---

Editorial

Home is a nebulous thing. It resides only within the mind, one could argue, even if we connect the word to a place as we so often do. Yet home can stretch to horizons of various sizes. A home can be a town. A home is often a room within a house – or the house itself. A home can be as vast as a country. A home can be the Neath, if one ventures to the surface for a while.

Is a home the place of our origin? The one at which we live now? How many homes can a person truly have?

The qualities of home:
Safety
A warm meal
A lockbox full of secrets.

The romantically inclined so often ascribe the qualities of home to people. I myself am prone to agree; home is where the heart is, as they say.

It is everyone’s hope to have a home, one day. It is my hope that it is what everyone shall have.

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Art of London

We present to you works of contemporary modern art from two readers of our Gazette.

A bold piece by Plurnes.

A work by an anonymous artist, with a critical analysis of the very Johnattan Hoppskotch.

The work “SHEEP” is a deep and meaningful satirical statistical parody on the current state of art, politics, and agriculture.
On the surface level a obvious parodic analogy emerges, the darkness surrounding the sheep represents the darkness of the Neath while the almost brightness of the sheep represents the light of art and journalism; I believe this is why the artist chose a sheep and not a cow or a pig – cows would be hard to draw in the background of the piece and pigs are considered to be a criticism of authority because more wealthy people tend to eat pigs more.
However when the work is studied and carefully observed deeper truths emerge, the style is very similar to that of what First City art is speculated to look like according to my academic associates, and the darkness surrounding it represents the lack of civilization at those times. This leaves us with an even deeper question. What does the sheep represent? I intended to ask the artist only to learn that he is apparently in prison, the Tomb Colonies, dead, and might have not legally existed in the first place.
So in my opinion the piece is meant to be interpreted by the observer as they see fit. Do tell me what you think of its meanings and send monetary incentives to 34 Takepenny Street.
– Johnattan Hoppskotch

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News of Art, Art of News

The Art of Devils – Baroque, Indulgence, Needlework

The devils, an enigmatic presence not liked by all, yet now such an integral part of life down in London. They keep their gates locked to those not at least tolerant of their presence, though, naturally, we have seized an opportunity to explore their artwork in-depth.

Devilish art is as one would expect; it is a thing of grandiose, artwork with make and content of epic proportions. Devils do love their visual art, covering whole walls with them, or even ceilings. The anti-church has to be complimented – their love for such art matches in scale even the grand temples of worship of the Christian church.

An interesting factor of the devilish art are, however, their intriguing tapestries. Woven of the finest sorrow-spider silk, sewn with the most minute of needles, sharp enough to pierce a hair. This art does not lack in grandiosity, though it’s breathtaking factor is in the craftsmanship itself. One’s mind is sure to be enamoured, bewildered, boggled.

We do recommend admiring a devil’s tapestry with a spoon of honey.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What is work if not hell?
Questioning

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Dear Questioning,
Joy.

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Editorial

If you love something, let it go, as they say. This applies to people, of course, though pets as well, to an extent, even opportunities, or items. It is against our nature, in a way, to let things go. There are ways to cope, of course. Close your eyes, pretend it never had been in the first place. What the mind no longer considers the heart cannot hurt. What the eyes cannot see could possibly be only misplaced. Waiting for you, perhaps, at your doorstep, at your aunt’s house, propped against the clock as if counting the minutes until you reunite once more. One may fear opening the door, knowing in the back of one’s mind that the fantasy will not become reality.

It is, of course, ridiculous to think that the world revolves around one’s needs. It is equally ridiculous to think that no part of the world revolves around them. It is simply preposterous to think there is no care for a particular thing, or a person, a feeling, or a position. Where there exists possibility there exists want, and care. People have a lot of care, after all, and the need to put it somewhere, to utilize it. To cherish, to protect, to raise and see grow. To teach, and to learn.

To love something, truly, is to be able to let it go, to give hold to that primal instinct, and to trust that, if it is meant to be, you shall be reunited once again.

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Art of London

Artwork of Idelia Lockwood
In a special edition today we bring you the paintings of one artist going by the pseudonym Galvatyr (do press onto the name, will you?).

• 

• 

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News of Art, Art of News

Mahogany Magician’s Act Goes Awry, Audience Evacuated

During last Saturday’s performance of an illusionist (whose name we shall omit, for the sake of discretion) there had been quite the unexpected and unfortunate twist. Whilst most of the show went by without a hitch, the Illusionist able to pull wonders out of their sleeves and bewilder minds with ease, the last act, consisting of mirrors, deadly pendulums, and audience interaction, went horridly wrong.

It started quite usual – a few volunteers, the contraption had been set, the Illusionist strapped to a chair. The mirrors were prepared, the performer reciting his speech, instructing the brave volunteers. The illusion began, and then, in a short moment, everything went horribly wrong. One of the volunteers, just a little too close to their mirror, stood there, missing their cue. In a short moment a maelstrom of misfortune swept through the stage. The control of pendulums was lost almost immediately, the doves fluttered into the air, the Illusionist was decapitated. The audience, fortunately, was ushered towards the exits in haste and none of the seated folk were injured. Besides the Illusionist, who is now in the process of recovery, the volunteers and assistants were all only injured. The one who had caused this accident, however, had disappeared, though our sources say they had been seen entering the Labyrinth of Tigers accompanied by several cats.

This short surge of excitement has, of course, not impeded the good spirits of the audience nor the Hall management, and all shows shall continue as normal. Investigations of the causes are in progress.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
How to contain one’s feelings?
Brooding

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Dear Brooding,
Yelling at the zee always helps.

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Editorial

Nothing lasts forever. Things come to an end. It is the natural way of things. Life, death. Creation, destruction. Beginning, end.
It has been an immense pleasure to publish Letters from the Surface, all the way until the story’s completion – today. We bid farewell to this tale, though, most hopefully, not to Sir Wensleydale, the author.

Though we are sad to see the story go, we are eager to work with Sir Wensleydale in further endeavours, new stories, open reaches. The story had truly been a beacon of light for the Gazette, and, hopefully, fun and an inspiration for our readers.

Without further ado, let us commence this week’s edition.

Still, you have been a beacon of light for this small paper. To many great stories to come, to inspiration, to art.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XVI
Penning a Letter
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I wrote a letter, up to one of England’s colonies. It went like this:

“To Anyone This Concerns-
London is a hub of intrigues. All scandals that you hear of are true. People go mad in pursuit of knowledge. The Empress has lost most legal power, and her replacements have plots against each other. Many speak of revolution, but said revolution is worse for the common man.
It is also an opportunity for wealth. My venture down here has become more of a permanent residence, and I have been in pursuit of a diamond that is not a diamond. Art is also flourishing.
Write to the papers! Tell them stories of the Fallen city of London, and it’s predecessors! And yes, it has predecessors!

Professor Wensleydale of Hardwick”

Persuasive has not increased from 200.
Making Waves has increased to 25!
You’ve gained 10*Influence(new total 43)
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 50- Master of Communications!
An occurrence! Your “Spider in the Web” quality is now 1-Honest!
A Defender of Truth is increasing…
An occurrence! Suspicion is now 15- Imprisoned!
An occurrence! Scandal is now 15- UNTHINKABLE!

The papers devoured this letter. Constables from the surface began showing up. I’d seen this intrigue through.

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News of Art, Art of News

A Celebrated Artist of the Surface Arrives in London This October

In the latest piece of art news, we have a tasty treat for loves of music, especially violins. A celebrated violinist of the surface, certain V______ M__ shall arrive to our very London this mid-October to grace us with her wonderous music.

We know, of course, that the lady cannot stick around for long. Her all-round trip shall take only a day, a few hours of which will be dedicated to her performance. Do make sure to grab your tickets, London….

…but, of course, just that wouldn’t do for our Gazette! We are giving out tickets to front seats in a contest of sorts. The details can be found in the middle-page spread.

Besides seats, a stand-in area shall be open to the public – once again, courtesy of our very Gazette! We had to pull some strings to make it happen, London, we are sure you will appreciate.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What if I lose her?
Denial

---

Dear Denial,
Place your trust in the right place.

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Editorial

I was never one to forego a purpose. There is a meaning to life, after all – must be. So hard to find, of course. No matter, once found, it must be latched onto like a lifeboat. It is what I did, devoted myself to my meaning, my purpose.
Art is a purpose, in a way. News are a purpose. I am not going to pretend, however, that it is so ultimate and necessary to my life.

I have found a meaning in others, helping and reminding and guiding. It was my purpose from the day I was born, now I know. Though I may have signed away at a later age, I was always destined for, well, at least something like this. My happiness, I truly believe, comes from the happiness of others. It is only through my actions bringing the well-being of others that I can truly bring forth my purpose.

Meaning, of course, is not a one-time goal. It is not something you achieve easily and then die happily. It is eternal. It encompasses your life. It guides your every step. It follows you throughout, it is something you must adhere to, and something that you do adhere to, without even realizing it. It is the work of destiny that brings forth your decisions. We may be free to create our own, yes, but still we act towards this very purpose.

For one, I am very content with my purpose. I embrace it. I live and love for it.

For another, I am so terribly sorry, dear Rebeka.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XV
Casing the Remains
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Fires was a fool to leave me alive. Now I can wreck it’s plans.
I remember what Vaughan said to me. Clarabelle was in love with the Orphanage, because of a Moon-Miser.
The moon-miser… Was my endgame- is my endgame.

