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21st of February 1899

Editorial

Wandering hands of rough earth,
Desire untold through them crossed.
Desire they will heed at any cost,
In Desire they will prove their worth.

To new life! To immaculate birth
Of a companion embossed
With loss and lost, too quickly lost,
Before any mirth.

Only stirred waves remain;
Forth they beckon the heart
To seek the closure it craves.

Was there anything to gain?
Was it an end, or just a start?
As you fight beneath the waves.

Art of London

Land of the Pinecones
by Sevenix

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E_____’s Exquisite Tea – A Condensed Evening Of Pleasure

E_____’s Exquisite Confections, the mysterious-yet-irresistible seller of sweets, have struck the market with yet another delight.

E_____’s Exquisite Tea, a packet promising satisfaction, relaxation, enlightenment, and above all – whatever the customer desires. A curious rectangle of compressed tea leaves, a blend either premade or made to order, held together by dried condensed milk. Add water up to the desired concentration.

As the regular shopkeeper chatters with guests, sells confections, and takes orders, a man next to a strange machine hums a nostalgic melody to himself as he packs blends of leaves. He glances at the girl watching him, asks an unheard question. She blinks, thinks, leans closer, and whispers to the man. He listens intently, nodding here and there. When the girl is done, he breathes deeply and turns to his various jars of teas. In a patient half hour, he is done. The packet is tied with a bow, handed to the girl. Fervent thanks are given and politely refuted. No apparent charge takes place as she leaves.

Imagine the most perfect tea you have ever tasted. Not your favourite kind, not a tea so well made it brings you to tears – although neither of those excludes others. Imagine the tea your heart requires in this moment of its existence. A tea that warms the very soul. Is it fruity? Green? Darker than Prussian coffee? Despite the ingredients it can be extremely bitter, or teeth-rottingly sweet. It will never be extreme, it will only ever be perfect.

An artist’s craft is to extract emotions. To unpeel the truth, to get to the core of being.

E_____’s Exquisite Tea, now ten pence a packet.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
It warms one’s soul whenever one might find out that they can still feel. That there are things to learn and experience.
P. S.

Dear P. S.,
Ever and ever, forever and ever, far beyond imagination.

14th of February 1899

Editorial

It saddens me that there should be a world where love is frowned upon, forbidden. It bewilders me that love could be considered wrong; that one could be shunned for what some consider wrong love, or for lack of ‘correct’ love. It angers me that there are those who attempt to subdue a stranger’s essence.

Most of all, it makes me pity those who have been blinded by the wrong kind of passion. Hate aimed at the vulnerable is hate misguided. It is blind, hurtful, vying for destruction, not embetterment. Such hate thinks itself the hero, and yet it requests that love faces off against it. No, this hate begets more of itself, and rightfully so. Hate is the answer to hate – the hatred of hatred itself. Intolerance of intolerance. A fire that burns brighter than the fire that wants to subdue it.

It makes me no happier, the need for hatred. Those only yearning to live their lives with the love that is in their heart, they are no soldiers. They are poets, artists, accountants, chefs, smiths, and yet they have to fight a war that was thrust upon them by outside forces. A war simply for life itself. No soldiers find themselves on this battlefield, only those unfortunate enough to have been on the wrong side of the conflict.

I hope in my waking sleep that such a world may never befall us, that such blind hatred may never emerge.

In the matters of the Bazaar, look to love, always.

Art of London

Mr. Roses
by Edward Five

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The Wastes Of Moulin – Open For Business And Those Who Dare

The most recent leg of the Great Hellbound Railway’s journey has taken us to the Moulin Waste. Here lies the remnants of a battlefield from a long ago war between the forces of Hell and London. It is as far as London’s jurisdiction dares to reach, a metaphorical precipice of a territory even more uncharted.

A small hamlet of a mere handful of buildings stands near the GHR station. It is the home to an Archaeological Institute, sponsored by the GHR, as well as the Antiquarian’s shop and, perhaps unsurprisingly, a small bookshop under the purview of Mr. Pages.

