled, and they will not take it anymore! She has gone too far! Up with the rebellion and down with monarchy! I must say that I was rather amused by the whole thing, really. As were many of my comrades at arms. The streets of London, ringing with revolution now? They have been ringing for quite a while already! But perhaps many were simply not listening closely enough.

Some of my colleagues quite disapprove of this whole matter, actually. Not with the Empress – as if we would obey her fearful attempts to deny history to begin with – but with the response of the public. This, they ask, is what brings people to revolt? Not the injustices against London’s poor and outcast, but being unable to attend a party? Not the erosion of our political and innate rights, but having to drink their special wine alone? And some of them have even gone so far to say that if this is the London we fight to free – a London where people will only act when they are inconvenienced – is this a city worth saving to begin with?

Well, I think it is. And I disagree with my colleagues on this matter. Many fighting for a free future were provoked to change when our surroundings became intolerable. A brother, watching his sister beat by Special Constables; a child, watching their parent be dragged to the Cage-Gardens; a lover, watching her deceased wife’s poetry stolen out of her hands to feed Mr Pages’ library. These people were not brought to the revolution out of pure altruism! They were wronged, and in their grief they became determined to make things different.

Which brings us to now. In the city of London, the Empress says it is 1899. But somewhere, it is 1900, and a new century is on the way. So many of us are there, too, and it is beautiful. So I ask you: will you join us? Stand beside us, with us, ring in a new year where change can be had so long as we work to make it so? Will you take your anger at the Empress and forge it into action?

If so, I’ll be waiting there at the barricades for you – with a glass in hand. Let’s raise a toast to the New Year. And a new start for London.

Messidor, Representative of the Free London Army

Well, I woke up at the crack of dawn to rush to the palace with some… people of questionable suspicion – but you needn’t worry about that – we had plans to camp outside and wait for the Empress’s announcement. As we waited more people began to descend on the palace. We were feeling quite famished so we, stupidly, all got up to buy a few baskets of overpriced rubbery lumps, the only problem with this was that by the time we returned to our bench it was overrun with children and ruffians. What was the queen thinking? Planning to get the whole of London in the courtyard!

Anyway, with a lot of discomfort and grunting we waited the rest of the four hours until the Empress’s servants came out, with her in tow. People were hysterical, climbing up trees and yelling, oh and that poor rubbery lumps salesman. Young, but dishing out thousands of baskets an hour – he better be getting paid well. Again, what did the Empress think! When she announced it was still 1899 I swear I saw a zailor pull out his emergency blunderbuss before getting tackled by the guards. The band helped sooth the pain, I even managed to stuff three bottles of Broken Giant down my pants, and that helped as well. What brought all the pain back is seeing His Amused Lordship on the verge of tears. I wanted to offer him a bottle but the crowd was too thick to even move without almost getting trampled. I sit here on my chair at my desk, oil lamp in the background and the shuffling of urchins on my roof, disappointed in this tyranny.


Hit Guy, revolutionist and freedom seeker

Well, the way I see it, most of London shouldn’t really be too affected by this, right? It’s not as if the empress controls the actual passage of time, is it? Sure, there’ll be some discrepancies between the London calendar and other calendars, but most of us can’t be too affected by a year being repeated in name alone, right?

…My deepest sympathies for the calendar makers who prepared for 1900, though. That situation must be just awful. Hopefully the rest of London will be fine, though, and maybe I could find people to buy a bunch of 1900 calendars with, to make sure said calendars still help with turning a profit. Anyway, that’s just my two pence on the matter. Maybe something will happen to make me change my mind later down the track. Seemingly anything can happen down here.

Bodenkirk Alfafrost

Something isn’t quite right here. On the surface there’s really no harm to be done, just keep track of the count for yourself I suppose. A tad queer but I suppose we would live on. But when you think about it there’s only two possibilities for this change: either she has a reason to make such a choice, or she does not. I am quite uncertain which would be worse. If she is plotting something then it must be put to an end, her disgraceful ruminations could only end poorly for all of us.

Quite worrying too, is the opposite: her mind is hardly steadfast and unbroken, us knowing few could hardly argue otherwise, knowing all that we do about the terrors in the palace cellars! We are being led by a traitor, who also happens to be either a scheming rascal or an aimless idiot! Panic, as always, will only make things worse: but I intend to keep a keen watch on our Beloved Empress.

Ida Boudeau

I had just gotten out of a bit of merriment at Medusa’s and had caught a ride with a few fellows I knew from my work with the Constables to the Palace to see what the Empress wanted to tell the whole of London. The constables I shared the ride with were wary but welcoming as I began to share out a bit of Coffee that I had stored away for the Announcement. When we arrived at the Palace we all piled out and picked a corner away from the crowd as they heaved and boiled, their glimmering badges keeping the people of London at bay as much as the Rifle I had slung across my back, one of our number daring the crowds as he took echoes from our little group to go and purchase a large amount of Lumps.

Once he returned and we began to eat, we had to set down our small snack as the Empress stepped out and said… Well you’ve already heard that ridiculousness enough and I’m not keen on repeating because it angered me and it definitely angered the Constables I had arrived with. Several of our little group were beaten near to death before we managed to escape, some of the rougher members of the crowd blaming us for the fact, but we managed to escape and thankfully arrived at our various destinations…

Now as I sit here among the silent halls of my home, the partygoers having returned to their home in sadness and I stare at my ‘trophy’ of a bottle of fungal wine with the Year-That-Never-Was on it. I began to ponder a group I had contact with in my early days…

The Clock must tick on!

Rose, Scientist and Constable-In-Training

“The poor old biddy.”

That was my first thought after I had finished reading the pronouncement handed out by the Ministry yesterday, when we finally got to know what it was the Empress wanted to tell us.

I couldn’t help it. Seeing her up there on that balcony with all those empty chairs – so far away from her people, from any real people – the whole sad ridiculousness of the event, which she alone seemed entirely oblivious of, nearly brought me to tears. “If this is what power does to people,” I thought, “may it forever pass me by.”

I have never paid much, or any, attention to the goings-on in the Shuttered Palace. We all know the Powers holding true sway over this city. Compared to Them, I’ve never viewed the Empress as anything more than a silly distraction. Maybe I hadn’t expected how silly a distraction she could become. But I confess my thoughts even now are less about possible social, cultural or political fallouts of her absurd proclamation – or if there should be any. (Clearly, the sensible thing to do for any sensible Londoner would be just to ignore it entirely.)

No, my thoughts right now are with this scary, sad, absurd old lady who shut herself off from society, from the world.