I stroll through Spite, and see the remains of an old building. The Orphanage itself.
No one was left alive, but the Special Constables remain alert. Time to be one with the shadows.

A plan forms, in the back of my mind. But for ethics’ sake, I must cash in favors.

The urchins are willing to spread my good name through the Flit. Now I can analyze the Orphanage from all angles, with the help of some escapees.
This opportunity is mine, and mine alone.

An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 15!
Casing shows your progress in the venture.
You’ve lost 1* Favors:Urchins(new total 0)
You now have 1*Favors:Criminals

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News of Art, Art of News

A Rubbery Lack of Artform

Through an anonymous, trustworthy source, news of the Rubberies living on Flute Street have reached the ears of our Gazette’s reporters. Most important for us, of course, was the art – though what we have found was surprising.

There are, of course, past experiences with Rubberies as artists, albeit under the supervision of a human. They are joyous and yearnful musicians, ecstatic to express themselves, yet in the depths under London, where Flute Street and its residents exist, there is an alarming lack of art.

Truly, despite the beauty of the amber streets, the Rubberies seem to not have any way of expression of their own. A few theories we have are, of course: oppression, lack of imagination, fear.

Further investigation is required, and shall be reported upon.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it right to feel this way? Is it not indulgence in itself?
Special

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Dear Special,
Do not be afraid of your feelings. Examine them further. There is truth to be found among the grain. Indulgence need not be incorrect. Remember your calling.

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Editorial

Change is a part of our existence. We change, constantly. Every second, our very bodies change and rearrange. Time and space changes and bends and fluxes. Each moment, one’s whole life could turn over for good. In many moments, it will.
Sometimes, change is oddly subtle. A small shift in the paradigm. Barely noticeable yet so uncomfortable for its strangeness. Such change likes to travel in packs to completely turn a life around. Seemingly unrelated events can lead to an enormous change. One moment, there is status quo, the other, chaos. One moment there is the comfort of the routine, the other, the taste of adventure.

Welcome change into your life. It is what fills our life, drives it, gives us a reason to continue. The very promise of a better tomorrow. The very fear of a dark future.

It is what gives us life.

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Art of London

A Lie and a Truth
by Chronic Dreamer

A farmer lived simple, his world right and tranquil
No one ‘ere did bother, none cared cause hassle
He tended to his land, few else could matter
Until came she, the witch of lies, wanderer Fos Tanther

Noble farmer ask she, her voice alluring and queer
Would you spare home, my body aches from tour
Bow does the farmer, in agreeance he leads her the way
Little to their knowledge, both hearts would be entwined

I must tell you this, for it is quite dire
How you appear here one day, unaided and without means
My door is ever open, no one shall I rebuff
But I have naught to offer, scant nourishment of muff

‘Tis fine for a roof, I needn’t much else
Could you be a dear, and tell me your wealth
Your farm is so lively, and your appearance quite fetching
‘Tis little to wonder, what spell you have to tie me here

Your flattery’s too kind, others think elsewise
Though you must be mistaken, neither farm nor I are lookers
A temptress I assume thee, despite I let stay
As I have said, I shall turn none away

His sight touched her heart, truth in tongue as well as thought
Her beguilement did not pass, enchantment held no sway
This man did yet keep her, honesty to fault
Her myriad of tricks yielded no fruit, her soul saut part

The night did roll in, a spark of passion then grew
These two became one, a lie coaxed in by truth
In tune with their clash, their hearts quite wavered
Neither could ever change, natures stout ‘ner tapered

In all of their difference, they managed to keep together
A farmer’s small home, Fos Tanther laid claim
None could trouble him, no one dare enter
A secret affair by two so stark, no one would think, not even those brought

Love is a string, binding even those who differ profound
Blind shan’t foresee who they might covet, they’re open to all
Let these words make lesson, to all who are willing
Yet whomst turn down, equal a villain

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News of Art, Art of News

The Interpreter Of Dreams Takes London By A Storm

We all have been plagued by dreams. Many an artist have taken inspiration from dreams, honey or subconscious. What to make of dreams, however? What meaning to infer from nightmares?
The famous Dr. Scholmo has studied dreams, psychology, Correspondence, and the Neath itself for a long time in pursuit of revealing the meaning of dreams. We at the Gazette have visited the Doctor several times. The interpretation ranges from enlightening to bladderdash, of course, however it always brings unique insight into one’s mind. The Doctor succeeds in striking a cord of the human soul, if absolutely by accident. His speeches are, naturally, easily described as art within the field of psychology. He has produced rather fantastic results with his patients, and even though his services are rather prestigious for the common Londoner, we recommend paying him a visit if your nights are plagued by unrest and strange visions.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
How to tell him? There is little I can do.
Concerned

---

Dear Concerned,
It is not always up to you. Bite your tongue. Support. Let the responsible figure it out.

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Editorial

Sins spread through generations. The sins of our forefathers haunt us to this day. The sins of our offspring bring shame to our graves. What was it all for when the children forsake their parents? What is it for when the parents neglect their children? Hate breeds hate, even through time. Pain brings only more pain. There must be care for the world. Firstmost, care for your kin, as often your kin is the closest of the world. Have respect for those who are dead, care for those who are alive.

Is it wrong to, in kindness, bring pain? To aid in folly? Self-destruction? Mayhaps. Is it folly in itself to cajole one out of harm’s way? Or to join?

Be wary of your actions. Do not bring unnecessary pain. Strive to do good.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XIV
Vital Information
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

It was two weeks after that, when something new happened. I had been accustomed to prison life at this point, but I learned that one of the Cheery Man’s goons was in prison. Figures.

We met at mid-day to trade information. When I mentioned my adversary, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

“What happened?”

“I am trying to steal a diamond. He thought this was out of spi-“

“THE diamond?”

“Yes.”

“Guess you should be glad you aren’t on Mr Fires’ bad side.”

“How do you know that?”

“If you were, you’d be dead. The Orphanage burned down two days ago.”

Watchful is increasing…
Shadowy has increased to 150- Shrouded in Shadows!
An Occurrence! Your “Letters From the Surface” Quality is now 14!
An Occurrence! Your “Remembering the Orphanage” Quality is now 1-Haunted by Flames!
Your “Counting the Days” Quality has gone!

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Starless
by Rowley Ruskin

In this place that is two places, the sea embraces the sky. Beyond the gate you see the infinite night and feel the cold wind of the High Wilderness upon your face. The sky has opened to you.

You allow the Flukes to enter first. That is their right. Their tendrils are restless as they rise. The water crackles with heat. There is a song in the air. A song that threatens to burn. HOME. They sing their wordless chorus. HOME. Their voice shines brighter than the stars. HOME. And then, in a tone that can almost be described as gentle: OUR GRATITUDE.

You watch them disappear into the night. The Neath grows darker in their absence. Your crew breathes a collective sigh of relief as the energies of the Correspondence quiet. Their anxiety disappears with the Flukes. They do not understand.

“Captain.” Your navigator remains restless. “Consider the price.”

You look to the impossible vastness of the heavens, threatening to consume you whole. “A small price, all things considered.”

You give the signal. The sound of the engines is impossibly quiet after the Flukes’ song. Together, you take to the sky and claim your place among the starless nights.

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News of Art, Art of News

An interview with a celebrated artist

It is my pleasure, dear readers, to present you with a wonderful and rare opportunity. It is so that our own humble Gazette was a guest of a great contemporary artist of London, one who has already written classics. We were blessed by their presence not only last week, as they have presented us with a story, but also today, as they agreed to a rare interview.

Without further ado, on the centre-page spread, Professor Reinol von Lorica.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
I would love to meet again.
Rayn

---

Dear Rayn,
Meet me in the depths.

A Rather Special Interview

---

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lorine – or may I call you Reinol?

That’s Professor von Lorica if you must know, but yes, you may call me that.

---

Of course, Professor.
You have made quite the reputation for yourself with your writings down here in London. What is your muse, your main source of inspiration that lead you to success?

My muse? Well, I suppose you simply have to look into my roots as a Celestial. The long forgotten memories of the world above, the lost sky, the distant seas, the verdant ever green pastures that are out of our reach- those are what inspired me to write. Though I truly found my muse in sleep. When I close my eyes, I dream. I see that which we lost. I envision the planes behind mirrors, the amber skies of the sleep, the false sun of the dream. When I sit down to write, all I do is close my eyes, and imagine these two worlds in my mind…and the stories that could’ve been made

---

It is dreams what inspires you then – are they ever only pure dreams? Artists are known to utilize Prisoner’s Honey. Is this a technique you have adopted yourself?

Once in the past, I have relied on honey and wine to make art. Now however…I no longer need them to dream. After all, what is honey but a way to aid those who wish to dream? I have no need of such thing, not anymore.

---

A truly exquisite talent! Many would give much to be achieve this. Do you, however, consider this dangerous? It is a sweet apple to bite from, though offered by a snake.

It is only dangerous to those who bite more than what they could chew. The lords of the mirror can only do so much after all. Dangerous yes…but then again, isn’t everything down here?

---

Truly, there is little safety in the Neath. It is said that even you began your life down here with a bit of danger. Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, a little more of your reasons for coming here, and reasons for staying.