Beyond this hamlet is the Waste itself. A desolate place; on first glance a flatland of eternal darkness, though those who venture further will find themselves lost amongst rivers, quicksands, dreams, and contemplations. The Ministry of Public Decency as well as the GHR warn that the Moulin Waste, while technically available to the public, is dangerous and should be either avoided or approached with extreme caution. Neither the Ministry nor the GHR are liable for what happens beyond the erected fence signaling the limit of London’s reach.

Nonetheless, several guides familiar with the Wastes have made themselves available for hire for any adventure-thirsty individuals. A permit or a doctor’s note may be required.

Ever so slightly we approach the final frontier. Hell, the distant land, now seems closer than ever before. Our heads swirl with excitement and ideas of what may come – though we dare not theorize, not yet.

We shall see you on the trains, dear London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, I should, perhaps, take on sooner my duties.
Sighing

Dear Sighing,
There is time for work, and time for rest. Not always may they overlap.

7th of February 1899

Editorial

Love and hate drive the world. They spin its axes, fuel its light, rally its people. Such horrors we commit in the name of love, such good we try to bring to the world though our hearts are filled with hate. Oh how different the world would be without passion – for better or for worse, I dare not judge, yet different nonetheless.

Passion, paradoxically, needs calm nerves to carry out its ends. Little will be achieved through passion lacking thought, or – at least – the required skill. Only a fool cuts with a dull dagger, or worse, dull words. Passion, no, it is not an eruption. It boils one from deep within, it grabs the hold of one’s flesh and bones and very soul. It seeps into one’s thoughts and plans and pains. Once passion becomes existence, it burns bright as any star.

What, then, would be the antonym to passion? Apathy, in its depressed blandness, stands in the way of none. To combat passion, to truly defy it, one needs patience as solid as their opponents; skill as sharpened; [REDACTED] as deep. There is truth in-

[Oh, dear. It appears the next several paragraphs have frozen over. You cannot make out a single letter, save for a few words at the end.]

-and then, to sow Discord.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Clay Highwayman Still At Large

With all the wonder and ingenious progress that the Great Hellbound Railway brings to London and her people, the westward Hinterlands are undoubtedly a dangerous place. For one, there is no shortage of bandits keen on robbing those that venture this way. The most notorious of these is the fabled Clay Highwayman. Said to be a Clay Man of great stature, riding on a Clay Beast, he is the leader of a fierce band of robbers.

Importantly, with the Hinterlands being a vast and dangerous place, the Clay Highwayman only ever been spotted, never coming close to being caught. Nonetheless, rumour has it that his band has recently taken to larceny without their leader. With the Highwayman’s name on their lips and his colours on their coats, their leader is nowhere to be seen. According to some sources, even the Clay Beast had been spotted, in its usual rider’s place a common thug.

There are many theories as to the Clay Highwayman’s disappearance. Some say he has ventured to Hell itself, to mark his body with fiery words and twisted laws. Some claim he has fallen ill, his body turned to nothing more than plaster. There are those who swear to have seen an imposing figure aboard a steamer, headed for Polythreme – perhaps to rally an army of Clay. Others, still, insist he had passed, or at least disappeared, without as much as a farewell to the world.

Whatever the case may be, it seems that even without his presence, his spirit lives on amongst his troupe.

The GHR would like to assure passengers that travel by trains remains safe, and for the duration of the next month will be offering discounts on insurance against railway robbery.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Does it not feel good, to finally return?
Yearning

Dear Yearning,
I have not been this giddy for centuries! Truly shows what time does to one’s passion.

17th of January 1899

Editorial

It has been my utmost pleasure to run this Gazette for as long as I have. The art of journalism is one close to my heart, from the early days of my residence in the Neath, and even before. In their essence, a journalist is a servant to the people. They are duty bound to uncover the good and the bad, and to enlighten the populace through their efforts. Like messengers and heralds before them, they are not the cornerstones of society, yet still important cogs in its ever evolving machinery.

