literature
Honey Red Rose - 1
Universe: Fallen London
Warning: This story contains spoilers for the Fallen London Fate Story 'The Gift'
Date: 1894, June 6th
Pain, confusion, fear. When she woke those were the first things that flashed through her mind. Her neck stung, as if she had been stabbed with a needle. Her thoughts were foggy and unfocused. Something was wrong. She tried to lift a hand to her head, but her hands wouldn’t move. They were bound behind her back.
“Don’t worry. The poison will wear off soon.” A joyful voice spoke in the darkness, rousing her. She snapped awake from her stupor. An exquisite woman wearing a tiara was kneeling by her side, stroking her hair with delicate fingers. The woman’s smile was excited, almost hungry. Her eyes were bright scarlet. Something moved in the shadows, something unnatural. The woman’s grin grew wider.
------ Nine Days Earlier -------
North of Tyrant’s Gardens the Ambassador’s villa glowed with life. The perpetual night was held at bay by a shield of light from half-a-thousand candles lighting up the ballroom of the great mansion. Within, many of London’s most influential and prominent socialites were gathered for the Ambassador’s seasonal ball.
As always their host had created a party at the height of fashion and refinement. A soothing waltz moved the attendees in genteel tunes to poised steps as the enticing scent of sweet perfumes wafted through the air. The chequered floor was polished to a mirror sheen, and the refracted light of the crystal chandelier turned the ballroom as colourful as a flower garden bathed in forgotten sunshine. The attendees of this fine assembly were keenly engaged, either dancing, drifting about in search for a partner, or gathered in small crowds to network through socialising, gossip, and the occasionally earnest conversation.
By the swan fountain stood one such crowd of five. Two young bachelors of the gentry in sombre jackets that contrasted their gregarious demeanours stood attending a pair of fine ladies from even finer families, one clad in a gown of gold, the other of soft pink. The youngest amongst the five, wearing an ivory evening dress of pearlescent velvet, was a socialite of recent prominence.
“So what did you do?” Vena asked, her eyes sparkling with admiration.
The young man squared his shoulders. “Well, I knew that I had to act quickly, or my friend would be dead. So I leapt down from my horse just as the marsh-wolf charged. I snatched the pistol from the ground where it had fallen and fired at the very last moment. My shot caught the foul beast in stride, and it turned tail and fled back from whence it came.”
“Ooooh, how very brave of you!” One of the ladies cooed, her friend fanned herself avidly to hide her blush, and the other gentleman nodded his heartfelt approval.
Vena playfully twirled a lock of her golden-brown hair around a finger. “Indeed. Such devotion and bravery in the face of danger is what will carry London’s majesty into the future.” Each of the others voiced their concord to that sentiment and added their own flattery. She tactfully neglected to mention how she knew from personal experience that a single wounding shot from a simple pistol would never stop a hungry marsh-wolf that had scented a kill.
A servant passed by with a tray of refreshments and everyone took a drink of cool lemonade. Vena savoured the revitalizing delight of the sweet liquid as it tickled its way down her throat.
The gentleman who had told the story seemed about to launch into another anecdote when a commotion drew their attention off to the left. A lady in a pale dress of feathery design was sobbing uncontrollably while her companion was very awkwardly trying to both comfort her and avoid making a scene, hopeless though both acts appeared. Already the guests were distancing themselves from this overly emotional display and murmuring unkind things.
The bachelor waited politely until the young lady had recovered enough to be escorted out by her friend before commenting. “What was that all about?”
“That was Johanna Ashmoor. I heard that her brother recently died.” One of the ladies said with the air of a matron dying to share gossip.
“Oh my goodness, will he get better?” The gold-clothed girl asked.
“I doubt it, I heard that he drowned himself by jumping in the Stolen River, he might even have joined the drownies!”
The younger of the two gentlemen looked shocked. “My word, that is horrible! What could posses a man to do such a thing?”
“What else but love, of course.” Vena said, her voice soft as silk. She batted her dark lashes alluringly to illustrate her point. “He was spurned by the Captivating Princess.”
