---

Editorial

With the storm comes a flood. A flood of emotions, of problems, of solutions, of questions and answers. The ratios vary, it’s true. Worst of all, I have called the storm all by myself. Bit by bit one wrong decision after another.

There were not many decisions to be made. Simply, they were all the ever-so-slightly wrong ones. One might generously simply call it incompetence of life. One might also be correct. Who is in the right to say.

I have been noticing a trend. A trend in which I am tired, and yearning, and despising, and wanting, and postponing, and simply trying.

I am not sure I want to try anymore.

---

Art of London

A colleague of mine and I have recently had an exchange of ideas. So splendid his proposition was, I had decided to (with his permission) share it with you, our dear readers. Without further ado, a contemplation on the Correspondence and Art with Arthur Nethell.

---

[The letter is decorated with a sigil of Correspondence, meaning “To its receiver” – one of the rare symbols safe to put on paper.]

[An expression in Quander – most likely, the receiver’s name, or term of address.]

Dear [The receiver’s name is smudged out with a splotch of light blue ink]!

Two years ago, my friend and I have visited a honey-den for the first time. We weren’t of any significance: we were amateur artists, writers, musicians… Bohemians. People of the art. This art is what I want to talk to you about.

As you may know, I am currently a professor of the now-unnamed Department of the University. I study the Correspondence. The Last Alphabet. The language in which the laws of the world are written, and the language in which you, too, are a renowned expert.

A year ago, I have arranged for a performance in the Magohany Hall: a symphony designed to convey a feeling of nostalgia. The song poisoned those present: the performers and the audience alike. The xylophonist, whom you might have known as [REDACTED], incinerated himself with a box of sunlight – and miss [REDACTED], who was in the first row, attends the Hall’s performances each Thursday, as if waiting for the symphony to play again.

[Pictured below: an oversimplified Correspondence sigil for “An old orbit, formerly remembered.”]

This is the expression I have played. Well, its most debased form – the one that is safe to inscribe – in a form that allows it to be inscribed. There are other forms to express this particular symbol – and each of them will carry the same meaning: “An old orbit, formerly remembered.” We interpret this meaning as nostalgia.

I am a Correspondent: my undertaking is the study of those expressions. I can write the glyph, compose a symphony, describe a dance or assemble a delicate glass artifice to refract the light just so – and all of those shall speak nostalgia to the observer. I could, in theory, say it out loud if my vocal chords were suitable. An expression of Correspondence is as much a statement as it is a command: not only does it convey nostalgia, it induces it. Even a cricketeer who knows the movements can, in theory, induce the effect – this, I reckon, is what transpired on the February of ’97.

I still create works of art, even to this day, with and without Correspondence.

[Pictured below: an oversimplified Correspondence sigil for “A shadow which is the light that casts it”]

A poem which carries a symbol for sorrow within it may drive a reader to tears, but so can a skilled poet who knows nothing of the Last Alphabet. An opera which conveys glee with such a command is of the same nature as an opera which does not employ Correspondence – differing merely in potency. A song which enrages need not compel its reader with the language in which the laws of the world are written to enrage.

Our work, our art, our passions are mere shadows of their celestial versions – and yet it may not be denied that these shadows are the same as the light which casts them, merely lacking in intensity.

Are we not gods on our own? Do we not live immortal in our works? Do artists not command the observers with what they create? When a child learns to write, their scribbles are unwieldy yet clear.

Is the work we conduct, in essence, said scribbles?

Are artists – are we – nascent gods?

I would love to hear from you on this.

Yours truly,
Correspondent Arthur Nethell.

[Another expression in Quander.]

---

Dear Arthur,

What magnificence, what nuance, what splendor! Upon reading, rereading, contemplating, and recontemplating your letter, I must say I cannot contain my further interest. I am nearly ashamed that I myself had not thought these thoughts sooner. We are, of course, not all perfect, and I must bow to your excellence.

I applaud and thank you for removing the thin veil between the language of Law and language of art. It is not all uncommon for those inclined to our profession to create art with the concepts, meanings, even symbols and theorized phonetics of the Correspondence; yet I feel that the use itself is not often discussed.

They way one weaves the Law into one’s work, or weaves the work itself to fit or break the Law. The way that skilled artists need not rely on the Law, for they themselves understand their craft so well that by breaking the rules of it, they might as well be breaking the Chain itself.

I would like to bring to your attention a poem by one N- [The next several paragraphs are there and have a meaning, yet while reading them and the Correspondence symbols intercutting the words, the mind slips and eyes slightly sting.]

– it was a bold move, yes, yet the fellow once told me he does not regret the exile. In my own humble opinion, the power was not in the Correspondence there. Perhaps it brought the work to the attention of the authorities, yet it was the ideas themselves that helped reach its true potential.

Perhaps we are gods, yes. I am never one to refute greatness. Perhaps not all artists can reach such potential, yet all artists have it within them.

Yours delightfully,
R.

---

~*~*~
Electorial News
~*~*~

The Goosey Gazette Electorial Candidate Popularity Survey;
Results Are In

We would like to thank you, our dearest readers, for your contributions towards our survey. The results are truly quite intriguing, and we are aching to share them with you.

A small foreword – do not despair if you have missed the vote, or voted against your current ideals, as the second round for the election proper can be found in the middle-page spread once again.

Without further ado, the results:

Currently, the Tentacled Entrepreneur is a clear leader in popularity, followed by the Viscountess, with F. F. Gebrandt trailing behind. While science is a concern of all, many of our readers, understandably, are intrigued by the possibility of a non-human candidate in the office.