No, she did not abandon her Consort.

Just everyone else.

The question I were to put before her, given the chance, would be this:

“Was it all worth it?”

Prof. E. M. Canning

As the clocks near the turn to a new day, as the Khanate’s lamps turn to false-night, merely a day after the Imperial Pronouncement, the gears of London turn as they have turned for decades.

The Ministry’s men light pyres so bright no gas lamps need to be lit all throughout the city – on them they burn books, calendars, papers. On the Empress’s decree, all mentions of the new Century are to be banished without second thought. Despite this cruelty, Londoners go about their daily business as if nothing had happened.

Many are rightfully uncaring of this development. Those who see this as a mere frivolity, a spark of whim and fancy of a fading monarch, are perhaps more right than those who proclaim disgust and war.

Merely a day has passed, merely a day and already the Empress’s lack of power has made itself apparent. Do the Masters care? Do the wealthy? The decline of monarchy is apparent. Even this, an effort of revolution against a ludicrous decree seems like nothing but a meaningless game.

Let the royals have their calendars. Let them burn what they can find. Words will never disappear as long as there is someone to remember. Time will always march on, no matter what one’s calendar may say.

A reckoning cannot be postponed indefinitely.

R. J. Frogvarian

Sod the Empress, new Century babyyyyy!

Pox Girl


31st of December 1899


[You flip through the first several pages, which have all been rendered illegible thanks to a generous helping of ink. You can only make out a few words and bits and pieces of Correspondence, from which you gather this was a rather lengthy and perhaps preposterous monograph on the nature of time – this month’s Editorial. At the end, you find a single untouched paragraph, with something handwritten underneath.]

Only fools think they can control time. Time, most unfortunately, has its hold on us all. Though we may label its passage in a myriad different ways, its relentless currents will batter us all the same, unchanging, uncaring. As such, it is ludicrous to care for even the labeling – a year, a century, a lifetime

What was, was, and what will be, will be no matter which day we would desire it to happen on.

As such, who am I to care? Yet I do have a bloody paper to run.

Art of London

The Neathbow Stanzas
by Arthur Nethell

Let me tell you of the Neathbow,
Seven colours that are Not:
In the darkness, long below us,
Where light and love are sought.

Law is light, and truth is spoken;
In their absence, darkness thrives;
Other laws arise in silence,
Twisting, shaping Neathy lives.

First comes Viric, colour blooming:
You can see it in your dreams,
Shallow sleep, by snakes curated,
Thrives under the golden beams.

By Stone’s will, a lie is spoken,
Known as Treachery of Glass:
“Is and Is-not are adjacent:
Through the mirrors, you may pass.”

Next, Irrigo, hue forgotten,
Eating memories and sight;
Truth, consumed by its purple,
Makes spies love its hungry blight;

Lilac words, so soon forgotten,
Whisper, imprint from Below:
“Mine is Memory of Nadir:
What remembered, is so.”

Cosmogone, the lying sunlight,
Parabolan’s daylight glow;
Waking flora, fungus, sleepers:
Warmth is cherished below.

“Tell me, dreamer, what is missed?
Can you hear the hissing voice?
Let the Clocks be what you wish for,
Let the result precede choice.”

Next, Peligin, hue abyssal,
Bluest black and blackest blue,
Found in flesh, and bone, and gristle
Of those with the Zee imbued;

Its words, once by darkness lured,
Are as lashing as the waves:
“Yours, whatever is endured;
Mine, the Treachery of Ways.”

Violant, the sanguine colour,
Shed as sacred and profane;
Shapes in it are unforgotten,
Words, remembered as Cain.

This ink whispers: “Sign the contract,
My domain is of Desire:
For a price both known and obscure,
What you wish, you shall acquire.

Next comes Gant, the hue uneaten,
One by cauls and bones inspired;
Deeply hidden, and revealed
Only when of light deprived.

It will only speak in hollow,
Silent whispers, just like death:
“While your body still can hold life,
You shall draw another Breath.”

And, at last, of zee and coral
Bright blue called Apocyan;
Waking, taking, form-preserving,
Favoured by lying one.

Salt and water, all-dissolving,
Yearn for all that may be Lost.
“Fragile, fleeting recollections:
I preserve them at your cost.”

Partners in Crime
by Humming Belle

Happy ███Old Century from a part-time urchin and her partner in crime!

Musings on the 
███ Century
by Den Blackwell?

At the dawn of the19██th Century since the passing of our Lord, it is important to reflect upon the Time we have, the Time we spend, and the Time before our inevitable demise.

What is Time, one may ask?

Time is often seen as a ceaseless wheel eternally spinning on and on, with different players disguising the fact that the same basic conflicts – man vs nature, order vs chaos, light vs dark—never change.

Time may be an open flame—coolest at its center, but wildest at its edges. Such a perspective may seem preposterous, but behind mirrors and Liberated wastelands where fire is extinguished, there is merit to such an esoteric metaphor.

Time could also be a restrictive Chain, a concept that defines beginning and end—life and death if you will—whose Treachery all are subject to in the Neath.

Therefore, many gamble for more Time, as it is seen as the postponement of their ultimate Reckoning. The end is Death, the ultimate enemy of all life, and they will paradoxically invest their Time to create more Time for themselves, Seeking to outwit Entropy and delay the inevitable, no matter the cost.
Others will spend Time just like how we trade away gold or diamonds, mining away such Hours only for something else to devour all that was worked for.

I have it on good word that a certain Master equates Time to a vessel—a Cup if you will—that is only as valuable as what one fills it with. Then again, the same Master states that Time is a reflective Mirror that reveals one’s true nature, for better or worse.

To me, all these different symbols of Time are irrelevant.

To me, Time is Now, and Now will soon be Gone.

This year—this Century—cherish the Time we all have, cherish the Now rather than the Past or the Future. It is in the Now where our lives have purpose, where we can choose between the Is and the Is-Not. With Time we can define our Fate, and let no one else say otherwise.

Let Time be the Key to Us, Now and…

Banished Spirits
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

Fallen Washington
by A. R. Harley

Time was running out.