Journalists, still, hold power nowadays. The art of lying is, perhaps, more ubiquitous and of more import to some. It saddens me to see the power we hold abused in such a way. Now more than ever, I am keen to uphold the standards of my servitude to you, London.

There is another year ahead of us. There is still art to discover, create, share. Hold your head high and your heart higher. Those who believe in what is right will fight for the truth. Artists – we fight every waking moment. Keep your eyes open and your words sharp. There is much to fight for.

It is my immense honour to fight with you for another year.

Sincerely,
R.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Doubt Street Bustles As Journalism Booms

We are no strangers to the passion of the written word. An obvious statement, indeed, yet one with certain implications. For one, as it is our trade, we are acutely aware of others who share this passion. Due to our chosen business and the position of our offices, we are also acutely aware of the developments in the world of print.

It has thusly been a delight to see Doubt Street, the residence of London’s printing presses and journalistic offices, positively boom with activity. It is not the most uncommon sight to see new papers and journals pop in and out of existence; this, however, was something entirely else. Day by day more and more journalists, newspaper barons, small business owners, and freelance authors flooded into Doubt Street, keen to leave their mark on the minds and hearts of London.

To our further delight, many of them have stuck around! There is, of course, a reason for everything.

Through the combined efforts of many brilliant minds, printing has been progressing at a stellar pace. We are certain that you, our dear readers, have noticed the improvement in quality of the print over the past several months (that is, in those editions we were able to get into standard print). This progress has also made printing easier and more accessible to many of those who want their voice to be heard. The sheer volume, however, has somewhat saturated the market, bringing the revenue down – of course, we have never been in it for the money, and so are blissfully continuing our efforts amidst a sort of revolution.

We continue to be delighted by the new possibilities and developments, and we welcome all our new lateral colleagues with open arms. If you, too, are delighted by these developments in print, and are wondering how to venture into or progress in the cutthroat world of the printed word, we are now offering business consulting for individuals and companies alike. In case of interest, refer to the information on the back page.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
To grander futures and humbler beginnings.
N.

Dear N.,
To nourishment and growth.

10th of January 1899

Editorial

My dearest, Rebeka,

It feels like an eternity since you have gone. Not a day passes without a thought of you. Perhaps there is much to remind me of you. Perhaps goodbyes are harder than I had anticipated. Perhaps, perhaps…
I have acquired a new ship, after the last one had crashed. You would have liked it. The Unterzee is even more tranquil underneath the waves. I am ashamed to admit I have rarely sought the tranquility in the past year. Not for the lack of want. Perhaps for the abundance of it.

I have thought often about ending it all. I am, fortunately, not cowardly enough to break a promise. After all, our love was built on promises. On trust. That was all we had back then; bound by curses and contracts, we had nothing but each other’s trust. I still wonder whose trust I had broken by letting go of you. By not working hard enough, fast enough, to be free of those chains that once bound me to a futile goal.

Your father came down below. We had a few words. There is little even I can do to persuade someone so bent on destruction. I cannot say I do not see the value of his values.

I wish it did more to dwell on reality. Dreams cannot replace that which has been lost. I only wish you have found the peace you so relentlessly sought.

Yours forever,
R.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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The Tomb Colonist’s Revenge
by Tris Ghost

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Games Of War And Romance Conquer Humble Salons

A new niche of game has erupted amongst the humble artists, as well as other citizens, of our fair city. It concerns old and known war games, matches of strategy, wit, and determination, yet with a unique twist. Bored with only racking their brains, perhaps needing an outlet for non-professional creativity and whimsy, artists have begun joining stories to their exploits on the board. Be it stories for their pawns, grand tales leading up to the fights, or perhaps dramatic envisionings of the occuring battles – we are quite taken by this new trend.

It is, we must admit, a niche; one we do not see going too far into the world. Nevertheless, it is delightful to experience. A burst of creativity, from creation of characters and plots from nothing to the deep and varied emotions one gets to feel during such an impromptu performance. At the inclusion of non-performers, some groups have even begun including mediators who are to monitor the ongoings, making sure things do not get much too out of hand.