Just as Londoners are split on the popularity of candidates, so are they split on which way to cast their vote. More of our readers are inclined to vote for the Viscountess than the Entrepreneur, by a small yet noticeable margin. The supporters of the arts and the rubberies are rather strongly poised towards the respective candidate, however more are indeed concerned with the safety of their dreams. Sorrowfully for F. F. Gebrandt, her platform seems to not incite much excitement.

The voting populace is also rather indecisive about whether they would change their votes, were secrets revealed. Perhaps this is all a matter of the weight of the secret – after all, no price is too big sometimes. Still, there are those intent on changing their minds, as well as those who insist on their first choice an do not plan to budge.

For the division of popularity and voting choice – those who like F. F. Gebrandt are nearly equally likely to vote for either of the other candidates; those who most like one of the other candidates, however, more often choose to vote for Gebrandt instead.

Furthermore, the Tentacled Entrepreneur has strongly committed supporters, with more than twice as many voters not wanting to change their vote for him. Gebrandt and the Viscountess have proportionally similar rates of voter commitment, though the Viscountess wins by a small margin.

Such are the results of this poll – and to remind you again, take the second survey which you can find in the middle-page spread!

---

News of Art, Art of News

Art Of Axile – Rubbery Artform On The Rise!

We have touched on the art of the Rubbery Folk – or rather lack thereof – quite a while ago. Back then, it was true that the Rubberies in their communities had tangible nor visible nor audible art. Though there were a few who gladly lend their talents to a pre-composed performance, be it dance or music in most cases, there was simply no art that Rubberies themselves had created. For a long time there were no further developments, yet it seems that something had stirred in secret after all.

As we all know, the Tentacled Entrepreneur’s platform is that of the arts; more specifically, the arts of Axile and the Rubbery Folk. The most prominent of these arts seems to be sculpting. The Rubbery artists shape amber into quite magnificent shapes that, while indescribable, or at least incomparable to any human analogues, elicit strong and precise emotions. Whatever methods the artists use, they must truly give their all into their work.

Some may describe such art as primal, akin to the painted walls of cavemen, yet we see something more. This is no mere sudden discovery; the art of the Rubbery Folk is a deep meditation on their own emotions, refined in its roughness, and thoroughly beautiful.

As you all know, we do our damndest to stay apolitical here at the Gazette, yet from this week’s survey results, we want to highlight a few lines from a certain prominent citizen:

“Ever since the Bazaar arrived in the Neath, the Rubbery Men and their Fluke creators have been persecuted by all manner of denizens and monsters due to their peculiar nature. Lacking the social grace of the devils of Hell and the ability to integrate with humans like their Snuffer cousins, the Rubberies have been hated and feared for apparently no reason. Even now, in a city more tolerant and accepting than any other in human history, us Londoners have yet to appreciate the value and promise that the Rubberies bring to our society and would destroy them at a moment’s notice. […]
Should a Rubbery Man win this election, even one as capitalistic as the Entrepreneur, its mere inauguration into the mayoral office will be the catalyst of a greater change than the combined policies of all previous mayors. It will force not only the xenophobic masses, but perhaps the Bazaar herself, to reevaluate their standards of decency and widen their perspectives for a glorious future unbound by one’s shape, into something better. Next, it will allow us to forge diplomatic relations with the Flukes at Flute Street, a potential ally when dealing with their Lorn brethren and the Fathomking, whose ties were previously botched by the Admiralty and led to the dreadful Agreement of Nothing of Consequence Beneath the Zee.”

With that, we encourage you all, dear readers, to visit the Tentacled Entrepreneur’s galleries, the ones officially held on Ladybones Road, as well as the ones established by his supporters in various parlours of Veilgarden.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
For once, rest.
M

---

Dear M,
And so it shall be.

---

Editorial

One might be hard pressed to believe my humility. Grandiose is what we sell, after all. Settling for any less would simply be a disservice to all. Nonetheless, I will be first to admit that the breadth of my wisdom is far lesser than what might present itself. That, in itself, is not a humble act – I know I know nothing.

Acts, however, are perhaps not the goal of this editorial. I simply aim to redeem the past in what little ways I can.

I bring to you, then, not a moral teaching, not a lecture, but a few simple lines of advice.

Be kind to yourself and others. Strive to better yourself. Remember to rest.

Above all, stay true to yourself.

---

Art of London

Waiting for the sun in a stolen city
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

---

~*~*~
Electorial News
~*~*~

Elections Begin Tomorrow!

Tomorrow at noon, the official electorial season begins! Candidates reveal their platforms and campaigns, secret hunters shall aim to properly do their job.

Our own Gazette brings you a survey of popularity – let us see who has the most support! As there is a whole week of campaigning before the next edition comes out, do not be afraid to mail us when you are sure of your answers!

Find the survey at the middle page spread, and send it to us at the address provided at the back of the paper.

---

News of Art, Art of News

Journalism Of Smears Running Rampant

It is our own displeasure to bring your attention, dear readers, to the dishonesty and slander that still course through the veins of London’s journalist community. What’s more, it seems that not even our own humble paper can escape such conflicts.

A so-called “defender of truth” that is the Phlegethonian Gazette seems to disagree with our efforts to bring London’s artistic community closer together. If such an attack would only be to our paper itself, we would not bat an eye; Lord Gazter, the owner and chief editor of the Phlegethonian Gazette, however, seems to take it upon himself to slander even the community itself!

To call contemporary art “dull, dreary, and otherwise lacking [a] spark” is perhaps the most blatantly blind blabber dear Lord Gazter could come up with. One might even think that he does not even read The Goosey Gazette! For if he did, not only would he see that the art of London is vibrant, overflowing with creativity, and full of heart, but that the powers that be are not always kind to the artists that such art make!

