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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.

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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

---

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

---

Editorial

There are stances to be taken. Even with leadership structures in place, the world is a wild place – and the Neath double so – though that, of course, does not mean the higher powers go out of their way to protect. Survival of the fittest, perhaps, the most adaptable, yes, the most willing to carry out justice, certainly. We are social animals, and our society hinges on the few capable. Do not sleep on the injustices of the world! Take up your arms, London. There are villains to dethrone. They will not go easily, but they will go. When the arms of Law are too short, we need to take it into our own hands.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part XI
An Escape Attempt
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Now, what happened? Who locked me in my room? More importantly, who knew my address?
I had a key in my dancing slippers. I took them off, and found no key.
Now I was ticked. I couldn’t just stay here, below the Fourth City. If I could… Nope.

I lit a cigar. The room gained it’s scent. If I couldn’t leave, I could smoke the intruder out!

I failed to get out. A letter slid under the door. I opened it.

“You had your chance. Never again.”

My mind raced. Why was this happening?

…That bleeding bastard.

I took my bejeweled cane, a gift from a lapidary, and swung at the door-knob.

Success! Now to catch the ______!

Watchful has increased to 160-A Focused Brilliance!
Shadowy is decreasing…
Dangerous has increased to 155- A Terrible Power!
An occurrence! Your “At War With a Single Person” quality is now 2!
Wounds is increasing…
Subtle is increasing…
Heartless is increasing…
Melancholy is increasing…
Daring is increasing…
You now have 1*Cane-Shank

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News of Art, Art of News

Rise of Photography – Painters Demise or a Rising Artform?

Photography, the for-years up-and-rising technology, has been a subject of controversy in the artistic circles since its conception. Though it lacks the vibrant colours and subjectivity of the painted work, it gives a new (if grainy) perspective on the world. Gone are the days of the painted portrait, people instead opting for the quick fix of a photograph. Gone are the still lifes, the planars, the starry skies.
Do not fear, however! This simply means new opportunities arise for art, for expression. New mediums, new media. A new set of skills, to be sure, is always useful. One needs simply to adapt to circumstances, and new paths shall open up before them. Why not try to combine the art of photography with the art of painting?

So take up your lenses, London!

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I lost my mind?
Drunk

---

Dear, Drunk
There are many more ways to do such a thing.

---

Editorial

I had a dream.
I was bound by many chains, in a dark room of an unbefitting size. My clothes were in tatters. Many mice, hundreds, nay, thousands of them, perused around me, gaping, chittering, looking at my bound form. I could barely move. The mice brought me food and drink, thrice a day, and ate with disgusted fervor. I spent my days swaying from side to side. Leg to leg. Right to left. Endless loop of mindless entertainment.

One mouse stood out. Watching. It started to sway. Side to side. Right to left. In rythm. I stopped. It stopped. We began again. Slow, swaying, from leg to leg, together we shared this moment of strange connection. I felt it understood.

I woke up.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part X
A Particularly Ruthless Spy
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Another letter, among the junk. This one was addressed to “the Professor of Spycraft”. I was shocked. I am not a high-ranking piece in any of the Game’s machinations, nor do I consider myself a careful observer. Take my work on the Correspondence.

The letter exploded like a Molotov Cocktail. It read,

“I have heard of your work. I am a fairly new piece to the Game, so I figured I might ask you: what is the purpose of it? Also, might you train me in the art of espionage?”

I shuddered. I barely knew that myself. As for my skill… One might scoff at me for attempting to teach that.

I receded into my study. I continued to read. I began to pen a reply, but that haunting image did what it does. Seven is the number in many things. Even scars, memories, and stains.

After a night of increasingly haunted sleep, I awoke, somehow refreshed. But I was locked in from the outside.

Watchful is increasing…
Shadowy is increasing…
Dangerous is increasing…
Persuasive is increasing…
Nightmares is increasing…
Suspicion is increasing…
Melancholy is increasing…
Subtle is increasing…
A twist in your tale! You are now At war with a single person!
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 10-Known to the Shadows!
You now have 1*Surface Letter
You’ve gained 1*Whispered Hint
You have moved to a new area: your study

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News of Art, Art of News

The (Un)Forgotten Artist’s Final(?) Work Comes To Light

The publishing of this work is controversial. Its content even moreso. Was it a truly bold move, a stroke of genius so viscerally real that we are afraid to even consider the possibility of a genuine motive? Or was it a mad rambling of a mad man, bent on destroying even the last semblance of peace with this epos?