Those fucking rats S____, R_____, and G________ in the Senate Republican Conference had told him a few hours ago that his position was untenable, and the longer he held out from resignation the worse it would be for the party in the coming midterms. God forbid removal actually come to the floor, of course. When asked how many votes for acquittal he could gather up, he simply sighed. “Maybe fifteen.” He was lying, he had to be. The President of the United States was not an idiot, he knew that S____ had been spending the last few months talking to J____ F___ about preparing for an ‘inevitable’ transition in administrations. Even A_____, one of his few remaining allies in congress, signaled that it was time to hang up the hat. And god, F___. That snake F___. For all the trouble and stink T__ A____ brought, at least he was a loyal attack dog. J____ hadn’t even bothered to show up to the meeting with the congressmen. There were already whispers coming from the Vice President’s office about which cabinet officials they’d dump and which they’d keep, who would be J____’s veep as they braved the midterms and headed into a most likely unfriendly 19__. And from there, perhaps T__ K______, the last of that mick dynasty, might just walk out of a fatal car crash and into the goddamn Oval Office. Hate. Hate filled the President. For the gays, the communists, the Vietnamese, the Democrats, the Republicans, the dope fiends, the hippies, the liberals, and of course J___ K______ and G_____ B___. All the while, that scrawny K________ sat quietly on a couch, reading over a series of notes, his beady little bespectacled eyes glinting quite strangely off the setting DC sun and the fluorescents illuminating the room.

Time was running out.

London had become a losing investment decades ago. Few of the Masters liked the place to begin with, and as it aged, and the Great Game reached new heights of disquieting meddlesomeness, that dislike only worsened. It wouldn’t take too Nocturnal a poet to discuss in rather florid language how London seemed to breathe, move, even dance. But those days were over. London was choking, sputtering, spinning out of control. It lost whatever remaining power it had over the Empire following a rather controversial clause in the Treaty of Versailles, as the new British Commonwealth, capital in Birmingham, followed a general trend of democracies popping up all across the world. Some considered this to be the death blow to the Master’s plots to take another City – no more were the age of Kings, Empresses, Khans, people who had petty mortal plots and schemes, loves and loves lost. By and large the people in charge of cities, in charge of nations, were professional politicians. They’d been domesticated, and as such were very reticent to signing away the very thing they’d worked decades to reach the top of. Paris never even got off the ground, Moscow was too concerned with newfound ‘ideals’ and ‘virtues’, the Masters even made a play for Berlin, but that paranoid freak H______ was just too up on his Neathian knowledge for the man atop it all to sign the finale of the [REDACTED]. The Masters’ plays were becoming more and more blatant, and their failures more and more public, and as it was that many Londoners and some Masters too thought there would never be a Sixth City. That the sun would never rise on the last remnant of the British Empire.

On the morning of the 8th, when in another world J____ F___ would be told he’d be ascending to the Presidency at around eleven AM, instead a group of men in strange robes were observed by the Vice President’s lackeys entering the Oval Office. Only the President and K________ were in the room at the time. The tape recorder was turned off, a most unusual fact – even after the Smoking Gun tape came out a few days ago, the President still insisted on it’s continual operation and recording of important conversations. Across town, a few apparatchiks from both parties were busy putting the final touches on the Judiciary Commitee’s report on the articles of impeachment. “That won’t matter anymore.”, was one of the few bits of dialogue overheard, in this instance by a passing staffer walking past the door to the Oval Office, spoken in a strange, shrill voice. None in F___’s staff knew what to make of it. After a couple of hours, the men in robes left, and the President walked with them out, himself now sporting a robe just like theirs. K________ called out “Dick, just one more-“. The President glared back at him. He caught himself and cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mr. President. I’ll speak with you again once it’s finished.”

It was then, at 3:17 PM, Eastern Standard Time, the 8th of August ████, that those lounging by the Potomac began to notice a horde of bats rise up from nowhere in particular.
And so the Sixth City fell, not out of love, as the others did, but out of hate.

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News of Art, Art of News

he Century Clock Ticks ████Back To An ███Old Hour

The surface and Neath alike, or at least those who hold the Gregorian calendar in any regard, are in full swing of preparations for a rather momentous occasion. As this the year 1899 nears its ███beginning, we await with baited breath the arrival of the ███ century and the year 1███899.

For some in the Neath and in London itself, this moment is nothing but a trifle; an event seen many times before, to be seen many times again, another proverbial notch on the proverbial wall. Our city, of course, is young in this chain of tragedies and its inhabitants, though grizzled by the life and death – and lack thereof – in this dark underland have perhaps not yet come to the full realization of their longevity. Indeed, for many of us, this is not the last tick of the century clock we shall see in our lifetimes, and such a realization may become much too difficult to think about.

Indeed, although this reminder of the constant passage of time might make one wonder about their own future, the centuries that will wash over them, it is perhaps a grim reminder of the permanency of residence here, away from the lawful light of the Sun.

One might revolt at such a thought, recoil at the possibility of never tasting the wonders of a blue sky, retch when they consider they might- [The rest of the article is blotted out to the point of unreadability]

The Rat Market Opens Its Doors!

Above the lights and bustle of the Flowerdene Market, a smaller market lights its stalls. Inside, rats of all kinds, sizes, and colours trade in various peculiar wares. This market, strictly speaking, was always there, at least for as long as rats came to somewhat of a prominence in London. Now, however, this Rat Market has opened its doors for other, less rodentine creatures – perhaps even to you!

To enter this venerable place of commerce, one must be a rat. Fortunately, thanks to the miracle of modern politics, one can now become a rat. Through a simple ritual, which will only take about an hour (give or take the wait in a line), a willing human may enter this realm of commerce and partake of its many offerings.

The Rat Market’s wares are in a constant flux, their trades guided by rat-astronomy. No comments were offered when our reporters inquired as to where and how these seasons are exactly determined. In the market, one may barter for Rat Shillings, which can be in turn exchanged for various raitems (rat-items).

Behold the holy beard hairs of St. Eligius! Marvel at the Venge-Rat warders! Arm yourself with the ratwork pocket piece! Do you want big diamonds? They have big diamonds!

The false-season is Winter.
The rat-reason is Skitter-Scatter.
The phase of the rat-moon is Soft.
The rat-wind blows Westward.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Recently you know that the [CENSORED] Empress made an [EXCISED] decision to [EXPLETIVES REMOVED] ████ 1899 with 1899 again. I’m not sure how to feel about this. What should I do?

Dear reader,
I know these are tough times for all of us. Now more than ever it’s important to not lose your head. Keep looking forward – it is where the future is, after all. Years will come, and years will ██stay. Though it may look difficult, perhaps even impossible, if you stay strong and employ the help of all those who love you, you, too, will persevere through these tough times.
If you’re a calendar maker, consider the benefits – no need to keep anyone but the printer in employ!

Sincerely, Mother Goose

[On the back of the paper you find a tattered and faded advert]

Hear , hear ! The celebrations near! The old century ██ ████ – long live the ███old century!