Perhaps that is where the issue lies. After all, our own Gazette must sometimes be distributed through secret channels and allied distributors in the artistic world, lest the Ministry confiscates further copies of certain editions. As Lord Gazter is who he is – namely, a lord – it is only reasonable that his access to the finer editions is restricted, if not non-existent. Worry not, dear readers, as we have taken it upon ourselves to educate Lord Gazter, and will be mailing all redacted copies directly to his estate.

As apolitical as we try to be, dear readers, it seems that it is time for actions. As The Tentacled Entrepreneur’s candidature has been announced with a platform of patronage for the arts, a spark of hope arises. We at the Gazette firmly believe that it will be only beneficial to the more marginal forms and ways and themes of art.

Tomorrow start the campaigns, and with the Entrepreneur’s further agenda, we ask you, dearest readers – support the Tentacled Entrepreneur! Support Axile, support art and the Arts!

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh my tired bones, bury me deep and leave no mark.
Striving

---

Dear Striving,
Wishes may be for all, but their fulfilment is but for the damned.

---

Editorial

The nature of complicity is that of a boiled frog. The heat slowly rising as the water around you boils and you do not even notice so preoccupied with your own self you are. Perhaps such sentiment is a tad cynical. After all, we are good people, are we not?

One’s emotions are difficult to reconcile with. It takes practice, effort, will. Then come the questions of morality. Is it best for the world? For the relationship? For them? For them? What might the best be, in any case. To ask oneself such questions ad infinitum is, perhaps, at least a step in the right direction.

I do not want to see the world burn. I do not want to see hate spread. Best smother it in its cradle, though it is no longer an infant. Best pluck it by the roots. No, I only fear I have grown far to complicit to do what is necessary. Perhaps I fear that which is necessary.

Frogs, by all accounts, do not let themselves be boiled alive. They have a sense of self-preservation, and they certainly know when water is too hot for them.

No, truly. Frogs are not complicit in their own demise. They, however, have an easy choice to make.

---

Art of London

This War Of Ours
Part III
by Reinol von Lorica

Irvin Schmidt was a tall individual. Pale and blue eyed, with dark blonde hair and smooth features. His dark grey uniform contrasted with his bright features. The commander nodded and gestured for him to come over.

“I suppose you’ve heard of our assignment?” he inquired. To his side, a brown haired officer with dark eyes stared. Lieutenant Colonel Hans Meyer. While he never got along with the younger officer, he admired his sound head for tactics. Irvin however, was another matter entirely.

“Yes sir,” he replies. His thoughts wandered. Behind them, a flock of birds flew past the screens. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to fly like them. To be free and unidbidden by the duty that burdened him. Those thoughts are quashed by the words from the fourth officer who had joined their group.

“Those damn rebels really don’t know when to quit do they?”

Irvin said nothing, but Hans flinched at his harsh words. He always was a soft man. “Richter. Mind your words,” he lightly scolded. “We’re supposed to act professional.”

Captain Arnold Richter was anything but a professional man. His features were tanned and rugged from years of fighting, his dark hair cut short and his beard even shorter. The man scowled and folded his arms. “You know I’m right.”

A brief silence ensues. He supposed he was. The rebellion was far more fierce than what the government or the military had expected. So much so that the uprising had spread to the colonies.

Any reply he had in mind was soon cut off by the captain of the ship, who approached them, her bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “If you fine gentlemen would allow me to interrupt, we’re almost at port. I suggest getting your troops ready to disembark. We’re on a schedule.”

Irvin nods and gestures for the trio to get ready. “I will, captain,” he said nothing else, and it was clear they were dismissed. “Pardon me for cutting this short. We’ll talk again when we land.Get some breakfast while you still can.” Nods and ‘yes sirs’ were his reply, and soon they found themselves marching towards the corridor to the mess hall.

“And Fabian,” Irvin spoke. The lieutenant stops, startled by the older man’s call. “Try to get more rest.”

For a moment, Fabian von Lorica stood on the bridge, waiting for the colonel to say something else. But when no other words came, he sighed, and made his way to the mess hall. Partially to gather the troops and partially so that he could get some more sleep after a quick meal.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blasted wasteland of the fields.

---

~*~*~
Electorial News
~*~*~

Election 1898 Candidates Announced

Three prominent Londoners have announced their candidacy in the year 1898 Lord Mayoral elections. This year, something truly exceptional has happened. Perhaps we can thank Lord Mayor Virginia for opening the door for non-humans – whatever the case, the candidates are truly exquisite!

Indeed, we are proud and excited beyond belief to announce that not one, but two candidates are of non-human disposition in this year’s election! With these candidacies comes a more diverse, and hopefully more just, London.

Elections proper are still two weeks away, and we patiently await to hear more of the candidates’ platforms! Do let us know what you think, London!

---

News of Art, Art of News

First Great Hellbound Railway Station – Ealing Garden One Train Closer!

The Great Hellbound Railway is making headway as the very first station opens its doors. Passing through the Ealing borough on the edge of London proper, this station signals great progress in this Hellbound venture.

Ealing, as some may know, has been out of the reach of London’s powers-that-be since the fall. Home to outcasts and criminals, it also houses the unwelcome Rubberies who form more welcome (though still suspicified) communities. The Tentacled Entrepreneur also has his first and largest factories there.

Seeing as Ealing is a more underprivileged part of London, yet still a part of London, the question becomes how this connection will affect life. With a train connecting this distant part from the centre of our city, perhaps business can prosper and life can become better. It is also left to see what the Great Hellbound Railway Board (on which the very Entrepreneur sits as a member) will act to possibly support Ealing.

While still under minor construction, trains should start running to and from Ealing Station in a few day’s time.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh how I despise the thoughts. Cannot financing be a simpler matter?
Swamped

---

Dear Swamped,
Everything has its place and time. Perhaps consider waiting next time. Though, of waiting there has been enough. Perhaps, well, perhaps I can grant it just this once.