A few individuals yet have made the game at hand simply a backdrop to their fervent entertainment. A group that this reporter has a pleasure to be a part of has held many an impromptu stage performance, some even with continuing stories from previous weeks. The game, then, much like a mediator, is there to help the performers in decisions, keeping the story locked (though not too tightly) in its tracks.

And so, dear readers, if such a concept tickles your fancy, we cannot recommend enough that you reach out to your social circle for, perhaps, a quick try of this marvellous concept.

Merry playing, London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Bah, all this for nothing. Or something? Perhaps it will all be worth it one day. Some day.
I.T.F.

Dear I.T.F.,
Worth, I fear, is all sorts of relative. Is living not reward itself? Not enough, perhaps? Ends match the pursuits, after all. Aim higher, or aim not at all.

3rd of January 1899

Editorial

Gods, I am afraid, have disappointed me before.

Painfully truthful divinations, painlessly sweet lies that rot the soul. Curses that permeate existence.

One must imagine that divinity is a harsh ordeal. Power corrupts, as is known – what, then, when power is one’s birthright? Are gods capable of corruption? Or perhaps born corrupt?

Pontifications are much too human. Human in perspective, morals, expression – one could go on. Gods, you see, care not for humanity, just as humans care not for ants. Would you, even if you created them? Even after your children stab you in the heart and pluck out your soul?

No, gods care not for humanity, for it is the very thing they lack. For millennia we perverted their ways – from truth to lies, from brutality to kindness, from the divine to the humane. We have been left to our own devices, and in turn, have become too human. Too independent.

No, gods no longer understand us. They fear us. There is no respect for a creator who regrets their work.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Wind Carries Words Of A New Beginning

An awful thing has come to an end. That is a merciful lie, of course – nothing comes to an end forever, until everything does. Though we may continue to suffer, the world still moves and we still live. There is nothing humanity cannot overcome, as long as there is at least one human left to fight.

So we say goodbye to the old, and welcome the new. We have suffered, we have survived, and we have learned much from our survival. We emerge better, stronger, more prepared to face what is yet to come.

At times, existence itself is noteworthy enough. It doesn’t pay to overgorge the soul with disaster; perhaps the same goes for glee. At times, you just need to take a deep breath, and think on existence itself.

In this week’s news, then, dearest reader – the new year is here, and you are still alive. We are immensely proud of you.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, ah, have I gone mad? Mad with sloth? Cursed? Deranged? Ah, my poor reputation.
Late

Dear Late,
Do not fret, for there is still time. And after, more time. And after, still more- ah, I am not making things any better, am I?

27th of December 1898

Editorial

I must admit, there is something serenely infectious than holiday cheer. A small weakness of mine, perhaps. The carols, the decor, even the great red beast that visits and takes. They simply carry a spell with them, one I cannot – and do not try to – resist.

I could serenade the season, I could sing praises to the feelings, I could regale you with Dickensian prose the likes of which would have you wish Christmas was here all year. However, what more is there to be said? What is to be preached to the choir singing the very same praises? What should be?

It is a calmer matter for me. A time of well-deserved rest. A time to sit and drink of mulled mushroom wine and find myself lost in books and thoughts. The world is overjoyed as it is. The cheer is infecting me, not the other way around. It is enough, then, to sit, and to feel the joy around.

For there, perhaps, is still much to be joyful about.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Snow Covers Spite And Veilgarden – Yes, Snow!

In these the winter months, it is a most common sight to wake up to a sheet of white covering one’s front door, perhaps even blocking it to one’s utmost dismay. On the morning of 24th, however, a most novel experience awaited those who had found themselves in the streets of Spite or Veilgarden.

Instead of the usual white lacre, a substance not unlike snow were it not for the acidity, the air was much more chill. Much lighter. Yes, the lacre on the pavement, on the rooftops, on the lampposts, it was not lacre at all – but rather snow! Real, genuine snow!