In the absence of , His Amused Lordship invites you to the ███████ Celebration! In the centre of London, next and around His Amused estate, a revel to all revels will place from December the until all excitement shall !

Come see the -snake! Enjoy the tavern of thou delights! ugh at the comedic of the All-Bird Troupe!

A is free! Joy is ! Your desired!

August 1899


It brings my heart joy to see so many helping hands come together for a common cause. Even if, perhaps, the motivations between individual actions may not be the purest, if perhaps most have acted for what others may perceive as the wrong reasons, even then, the result remains the same. Community, support, love.

In the matters of the Bazaar, of course, one should always look to love.

It makes me ask myself what more could be done. How far should help reach. Where the tendrils of love might reach with their tender grip. Spread too wide, too thin, and you may not grasp anything. Focus too small, and, well – what help is it to the world, even if you help one who means the world to you?

It is difficult to know what is right. We are all merely blindly cruising through the forest, doing our damnedest to stay on the right path. All the paths, they come and go, they pass us by and criss-cross with the one we are walking on. We look out for ourselves, for each other – and, perhaps, sometimes, for others more than for ourselves. We are so keen on keeping at the right path, sometimes we forget to keep the road clear for those behind us.

I wish I knew what to do. With time, perhaps, I will be able to see more clearly.

Art of London

Sunset Beyond Liyue
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

A Dream of War
Chapter I
by Professor von Lorica

“Parabola shifts. Alignments crumble. London enters the fray. Too far in to turn back. An invitation therefore. To one who has wandered deep in Parabola. War comes. Will you take up arms?”

The howling words of the storm die down, satisfied upon hearing the message it delivered. A deluge of rainwater falls from the black clouds as it passes over one final time. One final clap of thunder and a flash of lightning, and it is gone.

A man watches the storm disappear. His hair is a stark white despite the youthfulness of his face. His clothes are dark three-piece suit. Despite the amount of rain, he is free of water. Keen eyes shine under the light of the false-sun, one eye Cosmogone, one eye Viric.

Reinol von Lorica nods to himself. He turns his back to the wilderness, where untamed dangers and unseen wonders lurked, and looked at what many Londoners now call their base camp.

His, of course, is far more than any simple ‘camp’. A wall of briar surrounds the outside of it, their spikes and thorns made of emerald and dripping with poison. A retinue of ushabti-knights stand guard, spears in stone hands. Three minotaurs, menacingly march on a patrol around the walls, further reinforcing the base.

He enters the base through an opening in the wall, ignoring the stony gazes of his guards. And when he steps past the border, it is as if he walked right back into the Parabolan wilderness.

An entire forest stretches out before him, trees larger and greater than those on the Surface completely fill the area. Each one is trapped in a perpetual state of autumnal equinox. Leaves of green and red and yellow fall from branches that never stop run out of them. Silver framed mirrors are attached to the trunks, each one showing a vision of a different place across the Neath. Each one is large and hollow enough to act as a small house of sorts.

There are no humans staffing his base. Only more ushabti-knights. Seventy-seven of them in total act as the base’s guard and staff.

He simply doesn’t trust his fellows enough to do things right.

“Certainly wouldn’t hurt to try,” a man says from behind him.

The rustle and crackle of leaves as they are trampled by dozens of stone feet echoes throughout the silent forest. When Reinol turns back to look, it is to see a long necked fellow surrounded by several ushabti-knights, all of them pointing weapons at him.

“Greetings,” the Ophidian Gentleman says, smiling widely at him, “I see that you have been…invited, to represent your dear city in this war. Frankly. I’m surprised you have, considering your allegiances, but I’m happy nonetheless. We all are, rather.”

Reinol waves his hand. The ushabti-knights lower their weapons and step back. There is no need for tension among allies after all, “it is to be expected. No one in London is more suitable for this than I,” even his neutral tone could not hide his arrogance.

A chuckle. The Ophidian Gentleman gestures for Reinol to follow him as he walks deeper into the base. Reinol does so, treating the man as an equal.

“The Fingerkings will not be able to lend you their direct support,” he says, “as you represent not they, but London. However, allying with them is well within your boundaries,” the subtle hint is clear for the both of them.

“I suppose I will have to raise my own army then,” Reinol muses aloud.

“Indeed. Fortunately for us however, the mercenary companies and independent fighters of Parabola are numerous. They will gladly come to your aid, provided you meet their expectations. And of course, you will have to consider logistics and munitions,” is the reply he gets.

“How troublesome,” he says, before shaking his head. Then, he considers something for a moment, “I suppose I will need a place to conduct the war from? Perhaps a grand a pavilion from where I may lead?”

The Ophidian Gentleman claps his hands in delight, “good! You’re picking up on the matter! We’ll get started on those later. For now, let’s deal with the small things such as this now, eh?”

“Yes,” Reinol dryly states, “the small things.”

Both men pause at a large clearing in the forest. The two share a glance before Reinol breaks the silence, “will you at least work with me on this?”

“But of course,” is his reply, followed by a sharp smile.

As one the two raise their hands to the sky. The earth trembles. Parabolan birds and other fauna nestling in the streets look on, startled. A warbler begins to debate whether this is the end or a beginning.

From the ground, the boughs of a tree arise, followed by a trunk and the branches that accompany it. But this tree is different from the others. It is far larger, easily dwarfing those of the mystical redwoods of the Americas in height and width. Its bark is stark white and its leave are a deathly pale silver. Dozens upon dozens of mirrors hang on bark and branch, reflecting the light of the Parabolan Sun.

The inside is hollow, like all of the trees, and the space is enough to house an entire cathedral. It is sparsely decorated, with various mirrors lining the inside to use for long range communication. Various glass gazettes line the wooden walls. A round table is set directly in the centre, where they may all gather. The interior still changes, warping from more natural designs to those more man-made, as if undecided on what it should look like.

This shall be his pavilion. This shall be where he and his generals shall command and win the war.

“Well,” the Ophidian Gentleman states, hardly even winded from the effort, “I haven’t done that in awhile. What fun.”

“Indeed,” Reinol replies, trying to hide his tiredness, “now then. I suppose we spread the word? The Cats and Chessboard must know who I am. And then I suppose, it is time to raise the banner.”

“You’re asking me?” He says, a brow quirked in amusement.

“Of course,” is the cool reply, “you are my advisor, are you not?”

At this, the Ophidian Gentleman only laughs. Indeed, he would be Reinol’s advisor for this, as he has been instructed to be by the Fingerkings. As his laughter dies down, he gives a look at his fellow servant, “one last thing, before we get to the more weightier tasks; I am obliged to ask whether you are to act upon Parabola and shape it to your liking or if you desire to let the Is-Not act upon you and take it on its terms…but we already have our answer, don’t we?”