---

Editorial

It is a slow process, waiting.

I feel as if I have waited my entire life. For what? There is not a singular answer. I have waited, yes, for stretches of time until events had passed. Action, wait, resolution. Wait, action, resolution. Wait, wait, wait.

Perhaps such is the way of living. To wait, always, from moment to moment. Seldom are we the true actors in our fate. Seldom is full control given to us. That is not to say such is impossible. That is only to say that we, in fact, are not alone in this world.

We are all actors and the world is but a stage. Know your lines and cues, carry yourself as you should, reap the spoils and learn from the failures. Wait. Wait for your moment. Wait for when you know it is your own time to shine. Once it comes, yes, then even you will have your moment in the spotlight. Together, in our waiting, we shall create something beautiful.

At last, I wait again.

---

Art of London

This War Of Ours
Part II
by Reinol von Lorica

Perhaps sleep wouldn’t be so bad. It would almost be a relief after all this fighting. If only that blasted noise could stop…

“Lieutenant.”

As he drifted off to the unknown, he could’ve sworn that a change had happened. The mud was awfully soft. And the noise seemed to have actually quieted down. Was this…

“Lieutenant!”

Emerald eyes opened. Breathe. Those years were gone now, taken away when the new Kaiserin of Reich vied for peace and ending the seven year long war. It was just another dream, one of many he had these nights.

He was not in the muddy wastelands of Europa. Nor was he in the midst of fighting and war. No. He was instead in a small steel room, lying comfortably on a small bed. A desk was pushed up against a wall, laden with books and papers .A half open wardrobe. It wasn’t the best of accommodations, but it was one nonetheless.

Quietly, the soldier sits up on his bed, wincing at a few creaks in his back. He stretches, ignoring the knocking on his door and the female voice calling out his rank as he stands. Time for a new day, he supposed.

“I’m coming.” He approaches the wardrobe, and opens it, revealing the very same grey uniform he wore during those war stricken years, albeit cleaned up and updated.

With a sigh, he put it on with haste, almost relieved at the comfort to be back in a uniform again. A quick look in the mirror, and soon, he had opened the door, revealing the youthful face of the trooper.

“Lieutenant von Lorica, sir!” she snapped to attention, which was returned. Seeing no reason to hold him up, she spoke. “Colonel Schmidt wishes to meet you on the bridge. We’re making touchdown on Port Weiss soon, sir.”

He nods and waves her off, dismissing her. “At ease, get some food, and thank you for informing me of this.” Whatever else she did was tuned out as he stepped out of his room and into the steel hallways of the Reich Airship Siegfried.

Walking through them revealed no further enlightenment. A few crewmembers nodded at him as he walked by, though he encountered no fellow soldiers. Perhaps they were all in the mess hall. In less than five minutes, he had entered the bridge.

Instantly, he was greeted by the sounds of working pilots and mechanics. The chatter of the crew as they eased into their flight. The whirs and hums of machinery and screens.

And then, there was the view. Past the glass screens, the skies, untainted by smoke or smog. Clouds drifted lazily past as the vast expanse of the bright blue sky stretched for what seemed to be an eternity.

For a moment, he loses himself in the beauty. Truly, airships were one of the greatest miracles of the Age of Steam. Even now, he was still surprised how this hunk of metal stayed flying.

“Ah. Good morning lieutenant,” the words snapped him out of his reverie, and the soldier stood at attention to his superior officer. “Colonel Schmidt.”

---

News of Art, Art of News

The Great Hellbound Railway – Construction Begins!

From the office of our Lord Mayor, Virginia, comes a diplomatic treaty – with none other than Hell itself. It seems that the Hell-owned Moloch Station railway shall not be the only one connecting our fair city to the land of the devils. Indeed, contracts have been struck with many a side, the Bazaar had given its blessing, the Tracklayers’ Union is in full force, and a board of distinguished and prominent figures now overlooks and bickers over every detail of this upcoming project.

An ambitious one it is indeed, and we, as anyone else, are looking forward to seeing not only the speed and efficiency of the construction, but also what profits, benefits, and general outcomes such a connection to Hell will yield for the public at large.

Indeed, perhaps a sanctioned vacation in Hell itself is not far off from the table now! Certainly, there are many of those who would kill to have a peak at those brass gates – yet we advise patience! The first leg of the tracks has been laid, and we now await further comments from the Great Hellbound Railway Board.

In the meantime – stay safe, London!

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh what joy self-discovery is.
Spade

---

Dear Spade,
No virtue, truly, holds more glory than the knowledge of oneself.

---

Editorial

Moving on is simply a fact of life. All comes to an end, eventually. Though places and people remain, our ties and lives with them simply cannot be forever, as much as we may try.

Such is not always bad. Moving on, yes, it is often a good part of life. Look back at the path you have travelled, at the obstacles you have overcome. Look at the beauty you have left behind.

Moving on means growth. It means realizing who you are, where you are headed, and what path is best for you to take. It means taking your life into your own hands. It means reaching for that which you truly desire.

Change is a part of life, though not a part people are at any time ready to face. When it is your own will to change, when you are an active agent in your own destiny – just know that it is good.

And change for the better, London.

---

Art of London

This War Of Ours, Part I
by Reinol von Lorica

Darkness folds over his eyes. Breathe. Listen to the sound of gunfire, of screams, and explosions in the distance. The frantic yells of a commanding officer.

“Get up private! Your empire needs you!”

He opened his eyes, breathing in the ash stricken air of the wasteland. Through the cracked lenses of his mask, he could just about make out the form of the major. Both of them were clad in the blacks and greys of the Reich uniforms. Both had that familiar coal-scuttle helmet. Both wore a gasmask.