Either way, it thoroughly shook the readers to their core. There was blood. There were riots. There was denial, and there were tears. It is a handful to swallow, dear readers. Like red meat sitting in your stomach for days on end, so painful to digest. Like the sweetest candy, rotting your teeth simply by its presence, too late does the pain come, too late do you realize the destruction you have brought upon yourself by opening this can.

We can only wonder at the meaning of this. We can only speculate on whether this was the last stroke, or only the first of many more to come. There is no telling whether the chaos will rail on, order will be established, or the fire die down, uneventfully.

What is left is only to wait and see.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it all for naught? Is this the end?
Stuck

---

Dear Stuck,
It is our hope that it is not.

---

Editorial

The scarlet stockings. We all know the ones. Red like blood, sewn to invoke the deepest desire. Soaked in violant, they say. One can only agree, so hard it is to forget them.
Imagine your fingers running down their length. The silk so soft, the skin beneath so warm, the flesh so soft and tender. Heavy smell of perfume, intoxicating, playing with your senses, making your head spin. Your lips touching, red on red, your face flush with desire.
They are not to be removed; do you yearn to take them off? What are they worth without the wearer? Just one look is enough to send your imagination wild.
Poets have cried for them, zailors have drowned for them, the Masters may deny any attraction but still they must know.
Wrapped around the torso, a warm breath on your cheek. Sweet dreams, London.

---

Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part IX
A Weeping Scar
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One night, I was up late, writing a short story. I was about to enter a plagued sleep, when…

SLASH

I ran in the general direction of the noise. Mr Netae’s home. They were dead. Dead of slicing. Four scars, in the shape of Correspondence.

I poured salt on the corpse. Perhaps that would burn it.

But it did not burn. Not a candle.

I wondered what was next.

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News of Art, Art of News

Lavish lascivious lifestyle liberates London’s leading

It is no surprise that London’s elite love to indulge, in matters artistic, culinary, sexual, even vicious. In a recent turn of events, a certain society has been gaining following from the high echelons of the purebred Society. The Cult of Dionysus, as they are known, has been a society of artists and those of lesser social standing. Not few of us here at the Gazette have been to these gatherings, and we can attest to the parties being rather, well, unfit for the Ministry.
In the past week, new members have been showing up to the gatherings. What do Mr. ______ and Mrs. _____ have in common? Where do the newlyweds ________ venture every evening? How many Londoners involve themselves with polyamory?
Dear London, how we wish we could talk more of this… Better yet, we shall invite you all! Be not afraid to show up, the directions are encoded in this very edition of the Gazette. You know what to look for, London, and we look forward to you.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to find you?
LuFul

---

Dear LuFul,
The zee eternal.

---

Editorial

There is a certain hunger in all of us. It is human nature to be so curious, to the point of destruction of the self. Why is it that a person would torture oneself so? For what? To know? To relive? To keep alive a legacy, or continue one? To atone for a sin? Or, simply, for hunger. Oh, how many lives has it cost. So much pain, so much suffering, all self-inflicted and still the result of an outside force.
Who is to blame? The fool that trusted or the traitor who gave the order? Both of them, monsters in their own right. One more tragic than the other, certainly, but with no less blame. It may be folly to follow your heart. Follow the voice.

What do they find in the cold? Oh, how one would love to know. This hunger, this thirst for mystery uncovered.

It is human nature to be so curious, but it is not for humans to know all.

All shall be Well.