She enjoyed the shift of mood that immediately fell on the group. The two ladies giggled with admiration; the younger bachelor blushed bright red; the elder, who had told the story, scowled in reproach.
“Was he her lover?” One of the ladies asked, hungry for gossip about the palace affairs.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t know, I have no interest in the private affairs of royalty.” Vena smiled, drawing out the tension. “But... a friend of mine who knows one of her maids said that Jonathan Ashmoor had been assigned as her chaperon for his irreprehensible standards of conduct, but got a little too smitten by his charge’s marvellous virtues.”
The gathering sighed sympathetically. It was a common sentiment amongst the fine society that chaperoning the Captivating Princess generally met with as much success as chaperoning a mischievous tiger on a trip through a wildlife sanctuary. Even if no one was crass enough to ever suggest such a thing out loud.
The older gentleman made a discontented snort. “With the number of paramours she goes through it is a wonder there are any eligible bachelors left in London.”
“I would be careful with saying things like that.” Vena nonchalantly swirled the liquid of her drink in placid circles. “In some circles inventing baseless slander and disingenuous insinuations about the fair character of our youngest princess could be considered treasonous.”
“What? Would you tell Her Royal Highness that I said it?” He replied. His voice didn’t shake, but the colour was draining from his face.
Vena splayed a hand over her chest. “Me? Of course not. She barely sees me when I pass her at the Court.”
“You have been invited to the Court of the Shuttered Palace?” The younger bachelor asked intrigued.
She smiled modestly, a suggestion of red tinting her complexion. “Oh yes. It was quite the happy accident; while at one of the Duchess’ salons, I must have impressed her, for she arranged for my invitation to the court.”
“Ah, my sincere congratulations!” The elder bachelor said, quickly covering his recent jibe. “You must tell us all the latest news. I hear that his Amused Lordship has visited the Parlour of Virtue, is this true?”
The two ladies giggled. Vena held her hand over her heart. “I couldn’t possibly comment on the behaviour of such an outstanding member of society. But I will say that I saw Jenny herself at court, in animated conversation with his Lordship, but I am sure that their relationship is entirely platonic...”
The ladies looked scandalised, and within moments a lively discussion was underway about the fine intricacies of the palace-goers interactions and connections to one another, in which conversation Vena enjoyed centre stage. At a lull in the gossip, the younger bachelor turned to her. “If you are a regular at the Court, have you perchance then visited the shuttered cellars?”
Without warning the atmosphere of the conversation turned chilly, and the air almost audibly tenser. She didn’t know the implications, but this was clearly a subject one did not discuss in polite company.
“Of course she hasn’t.” One of the ladies said in a mortified tone. “She is obviously a lady of fine character and virtuous moral purity.”
Vena turned up her nose, affronted. “What are you going to suggest next? That I have visited the Tomb Colonies?”
The rest of the group looked suitably horrified at such implications and the young man paled as he realised his mistake. He quickly excused himself by offering to retrieve more refreshments, but clearly just wanted to leave without embarrassing himself further.
When he had disappeared into the crowds, one of the fine women turned to Vena. “Suggesting that you have visited the cellars! I mean, really, the nerve! Don’t worry, dear, I will make sure that such a suggestion does nothing to tarnish your immaculate reputation. You shouldn’t suffer from such a lack of tact on another’s behalf.”
Vena laid an appreciative hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I sincerely appreciate that, Ms. Henna.”
The conversation quickly shifted to a less scandalous subject, but Vena’s mind was elsewhere. Why was the shuttered cellars such as taboo? She had heard mention of the cellars beneath the palace when she was at the Court, of course, but only ever fleetingly in passing.
After the conversation, Vena left to mingle with other guests. But through the rest of the evening her mind was set on schemes of a less than social nature; so she waited and kept an eye on the young man who had asked her about the cellars. When an opportune moment appeared she timed the end of a dance with a parliamentarian so that she would end up beside him at the dining table.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She said when she ‘accidentally’ bumped into him. The bachelor blushed but quickly recovered his wits. “Not at all, miss, a gentleman such as I should always watch where he is going and give preference to young ladies of such grace as yourself.”