For the first time in this conversation, Reinol’s lips quirks into a smile that does not reach his cold eyes, “Indeed.”

The Cosmogone Sun continues to shine down upon his base camp as the stormy clouds finally clear, the false light dancing across the leaves of a forest grown by himself.

News of Art, Art of News

Grand Clearing Out – The Disaster And The Aftermath

To a keen-eyed reader, the events described within this report will not be the most novel. Indeed, those observant amongst us have surely noticed London having nearly been swallowed, sunken into the ground again like all those years ago. Truly, the most astute of citizens have seen the numerous holes, felt the earthquakes, observed buildings crumbling underneath their own weight as their foundations gave way to emptiness.

Mr. Chimes’ Grand Clearing Out had all of London positively mad for amatuer archaeology and mining expeditions. Most misfortunately, all the digging had seemed to awaken something beneath the Neath’s floor. The ground stirred, quite dangerously, bringing rumblings and earthquakes to the whole of London. Even weeks after this disaster, it is unclear what exactly had transpired and why.

It is easy to presume that, perhaps, this was a dastardly plot by the Masters. After all, it was the call-to-action of one Mr. Chimes that had brought this upon us. However, it is important to remember that there would be little to no benefit for the governing entities if London were to be swallowed whole. Moreover, we have it from reputable sources that the Masters have been seen building and operating a machine of unknown purpose, the activation of which was soon followed by the end of the disaster.

Another minor event, perhaps unrelated to the overall ongoings, were the visions many Londoners had. Strange daydreams, unknown feelings the likes of which could be attributed to that or another neighbour. No authorities were attempted to be reached regarding this phenomenon.

While we at the Gazette are not fast to jump to conclusions as to the origins of this disaster, we also lack any further theories on them. Moreover, we are not a sensationalist paper and much rather take our time with the facts and silver linings.

Despite such a time of utter distress, it was quite a sight to behold all of London come together. Citizens quick on their feet (and with safety equipment at hand) were there to help those caught in sinkholes, underneath rubble, and in other precarious positions. Rumours (or perhaps gentle brags) speak of upstanding citizens helping the Masters with their miraculous machine. Even now, although the worst is over, we all come together to give a helping hand and rebuild, brick by brick, post by post.

Such a sight can bring a joyful tear to anyone’s eye. Neighbours, coming together to help the community. Together, facing never before seen adversity, odds greater than any individual, and overcoming it to emerge victorious at the top. More than anything, it makes us proud.

In the end, perhaps, the events following the Grand Clearing Out could not have been avoided. In the end, perhaps, all our warnings would not had been for anything.

In the end, perhaps, the future looks bright.

Stay safe, London.

Viscountess’s Disappearance – Station Of Lord Mayor Abolished?

This year, one may notice a glaring absence of Lord Mayor at the Fruits of the Zee festival. Indeed, one may observe a total lack of an ongoing election in the months prior. Furthermore, it seems that the latest Lord Mayor, the Viscountess of the Viric Jungle, has gone missing as well. There have been no official statements or updates on this situation, however it appears that this venerated post will no longer seek occupance.

The days of the Lord Mayoral office (or any mayoral office altogether) in London are, perhaps, over. The station had been abolished, with no one but bureaucrats left to take care of any official proceedings. This had all happened without much notice or fanfare amidst the joy and chaos of the Grand Clearing Out. Mass apathy, after all, is the insidious killer of politics.

As previously mentioned, the last Lord Mayor, the Viscountess, is nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, no Masters could have been reached for an appropriate comment. Our office was graced by a single letter:

“Dearest [REDACTED], it would be most benefactitious for all involved if your veneretabloid would resist the temptilitation of reaching out in the matters of [REDACTED].
Regards, [REDACTED]
P. S.
Next time, bring [REDACTED] to [REDACTED].”

Needless to say, while we will miss the tribulations of an election season, the political discussion and ongoings in London will not be stopped. While our Lord Mayor may be gone, and perhaps never replaced, it is important to look at other officials with similar scrutiny, and cast our votes in whatever local election may come next.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
In the pursual of my happiness, so many blockades appear. How can one flourish when the world demands their head on a stake?

Dear T.,
Not all the world is brimstone and fire. Sometimes it may look like it, as our skin burns and unforgiving hands feed the flames. We need to be vigilant, patient, and seek those hands that want to help us, to embrace us, to pull us out of this hell. Only together, with those that love us, can we flourish.

July 1899


This is a time of change. A time of growth, of revelations, of bonds old and new and a mixture of both. This is a time in which everything becomes better, oh so delightfully better. From here, even hardships take a turn. No longer directionless, soaring towards a future. This future, yes, uncertain, but with stepping stones of solid bedrock, with form whose basic shape will not budge. This future that we build towards.

I have been contemplating directions for a rather long time. There is still so much to do. There is still so much to change. Yet now the goal is clear, or at least the semblance of it. I have been contemplating for a rather long time…

Perhaps it is time to slink back and retire. The future, after all, is bright.

Art of London

Moon over Mondstadt
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

News of Art, Art of News

The Zee Calls – Citizens Of All Persuasions Pursue Nautical Adventures!

The zailing profession has seen quite a boom in the recent weeks. More and more Londoners are acquiring their own ships, in turn increasing the demand for a crew, making more and more Londoners become amature zailors. There is use for everyone! From swabbing the decks to spotting the signs, from cooking meals to surgical necessities, life on a zhip requirez all zortz.

For the adventuring sort, this is indeed a romantic premise. An attractive way to prove one’s skill, to oneself as well as to society itself. In an effort to uncover the more detailed secrets of a zeefarer’s life, as well as bring some tips to the hopeful new crewmemberz amongst our readerzhip, we have interviewed an old, experienced zailor. As they wished to remain anonymous, we present our findings here for your consideration:

  1. Make sure to bring an extra pair of eyes.
    Our contact has made quite the emphasis on eyes and their importance. Truly, it does not pay to venture onto the zee without an even number of eyes, with only external eyes, or with creatures living within one’s ocular cavity. It is, as far as we understood, advisable to, in fact, brin an extra pair of eyes – if possible, not attached to anything for a quick replacement (at least must assume such from the hasty, zed-filled warnings).
  2. Get ready for a tough diet.
    The Neath is home to many delicacies, yes, but even the most Neath-born of Londoners will admit that the cuisine is, even at the best of times, not fit for Parisian restaurants. When one ventures onto the zee, it is important to get ready for conditions far worse than this. Make sure to get used to the taste of dry crackers with a side of freshly-caught, peligin-coated fish!
  3. Do not wrastle the fish (alone).
    Though one may consider their strength and combat abilities satisfactory, it is important to remember that the waters of the Unterzee are cold and hostile. That which lives within has learned to fight and withstand amongst the best of the best! Indeed, few humans are capable of standing up to such beasts – in or out of their natural habitat.
  4. Dress warm – but not too warm!
    It is not all cold! Yes, the chilly neathy air is everpersent, yet it is important to know when the tides of temperature have turned. A quick-remove fur coat is recommended.