Let us say I came here for a reason far more different than as to why I stayed. I came here in search of certain fellow who has escaped my grasp. I stayed to carve my name into history.

---

A noble goal, one many will consider successful. More to your work – it is cherished all over London. Do you have any regrets concerning your position?

That I’m afraid, implies that I hold remorse as to the methods of how I achieved this position. Which I do not, so no, I have none. Though, I suppose I do wish I had more free time on my hands. My work takes me not only to my writing desk, but to my office at my newspaper, the halls of Parliament, and the theatre-rooms of my rivals!

---

A man of many talents, of course, always suitably busy. I’m sure all of London is as familiar with your papers, London’s Reflection, as they are with your other works. Your membership in the Parliament, however, might escape the less politically inclined. Would you mind elucidating your position there to our readers?

Ah, yes, I’m glad to see that my less artistic endeavours are known to the public indeed. As for what I do in Parliament…well, my role isn’t much you see. I merely got there through more simpler means rather than by decades of political experience that my fellows have. I suppose you can call me a simple advisor. I do nothing more that to provide advice and suggestions regarding the new laws that are to be pushed forward.

---

An advisory position, of course. Still, you must have your own opinions on the going-ons in London in the Neath. Not too get too political, or to stray much to far from the topic of art, I must ask, what are your thoughts on the Masters and the Bazaar?

Why yes indeed, I do have many opinions about the current state of London, but I shall spare you the boredom and simply answer your question, and besides, some things are best held close to your chest. I admit, the way the Masters run London is not something that I can whole heartily support. There are many things worthy of complaint, but I believe that with cooperation and negotiations, that can change. No need for riots and revolutions. Through more peaceful and diplomatic methods, our troubles can be easily resolved. While I can make no comment on the Echo Bazaar, I will say that it is a wonder for our Economy. Anyone, as long as they have the skill, can easily climb the ladder, as most of us have.

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Well there’s our bit of politics for today, thank you. Back to the art. Our own humble Gazette has been allowed to publish one of your very works. Would you care to tell us something about the work? How it came to be, your feelings towards it?

Ah, that one, yes. Well, let’s just say that’s it’s once again, something I thought of in a dream. I was having a particular fascination with the stars at a time, and so I dreamt of what was beyond. I admit, I do feel that it could be one of my personal favourites. It’s neither great nor classic, but I wrote it for someone else’s sake. And that’s all that matters.

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That is what we value most of all; art for the sake of art. The emotion within the piece can be felt upon just a skimming.
What would you consider the best part of your art, Reinol?

The answer is simple. The meaning. The intent. The purpose. For every book I write, for every portrait I paint, for every story I regale, each one has meaning, regardless of the way they are produced. What is art but a way to express our unbidden thoughts and desires? Without meaning, our works are nothing but rubbish scribbled on parchment.

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Wise words, so close to home they hit for artists.
Speaking of your various mediums, what is your favourite way to convey your art?

Without a doubt, it is through words and writings. It is how I started my path to notability, and it shall be that way until the end.

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One last question – as parting words, what would be your advice for the artists of London, old and new, our dear readers of the Gazette?

Advice…well then. I know that many of London’s artists struggle to make their name in this city. Some, because of a dying muse and the deprivation of inspiration, others because they lose themselves to the temptations of wine and honey. My one piece of advice is this: when you find your pen-hand struggling to fill those pages with blessed words, do not use the freedom of honey-dreams or bouts of drunken frenzy to set your muse alight. No. Do as I once did; close your eyes, and dream of something far more better. Walk out of your homes, look to Zee, and think of the shores so far and away, yet so wondrous and magnificent. Set your eyes upon the Roof and envision the forgotten skies. Gaze to the South and imagine the splendors of the Mountain. Look North, and wonder what lies beyond.

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Editorial

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.

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Art of London

Legacy
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

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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.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of fame?
Wodnerer

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Dear Wonderer,
Your whole self, and much more down the line. It is the ultimate price.

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Editorial

You will, inevitably, make mistakes. It is inescapable. To err is so human. They may cost you dearly. They may inconvenience you, merely. Either way you will, inevitably, make mistakes.
Everyone needs to own up to their missteps. With head held high or bent down low, either way there will be a price to pay. It is not up to anyone else to fix, perhaps only to help soften the fall.
Be careful with letting your mistakes slip through your fingers. They do not forgive. They do not forget. They need to be silenced for good.
Everyone makes mistakes. No matter how far up the Chain. Do not let others suffer for what you have done. A well-intended failure is still a failure. Do not cost the lives of others.

There is only your own self to inconvenience.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XIII
Counting the Days
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I had been told that my sentence would last a total of one year. Perhaps I could escape sooner.

Day 3
The Stuttering Fence came up to me, and said that a new prisoner arrived. This one deserved it completely.
The cell number was scratched on a wall. Cell G-4N7. So… G Wing, 4th floor from top, Block N, and Cell 7.

An occurrence! Your “The Prisoner of G-4N7” quality is now 1!
Counting the Days is increasing…

I visited the cell, and found no one. However… Is that a sorrow-spider?
Oh no.

An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 13!
Suspicion is dropping…
Nightmares is increasing…
Dangerous is increasing…
Counting the Days is increasing…

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News of Art, Art of News

Exclusive – The Quest For Mr. Tears, The Longest Living Noman

In a recent development of art performances, an organization lead by one Kid Nullman has revealed an ambitious plan. This gentleperson is bent on cultivating the longest living Noman in history of London. Aptly named Mr. Tears, this Noman is planned to be kept alive for a whole year. Though many say this is strictly impossible, for reasons beyond our control, this would in theory make Tears the first Noman to live to it’s birthday. Whether it lives until then is up in the air, though even coming close to the snowy season would make Mr Tears a wonder of longevity among its kin.

Their plan involves a rather large, ridiculously so, amount of a certain rare vial filled with lacre to feed Tears over the course of its life. Nullman, as well as his society, have already gathered a handful of supporters to gather these resources. If you fancy yourself one such folk, you can send Nullman a handful of First City Coins to show your appreciation for the act, as well as to directly support it.

We, of course, encourage engagement, London. This is truly art in the making! Nullman’s plan is currently said to take nearly four and a half years until only the start of Mr. Tears’ life. An exquisite piece! Become one with art, London. Support Mr. Tears.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Could I have done better?
Tired

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Dear Tired,
A million times so. Do not be so hard on yourself. The self is the start of being kind.

---

Editorial

Monograph on the impossibility of press
by R. J. Frogvarian, Correspondent

[The following text is intercut with Correspondence symbols; nothing is set on fire, but your eyes water and sting, making it very hard to make out the words.]