It only took a few minutes for all gathered citizens to realize this fact, and afterwards, bliss was all around. Children and adults alike waded through ankle-deep snow; they cheered and sang and laughed as they built snowmen and started snowball fights. It was, it was clear to all, a Christmas miracle.

The source of this miracle did not take long to reveal itself. So far unnoticed by the delighted citizenry, carts stood on two squares, one in Spite, one in Veilgarden. Kind, grandmotherly women were selling hot chocolate and sweetened mushroom biscuits. The pink and violant sign above the cart-stalls read E_____’s Exquisite Snowbound Confections.

The shopkeeps kindly (of course) related to our reporters that Mr. E_____, the owner of E_____ Confectionary, has indeed imported snow and chocolate in great amounts to bring cheer and happiness to the citizens of London. The details of this act have, most unfortunately, eluded us, much like Mr. E_____ himself. That, however, does little to stop us from enjoying the generous gift.

The snow is still there, as are the stalls, as are the kind shopkeeps. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, dear London, so don’t be a stranger this holiday season.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, ah, what do they take me for? I would much prefer power, yes. Or perhaps nonexistence. Not mine, you see. It would make the world much better.
S. B.

Dear S. B.,
Practice makes perfect. Where there is will, there is a way. Ah, to regale you with sayings does little, and nonetheless I nod along to your tune. You are right, after all, and it is of no use to ponder the darker varieties. May your armour shine in the face of darkness.

20th of December 1898

Editorial

There is power in numbers. Not always literal, no. So often perceived, given meaning by the minds that favour such fancies.

There is, of course, power to numbers if used well. Mathematics is a field unlike any other; through careful study it reveals the base truths of our universe, digit by digit, theorem by theorem. A scholar, a chemist, an engineer, they can all draw on the power of numbers to achieve great things. Indeed, without mathematics, humans would be merely talkative primates with a penchant for war.

Most unfortunately, numbers in and of themselves hold no special powers (not all of them, certainly). Such does not stop humans to dream power into them. There is a magic to numbers, after all, and such magic needs to be exemplified. In superstition, faerie tales, simple celebration.

It is not my aim to dissuade anyone from seeing this magic in numbers. I simply wish to ponder the past and the present, to view it through the lense of superstition, stories, and numbers. Numbers in ledgers, atop pages, counted on fingers. Numbers ticking up, weekly.

The power of numbers may be only perceived, yet they can bring a smile to my lips nonetheless.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Next London Chess Championship Nears – Will The Boatman Attend?

As time ticks closer and closer to the next great London Open, chess masters waste no time practicing and studying the game. The list of confirmed competitors is already well-known, with no shortage of greatness.

One contentious entry is that of the Boatman. The Boatman (whose real name was merely inaudibly whispered and signature illegible) has signed onto the tournament after several masters had talked about it. The official entry was given to one of the organizers formally invited to the shallows.

The Boatman is a well-known player to some, reportedly on the level of a grandmaster. There are not many professional chess players who don’t at least once try their skills against the enigmatic figure. All the same, the announcement of the Boatman attending the London Open was met with apprehension and divided the community at large.

There are those, of course, who believe that allowing the Boatman to play is only right, given he is a player of high standing. The opposition, however, argues that the Boatman lacks rating that would traditionally be required to attend such an event. The officials of the London Chess Congregation claim that the Boatman indeed does have a rating, though they have so far not elaborated on the statement.

Another issue has also reared its head.
“We are afraid that there are no better – if even possible – ways to face off against the Boatman.” E. M_____, the spokesperson of the LCC committee, told our reporter. “In the face of this dilemma, we are afraid any players matching with Mr. Boatman would be required to visit the boat, along with an official judge. The Congregation’s morgue is, naturally, open to accommodate this need.”

The organizers of London Open seem rather adamant about their decision. However, even with the support of grandmasters, the pressure from outside is concerning. Will the Boatman attend the Open after all? Either way, there might be news from beyond the grave coming rather soon.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Bah, so much deadness. Deadness all around. One would think there are no living left.
Hab

Dear Hab,
Such is the curse of the mad. Or those slowly going mad. Or those destined to become mad. Not all can bear such curses, after all.