“Just beyond that ridge! Victory will be ours!”

He didn’t recall getting up. But in that next moment, he was charging forward by the side of the officer and the rest of his comrades. He didn’t care for the sounds around him, choosing to ignore the bullets and the screams.

An explosion rocked the ground near him, sending limbs and gore flying. Blood splattered across his helm.

Just keep moving forward.

There, a trench choke full of Albion soldiers. Machine guns roared, gunning down troopers with no distinction. A grenade sails overhead, silencing it and those manning forever. Rifles cracked to life as they got closer.

“Bayonets ready! Char-”

The officer’s last words filled his ears as another explosion filled his world. He recalled flying through the air, before crashing down to the blood soaked mud.

He recalled the sounds of fighting, of a fierce melee in the trenches as soldiers amassed and fought. Dying screams filled the air amidst the battlecries of troopers.

“For the Kaiser! For Reich! Albion stands!”

Yet all he could feel was an immense wave of drowsiness as thoughts of sleep wandered into his mind. He felt his eyes drooping shut as the sounds of battle were slowly drowned out.

“Lieutenant.”

---

News of Art, Art of News

New Clubs Open Their Doors – Sophia’s & The Clay Tailor Reach For High Status

Two new clubs have been making waves amongst those enjoying prominence. They have opened their doors what seems to be just a week ago, yet their popularity has risen at an unprecedented speed.

Sophia’s, a club governed by its eponymous leader, the Monster-Hunting Academic, is a society for (not only) ladies to share their love of gentle acts, such as crochet, knitting, reading, anatomy, and, of course, butchering of various dangerous beasts. The club promises a slew of fun company, respect for all, and, of course, many hours of glorious monster-hunting.

The Clay Tailor, as the name suggests, is a club for those of sartorial persuasion, or at least interest. The club strives to stay at the height of fashion, though never uniformity, lest the world becomes boring. Indeed, each member is encouraged to express their individuality through that most wearable of arts – tailoring.
The club offers not only fellow tailors, tips, and pleasant political talks, but also numerous rooms for indulging their passion of garment making. Indeed, it is a wonderous opportunity for all those wanting to show their true colours in a rather tangible manner.

We at the Gazette are, of course, delighted by the appearance of these new social communities. It never hurts to break the mould after all!

Choose well, London, and enjoy communitas.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
A broken record I am. Yet my heart cannot stop, and I know not what to do next.
Deer

---

Dear Deer,
It is simply a matter of time. For either side, truly. Nothing lasts forever, and nothing will cease eventually. It is a matter of time before a decision must be made. Just know that neither path is truly bad or truly good. Act for the embetterment of all.

---

Editorial

I have seen my fair share of atrocities during my lifetime. Murders in the name of justice and progress. Theft by exploitation, denial of rights, hate so seething it burns through to actions. It is truly the lowest of lows a person can hit, to turn so truly evil as to take lives for their own twisted pleasure.

In the presence of such hate one ought not to simply stand and watch. These are not the times to be silent, but to roar with the flames of revenge! Stand tall and loud and proud and defiant of evil! It is time we show those who think they can treat lives as manure that they hold power only because we allow it!

Do not hesitate to make things right, London. For too long have our words fallen on deaf ears – now, it is time to act! It is time to take arms with your fellow brothers and sisters, go out into the world, and make change happen!

We stand tall, we stand together, we stand and we will not fall.

I will see you on the front lines, London.

---

Art of London

Almost Home
by Sevenix

See more…

---

News of Art, Art of News

A Rather Special Interview – Prof. E. M. Canning

We bring you today an interview with a well-known academic and author, none other than Professor Eva May Canning! You can find the full interview on pages 12-15.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Will we survive the night?
Hoping

---

Dear Hoping,
Tell the beasts to stride away, tell the ghosts to haunt elsewhere, tell failure there is no place for it here.

A Rather Special Interview

---

Professor Canning! It is a pleasure to be able to speak with you today.

Thank you for having me! I assure you the pleasure is all mine. I’m delighted to speak to one of Doubt Street’s finest.

---

You are quite the figure in the Neath, both in worlds artistic and academical. Would you be so kind as to enlighten those readers of ours who perhaps did not have the pleasure to read your works just yet?

Ah well…, I assume that it is the artistic side most of your readers will be familiar with. I am the author of “Peregrinations of a Bluestocking”, a series of novels following a young woman archaeologist across the Ottoman empire, Persia, the Indian subcontinent and the Southern ocean. They are usually filed under “Surface adventures” which apparently is a genre now! While these books have variously been accused of blasphemy, obscenity, imposture, libel, licentiousness, perfidy, sedition, moral relativism, ahistoricism and plain shoddy writing, they do sell quite well if I say so myself. Please accept that I shall continue my policy of withholding comment on how much, if any, of their content is autobiographical: I have always held that authors should be known for writing books, not talking about them.

My academic work in the field of anthropology has probably made less waves altogether. I am currently preparing a treatise concerning the peculiar customs of the Varchaasi people from the Elder Continent – whence I only recently returned. I fear most Londoners have yet to hear of the Varchaasi, even though they are quite unique among the peoples of the Neath.

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Ah, Peregrinations, a truly wonderful series. I shall, of course, respect your wishes to avoid certain topics – we are an honest paper of artistic truth, not a simple gossip piece.
I am, however, rather interested in the academic work of yours. I have to say, though our editorial office contains many educated minds, the Varchaasi are indeed an unknown. Would you care to tell us a little more about your anthropological findings, and perhaps your trip to the Elder Continent as well?