I̛̟̯̺̩͚̕ͅt̴̗̝̰̻ ̛͉̖̹̳͜ì̻̭͍͔̲͢s̢͕̣͕̤̣̪̥ͅ ̴̷̫̮̘͞t҉͎͙h̜̜ẹ̻̰̙̘͔ ̜̪̮̟̳̬͖ţ̪̞̻͙̜̣̳r̶͉̲̖̹̪͖̹̜͢u̡̧̜̗̭̯̝t͈̰͔̺́̕h̷̡̲̙̳͙̜̰̘ ̖̯̹̬̰̠͝o̷̢̠̣̼̳̪̱̮͓͟f̴̜̪̫̪̝͟ ҉̳̠̭͝t̵͖h͏̢̝̻͠e̴͈̯̖̬̥̙ ̀͡҉̻̙̘̰͙m̪͔̻̪̻͟͝ͅͅa̝̯͚̞͎͢t̳͖̣̝͟͡t̩̣̹̼̦̭͙͠e̶̥͠ͅr̛̭̖͓͡͞ ͟͏̟̤̫͍͓͓̝̀t̴̳̟̳h͟҉̫͈̲̜͍͕̜ḁ̫̣̣̞̝̕͞ͅt̯̜̀ͅ ̬͖̣̱͈͝s̥̜̘̞̤̣̮̪ơ̟̳̥̥̹̹̩̭m̷̨͓̥͈̱̟͡ͅͅe̛̯ ͇̲̩̘͍͉͔̝L̵̨̜̼ͅa̢̻̰̺͉̝ͅw̸̻̰̝̲̖̹͙̙̕s̛̙̹̺̯̼͎͠ ̡͖̥̼̥̤͟ḑ̷̟̘͉͖͖̥̮͖o̦̳͞ ̷̶͍̼̬͚͞n҉̼̤̣͖̥̠̳̱ͅo̶̸̩̤̹̭͖͓t̴̡̖ ̩̘̕w̲͙͠o̫̹͢͡͝r͉̣k̼̖̙̰͎̞͡ ̡̲̜͕͎͉̻a͉̲͞s̸̙̠̙̰̣̫̤̜͝ ͙̞̗̹͔͢͡p̟͖̙̰͓̫͜ŗ̹̹̳o̜̗̰͚̞̮̰̭͢p̵̡̯̹͚è͔̩̺͈͔͉̥r͡҉̵͓̖̥̪̣̫̦l̡͈͔͠y͈̱͔̥̗̬̕ ̥͇̖̭̪̯̭̱͡ạ͓̰s҉̞̗̬̱̠̝̤̲̀͜ ̬̳̪͚͜͠ţ͍̺̪̯̮̞̪h̼̙̖̥́ȩ̝̟̞̞y̶̨̫̻̞̞͈̥̦͜ ̦̰̙̝s̷̹̗̰͓̤̘̥͜ͅḩ͓̖͉̩͞o̤͓̳͕͢͠u̵̩̱̺ḻd̮̜͔̺͇͢.̡͚̞̪̗͎ ̨̥͕͎̱̲͟N̬̩͖o͔͚̥͎͙̙͉͕̦t͇͉͚͎̮̖̀ ͢͏̳̳͠m̥͙̜̺a̴͓̩͍̹̦͠ṋ̷̞̞̤͕͙y̡̧͉̹͔̘̮ ̱̳̫̦̗̟̝c̛̺̳͚̳̣̫͘͜ͅa̕͏̯̮͚̖͚̭͔n͖̖͢ ̺̮́ș͔̣͉͍̩̹̘͘e̯̦̪͔͈͖̰̖͢é̦̲͕̙̣͕̲ ̛͕̮́t̴̗̭͢h̡̙͈͢i̛̱̯͓͘s̨͇̗̻͈̞̝͇͕,̣̩ ̷̸͉ͅs̘̙͍̜̰̥̤o̷̰̳̮̺̪̦͈͡ ̵̻̝̦̥̳̣̞f̛̫͎̟͙̜e̺͕͡͝w͙̭ ̼̠a̢̙̜̤r̶̖̬͉̠̰̹̟͟͞ͅe̗͔͘ ͓͔̻͡͠g͉̘̬̗̀i҉̡̻̺͉͔ͅf̻̥̻͔̗̤̠͉͢t̨̺͇̞̥e̗̟d̼̰̜̣̲͕̞̟͘ ҉̜w̷͉̳̮͕̻̦̹͝ͅi̷̭̱͕̕͠t͕̗̯͖̖̬͖h̙̳͞ ͎̤̬̦̺̕͘t҉͏̼͕̳͉̫h̸̸͈͉̣̟͙͟e̢̼̲͇͖̮̯͈ ̨̭̬̩̤͘s̡̺̪̝̀i̶҉̗̳̤g͉͙͠h̪̱̟͓̳̙͘͜t̷̻̬͈̗̞͕̗͎͝.̷͕̟̲̰̥̪̣̰͟ͅ ̷̩̜͚̯̣͙N̛͔͕̤͚̟o̢̤̲͎̝͚͢w̸͡҉̪̖̖,̕͟҉̹̙͕̺̠̪̪͕͔ ̥̦̬͙͖͈̦̦ͅt̛̻͜͡o̴̫͡ ̶̶͔̺̪̱͚d̸̘̰̩̖̼͜į̭̲̘̰͞͝v̸̹͈̜͙ͅͅé̥̝r̭̬g͏̗̫͙̝̜̟ȩ̶͏͓̙̻̖͚̳̱ ̛̞̝͕̟̠̟a̗̭̜͎̙͍̪͖̼ ̫̦̯͉̺̹͘͡l̹̣͔̺̥̰̭̹͟i͈̬͎̥̞̥͢t̵̠͍͎̬͚̗̜͡t̸̖̺͎͢ĺ̛͔̬e͈̙̕ ̹̯̣̮̙ͅ-͍͝ ͏̼͓͔͙̮͞ͅw͓h̶̢̟͎͙̪̳͎̹̜͙á̝̱͉͈̪̹͢ţ̴̝̼ ̯̻̺̝̱̞a̞̰͉̩̫͢ͅr̶̛̬̙̙̪͡e̶̢̳̟̭̝͓͔̭ ̵̠̜̫y̘͈̹̩͓̹̯͘o̵̶̰̩͕̳͖̮̕u̼̭̖͉͇̣͢ ҉̹͉̻̫͟d̛͚̙ò̤͖̲́͜i̸̖͔ͅn͏̻̝̩͓̦̻̜g̼͜͝,̦̹̹͈̩̙̩̕͜ ̷̷͉͖̪r͈̤̝͖͖̱͟ẹ̖̗̟͉͜a҉̥̠͚͇̦̞̤̹̹d̵͝͏͈̖̙̞͚͉i̶̷͖̹̠̙̦n̪̻͢g̢̦̼̲̝͕͘ ͏̦̯ͅţ̷̰h̫͚̹̗̦̼͠ͅi̷̬̞̯̘̪ͅs͎̫͉̘̝!̵̮̳̣̤̫̙?̨̟̲ ̧̯͇͙̘Ỳ̲̬̼͔̙o̶̙̞̼̭̭u̘̺̞̳̦ͅͅ ̡̞̤͓̗̙͢w҉̞͖̱͓̬͙̥͘e̵͚ͅr҉̘̰̰͇̳̖̮̳e̷̦̫̭̞͝ͅ ̤͍̰̘̗n̢͚̼͔̙̪̪o͉͚̝t̵̠̤͖̠͜ ̵̛̮m̨̮͕̯̻̼̜̮̕͘é̷͎̟̼͓a͢͏͕̱̫̫̳̰̘̱n̨̖̮͔t̢̲͕ ̵̨̪̩͘ţ̨̤̫̣͕͚̘̫ò̖͓͕͟͡ ̨̥̱̦̮̹̲̦̟͠s̜͉̩͓̘̭̪̮͘͡ȩ̵̻̘̲͓̹̘̪̖e͏̢̹̺͍̹̣͓͕͙ ̱͙̤͍̳͙̹͇ͅt̛̼̣̖̬̦̲̲h̵̫͈̤͖̮̗́i̹̝̰͍͎̮s̶̗̗̤̟͇ͅ!̣͕̞̳̟̟̀ ͚͈̟̬̯̝̖̤͘͟͟I̵̤̝ṭ̡̳͕̗̱͔̰̥͓͡ ̴̡̺͈̺͚͔͓i̩͇̻̻̙̬̻̠͎͝ş̦̪͍̫͖̹̟̬̖ ̺̱̞̥̬̲̖͘͞a̵̤̰͉͙̰ḽ͈̮̣̭͙̜͡l̵̷̟̥̘̠̀ ͕̦̠͇͡ḁ̛͔̹̙ ̙̫̤̲̳͘͡ͅj̶̟̭͙͖e̲̮̗̬͖͉̮̘s͇t̶̖͎̤̮̪̤̞̥̝,͎̻͕͍̮͇̦͢ ̡̗y̠̩͓̥̗͔o̜͈̺̤̺̭̻͟ͅư̵̴̦͇ ̛̖̼̫͈̮̲̤s̶̨̙̩͞e̸̮̙̻̕e̷̪͙̬̦̪͟!͏̰̤̀ ̥͇̩̯̫͎͇̖͈Ą̛̪̘̙͓͈̼̺ ̶̢͙̖r̨҉͖̝̭̮u̮̭̻̬s̡̞͙͕͙̘͕̗̀͞e̛͎̺͕̱͉!̸҉̸̭ ̧̫̦̥̲̤ͅF̵̡̖͘o̤͙͇̲̳r҉̣͖̞͖͝ ̴̲̹̣̰̰̦͖͙̥̕I̟̞̭̳͝ ̸̲̬̥̬̭n̴̝̞̼̼͈͕͚̝̝͢͝e̢̥̜̦͎̘͔̜͟è̶̹̻̩͔͔͇͟d͙̪̺͎̮͜͟͞ḙ̟̻̙d̰̺ ̻̮͔̖͎͜a̕͠͏͙̞̟̻̳̲͈ ̨͔̞̬͎̤̻̠̦͟t̛̩͓̟̲̫̪̼e̶͔̜̭̣̣̦x͖̦̮̟̠͙́t̡̳̲͚̗̦̹̜̜ͅ ͠͏̥͉͎̙̮̜t͖̹̲̕͡o̭̟̘̩̙̺̹͡ ͈̼͘͜i̵̬͈̫͍n͍͖͎͙͈p̸̰̰̟̪̗͍͜ͅú̡҉̞̟͉̙̖t̸̢̡̼̝ ̴̛̤̯i͉͙͎͎̠̞ͅn̡̛̞̞͔͟ ̪͚̗͠p̛̗̬̫̯̳̰̣͙ļ̯̫͇̤̯͇̪̹͓a̪̤̻͈̕c̛͖̙̝̪̫e̡̦͔̪̻̬͙͞ ̷̘̝͜o̗͢f̨̩ ̠̫a͉͖͓͎̼͟ṋ̢̙̰͚͝ ̨͎͕̺̟̥ͅE̶̪d̞͔̯̞̪̀̕i̶҉̩̺͖̼͔͖t͏̟̣̝̳͇͕̯͇ͅo̴̪̼r͙̖͈̞̦̙̼͘i̮͙̣̖͘ͅa̬̗̙͖̪͚̪̦̕͠l҉̵̵̯̩̙,͎̮̺́͢͢ ̜̭͟t̪̳ơ̵͎̝̩ ̨̨̗̤̲ͅs̀͏̻̪̙͓̳͙̖͉i̱̖͍̱͕͖̤̫͈͜͠g̸̫̱̖̥̰n͈̰̤͖̗͢a҉̡͕̜̟͎ļ̨̯͈̻͎̙́i̴̩z̜͘͝ͅe͕͔̺̬̦͞ ̸̭͓͓̳́d̞͚̙͔̠̭ͅͅḙ̼̲̖̖͍̟̟͙͝a̴̶͍̗r̟̼͎͠ ̷̹̫̞̪͔̱ͅR͚’̛̙͇̳̤̭̮̘̥̕ş̸̳̻̩͇͔̰̝ ̭̰͓̜̙̪̫͎́r͜҉̘i̙̕s̨͇͇͕͕͚͎͍͖͟e͚̜̞̻ ҉͖̻͡t̼͉̞̗͎͙͟͟o̲̙ ̴̨̻̗̘̘̤̣̬̞̪t̵̝̲͜h̵̡̞͉̰̳̼̠̤͉ḙ̹̀͢ ͕̩̱̯̰̣s̫͚̻̗̲͕̻͞t҉̳̖̥̭̭̫̥̭͜a̷̖͇̙͝ͅṭ̢̨̻̜̫̲̯ͅu̡̜̞̟͚̬̪͜͡s̷̶̬̦̙͖ ҉͇̜̜̰̱ò͖̝͎̬͜f͈̀ͅ ͏̤͔͚ͅa̛̝̗͍̤͓͖̗ ̫̞͓̝͟͠ͅC̸͏͉̻̯̭̳ó̯̟͟͠r̷̢̙̼̫͎̺̤̕r̯͍ę̵̣͓̪͈̬̜̜s̱̰͙̻͍̣͉̲͡ͅp̪̟ó̦̜͈̘͙̣n͈͔͚̣̥͎͇͚̮͠d̜͓͉e̝̱͔̣͕n̷̖̻͉͜ͅt̢̛͎̦̭͠ͅ.