13th of December 1898

Editorial

Recognition is a sweet thing. Recognition – and, further, appreciation – of knowledge many times so. It is my delight to be recognized precisely for the knowledge I have worked so hard to attain. For this occasion, what is a scholar to do but write?

Together with our press operators, I have worked over the past months to develop a method for safer printing of sigils and certain works. Most unfortunately, in the current situation it would be most untoward to expose more of our distributors to such dangers again.

On the conjugation of Law, a dissertation elaborating on my well-known theory, will thusly be distributed by the known and well-aligned channels.

Art of London

Clawing Forward
by Edward Five

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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London Shimmers With False-Snow Once Again

That time of year has come once again. Lacre – the false snow – covers the streets of our fair city. So covered they reflect the humble light of the streetlamps and bring a cheerful brightness to the darkness of the Neath. This cheer, so infectious, clings like frost to all citizens. Dames and men alike smile as they pass through, arm in arm, unafraid to have their joy seen. Urchins racing along the rooftops, criers competing to bring business to their respective establishments.

It is, of course, advised to ingest or to have prolonged contact with lacre. Any sights of beings made of lacre are to be promptly forgotten about. Upon being questioned by a red-robed Master, it is best to give up one’s possessions – preferably a valuable one.

In case you come into unwanted possession of lacre, please bring them to our offices at Doubt Street. Any givers shall be handsomely rewarded, starting at a hundred pounds a piece.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
At this point, it does very little to even apologize. And there was so much more to discuss!
Dreaming

Dear Dreaming,
Next week, perhaps. Where there are thoughts, there is a need to process.

6th of December 1898

Editorial

I have dabbled in most, if not all, forms of art. From language to paint to sounds to blood. I have reshaped the very nature of being with nothing but scraps of cloth. I have moved lords to tears with alchemy. I do not claim to be a master of it all – I have merely learned from the true masters.

There is more art in the world than one might realize. It is in the ground beneath our feet, in the false-stars above our heads. In the depths of the Unterzee. On the surface, and down in the depths below the Neath itself. It is deep within our very souls.

It is the artist’s job to uncover art. To extract its essence from the world, to present it to yearning eyes. In this way, too, art is comparable to science. Whereas science serves to uncover the deepest secrets of the universe, art simply presents those secrets – no fanfare, although no explanation, either. Is it unthinkable that the two may collaborate? Oh what wonders the two sides of the coin may reach, what secrets may they learn, if only they could ever be made to face each other.

Sadly, for now, this separation in twine shall only make more coins, more sides, more arguments, more and more of the same that holds us back. One day, perhaps, one day we will come to an understanding.

Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

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Mechanical Bird Takes Up Acting – A Convergence Of Forces

In recent weeks, the rattus faber working as stagehands and engineers in the various London theatres have unionized, halting many productions. In a recent development of the strike, the rats have found allies within a certain group.

The All-Bird Theatre Troupe has struck a deal with the rat union leader, and a small faction of rats has started working with the troupe. The first fruit of this companionship is not yet a public exhibit, however a subject of many rumours and conversations. From certified sources as well as our own first-hand experience we can confirm that these rumours are indeed true.

The birds and the rats have worked together to construct a first-ever mechanical actor. It is a machine made of brass, lined with fabric, powered by a pilot rat inside it. So far only a prototype, this mechanical actor is capable of very limited flight (or rather, gliding), though it is able to produce a plethora of sounds and even speak with the help of a physical modifier to the pilot’s own voice.

Most unfortunately, we do not know any plans that the All-Bird Theatre Troupe might have for their new invention. However, knowing the quality of their productions, we are sure that this push in technology will be nothing short of breaking the metaphorical ground.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Please do not let me fall.
Ru.

Dear Ru.,
I’ll attempt to catch you. Pray my arms do not break.