Varchas is an anomaly in almost every respect. The Varchaasi worship Light and are terrified by Darkness. Thus, existence in the Neath poses many problems for them. Their city is kept constantly illuminated by multitudes of lamps, candles and an ingenious system of angled mirrors. They even grow phosphorescent fungi on the walls of the buildings! And if the smallest spot of shadow were to be found anywhere within the city, someone would adjust a mirror or light another candle in order to banish it. Darkness is absolutely not allowed in Varchas. Accordingly, Lamp-Lighters and Fire-Keepers are highly respected professions who work in strictly-planned shifts to ensure it continues being kept out. However, the presence of all those mirrors – and what lurks behind them – causes certain complications, but the Varchaasi have found ways to manage these, too, the most extraordinary of which is this: they train themselves not to dream! They are a dream-less people.

I do hope I am not portraying them as strange savages in a short summary like this. The Varchaasi are a sophisticated people with a long and rich history. Indeed, their history is at least as remarkable as their present existence. However, I will say no more on that here… as it happens, the Ministry of Public Decency has shown an interest in my upcoming work and has demanded advance manuscripts. Be that as it may, I am confident that something will be worked out and this will not delay publication by more than a few weeks. 

Speaking of censors, I have also spent considerable time in Apis Meet. Yes, yes, I know, visitors are usually allowed only a single day there. But the Gracious can never hear enough London gossip… Incidentally, this single-day rule also holds in Varchas, where it is far more steadfastly enforced. Anyway… where was I… ah yes: the Presbyterate’s Mithridate Office is constantly spreading misleading information about the Elder Continent, to the extent of publishing books full of lies and fabricated maps. It’s therefore fiendishly difficult to gather information that is actually useful for planning an expedition into the Continent’s interior. Which is the Mithridites’ whole point, of course. But they won’t keep me out! They say the Presbyterate’s made up of 77 kingdoms, most of which I haven’t seen yet. That simply won’t do!

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Fascinating! Truly so – a very exciting life a researcher leads. I must say, Professor Canning, I admire your academic fervor! Such want for truth is something we at the Gazette very much appreciate. I would be thrilled to speak to you more of such exploits and delicious knowledge, though, for the benefit of our readership’s equal yet oposed thirst, let us move on.
Now, it goes without saying that our humble paper is no stranger to the woes of dealing with the Ministry. What would you like to say to the men of this organization in regards to academic censorship?

Well, well, I shall have to choose my words with care here. To be honest, I am not opposed to the concept of an independent third party evaluating academic publications for possible dangers to public safety – in the Neath especially! A lot of the scientific research being done at the present moment is very experimental and, frankly, we academics are not always entirely aware of all possible consequences of releasing our discoveries to the general public.

It becomes more problematic, however, when the institution charged with this arbitration is not independent, but a direct arm of government. Hence, suspicions will inevitably arise that its verdicts might not always be made solely in the best interests of the common good, but rather be influenced by political motivations. After all, said institution would have the power to determine which knowledge the public had access to, and which would remain suppressed.

In the end, it would fall – as it always does – to the men and women doing the daily work at this institution to ensure they remain true to their values, to the original objective of their work. Corruption is a part of the human condition, and that we cannot escape from, but it is by no means inevitable to trickle down from top to bottom always. The anarchists have one thing right: it is impossible to imagine a form of government entirely free of corruption, and therefore entirely free of tyranny. But they’re always throwing out the baby with the bathwater: if you burn down a tyrant’s palace, you kill everyone inside, down to the prisoners in the dungeon beneath it. And what has ever been built upon a tabula rasa than another version of what was there before? All the many revolutions in the history of the world have been exercises in futility.

Oh d__n it, I’ve switched into campaigner-mode again, haven’t I? When I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved in all that anymore. It’s not even election season yet!

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Oh, absolutely no worry, Professor. I do believe none of our readers are strangers to a heated debate. Truly, there is a certain… questionability within the act of establishment censorship, so to speak.
Ah, I would, of course, love to discuss, but there are only so many pages we are allowed to print – so, Professor, if you wouldn’t mind, what are your thoughts on the current struggle of powers within London?

Ach! Struggle of powers, pish-tosh. It’s the way of a city like London to have agents of every power or would-be power you can think of vying for influence, openly and in the dark. I don’t believe the Masters are losing any sleep over it, or the Empress for that matter. Incidentally, I always tell people not to underestimate the old girl. I’m sure she’s got a trick or two up her sleeve yet. And not just her. There are powers in this city that are far older than London herself – and I don’t mean the occasional Presbyterate diplomat. The people I’m talking about – they’ve been around for so long… You see, I don’t feel like having the Roof come down on me anytime soon. But if that fateful day should come… when the bats swarm and the smell of Lacre rises… I’ll know whom to turn to for advice. Because they’ve seen it all before. That’s real power, you see: knowledge, and knowing how to survive especially. 

But enough of dark and dreary matters! Let us turn to something different, and lighter, for a change.

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Ah, why of course! It does us no good to be stuck in worries.
I am sure, professor, that you have had your share of excitement on your adventures. Perhaps, even, the funniest kind of excitement – be it substances or people. Do tell, professor, if it is not so bold of me to ask, what would you consider the most indulgent thing you have done?

The most indulgent…? I am quite certain I wouldn’t be able to remember, especially if substances were involved. As for people, my wife was already with me when I descended to London and whatever excitements we indulge in shall remain behind the veil of privacy. 

But if I am to be honest – and since this is an honest publication, I have no choice but to be – the most indulgent thing in my life down here isn’t some exotic excitement I gave in to only once, but a regular occurrence: the embarrassing amount of money I spend on imported food, from the Surface and the Elder Continent. 

For one thing, I never liked seafood – you can imagine how I feel about Zee-food. And yes, there are lots of amazing things one can do with mushrooms, absolutely. But surely one can’t eat mushrooms every day. At least, I can’t. A further culinary problem I’ve encountered in the Neath is the sapience of beasts. I can’t bring myself to eat a creature that, with a bit of education, might be reading Chiropterochronometry at the University. So here I am: a wretched servant to the dictates not just of my palate, but of my conscience, too.