͍̞̘̰̥̫̭͍̕͞ ̫̻̮̕ͅN̷̩͉̪̱̩̟͎ạ̶̢̯̮̘̣̱̕ṯ̤̘͉̣ͅų͉̼͝ͅr̩̹̦̳̦̠a̻̙͍̫̙̯l҉̶̟͟l͈͈͕̱͎̞̪͡͠ͅͅý̘̝́,̴̱̩̰͓͍͚̙ͅ ̭̜̹̟͍̜͚̙̀Ì͔̞͔̠ ̤̪̥̥̮͜c̳͈̕͘a̳͔̟͎̖ǹ̩̫̖̙͍n̰̲̫ọ̱͕̱̩̗̦ṯ̨͎̥̳͔ ̴̢̛̳m̵̭͚̜̻͟a̯͉k̶̮̥e͎̰̩̥ ̬̘̠̞̦̯̻͟s̮̮̲̺u̗̼͈̲̲͘ͅc͙̻̪̼̝͎ͅh̴̼̦͜ ̨͎̖͖͙̹̞͜b̞o̸̬̟̳̞͙̜̜̕l̡̼͇͡d̴̶͎ ̘̺c҉̳̜̟̗͖͙̗͍̦l̷̺͍̜ͅa̫͉͉̤̥i̡͏͈̪̯̜̺̘̙̻m̘̱̱̰s̻̩̖͎͘ ̠̯̫̬̖a̢̨̖̹̼̲̞̙s̲̯̠̟̲ ̨̨͇t̩͖̪͕̤h̢̢̬̜̀o̥̻͜͡ś̶̠̟͖̯̦͎ę͖̘̥͎͓̘͝ ̶̹̯̦͡o͖̣̬͕̙͟f̛̯̺̙̰͢͝ ̖̟̙͞t̷̙̖̹̬̮̠̙͇ͅḩ̪͔̳e̴͈̜͓͙̼̰̰̬̟ ҉̩͕ṉ͙͜o̢̨̬̦̮̝̜t͎̼̳͍̩̘ą͚̹̹̜̖͘b͉͇̗̹̟̞̮̣͝͞l͓̯͖̳͟͝͡e̡̳̣̫͔ ̭̻̀p̵̙̥̩ŕ̰̭̬͖ò̲ͅf͇̗̮̮̼͍̝̳͉́͢͞e̖͓͍̥s̢̟͔̝̹̗̼̞͓͜͢s͓̺͍͢͜i̵̸̩͖̖̻ó̮͎̲̥̥̭͇͍͝ņ͈͕̭̺̱͘͢,̵͇̼͓͕͍͡ ̺̩̕͜s̕҉̗͢o̦̝͇̯͇̮̲͘͟͠ ̡҉̥͈̹͉͕͙͉̪I̷̛̪̯͕̰̠͘ͅ ̶̤͉̺̝̻̜̘̳͍͞o̗̤p̴̨̟͈̳̠͜ͅt̵̮̯͖̻͓̝͈̹̕͜e̺͇̣̻̬d͎͍͍̩̫͓͉ ̶̷̴͙͇̭̮̘͎̗͖̺t̤̹̪̝̝̫o̧̟̮̩͖͈̰͕ͅ,̢͉̠̀ ̹̫ͅi̴̳̖̰̦̣͎̰n̛̝͈̤̥s̶̠̙͈͙̞͈̞̙t̷̝͟e̷̤̞͎͙̮̬͢͠ạ̞̥̖͔͔̪́ḏ̬̣͙̠͔͉͍͢ͅ,̵̥̞̳̯̫̻͓́ ̡̫̖͎̰̼̟ͅw̛̱̝͚̗̗̖̤̙̹͡͞r̻ì͡҉̺̠̮̱̜̪̲̺ͅt̸̛̖̩̞̝̘̗̦͟ͅe̟̻̹ ̷҉͚̗̦̹͔̹̬ͅt҉̵̥͉͖̞͉̲̹h̶̩̻̣̳̀ḭ̣̘̣̤̗̩͞s̡̖͘.̻̯͈̮̘̀͟ ̜͓̪͙̮͎̦̀D̢̜̻̤͓̗̩͚o̭͈̝̱̜͔͖̹ ̜̬͈̱̕ẹ͚͇̀n̙͍̞̩͜j̮̬͎̠͍͚o̴̯̼̰ý̢̳̠̤̀,̯̱ ͍̯̫́͡͠d͈̯͎̣̯ȩ̛̦̝̮̺̝͔͍͖͚͘a҉̯͍̱̗͚ͅŕ̥̤̙̺̥͟s̸̙̯͍.̼̙̥̖̪ ͈̞͔͇̰̲̫͘͞I͏̠̟̩́t̤̭̦͎̬̝ ̻̫̻̲d̡̡͈̖̹͉͟o̺͎̭̣̠̟͉̲͟͝e̵̶͖̜̖͚̞ş̟̰̫̙͡ ̶̨̨̦̜ͅͅt͇͓͍̹̗͇a̶͕̞̳̫͔̹̜͞k̬̝̞̤̯͉e̷̴̷̤̭̲̬͔̘͚̲ ́͢͏̝̹̖̱a̷͙̱̳̘͈̲̤̠͢͡ ̸̧̞̳̠͙̗͕̤͟ļ̞̠͠o͙͕̥̺͡t̙͜͢ ̷̫̕o͈̻̩͖̻̜͞f̸̧̰͎ ̶͍̠̳͖̫̹w̬̞̠͉̦͈̭͢ǫ̴͙̘̙̹̖̦̣ŕ̸̬̬̱̤͈̹̗̜͔k̠̝̬͖͖̩̞͡ ̮̥̬̬̫̺̘̱̗̀ǫ̟̹̦̬̱̞͠f̴͕̬f̶͏̪͚ ̣̲̝̗͖̻͡o͉̦̝f̶̞̩̬͚̮͓̥̦̻ ̟̱̖̩̙ͅm̡̥̥y͚͟ ̸҉̮͙̘͎̬s͚͚͙͚̪̭͎͘͜h̡͚̝̤̘̻͙̻̟͜ͅo̧̝̘̜u҉̮̰̙̦l̠̞͕̳͠ͅd̷̡̰̰̹̹̱è͏̫̩r̴̹̳̰̯̮̲s̙̻͉̣̪̻̝̗͖͝.̳͔̦ ̱̞̞̥̳̟͜Ṯ̞͈̮̖͎̩̖̼͢i͍̹͡͠r̛̮̱̦̬̺̩̖̜͢ì̝̤̳̜̭̣͡n̛̝ͅg̷̣̞̺͖̳̞͉͞ͅ ̴̛͇̝d̶̵͇̮͕a͏̴͔̜̣̕y̵͈͙͔̳̯̩͇ͅs̝͓̲͕̖͕̬͢,̗̗͟ ̘͙̺̀͜t͓̗̮̙̜͘͜h̝͖͉͜e̛̙̣̼͇̗̻̭̰͠s̡̛͏͇̝e̡̗̹͡ ̵̞̳̘̤̤̤̼a̶̜̺̟͓̦̥̲͟͝ͅr̡̖̣̦e͙͖̲̫̣̕.̟̬̱͉͜ͅ ̷͓̱̕Ḫ̬̭̙͈̖̥͞o̟̖͖͢w̝͈͈̠̠͎͘͝ ̧̢̟̫̺̕à̧̨͈̦̼̟̲̩͈̫r̫͉͉͖͙͇̮̺è͓͖͖̭͓̟͜ ͏҉̢̯̘ͅy̵̹̻͍̪̭̜͞ǫ̵̭̪̬͓̙̯u͚̗͕,̷҉̟͙͉ ̼̬̫̞̬̺͈̩͡͝i̸̴͉̤̪͝n̜ ̸̧̭̜̣̰̬̤a̛̼̺̩̻͙̲̤̖͟͝n̷͙͕̘͞y̩̭͍̲̫ͅ ̜̣̝͇̝c͠҉̖̞̪a̸͏̳͉͕̤̼̘̯͙͜s͔̺̥̣̝͝e͕͓̤?̟͕̪͠ͅ ̯̟͚͍̺̞͟H̦̭̳̻̫̗͍̙̥o̦̫͠w̸̨͙͖͖’̸̨͇̪̗͚̻̤͖s̴͎̦̪̤͠ ̸͕̭̫͟t̷̟̗̻̞ḩ̺͓̜͖͙͎e̴̮͈͜ ̯̤̥̬͎̟k̛͖̤̗̖̰̬̘̜i̙̘͚̳͔͇͟d҉̣̠s̞̼͍͡?̸͚̱̻̳̮̼̖͈͘ͅ ̡̦͇̟̳̹͝͠T҉̱̦̻̝̼ͅh̭̼͕͖̗͞ͅͅe̛̞̹̬̪̭͠ͅ ̛͎͍̜̘͘w̶̼i̸̸҉̫͓͍̙̳͚͍f̡͕̠͍̙̀e͏̥̦?̸̞̮͈̪̕ͅ ͙̳̹̟̩̩͝ͅH̠̫̠o̼̯̰̞̳͓̱̕͢w̶̡̥͚̗̫̜̹̮ ̷̲̻̰̻͖̲͔̥à̵̻͍͚r̩̮̹̕͝͞e̶̩̘͟ ̜͖̣̀y̡̟̜̳̝͖̫͘o͝҉̮͓͇̳͕̼ͅu̷̼͔͈ ̨̭̝͇̰s̺̥͖̘͙t̵̥̦̕i̹͓̺̯̖̙̻͕̪͡l̵̨̫̩͟l̶̖͈̠̬̣̫ ̧̪͇̹̯ͅṛ̰̘̺͚͉́ͅͅe̴̛̤̱͚͍̭̮̗͚̻͢à̴̙͍̥͔̙̰̻d̸̶̩̲͉̩̩̟͡í̸̞̩͈̰̥͕͉ͅn̬̝g͡͏͇̙̘̬̺ ̢̺͚͖̠̗̠͟ͅt̞̱͔̗̤̱͚́͝h̗͓̣̮͈̮̪̝͠i̥͓͠s͈̫̘̯̬̟͜͜͠!̼́?̝̱́̀ ̗̣̼͖͚͔̟G͖̫͘͢o̼͘o̢̙͉̞̬͓͚͞d̻͈̺̻̙͜͝ ̨̺͇͞L͙̙̬̳̯̙͜͢o̜̝̞r̵̞̻̮̹̝̝̪d͈̳̼̳͕͎̲͠ͅ,̧҉͉̭̤͎̣̳̟ ͖d̨̛̪̹͕̲o̜̩͉̣͇̥̘̯͞͠ͅ ̴̞̘̮̭̣͝t͏̙̰̱ą̞̩̭͈̺͉͘k͝͏͙̼̝͎̜é͖̠͕̻̭̰͓͜ ̵̞̤͉̕͠a̴͝͏̞ ͇̥̞͍̕̕b̸̧̝̬r͏͚̜͙̰͙̦̦͇ͅe̷̼̜̦̘̞a͏̫̼͔̗͙̩k҉̹̙̪̝͈̹̜͈.̡͔̦͈̩̦̟ ̳̜̖̹̝͕̰͉A҉͓̠n͖͍̲̬̫d̲̠͉̩̜̻͖̘̻̀̕ ̵̖̼d̘̦̫̰̹̀ò̜̟̥͍̺͢n̨̛̮̣̣̟̪͈̘͢’͍̪͢͢ṭ̷̝͕̳̙̕ ̶̗̣͙̩͘b̖̲͘è͟͏͕̞̟̻̤͎̪̞̙ ̨̬̜̠̦̟͉ͅs̢͈͕̼̦̹̭͉͈͓o̜̭̮͙̳͚̦͙͝ͅ ̨̪̞͔̀͞h̭̦̲͔̱̫̤̩͚a̶̲͎̼͘ͅr̩̘̕d͙̩͈̥̙̲̘͖ ͠͏̩̜͍̦̰̼͜o̶͍̝̬͜n̨̛̥̺̖̭ ͕͓̩y̠̺̣͉̬̗̬̹o͏҉̟͈̜͖͈͞u̙̹̥̫̘̗̤͖͓r͙̜̼̯̀s͈̞͍̕͢͞e̸͔̗͇̞͉͙ͅl̪̯̥̪̼̹̮̳͘f̴͕̟͜,̴͇̗͖̝̞͈̼̳ ̵̗͔͎̞͜͞a̸̻̹̼̼͇͕ͅl̻͙͍͟͡r̬͈̯̖̀͢ͅị̣̫̜g͏̥̳̞̞̘͘h̶̦̙̤̞̬͔͍͇ͅt̯͓̘̲̙̝͙͜?͘͏͍̳ ̧̳̰͓̞̪̯̳͠L̴̰̞o͏̧̼͙̯̤̤̹̩ͅv͙̘̦͖e̶̛͇̹̤͢ ͈̩̤͉̜̪͟͜͞y̗̦͚͜o͈͙͓̙̟ù̱̮̮̱̗͙̹͇̕r̥̺̯̣͚s̨̮̳͔͕͖͠e҉͝͏̹͖͚̗l̡̻͓͙͇f̴̡̲̼̪̻͔̞͜.̨̖̤͢͜ ̴̡̫͇͎̕I̭̬̬̬̻̻͜͝ ̠͙͘l̸̠̮͞o̤͍̼̼͓̥̬̹͖͞v̷̨̳̺͓̜̥e̖̟̹ͅͅ ̩̩̼͍͘y̸̼̲̭̥ͅǫ̸̯͈͎͈̰͈͠u̡͇͎͈͠͠.̢̯̹͙͖̝̗͓͔͝ ̨͔Ḥ̸̨̫͚͎͓a̫̼̦̯̳͔͚ͅv̛̜̙͚̀e̴̸̫̟͙̖͓ ̙̰̥a̺͙̹̝͠ ̨͎͖̗̀g̴̸̨͇̪̲̻̰͚o̸̜͖͙̕o̝͙̠d̨͖̹̩̤̯ ̶̷̗̬̜̹͞ͅd̺̣̜͈̦͍̗̲̀a̧̛̼̻͔̫̱͍̠y͏̖̠̤̣̻̤.̪͍͢