We are certain that this information is enough for anyone interested in the zailing profession. If you are one such individual, feel free to get in touch to perhaps join the crew of captain [REDACTED]!

Mr Chimes’ Grand Clearing-Out – A Pick-Wielding Extravaganza Of Discovery, Or A Heinous Mistake?

You have seen the advertisements. In every paper (save for our own, whose monthly edition comes misfortunately late for), on every wall, tacked onto lamp posts, hansomes, and the occasional unlucky dog. In strong lettering, they announce the newest venture of the masters – specifically under the purview of one Mr Chimes.

Yes, you have seen urchins, workers, bankers, and any other sorts, all carrying pickaxes to the nearest dig sites. Perhaps you have, yourself, ventured into the dark tunnels in search of treasures. Yes, the Grand Clearing Out is in full progress. Many wonderous artefacts have already been unearthed, some of which are even for sale with the new-fangled currency of “Cthonic scrip”. The creator of this scrip, Mr Pages, has been unreachable for statement about where, what, and when Cthon is.

As profitable as this clearing out is, we at the Gazette do have a few concerns. You have, surely, felt the rumbling of the earth in recent days. It is most assuredly connected to this digging – we suppose not much deduction is needed to reach this conclusion. The Earth, certainly, is not most receptive to us rummaging through her pores.

We ask, then – what might we expect to find at the bottoms of these pits? Perhaps more treasure? Secrets from cities past? Or simply rocks upon rocks upon rocks? Whatever it may be, it is also important to ask whether such discoveries are worth whatever retribution may come along.
We dare not actually speculate on the nature of this retribution, nor its plausibility, nor do we guarantee that any retribution will indeed arrive. We simply aim to bring our readership together in pondering the beneficiousness of the endeavour.

Nonetheless, for those inclined to try their hand at a healthy dig, snacks, luncheon, and supper, as well as somewhat-capable medical help are all available at all dig sites other than that near the Brass Embassy, which has long forbidden any medics within a hundred yards of its grounds.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it enough? Is it good?

Dear Nervous,
Perfection cannot be always reached. Simple existence is enough. We have been over this.

June 1899


There is not a castle of black stone, hung by a thread from an upside-down mountain in the far horizon. Servants of defect stars do not live in this castle, compiling compendiums of their masters’ empty words. There are no cats whose words cut minds as hot iron cuts skin.

If such castle did exist, no one would have seen it.

There are no answers to questions which no one has. There are no questions which no one can answer. There is no way to ask such questions.

No reckoning is inevitable.

Art of London

Apocyan, and a Portrait of a Colonist
by Tris Ghost

Visit their galleryobserve more art.

Landscapes of Dreams
by A Waste of Orange

Lastly, we are delighted to present in this edition, the work of a delightful fan of ours.

A Dashing Goose
by an urchin from one Plurnes’ orphanage.

This delightful youngster has our greatest and deepest thanks, as well as a surprise waiting in their mailbox. Thank you!

News of Art, Art of News

Stolen River, Alight With Feathered Passion

With the mild excited irreverence of Whitsun gone, London’s streets are being cleared of be-shelled wonders and things can return to relative normalcy. With such normalcy comes the false-summer, and moreso, the season of theatre! For this joyous occasion, the All-Bird Theatre Troupe has prepared a special performance!

For the celebrations of time’s passage, our beloved feathered thespians have come out not with a play, but rather a circus-like extravaganza of aerobatics, song, and fireworks.

On the Stolen River, five days a week, between morn’ and eve, a gilded boat glides through the waters, east to west and back again. On this boat, the All-Bird Theatre Troupe’s performers will regale all onlookers with wonders beyond imagination!

From the shores of the river canal, watch peacock swarm the sky! Observe as feathered aerobats dash through rings of fire! Songs, dances, shows of light! The All-Bird Theatre Troupe invites all to watch!

Station At Marigold – The End Of The Line

After a long time of arduous work, the Great Hellbound Railway has, at last, finished its full development. The GHR line has been merged into the Moloch line at the station at Marigold, mere leagues from the very gates of Hell.

Marigold stands proud and lonely, the last order of separation of any semblance of law that might exist from Hell’s furnaces as they forge the devils’ own reality. At this station, you will find no station building – after all, it is not under the GHR’s purview. Instead, a single lonely bench on which a stationmaster sits greets those brave enough to let a train carry them the distance.

Marigold itself is a plain plane, a desert which, from the right angle, might be impossibly lit by the fires of what it guards, just enough to perhaps remind one of a desert from the surface. Here stand tall an empty amphitheatre, the Edict of Towers, [REDACTED].

Hell itself, so close yet so far. It is not for those sensitive of flesh and spirit to attempt and reach its gates. It is not for those without reason, without determination, or without guide. It is not for those without luck on their side. Hell, the final frontier, does not open its gates to merely anyone; all the same, there is a quarter of Hell reserved for those who may find themselves visiting therein.

The GHR, in a public statement, have thanked and congratulated the many workers and managers of this great project, and wish to invite all citizens of London to board its trains with a buy one get one free promotion on first-class tickets.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Change does not come easy. There are many obstacles to overcome, in one’s mind and outside of it. Fears, terrors even, uncertainties, and such beautiful, amazing moments. Pray tell – where is a good place to find a good scone to take one’s mind off of such thoughts?
Sweet Tooth

Dear Sweet Tooth,
Corner of Spite and Veilgarden, behind a bend in the pavement, an unsigned door, windows with a floral design, and a lazy tabby with a cut ear.


Whitsun! What whimsy waiting wishfully within. Wonder, wobbling, wiggling, wanting way where wretchedness was, waning, waxing.

Everpresent eggsitement! Engrossing entities emerge everywhere, engulfing even earnest establishments. Entrepreneurs entice egg-enjoyers, eggschanging eggspedients, eggstracting eggy euphoria.