This is, incidentally, also the origin of that epithet (which I’m sure you would’ve asked me about eventually): it was an Irascible Veteran who first called me “Scarlet Saint” at one of my salons: according to him, I’m “one of those pusillanimous recreants indulging in revelries like a French princess but turning my back on a good English blood sausage only because the former owner of the blood might have spoken three languages.” Of course, he only did me a favour: in Bohemian circles, the sales of my books – even my academic publications – soared after his tirade.

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Ah, the delights of foreign trade! Truly, it is worth spending an echo or two for a scrumptious meal. None can be blamed for being dissuaded by sapience, truly. Though I have come to find the various fungi much more than palatable.
Well, let us diverge a little once again. The Goosey Gazette, of course, is a publication of art. As you have said, you are quite well-versed within the bohemian circles. Do you have any thoughts or insights on the contemporary works of Neath-bound artists, both those published and private?

Thoughts? Many, to be sure. As for insights, ah well… the difference between art and science, I’m all too aware, is certainty. Every scientific problem has at least one definite answer – even if that answer might escape us forever. Art, however, has an infinite number of answers to every question – but offers us no means to determine which one might be true. Indeed, within the realm of art it is perfectly possible to posit all views of the world, no matter how conflicting, as equally true. 

Science strives to be objective, while art (and love) are the most subjective things in the world. I really do not think there is an objective way of talking about art (nor love). Both the tedious scholars of art who are looking for such a way and those critics who profess they’ve found it are on the wrong track completely. Hence, the only valid form of art critique is deeply personal, without any pretense of objectivity. For critics, this means: opinions, not judgements! That’s the one rule of talking about art (and love, probably). Unfortunately, it is rarely respected.

Let me give you an example: I am well acquainted with a certain Vilified Sculptor. I happen to know the nature of the demons they’re exorcising with their work. I happen to know that they’re a kind and warm and decent person, and definitely not moving in any of the various sinister circles their detractors so love to insinuate. Do I, personally, like their work? No! Just looking at some of their sculptures for a minute sends shivers down my spine and makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. But I understand the Where and the Why. Obviously, in most situations, with most artists, we are not in a position to do that. Which is why we should express our opinion, but reserve our judgement.

If I conduct an experiment in my laboratory that thoroughly debunks someone else’s theory, and others conduct the same experiment with the same results, I can indeed pronounce final and unequivocal judgement on that theory: that is the power of science! Only science presents us with these – rare – opportunities to speak judgement with the certainty and conviction of the gods. It is not a small power, and not few are the scientists who get drunk on it. 

If you listen to any down-and-out gutter poet long enough, you’ll hear them stumble upon one phrase, eventually, one night, buried among reams of dross: one phrase that would shame any poet-laureate. They won’t notice, they’ll have forgotten it by the next morning. But it was there, and you heard it. So what’s going to be your judgement of this poet’s work? And how will you defend it against anyone who wasn’t there, who did not hear that line?

Ah, I’m sorry for speaking at such length. In the Correspondence I’d need fewer words, of course, but they would not be safe to print. You probably just wanted to hear my opinion of Neathy art anyway. That you shall have, nice and short and not remotely objective:

The Celestials are in love with the past, the Bazaarines with the present, and the Nocturnals with the future. Obviously, that makes the Bazaarines the most boring of the lot. Then again, realism isn’t so bad: I’ve seen Bazaarine poetry inject some much-needed sense into some who were dreaming away their lives. Not that I have anything against dreaming! Only the coldest heart can be unmoved by the Celestials’ pining, but the fact remains pining gets you nowhere, and in the end the Celestials are only ever revolving around themselves (and maybe quite happy about that, too). The Nocturnals, of course, get everywhere fast but they don’t always return. After all, some places are scary and not safe and some one really should not go to at all. “You can leave everything safely behind but your senses,” someone told me long ago. I’ve found that useful advice.

Where does that leave me? Caught in the middle as usual, I guess. But that’s not a bad place. You can sit back and watch the most fascinating people pass by.

Who knows, maybe I explore art the same way I explore the world: always aiming for uncharted territory, but well equipped and thoroughly planned. Always open to ideas, new ones and old ones, but rarely committed to one for long. Ideas, after all, are in near-endless supply and most of them contain a snippet of Truth. Many people find one such snippet and hold onto it for dear life – while I’m already off looking for the next one.

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You speak from the depths of my very own heart, Professor. Art, as love and beauty, is in the soul of the participant. Opinions drive the world of art to wax and wane at its leisure, never resting in one place for to long. Opinion may not drive progress, yet it drives change.
I do wish you good tidings in the pursuit of science, art, and Truth, Professor. Our time draws to an end – and what delight the time truly was! Only one last query – would you have any sagely advice for our dearest readers?

Ha! You think I still haven’t pontificated enough? I will admit I am susceptible to flattery, and as should be clear by now I can talk the legs off a centipede. But all good things must come to an end, so I shall aim for brevity at last: 

When you can’t find someone to follow, find a way to lead by example. When you can’t find a way, start walking and make one. And remember that in the end it’s better to fail in following your own destiny, than succeed in someone else’s.

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Editorial

Reality is incredulously fleeting. With a snap of one’s fingers things change from second to second. One cannot with absolute perfection define the reality of the moment. Truly, it is ludicrous to even consider two events as happening simultaneously. Time bends and twists through and around space and with it, reality.

A moment, then, cannot be simply defined. A moment now is the same as two moments earlier and a third one year from now. Reality overlaps, yet it does so constantly. A moment now is the same as three moments separated by centuries and a single moment best to be forgotten. To define such change is as futile as catching the wind with a net.