F̛̼͖̗͚̣͙̥͓̖̀u͚̣̲̙͖͔̱̘ͅr̢̬̞͕̮̗͚͓̀ṱ̮̠̤̹́h̛̳̗̞͖̦̣͙͙̳e̴̬͞r̖̫̹͉̪͉m̪̮̺o̙̘̤̣r̞̗͔̤̠͟e̳͔͘,̸͍̦̹̪̠̮̖̭̕ ̳͚̥͔t̢̹̘̹̥̞̗̜̦͝h҉̫̲͔͇̬̘e҉̘̮ ̥̯̘̦̠̮ͅf̮̙͎̘̝͖̮̺á͔͔̞͢b̨͓͡ͅl̹̼͠ẹ̢̮̗͙̭͖̙͞d̩̖͕̘̣ͅ ̶̱͕̼͕͙̕g̸̭͈͙e̸͟͏̯̘͇n͕̯̯̝̦̺̳͟͠ṱ̵͉͍̜̀͟r̡͍̠̲͠ỳ͎̲͇̰̥̱̦̘ ͍͍̣͖̜̖̼͠͞s̷̮̦̳̱̫̝͞ͅo̺͖̱̠̰͜ ̶͈͖̳̖̟̮͕̥̟́̕o̢̫̼̫̭̥v̢̲̟͙e̝͎̟͍͡r͕̱̰̠͈̥͚ṭ̼͟a̢̻̥͖k̡͉̠͇͍e̙̬͍̙͔̗̯͎͜n̡̰̹̪͓ͅͅ ͓̺̭̪̫̟̦͎͢w̛͏̘̙̼̯̭í̷̩̥̫̭͙t͏҉͈͈̤̬͉͍̠͕̹͜h͕̪̮͉͉͈͕͚͠ͅ ̨̛̬͔͖́i̫͉̭̕t̴҉̫͚ṣ̴̷ ̵͇̲̠̲͍̹̫͓̕͠ͅǫ̦͙̭̜̟̬̤̤ẁ͕͙̰̠̩̻͓͠n̠̰͎̟̩̞̘̤͝ͅ ̬̻̯̬͜a̴͔͙̭͈͍̗b̜̦̯͓͚͉̭ͅş͎̘̱̳̞̥̯̯͢e̜̣̮̪̲̹͈̕n̷͓̙̯̩͎̤͞c̡̘̗̳͓̤̀ȩ҉̞̦̹,̵͕͍͜ ̩̮͍̪̠̬͕͟͞w̞̙̙͇a͓̟̯̠͙͍n̨̝̠͚̖͠t̶̡̻̱̱̰̮͘i̗̜̮͞ṋ̡̡̠̩ǵ̺̳̼̳̙̜̻̻̝ ̥͘͘c̵̺̠̙o͈̬͖n̵̢̻̖̟̖̼̗͙͕t̢͕̦̖̳̠̗͟ṟ̨̣͔͈̖̬̜̤ó̘̖̖͡l̸̵͎ ̸̨̖͈̮̹͉̬͙ͅa̶҉̲̖̪n̨͖͎̬̤͘ͅd̳̺͍̣̭̮̯ ̭͓͎͓̖͚̟̰͘n̤͢o̭̦͙͈̗̪͇͚t̻̼̟͓̲̝͙̘͜ ̡͎͖͙͉̠̫̬͙͉m̩̖̦̜̘̳͍͡o̸̹̱͉̼͇͔̺̤̭r͎̤̖͟e̴̛̼͉̰,̰̪͉̕͘ ̫̪̪̳̱͕̜͖̩͜͢a͏̣̥̭͍̗͖̭͔͈n̪̜̮̥͖͓̟d̶̨͖͍̥̬̠̘ͅ ̷̩͉o͏̟͙̲̞͔̹̦h҉̥͎̱̮͉͈͈͝ ̠̙͍͠͡ͅb̛̹̖͟͞o̰̗̣͕͞y̛͈̞ ͟͟͏͚̯̟͇y̶̡̜̲̯͝ͅe҉̷̧̜̭̤̮̹͚̲̗̭s͙̝̮̞͢ ̵̜̟͎̜̳̹̫Ì̧̤’͏̤m̵̟̜͕͎͉ ̴͏̵̼̘̯͇̭j̨̝͖̠̜̺́́ų̵̤̱̼͘s̙͍̞̙̮͕̭̥͎t͓͙͠ ̵̨͚̺͇͓̞w͉͙̻͍̤͓̠͕̘͜͠r̵̶͎̞͍͓̘̪̙̥i̢̝̳̳̮̜̕ț͔̻̞͍̱i̶̯̖͘͝n̘̟͉̗g͎̲̬̲͙̖ ̠͕̣̗̼̙̪̰̙m̸̱̯̝̕͡o̹̯̖̖̺̗͍͕r̸͈͉̤͓͉͉̣̱e̶̼͈̝͘.͔̙͔͓̘̺͞ ̣͍̼̖̞̦̮ͅI̹͚ ͚͎̣͜n̺̯̲̺ḛ̷̺͇̤ẹ̶͎d̛̜̰͖͟͢ ̴̘̲͔̦̲͕̳̹̞̕t̩̬̺̭̞̕o̯͔̺̹̭̩̥̰̠͠ ̨̱̝͕͞f̷̸͉͉̺̦̙͙ị͈̝͕͔͙͜ͅl̶̵̬̗͎͢l̶̞̯̤͚͞ ̘͍̦̭̣͕̳̀̀o̷̜̗͢͢ṳ̝̤̟̠ͅţ̹̯ ̪͖̦̣̳̤̕s̺̪͕̪̮ͅp̴̞ͅa͔͉̹̮͙͖͘c̛̦̘͕̥͉͙̗͢e̗̲̠͚͓̬̣͢͡,͘҉̧͍̙̺͖̻ ͍̤̤̱̘̺y̖̥̕o͓̼̮̕u̵̡̮̣̞̦̯͉̩̟͝ ̷̵͎͕̹͕̼͝ͅs̵̛̘̣̙̻̦͡e͖̤̳e͉̫̹̠̱͎̝͇̼͘̕?̶̲͇̣̮̙̦̺͠ ͉̼̦̳̙̯̫Ẁ̧͔̣͇̪̝͠ͅe̶̗̺̻̖͢l̝̺̪̥̰̻͓̠ͅl̴̯͞.҉҉̧̪̩ ̡̻͉͘͜H͕͓͙̻̳̲͚̬̗́͜ơ̴̥͙͟w̧̤͝ͅ ̱͟a̠͇͕͎ͅr̩̕e̻̱͢͡ ̨̨͏ͅy̙̞̪͓͕̥͡o̶̧̩ư̡̮͙̯ ̨̪͇̣͎̜̮͟a͕g̹̭̠̟̟̰̞͘͟ͅa̻̙͖̘͇̜ͅi͔͔͕̭̥n͈̪̰̮?̨͇̮͞ ̸̠̝̗͉̯̪͞͠W͈̬̮͡h̴̶̘͉̼͇͙ǫ̴͙͖̙̫̗̮͓̖̖ ́҉̩̻̺a̵̧͓̼͔͈̰r̸̙̺̞̳̯͖̣̼͘e͈͝ ̷̧̹͇̹̠̟̹̥̳͘y͙o̳͍͙͎̥̲u̮͖̱̥͠ ̪̺a̼̝͢g̴̝̠̖̪̮̬̠̕a̷̘̘͚̪i͏̵̢̟̳n̛҉̪͙̖͈̩͈.̵̮̣̩̬̕ͅ ̼̣̪̠͎̀W̜͕h҉̺̯͞a̻̺̝̬̭͡t̴͖͇͝ ̟͕̘̩̝͜ą̙͙͔̙͚͈͉̀r̢̲̼͘͢e̦̙͢ ̨̛̫͚̟̪̲͉͝y̨̖̰̰̩͜o͢҉̻͔̤͕u̘͎̝̳͈͕̰͚.̙͈̜͠ ̵̜̭̪ͅY͡͏̺̜͈̦̖̭̳̮̞͞o̵̧̬͈͍̺̬͙̤u̻͙̦̯̹̘̕ ̨̝̣s̜h̸͏̜͙̯̭̜̩̥̜o͉͓͢͜u̸̧͚̹̗̝͟l͕͕̦d̷̘͚̠͕̖̲̤ ̺̱͎̼̤̙a̢̱̖ș̳͖́͜ḱ̦̱̯̳ ͕͚̦̱̠̻́͞ţ̙̟͡ͅh̡͓̘̬̪̳̗͡ͅͅe̠̠̮̱̹͍̕͜͞s̪͇̞e̮̦̭̣̺̤̩͠ ͏̪̮͔q͉̟̲̗̫̺͎͕u̡͎͔͟͡ȩ͕̦̝̞͢͜ͅș̨̦̲̪̯̀͢ͅt͏̺̲͡i̖̠͘o̶̝̣͠͝n̢͕̟͚̗̝̹̰͘͞ś̭̺ ͢҉͓̞͎̲̞̲͉͘a̢͍ ̢̭̬̗̮͇̤͈͎͠ͅl̢̝̺͜į̷̼̱͓̯̩͞ͅt̷̠̘̼̫̟̣̯̰̝t̴̹̫ͅl̡̜̤͟e̡̲̯̤͎̞͉ ̙̘̬ḿ̤̦̦͡ͅo̶̥̤̦͓͙͚̮͙̤͜r̮͙̬͈͖̪̰͉e͇̱͖͇̩̺͙͙͘͡.̢̱̪̝́ ̹̳͓̫̪D͎͖̻͕́i̷̛͙̩̕d̵̜͙̫̼̗̺ ͖̠͎͜ý̘̳̹̖͉͍̬̕o̡̨̖̰̗͚̜̹͠ų̴̝͜ ̡͇̞̱͙̪͢l̫͍̗͉̹̜̹͘ò҉̗͇̰͎̫̦̠̼s̤͙è͖̞̪̭̬̠͠ ̷͔̟̣̭̠̦̺w̨̫̗͙̬e͏̯̦̬̝̠̕i̢̟̙̫͝ǵ͘͏̰͓̻̯͖h̥̣̝̀t̵͍͇̮͇̬̼̞̫̀͢ͅ?