---

Art of London

A Hell to Pay
By Wolf Grim Rine

Wolf was a 26 year old man wearing a monocle on his left eye, a black top hat, white suit with a blue tie and carried a cane. Despite it being perpetually night it was a nice day in The Neath. Wolf had a modest house next to the observatory as well as a pet raven on his shoulders. “Hello good sir.” Said a Devil who walked up to Wolf. His eyes were a brilliant crimson and glowed in the dark cavern. “We at The Brass Embassy have need of your services Mr. Rine. With your tact at conversations we feel you may be able to handle a problem for us.” He took out a card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “We expect it to be handled with due diligence.” The devil tipped his hat and vanished in a burst of flames with a haunting cackling echoing. The area he stood also had visible scorch marks. Wolf took little notice of the dramatic exit as he was quite familiar with The Brass Embassy. He then looked at the card it had an address “666 Asmodeus Boulevard” He nodded and tossed the card away as it quickly burst into flames. Secret messages from devils tend to destroy themselves stead of requiring the reader to it made things so much easier.

Wolf tapped his cane against the door and waited no one answered. He sighed and tapped again harder to make more noise. Still no answer. He checked to see if the door was locked it wasn’t he then entered the room. The address was that of a one floor townhouse. It had a bedroom a small kitchen, powder room and one very dead woman. Wolf rolled his eyes as he walked up to her. She’s been dead a day or so, she had no eyes he couldn’t decide if they were gouged out or if she in general really had no eyeballs. Given the city either option was totally plausible. He decided to poke her with his cane as he looked down in mild contempt as if her being dead was more an inconvenience to him then her being dead was to her. Artemius flew over to a wardrobe and started speaking in a high squeaky voice. “Clue!” Wolf walked over to it petted his pet bird and pulled open the drawer.

“Ah interesting.” There was a soul in the drawer and Wolf figured it was the woman’s soul. Only a moron would keep their soul on them so maybe it was somebody else’s. The soul was not fresh not one itty-bit and made him cough at the smell, he threw it across the room and the jar shattered as the soul wailed and dissolved into oblivion. Wolf then brushed himself off and let Artemius get back on his shoulder. “Well this was a waste of bloody effort.” He started to walk away when he heard a noise. “A zombie would be deeply inconvenienced.” He said turning around to see indeed the woman was standing upright. Wolf rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose this was so not what he needed right now. He splayed out a hand and streams of green energy burst from his palm as it hit the woman. “Speak you stupid creature.”

“Urgh… I…. Saw… A… D-D” And then she collapsed dead.. Again Wolf just shook his head and left.

Wolf tapped on the door to The Brass Embassy and out came a devil male who smiled. “Ah did we settle our affair we sent you after?”

Wolf glared at him he was used to Devils. “No and you shouldn’t take me for an idiot.”

The devil looked mockingly offended. “Me? Insult one our best associates?”

Wolf gestured behind the devil and a second more important looking male devil walked up to them. He wore a monocle that made his left eye shine brighter than normal, and held a glass with a wailing soul in it it also had a martini olive in it. “Yes gentlemen?” The second devil asked.

Wolf wasted no time. “Your friend here tried to get me to offend the noble Brass Embassy with returning a spoiled soul to him. Hell knows what he was intending to do with it.” Without missing a beat the more refined devil put his glass down on a table then pinned the other by the neck against the wall.

“Spoiled Soul?” He said with intense malice in his voice. The other choked as he struggled to get loose one think he could teleport but maybe devils can interrupt another’s teleporting.

Wolf took no emotion to this affair and took a rat to feed Artemius and then looked up with the refined devil alone. “We are terribly sorry to have a devil attempt such a poor excuse for a scandal. We shall mail you compensation.” He bowed took his glass back and closed the door. Wolf picked up a small piece of ember off the floor where the dead devil was and smiled.

“Well too bad they trust me here.” And walked away.

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News of Art, Art of News

The Seventh Letter

It is a rare opportunity that we get to see such a play. At least once a year, on the request of Lilac. In the hidden-away theaters, the lost parlours, the backroom stages. The play is infamously known, not only for what and how it depicts, but also for what it achieves. Even those with little attunement to the going-ons of Fallen London, an observant viewer can figure dark secrets from this simple play. The origins of it are hard to be found. Just who would so willingly give up such secrets? We suppose there is vengeance to be found.

There is little to be said of this play that had not been said before. We may revisit it one day again. For now, dear readers, beware the Seventh Letter.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I doomed myself?
Seeking

---

Dear Seeking,
Oh, so easily and so willingly, and so long ago.