Even personal reality is a fickle thing. Our mind fabricates stability, but our hearts betray the truth. As change sets to motion, deep down the mind can sense the ebbs and flows of time. Such sensations are not to be taken lightly. The attuned mind may then, perhaps, even peer into the chaos. See beneath the veil of reality into the core of Law.

However great the cost may be – who could ever refuse such an opportunity?

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Art of London

Memories and Roses, Part VII
An Invocation
by Professor Wensleydale.

I sat down to translate.

“Oh tell me the tale of a great King, a King who claimed the throne after his brother destroyed his home, a King who fought against the incursion of the unnatural, a King by the name of-”

Inspired… has increased to 5!
You’ve lost 1*F.F. Gebrandt’s Superior Laudanum (new total 2).

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News of Art, Art of News

Wonderous Skeletons – Genuine Unearthings Or Deceptive Amalgams?

In hidden streets of Watchmaker’s Hill there lies an open secret, a market of bones. Those knowledgeable of its existence gather there to marvel at and deal in various bones, relics, unearthed fossils, and some more tasteful yet no less grandioze items.

Recently, London has seen a boom in palaentology. Amateurs and professional academics alike are unearthing all sorts of strange fossils and discovering yet unseen species. Such happenings are far from unexpected as the Neath offers many an oddity to be found anew. The sudden rise is, however, still rising eyebrows.

There are also those who display, offer, and successfully sell whole skeletons. Among these are seemingly impossible birds, proposed remains of saints, claimed rubbery amalgams – there are even rumours of one particular academic possessing a whole skeleton of a Master of the Bazaar.

While some claims are certainly dubious, these pieces may be considered collector, and thus it truly may be a worthy endeavour to seek to procure one such exhibit. For our own office, we have a charming mummified corpse of a saint with no less than a dozen legs.

Certainly not a purchase for the common man, perhaps this is a new opportunity for the crafty scholar.

Tread careful, London!

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Where are clouds when one needs an uplift?
Silver

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Dear Silver,
Above our heads, so distant, unreachable, yet friendly and familiar.

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Editorial

With age comes wisdom
Spring of life, one year older
Am I any wiser?

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Art of London

Portrait of Edward
by Arthur Cole

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News of Art, Art of News

Crows By Any Other Name – The Debonair Dilettante’s Exhibit

The Royal Academy of Arts has recently sanctioned and hosted an even by one up-and-coming artist, the Debonair Dilettante. This particular exhibit is special for being a diversion from the usual bores of high society, an intriguing change we wholeheartedly welcome in the world of art.

The Dilettante’s exhibit bears the name of “Lycanthropes in spite”. It features several dozen pieces, all manticoric taxidermy. These lycanthropes, as the Dilettante calls them, are amalgams of various animals poised as bipedes performing various common tasks – chores, social engagements, et cetera. The bodies seem to be largely canine, and feature even parts of rare, exotic animals from the surface.

They all, however, share one commonality – that is, the heads of all of the lycanthropes are that or crows. A single crow’s head, perched upon an ill-fitting body, donning an expression of deep thought.

The statues have a certain air of unease about them, the kind that only comes with taxidermy, multiplied by the strangeness of their composition. Still, they are rather endearing, reflecting the daily struggles of the common person. One cannot help but feel a certain kinship with the lycanthropes. They, too, are simply doing their best in their day to day, unable to help but be exposed to the world at large.

The exhibit shall be open for the whole month of June. We have it on good authority that no animals have been purposely slain to create this piece, rather they are dear old pets passed away and donated to the effort.

We wish you pleasant pondering, dear London.

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What more may the heart weather?
Locked

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Dear Locked,
A thousand novelties and an infinity of reprises.

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Editorial

Is it wrong to have doubts when suns are beginning to shine again?

Through luck and merit and support, one can plough their way through the mud. It is not an easy task, but one certainly achievable. It has been done before, and there are steps that have been taken already. Truly, in fact, the path has never been all that muddy.

Why, then, does every step feel like failure? Is it simply melodrama? A trick of the brain? A misfiring of misfortunes, aimed at the susceptible parts? Why, then, would one forget all that had been done and throw it all away?

It would be foolish to end here. It would be a heresy, truly. A dishonour to the legacy of those who came and went, an atrocity in the eyes of those who believe. A crime, perhaps, against nature herself.

No, this is not where things end. I know that much – that cowardice is a part of the package, to the strange benefit of the recipient.

Why, then, do I still desire an end?

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Art of London

Portrait of a Lady
by Arthur Cole

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News of Art, Art of News

Incoming Storm Might Present Unexpected Setbacks

In latest weather reports, the Seventh Astronomer warns of a great Storm coming towards London. It is unclear when, how, or if at all this Storm will arrive; it is still said to be a big one.

The Seventh Astronomer, an oddity even amongst the blind astronomers, speaking only in fire and screams, has been conducting heavy research into the weather patterns of the Neath. This research is indeed publicly available, scrawled with a sharp piece of glim on the backside of a cave near the London Observatory.

The Astronomer warns that, to quote: “The eyes have been angered, the deed cannot be pardoned,” and “What was said cannot be unsaid,” and “White, three sugars, yolk.” We are still unsure whether or not the last citation pertains to the weather.

Further insights specify heavy rains, thunder and/or lightning, an array of frightening displays, and perhaps an incursion from Hell. As mentioned, time has not been specified, and the Storm may come anywhere between next Tuesday and the end of the Seventh.

Don’t forget your umbrellas, London!

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I destined to do nothing but stupid mistakes?
Wondering

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Dear Wondering,
I am afraid that all evidence suggests such a trajectory.