“London’s falling underground, underground, underground…”
The cheery urchin sings as he walks down a side of the shadow-black street. Not trusting the children of Veilgarden as it is, the loud display pushes everyone further on edge. Though we know that such confusion is the aim of marauders, some of us are unable to resist. Some of us can’t even let our guards down where we sleep, lest the monstrosities that ooze out of the floorboards devour us.
The carnivorous spores at my cottage have breached the foundation again, and tonight’s best hope of escape awaits me in the cellar of Morrowford House. If I’m out long enough, my landlord shall eliminate the fungus as a personal favor, provided it doesn’t kill and eat him first. Desire makes fools of us all.
As I fidget with the handle of my pocket knife, I notice that Eloissa May is perfectly at ease. A seasoned local, she smacks away on sticky mushroom candy. It is my fortune that her jaw waggles so freely this evening. Or is it morning? Blast this wretched cavern.
“It’s no different from what you’re doin’, really.” She nods toward the urchin. “Casing is all that is. Only he’s more subtle about it.” She already knows me too well. But what of it? If I’m careful, I can still make off with a jar of prisoner’s honey.
I take one of Eloissa’s hands with both of mine and raise it to my lips. “Dolce mia, you injure me with your callous accusations.” She yanks her hand away. I persevere. “Your master’s finest trinkets are rubbish compared to your beauty and intellect.”
“You spend too much time with those devils from the Brass Embassy, Keller. I’ll give up the good stuff with or without your flattery.” She throws me a wink and a smile. Pressing on toward her mid-forties, she is rather lovely despite the wears of servile life. Her familiarity with the details of the Great Game also indicates a cleverness that I couldn’t hope to possess. I must be careful.
“Morrowford’s salon starts in less than half an hour,” she says. “However shall we pass the time?” She tilts her head to the side as she leans against the backdoor jamb and almost makes me forget what I came for. I grin wolfishly. I’m not sure she even knows whether I’m male or female. What I really like is how she doesn’t seem to care.
“Tell me about the Fall.”
“Nothing to tell, really. I was just a girl barely out of me first gowns. I don’t remember much.”
Hell, I think. “You don’t remember how bats managed to drag the whole of London into the guts of the Earth? Seems improbable.”
“Don’t use your fancy surface words on me, ‘ey? Alls I remember is panic in me house and about the streets, then darkness. Pitch, stiflin’ black, it was. Me family was mad as March hares before the ground even began to roar.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Yet she opened her maw, taking into her soul the babes of Gehenna, black bones and all.’” Stories about the Fall are something of a commodity. I admit to being slightly intrigued.
“That’s right, me love. And no fair, quoting Gyuri. You know I can’t resist.”
“I could carry entire conversations using only his verse, but I insist you resume your story before I go further.” If I play this right, it’ll be nothing but dreams of glass palaces and open, burning skies for hours. I must have that honey!
“The mouth of the world opened up, indeed, and it was a vicious ride down her gullet. Horrible. Then the blackness turned dark red and the air stank from the fires. Some bats me brother trapped as pets was disappeared when the shakin’ finally stopped. No idea how they got out of their cages.”
“Enchanting. And you said there was nothing to tell.”
“Aye, but you believe anythin’ what comes out a pretty face, don’t ye?”
“I get into the best trouble that way.” We eye each other like lions for a moment. My cheeks flush and I tell myself it’s more in anticipation of my supernatural escape than for anything carnal, but then I remember the two often pair well.
A horrific scream distracts me from the thought. Out in the street a lady of some refinement shrieks and wrings her purple silk-gloved hands. “My satchel! Those filthy roof-rats! They’ve taken my satchel!” Several passerby attempt to calm her down as two constables squint over the streetlights. They can barely discern the swift shadows on the roofs, and the thieving children laugh brazenly over their triumph. Not one of us can do a thing for it.
“That’s urchins for you. Petty crooks, they is. If I was spidery as they, I’d steal more than purses off ol’ snod—”
I shut her up with a lusty kiss on the mouth. With everyone’s attention elsewhere, my timing is perfect. Experience has taught me that warming up in such a way lends itself to the most lurid and satisfying honey dreams. I take note of how pleasant the mushroom candy tastes before she pushes me off.
“Foolish Keller,” she gasps. “That’ll be the end of you. The salon’s startin’.” She twirls away from me, quickly vanishing up the stairs, leaving me alone to the cellar pantry. What a cuttingly perceptive woman. Hedonism will indeed be my undoing, but hopefully not tonight.
The house’s treasures are innumerable. Under the dim gaslights, I spy the secret jar. Surely young Morrowford won’t miss it, as prisoner’s honey is easy to come by for a lad of his breeding. I reach back and carefully hoist the jar, delighted at its heaviness, then steal away from the scene not to return for at least a fortnight.
There is no breeze to blow about the dark wastelands in which my cottage is located, but after tonight’s excitement my imagination is already aroused; I feel an open night wind caress my face, refreshing my lungs as I look up at what passes for stars in this inconceivably vast cavern. Some say the glowing specs stuck up there are insects, others say they’re gems. Tonight, I don’t care. By the unspeakable magicks of the Neath, I’m about to be physically transported away from here into a dream of something much stranger, albeit much more lovely.
I open the door and race through my dark living room. I’m sure I can outrun the fungus. I make haste to the attic and climb out the window, shutting it tight behind me. Carefully, carefully, I hold the heavy jar in one hand and snake my way onto the roof.
At last, I lie down and make ready to leave Fallen London for a while; to forget the madness of eternal night, the knowledge that Hell is only downriver, and most of all, to put off fighting with that blasted man-eating ooze that terrorizes me from under the dinette.
The lid of the jar comes off easily and I breathe deep, anticipating a sweet hickory odour. Instead I’m met with a foul breath from the beaches of the Unterzee: The jar is full of wet sand! Stuck in it is a piece of high-end purple stationery. I pull it out and read the smeared scribble:
Thanks for the treet, guv! Hope ye get on good wiv yer ladie friend – weel wave to ye from the glass palass tonite!
Those horrible urchins swiped the real jar while I was groping Eloissa May! Ugh! Briefly, I start to think it serves me right, but the moment is crushed under a wave of disappointment and dread. Now the heat wafting over from Hell is more oppressive and the dark around me issues a threat: the wood creaks apart downstairs, warping as the fungus rises, and I can just imagine the pointy little teeth gnashing away hungrily.
I try to dump the sand out of the jar but only some of it clomps out. No matter – if I’m lucky, the extra weight should be enough to knock the fungus unconscious. If not, the brass halls of Hell are really quite charming. Their handsome ambassadors have told me so.
Just another day in Fallen London as seen through the eyes of my libertine, genderfluid character. That’s right, Failbetter Games allows you to experience this incredible world without restricting you to binaries of orientation or gender. And that’s just one of its many charms. All the events here are retellings of the myriad possibilities in the Neath. Admission is free – descend, and see for yourself. Enjoy an evening of Bach in the company of devils. Sip mushroom wine with revolutionaries and poets, but do mind your purse.
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