---

Editorial

Freedom. It is what we all desire. Freedom from chains, freedom from responsibility, freedom from life. It is not easily attainable, as all will attest when asked. Those denying the pain of existence are simply lucky in their current situation. Not even the aristocracy is free from absurdity. Down here, in the Neath, now even the very final release escapes us. Light has made us apart with Death. Is it much to ask for? Would you rather live forever or ever after?

Enjoy life, dear readers. It is what we have, so full of wonders that never deplete. Even in a lifetime, even in ten, there are wonders to be re-discovered, re-experienced. Enjoy the wines, London. Do not let this freedom be taken away. Let not those who rule use you in a way they have for so long. Let not those who claim to want to free you condemn you to darkness. Revolt in your own way, London. Be free again.

The bed upon which I slept in Polythreme was a slave.

---

Art of London

Letters from the Surface: Part VIII
At Summerset
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I’d written my works. As I roamed London, I decided to visit Summerset College. Perhaps, eventually, I could be a Professor. Many thought I could become a Poet-Laureate. If so, London would be much better.

My opponent had provided materials to the University, including no less than 35 branded hearts.

I found a rose-petal among the supplies. Interesting.

Watchful has increased to 150- A Focused Brilliance!
Letters from the Surface has increased to 8!
Suspicion is increasing…
You’ve gained 1*Surface-Rose Petal (new total 2)

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News of Art, Art of News

Art of Polythreme; Scream it Out Loud

The talking lands of Polythreme are a sight to behold. Shores of a thousand stones, stones of a thousand voices, people of a thousand hearts now only one. It is a harsh landscape, yet one full of soul, of yearning for softness, whose people are born into life sentient and with an inherent insanity of existence. The Clay Men of Polythreme are mournful by nature, and despite many religious types doubting their ownership of a single soul, we at the Gazette are sure they have. This suspicion is based solely and faithfully on the art of Polythreme. Yes, dear readers, we, as many others, have had the opportunity to see the art – hear the poems of the Pirate Poet, observe the statues and statuettes of the Clay sculptors, so dynamic you would swear they are alive, behold the screaming stanzas of zee-faring epics written upon equally screaming parchment.

The art of Polythreme is every bit searching for meaning. It is the pinnacle of existentialism. The search for meaning is never ending, in any living being. We wholeheartedly love and recommend this art. Make sure you prepare enough napkins for the tears.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to help those in need without feeling a sinner while not helping the random stranger?
Concerned

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Dear Concerned,
To help is ennobling. Charity work is the way for the gentler folk in privilege. Do not look for how – simply look at the act itself. Help whenever possible.

---

Editorial

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

The next morning, the boy opened his eyes to the branches and the skies and the chirping of birds. His bag was under his head like a pillow and his cloak placed gently on his body. He looked around; he could not find the crow.
“Dear crow?” he cried out, “Have you shrunk so much I cannot see you any more?” His voice grew quiet, “Or have you finally flown away from me…”
Slowly he gathered his belongings. As he fastened his cloak, he heard singing, a gentle tune and a soft voice.
The boy followed the song. It lead him to a stream near the clearing. At the stream there was a girl, around the boy’s age, singing a song, bathing. Her hair, black as the night, reached down under her waist. Her head was topped with a crown of flowers. The boy was barely able to breath. He smiled, so filled with happiness, and sat onto the grass. “So, I have healed you after all,” he whispered and hummed along.
After a few glorious minutes the girl spotted him. She smiled warmly, grabbed a blanket of leaves and wrapped it around herself like a dress. With bare feet she walked on the grass towards the boy. Her right arm was held within a perfectly fitted support. Bright eyes looked at the boy.
The girl stopped two steps short of him. The boy stood up.
“I must thank you so,” she spoke. Her voice was like the ringing of a bell, like the gentle caress of a summer wind. “For your kindness, for your care. For your understanding.” She stepped forward and placed a kiss upon the boy’s cheek. Again, she smiled.
The boy’s face flushed.
“I only did what was right,” he murmured, “Nothing more.”
“You did much more,” the girl said, “If not now, then before. You are as much a part of this forest as any blade of grass. You never take what you do not need, and give back to the land whenever possible.
“My name is Val,” she continued, “And I would be delighted if you were the protector of this forest.”
Tears appeared in the boy’s eyes. He wiped them away. “I- I am not sure if I could-” the boy stammered.
“I believe you could. It is what you have done for so long. You love the forest… “ the girl’s face became flush as well, “You-”
“I love you,” the boy said. And it was true.