̠̼̩̙̙̪́ͅ ̸̧̘̜O̜̮̺̣̘r̼̙͝ ͔̥͕̞͉͢͞ͅg̢̦̤̣͇͙a͜͏̱̘͚̬̮̣i̟̖̲̰͖̤ǹ̞̺̦̭̻̼̥̝ ̸̥̫̯̘͍ͅi̺̙̲͙̝͘͢t̵̤̫̣̺̱́͞?̷̯̲̤ ̘̜͍̠̘͙͍̥̳͢I̯͕͙͓͎’̼̞̮̬̰̼́͘͡m̵͈͇͙͇̪̜͓ ̗͕̦̖̖́͘ͅǹ͙o̴̬̺̻̘̻̞͈̪t̴̢͖̖ ̵̷̺͇̬̖̼͔̱̬j̨̹̰͖͎̖͓̮͘ṵ̣̝͓̹̩d̨͚͍͕͓͠g҉̠͔̹̥̤͙̲̫í̶̩͎͕͕̝̣̥n̙̯̭̻͚̳͘͝ͅg̣ ̺̟̟̭̠̱͕̮͡è̶̳í̺̩̱̯͉͓͕͜t̟̦ͅh̠͇͚̫e̶̡̦͓͓̜̣̪͉̣͓͘r̶̟̭̜͘ ̮̫̫͇͔͍̰̝͘w̷̮̗̖͔á̤̺͜y̵̘͓̻̱̗͉̟̝̝.̨̨͇̮̫̟͈͍͖ ̵̗̼͖͞I̜͖͝͝͝t̡̥̼̘̺̗́ ͏͇͖̤̯̩̙i̢̳͙͝s̘̝͟ ̸̣͢ń̸҉̝̩̝̠̺a̵͇͜t̡̟̝̪͓̯u͍̱̲͍̮̳̜̱̥͢͜r̗̻̦̥͘͜a̴̸̮̹̘̖̺̰͇l͠҉̶̗̗̲ ͕͇̤̖͢t̤̥̲ǫ̗͎͙̹͇̱͞ ̛̠̞̙̺̘̬c̼͉͇̪̤h̶̼͓̹̕̕a̵̛̰̻n̵͎͕̫̻̝̲̘̞͟ͅg͏҉̠̫̦̳e͞҉͈͕̺͚̟̗̼ͅ.̧͈̗ ̶̨̹̳̪̥̱̗́I̸̶͔͖̖̪̤̜ ̙̟̪̟̥͉d̠͖̣̺͢͡a̮̪̗̞̗̫̠̤ͅt̰̖̙̫̼̭͚̙͝e̢̗̞̬͙̝̠̫d̺̯̱̟͈́ ̥̲ṯ̪͍̼̞̜͇̮ḩ̶̘͕̱i҉҉̮ś̡̲̖̗́ ̨̭̺͜g̴̗̺̰̺̪̞̰̱͘͝i͈̫̳͓͘͢r̭̺̪̖̜̯͟l̢̡̗̞̥̙ͅ ͎͉͈̗̤̳̀ơ̺̺͚͉̞̠͝͞n҉̣̗̘͜͞c̷̩̪̖̙͕e̶̘͉̕.̘̯͍͕͈̪͘ ̡̮̝̣̭̻̠̠N̸̛̯̫̟̫͍ò̴̴̻̯w̟͉ ̡̺̱̹͎̫̤̦h̡̘̬̲̳̝̰͉̞e̡̺̼͔’̧̰̲͚̣̪͉͈͞s̫̠͉͓͜ ̢̀͏͚͇ạ̴̥͓̣̤ ̺̟͚̬̙͙ͅb̵̸̟̹͈̖͡o̷͓͓̟͍̬̲̯͡y̙̹.͚̙̜͕̯̬̲͇͝ ҉̸̤̫̹͓̝̞T̵͓̬̺͉̭͓̕͜h̗̯̟̜̳̦̼̀ͅa̢̹͉̜̩͘ͅt̬̻̯͕͞ ̥̤̱͎̻͈͈͟i̧͙͍̪̲s͍̺͘͜ ̷̹s͏̡̙̟̙̺̤̠̼͎i̡̼͎̙̱͖̭ͅm̸̹̹̺̘͍̻p̭̜̠̭̮̱͞͞ļ̖̫͠ͅy̪͞ ̺̫͇͉̻̼̩h͇̣͚̹̜͈͜ǫ̵̭͈̠w͏̷̜ ͏͓̮̘̳̯̼͢t̷̮̠̀̕h͚͍i̛͙̼͡n͔͉͙͉͉̕͞g͓̪͘͡s̫͎͕̠͈͓͢ ̝̟́a̶̛̞͉͕̼͚̻̩̺̟͡r̸̰͉̯̭̹̞͖͙͠e͎̙͓̗.̴̳̺̤̞̝̤͉̥ ͇͍̭̲̠̹Ù̥͞ͅp̸̺̠͟͞ ̵̟͇̥̟̹̯̘a̘͙͟n̞̘͎̕͜͠d̸̛̪̘͝ ̫̲͇̳̙̝͢d̷͙̪̲̺o̜͚̱̖w̡̢̤̟͡n̼͔͡.͏̺̤͈̖̙͍͙ ̷̢̙̗͈̯͙̫̙̖D̷͇̝̜a̠̘̻̮y̪̣̜͔̭͞ ̺͉̘̦̙̬̲̝̳a̘̟̙̖̘͉̘̩n͕̘̝̩̲̼͝d̹̳̥̀ ̶̷̜̙̟̭͓̬̺̖͈ǹ̞̣̼̻̥͈̗̣i̶̳͔͈̫͘ͅg̴̛̫͍͚̻͍̬̞h̵̨̝͔̥̙̩͓͟ț͎̪̖̭̰̩̬͞.̶͓͈͔̜̹̻͚͕̕ͅ ̵̟͓͙̩͓N̛͖̦̼̭̙̣̪͔͝o̶̵̼̘̩̦̮͉͍w̵̲̫̪̪̳ ̤̬̫̺̪̺Į̰̬̝͉’͖͍͓͉͓ͅm̳̞͘ ͖̹̪͔͖̳̫w̶̜̥͇͞r̢̛̭i̢͉͍͘t̨͇̞͖͇̹͉͇̭̣i̧̟͈̕n̜͟͜͞g̮̹͇̼̬͙̟̼̯̀́ ҉͖̳̹̘̠̪̜͇t̸͖̮̮̖̟ḫ̴̳̮͢i̶͖̱͍̹͕͡s̶̞͇͍͠ ̢͎̳͚a̷̫̱̹̭n͓̫̜͜d̞̫͕̘̞̼̩͞͡ͅ ̧̟̺͉̣̪̙n҉̡̭̤̺͈è̵̯͍͔̻̹̪̱x̛̦̘͎͔̟͚t̴̡̜͙̮̲̻͟ ҉̻̝͙Í͉͍̭ ̸̩̲̰̺̺w͙̼̫͢i̯̥̦̻̯͡ͅḷ̨̣̳͙̪ḻ̤ ͉̰̦̪͔̣͔̤̀͞n̻̤̝͔͖ơ̴̪̟̬͙̱̣t̼̞́ ̠͉̳b̠̱̠̣̳̫̦̮́e̷̺̜̩͎̣ͅ!̧̳͍̖̘̘̫́ ̝̜̙̗͔T̥̹̀̀͟h̖͇͕͔̣͢ą͉̞͙̣͎̰͔̝͚͢t̛͙͞ ̸̀͏̥̜i̵̢͍̞̩̪̬̯̜̫̥s̶̲̤̻̟̝͓ͅ ̨̟̟́a̖̘̫͈ ̷̩̱̗͓̘̯͙̩͜͝c͏̶̢͍̰̘͉̘̟h̝̱á̲̼͔̩̜͙n̶̸̶̪̝̫͍̦̳g̵҉̣̜̦͇ȩ̴̦͇̫͔̭̲͙͎̰͡,̼̦͍̫̲̬̟̩̹ ̨̫̦͚͠á̮ĺ̴̘̞̳̬̲̱̗̬͢s̡̡͏̹̮̬o̮̯̘̱̦̼.̛͖͓̭̝̟͟͟ ͔͉́́͟A̛̙̞h̭͎̼͡ ̡̼̣̠̘̤͉ẁ̵̦̻̘͓̰ͅḛ͎̟͙̤̞l̶̴̠̝̯̮̟͟l̷͍̲̻͞ͅ.̻̰͔̻̗̲̗͝ͅ ̱̫̪͔̥̠̫N̩̠̪͔͔̭͙͢͠ó͏͍̭̠̹̝̹͉͓͔w̺̳̟̭͓͜͡ͅ ̵̴̺̭̠̘͠I͏̹͇̜́ ͏͏͚̘͉̱̱h̸̸͎͇͎̙̘͉͝a͖̞̤͘͢v̲́e̵͍̼̹͎̟̭̠̥͎ ̛͓͉t̘̳͈̬͈̘͚̦̞o̳͔͡͡ ͎͍͞g̨̠͚̜̹̝͢ǫ̭͔͙̩̥͎͡.̹̱̥̗̞̕ͅ ̸̴͈͉̘̼̭̗D͍̗͈̟ǫ̪͇̰͕͍ ̖̼̰̹͖͓͓t̶̰̮̀a͝͏̠͉͇̤ķ͇͓͇̝e̖̗͍̫̬͇̱̥̕̕ ̶̡͉̳͍͖͓̭c̥̬̹̱͎̮͍̘͡͡a̴̢̨͕r̝͓̗̬è͏̭̦