Ne mijotez pas nos oeufs ! Pour l’amour de Dieu, nous avons tout tenté mais tout a échoué.

Je me dois de le répéter: Tu ne peux jeter les oeufs sur le feu! Je m’y suis risqué, et l’ai regretté.

Great treasures lie everywhere!
Go and find your yolkmate!
Streets await you!

May 1899


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.

Read further

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.

April 1899


The triviality of it all easily gets in the way. Perhaps it is the feeling of helplessness, inadequacy. The nagging exhaustion in an endless sea of restlessness.

Many paths have been laid out in front of me, many threads are beginning to connect. There is no room for pickiness – only a mad scramble to tie it all together, in a way that does not hurt, in a way that brings benefit rather than loss. All I can do is try. Work towards a tapestry of beauty, woven with grace and blood.

I do not mean to berate what is. After all, my own choices have led me here. Any shortcomings are merely shadows of what has been, to be swept away by the light of what will be. As the tapestry unfolds and the threads of fate converge, the work is nearing completion. Only then can one truly appreciate their own design. Soon, and not enough, not enough.

I feel rejuvenated now, writing these words. There is beauty in old paths, one we might often forget. Endeavours we are familiar with become a sort of respite from the constant change and struggle of moving forward. One cannot become better retreading old ground, but the path becomes clearer upon looking back.

Let us rejoice, then, in the old and the new, the forgotten and that yet to become forgotten. Let us learn from our past, lest it swallows our present.

Art of London

No Way Back
by Nikolos Zeloslav

The crew:
Reckless Captain 
Repentant Devil
Captain’s “Aunt”
Unfortunate Navigator
Cinders, Albrecht, Petronella – the Rat Brigade
Eleven Unlucky Skyfarers


Liquid gold pours penetrate stained glass. Machinery hums. The sound of something swooshing the air. Furiously. Insanely. The Sun? THE SUN.

Albrecht taps the window with his sharp claw:

– Oi! The cap’n is bak.

The captain is indeed back.

– Did that thing ve prepaired for ya vorked vell enof?

I am distracted, I check my pocketwatches.

“The bomb is readied, the Storm-That-Speaks will be pleased.”

– We will learn about that soon. Navigator, we are leaving.

– Already?

– Now.

Navigator nods and makes her way to the bridge.

– Aunty, could you get us some tea? – I say, then pull out the crew journal and cross out one name.

– Jessy? What happened to him? – Asks the Navigator.

– THE SUN… It… stared at him.

Stockers feed the fire genius. Steam hisses, the engine pushes itself forward. Rails are left behind, the Sky unravels.

I get to the bridge.

– Navigator, plan the route to Wit & Vinegar Lumber Company at London.

Then in a few hours I check the pocket clock, then stare at Cinders.

– Twelve or twenty?

– What do you mean, boss? – She exhales milky smoke, then shakes the cigar.

– Did you set the clock mechanism on twelve or on twenty?

– On twelve. – Lit ashes fall on the couch, right next to her.

– But I aksed to put it on twenty!

– You asked twelve.

– Twenty.

Cinders reaches her leg to shake off the fiery left-overs. Then says:

– No.

– What do you mean No?! Do you think I already forg…

THE SUN. It rages. Something blasts off at the outer ring. The metal squeals. A whirligig out of energy, the ring slows, then stops…

The light becomes dense, for a moment I feel drowning, not in water, in something more dense. We are a bunch of flies floating in honey. Navigator’s face twitches, he glances at me with the corner of his eyes.

The burning ash froze in the thick air. It does not fall, only changes color, crimson, then, black.

The ring stopped… for a mere moment, before gaining supersonic momentum. 

THE SUN becomes blurry. A fire in a diverging lense. And there, behind the hazed flame – a burning eye without eyelids. It stares at me. IT. STARES. AT. ME.

I struggle. Trying to hold on what’s left of my will. There isn’t much… The lever is right next to my finger. I know that, but I can’t move my hand.

I lean towards THE SUN, and then fall, pushing the lever with myself.

Protective shields slide out, closing the windows. The yellow flood turns into a thick line. Then the bridge falls black.

I get myself up. Cinders and Navigator glance at me silently.

– What was that, cap’n? – Says Cinders.

Her cigar is on the floor. She doesn’t look down to find it.

– Oh, well THE SUN, ya’know. – I explain. – Anyway. We are still alive! Yes?

– Yes. – Says Navigator.

– Right, plan a course to the Wit & Vinegar Lumber Company. Now. I need to sleep. Really. Really bad.

Continue the story here.

by Edward Five

You hear shouting down the street. Is it coming from Savato’s Pickles?

News of Art, Art of News

Nightmares Plague Citizenry – A Warmongering Menace Of Dreams?

Recently, Londoners have been waking before dawn in cold sweat with heavy breaths. Gasping for air and reaching for the stability of reality, they shake and quiver in a post-haunting stress. Perhaps you, dear reader, have yourself experienced this mortifying ordeal. Perhaps you yourself have dreamed the same nightmare as so many of our neighbours.

Many speak of the taste of iron – or perhaps blood? – and of roars, so deep and angry they chill the bones. They recall cannonades and waving banners. Gleaming bayonets and muskets commingling in a deathly ballet. Indeed, nightmares of rot, of battle, of war.
Not to be remiss – the dreams are not sudden. Not all find themselves embroiled in these apparent wars as unfortunate observers, caught in the crossfire. Not at all, as some dream of their recruitment. Be it by the purring of a cat, the taste of sweet wine, or the sincere laugh of a gentleman, their dreamed selves find their way to the ranks of otherworldly armies, marching, dining, and fighting alongside reflected battalions.

No one seems to be certain of the cause of these dreams. Perhaps there truly are powers beyond the mirrors and the dreams, campaigning in an endless frey. For wealth, for power, for knowledge, for truth? It is hard to gauge the intents of something so evasive as dreams.

In our investigation we have reached out to lucid experts, oneiric walkers, romantics, zookeepers, and magicians. Though they remain short on specificities, we have for you at least a few certainties:

  • the dreams, as real as they may be, are nothing to be concerned with or about
  • were you to see your dreams manifest in a mirror, it is no cause for concern
  • were you to see your dreams outside of a mirror, it is pertinent to remain calm and contact the nearest mouser
  • for those interested in further mysteries of the oneiric, contact [REDACTED]

The current Lord Mayor, the Viscountess of the Viric Jungle, has built her mayoral campaign on the promise of war in the realm of Parabola, battling those she calls the Finger Kings. Unfortunately, we have been unable to reach her or her retinue for comments.