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Art of London

Letters From The Surface, Part VII
Welcome Back
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I had just arrived back in London. On the islands, I had received letters of praise and belittling. One such letter was from a fellow at court:

“I have heard of your work overzee. I am sure that when you return, you will receive a warm welcome from the noticeably powerful.”

When I returned, I began hallucinating. A jungle. But I could return to London, no nightmares remaining.

When I entered the Shuttered Palace, I knocked three times. I came to write another opera. After that, all shall be well between us. I was greeted fondly, but cautiously. I then found my rival, writing a film of slanderous material.

Well. This would be interesting.

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News of Art, Art of News

Public decency rampant in decadence; Art strikes back in irony

In the latest display of the Ministry – yet another public burning of books – the men of the aforementioned organization have gotten their comeuppance. Just earlier this week, as the men were burning volumes of (what they deemed to be) scandalous poetry, a certain zee-fairing epic written on the back of bandages was included. This epic, rather long and written on bandages of a length to match the work, welcomed the flames with a gusto, as if aware of what was to transpire. Slowly, the flames crept up, inching ever so farther away from the flames – and directly to the cart of the Ministry. Oh what a display! Not even fireworks bring us such pleasure! While lacking in coloured flare, it was brilliant. The men nigh trampled over each other in an attempt to douse out the flames, one’s jacket even catching from the effort. In the meantime, busy hands of bohemians, artists, and even one brave Rubbery worked together in an effort to save what could be saved. In total, nearly a fourth of the works to be burned had been recollected! (Even including one of our own Gazette’s editions)

All of London shall rejoice today, dear readers. The works have been, naturally, brought to a safe place for archiving and occasional midnight readings.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Where to go in life when things seem so stagnant?Reph

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Dear Reph,
The zee is the best place to think about the future. There is freshness all around. Try the honey, dear.

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Editorial

Remember the past. Learn from it and grow from your mistakes as well as successes.
It is often difficult to face your past. Like meeting a long estranged lover, now merely a probable acquaintance. You recall the times together and try not to talk about the end. You may end up as friends once again. The past is just that. Now is now, times constantly a-changing. Do not be afraid of the past. We all have to deal with our demons, one way or another. Embrace the past. Grow from it. You are better now than you were.

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Art of London

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

The next day the boy awoke, packed his book of stories, and ventured back to the clearing. In front of the crow he placed his latest catch, a salmon from the forest river. The crow seemed so small now, its beak was in the height of the boy’s nose.
“I hope you’re not getting weaker because of me,” the boy murmured. He checked the support on the crow’s wing. “It’s healing well,” he said.
The crow ate. The boy sat besides her. He opened his book. The crow’s eyes sparkled at the sight of colourful pictures and beautiful cursive. The boy started to read. He read the crow fables, faerietales, legends and myths of their world. He read of mighty kings and cunning jesters, of humble farmers and brilliant inventors. He read of magic and of the mundane. He read into the evening. As the sun set, he and the crow were huddled together. He read into the night.
As it was time to sleep, the boy turned to the crow.
“I shall stay here. I promise,” the boy said. And it was true.

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News of Art, Art of News

A rather special interview – Canon

Dear readers, we are proud to present to you a rather special news piece. A certain midnighter, who shall remain anonymous, has offered to answer some questions for us. It is a thrilling time for the Gazette. Without further ado, you are welcome to read – you can find the full interview below.

See the interview on the centre-page spread.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
I have made unwise decisions. How does one survive from nothing? I fear I owe far too much.
Indebted

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Dear Indebted,
Such is the nature of business. When you owe to dangerous people, the solution is to be more dangerous than them. It is but a minor setback. Do not be afraid to speak their names. Arrangements can be made.