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XII
The Chase
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I chased the criminal. His movements were quick, but not quick enough. As I entered my townhouse, I caught up with him, and shanked him.

Some of the urchins, later, came up to me and asked why the parlor smelt like blood. I gave no answer.

I read one of my letters. I would have, anyway, but a Special Constable opened the door. I was accused of permanent manslaughter.

This is bad.

Shadowy is increasing…
Dangerous is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Suspicion” quality is now 10- Imprisoned!
At War With a Single Person has increased to 3!
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 12!
You have moved to a new area: New Newgate Prison-Again!

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News of Art, Art of News

Rubbery Symphony Bewilders Her Majesty’s Court; Critics Stunned, Silent

The most recent work of the Court’s artist-in-residence incorporated a rather bold factor, that is, it was inspired and played by a troupe of Rubbery Men. The gentlepeople of the court were stunned, to the point of no reviews having come out to this day as the critics, presumably, lay in their beds, contemplating the art they had witnessed.

From our end, we are not afraid! It was a wonderful performance by the Rubbery troupe. While their ability wit the instruments was limited, their passion and pure joy of the act were what brought this piece to the status of truly high art. The tune itself was jaunty, but solemn, energetic, but yearnful. We cannot wait for more such pieces to appear, and wish the best to the musicians.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Should I let her know?
Uncertain

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Dear Uncertain,
Things are never as simple as they seem, I know. Do not hide from your feelings.