We suggest to you, dear reader, to remain calm in these trying times, to attempt to get a full night’s rest, and, above all, to remain safe, awake or dreaming.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Rest, unrest, waiting, receiving. The ebb and flow of time – what does it demand of us?

Dear Questing,
It demands its passage. It enforces its passage. Relentlessly it draws forward, pulling and pushing us with its endless might. In a way, it demands nothing – for there is nothing you can offer it to change its course or divert its mission.

March 1899


Change does not come easy to the world. Truly, it is unwise to attempt and impose a change onto the world. That is not to say change should be avoided, or that mass change never happens. Revolution is the breaking of the last straw, the retaliation of those who have waited for change for far to long.

At times, however, change must come slowly. Society is an infant that needs easing into situations in which it had not been before. Those who cry on the corners and proclaim the end of the old will merely go ignored, while those who fight, each and every day, for the small changes around them, they will be the ones to see the fruits of their work in plenty.

I say this not in an attempt to bash revolution, but rather to encourage small acts of it. Despite what some might say, not every person is a hero. Not every person is capable of greatness. Heroes belong to myth, and are mythologized to inspire. It is this inspiration that permeates the masses who then seek change. We are not heroes, for we are the ones who rally behind them. Our fight is slow yet resolute.

Every second of your life, be defiant.

Art of London

House of Lights
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

News of Art, Art of News

Struggling Artists Wanted! New And Improved Inspiration Medicine Now In Testing!

Are you suffering from writer’s block? Has your well of ideas run dry? Do the clouds no longer whisper the shapes they long to take to you? F. F. Gebrandt has a (possible) solution!

A new concoction by the people’s chemist and a former mayoral candidate promises to kickstart one’s grey matter into creativity yet unseen. A proposed mixture of unspecified liquid extracts, emotions, and processed drugs, Gebrandt’s Visionary Elixer is currently undergoing thorough testing.

F. F. Gebrandt is looking for subjects – artists who, perhaps, struggle in their current persuasion and are looking for a refresh of the mind. She promises ethical treatment as well as food and lodgings, as well as a full supply for any instruments one might need for their craft.

Despite the appearances, we at The Goosey Gazette are unaffiliated with F. F. Gebrandt and her efforts. Our message is purely informational, if not outright cautional. We have no guarantee of the Elixer’s efficiency, nor have we (despite our best efforts) seen or experienced its effects. However, we sympathize with those who find themselves in a rut and seek a refuge from whatever dreary whims might be weighing on them. Thus we are presenting this opportunity to you, our dear readers.

Further information as well as contact details for F. F. Gebrandt can be found on the back page. Caveat emptor.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
A gentle devilless has caught my fancy, and she loves me so! But the pastor says she only wants my soul.. What do I do?

Dear Troubled,
Devils, like us, are creatures of passion. Brimstone and fire course through their veins, and with that fire, they love in ways you and I cannot imagine. Who are we to infer the motives of infernal beings? Though devils seek souls, it need not make their love any less genuine.
You, my dear, must only be wary of the abstract. Even though we may question love, it remains to be love nonetheless.

28th of February 1899

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  12. K-KB1 ; Q-Q6 ch
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Art of London

Bazaarian Stroll
by Edward Five

A photographic collage of the Masters of the Bazaar, captured by various parties.
Responsible photographers (in alphabetical order):
Djane (the Insane)
Edward Five
Indigo Clardmond
Lesa Kuraciel

News of Art, Art of News

Scams, Fraud, Cons – Artistry From Behind The Bars Of New Newgate

The widely spread ‘profession’ of a con artist is one we find sullies the names of all artists, and perhaps the word artist itself. Nevertheless, who can in earnest say they have never been intrigued by the world of ‘gentlemanly’ crime? A spy for the enemy, a crook with a silver smile, wealthy above all else. For this reason we have conducted a visit to New Newgate, interviewing several such frauds. Today we bring you a look into the life and mind of a criminal artist.

It must be said that they are a joyfully varied bunch. Apart from conpeople there sit forgers, Bazaar-embezzlers, decoys with their partnered pickpockets, and puppeteers. They are, however, split into two clearly defined groups – those that came to the Neath for they thought crime would be easy, and those who came there to profit off of the mistakes of the former.

Crime, as any citizen would know, is a dangerous place full of opportunities as well as opportunism, a land where those with the largest teeth win. One conwoman, preferring to remain unnamed, retells a story of her first Neathy cons. Long ago, she sold ‘poison’ to up-and-coming poisoners. Merely a concoction of stewed and mashed mushrooms and a few drops of prisoner’s honey, diluted with what she referred to only as ‘the special sauce’ – enough to elicit a long yet pleasant false-death to the poisoned, and a sense of self-satisfaction to the poisoner.
Although our woman claims to no longer distribute the substance, the recipe appears to still be in circulation, either as sleep medicine or as a convenient way to fake one’s death, depending on your source.

The Silver-Tongued Merchant recalls selling fraudulent permits from the Bazaar for various criminal activities. To this day it is not uncommon to catch a cutthroat carrying a murder license with no legal binding, several faux theft cards, or other such falsified goods. The Merchant also retold an anecdote of selling the entire Bazaar to an enterprising soul believing them to be its owner. When asked whether this led to their eventual imprisonment, they offered no further comments.

The Dreaming Misanthrope was less talkative, although still a quite fascinating criminal to talk to. He had a long and illustrious career in dealing with dreams. Starting on the surface, he simply fulfilled his client’s desires – a man who could accomplish anything, given enough time. The job took on a much more literal meaning once he had arrived to the Neath. The orchestration of events, whether they are or Not, is a skill many yearn to master. However, poking around within people’s dreams seems to have left the Misanthrope, well, deserving of his epithet. At the very least, prison has made him welcome half an hour of conversation.

Having spent an amount of time amongst the caught criminals, it is easy to once again see the charm of their profession. Those aforementioned, preying on other lowlifes rather than the common citizenry, have a certain glint in their eyes. A spark of knowledge, a sense of pride, steel-strong certainty in their abilities. It must be said, their abilities are truly to behold.
Other prisoners, be as it may that they have been swindled by them, still look up to these conpeople as teachers and inspiration. They are masters of their craft, after all – perhaps even deserving of the title of an artist.

There is, after all, a semblance of art to their work. However, perhaps it is best to leave this judgement up to the reader.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
The pressure of responsibility never ceases to amaze in its simplicity and absolute unavoidableness.

Dear Yearning,
‘Tis an endless cycle we dread to revisit; not out of worry, simply out of boredom and repetition.