Vena’s smile reached her eyes. “You are too kind. I do hope there are no hard feelings between us about the little affair of the conversation earlier.”
The man nervously tried to return her smile. “No, no, not at all. I should not have brought it up. I do apologise again if I in any way offended your dignity.”
The young lady let her hand trace across his arm, her touch light as a breeze. “Oh, no. In fact I am flattered that you thought that I was fascinating and brave enough to have explored such a mystery.”
“Really? But I thought that you said-”
“That I was insulted? Not at all, sir, but would you have said anything else amongst such bores as Lady Henna and Sir Cameron?”
The young man uncertainly rubbed his arm where she had touched; he couldn’t quite get himself to meet her eyes. “I suppose not. But... do you really find such rumours intriguing?”
“Of course, dear. What could be more exciting than the mysteries and hidden intrigues of the palace itself? And, of course, the men who happen to appreciate and know about such things...” Vena’s voice was a velvety purr, and her eyes seductively half-lidded.
The bachelor stammered and cleared his throat. “Well, I am no expert on such matters. I don’t even have regular access to the palace itself. But I have been told that I am rather observant and I do remember strange rumours when I hear them.”
The young lady’s smile was radiant. “Oh, I haven’t the slightest doubt. What kind of rumours might these be?”
He rubbed his neck. His cheeks were reddening. His eyes had found hers and wouldn’t stray. “Well, I heard that there was once someone who went down there and never returned! And I heard servants say that strange things lurk the tunnels and will eat anyone they find.”
“Really? Are you sure?” She asked.
The bachelor nodded, becoming more assured now that he had a captivated and captivating listener. “Yes, it is said that they hide behind five gold-framed doors that guard the way into the deep cellars. And when someone displeases the Empress she has them thrown down into the cellars to be hunted through a maze by these creatures.”
The young socialite’s face lit up in fearful fascination. “My dear goodness, do you really think that there could be monsters underneath the palace?”
The bachelor cleared his throat and stood taller in an attempt to seem more authoritative. “I dare say so, yes. Some say that they are the Bellicose Prince’s hunting dogs, which became infected with something horrible that turned them monstrous; others that the Empress hides a menagerie of beasts she had brought in secretly from all the strange shores of the Neath. But... I think that I know the truth.”
Vena’s eyes sparkled mesmerised in the refracted glow of the chandelier. “Really?”
He made a theatrical show of checking if anyone was listening before he learned in close to whisper. “There are plenty of people who don’t support our ‘Traitor Empress’, and though the crown only rarely reacts directly to these dissidents they sometimes just disappear. I have come to believe that the Empress’ political enemies are taken in secret and imprisoned within the shuttered cellars where they are hunted and broken like animals until madness consumes them and there is nothing human left of the men and women they once were.”
The young lady placed her hands over her mouth in horror. Nodding self-satisfied, the bachelor let the subject wander to other rumours in similar vein that he had overheard. It was clear, however, that he now merely wanting to impress. Vena indulged him courteously until she politely excused herself as an elegant heiress came up and asked her for dance as the ball started to creep towards the night.
---
A small hour and a brisk carriage ride later and Vena found herself at the entrance to the handsome townhouse she owned in central London. Within a moment of knocking, the door was opened by a tall, well-built and -dressed man of bronze complexion. He bowed as he held the door open for her.
“Welcome home, Mistress. I trust the evening was to your satisfaction?”
“Quite, perhaps more so than I expected.” She said, stepping inside and handing him the coat she had worn over her dress, which he took and folded neatly over one arm.
“Shall I have Julia prepare you a meal?”
“No, that won’t be necessary; I have eaten and will be in the library for the rest of the evening.”
Charles nodded. “Will you be taking the messages that arrived during the evening there too?”
“Are any of them important?”
“Nothing that can't wait a day or two.”
“Then place them on my writing desk and I will see to them on the morrow.”
“Very good.” He bowed. “Incidentally, young Miss Clara arrived a few hours ago and asked to stay for the evening.”
“Was she looking for me?”
“She didn’t say, Mistress, but I don’t believe so.”
“Very well. Have one of the guest rooms prepared, and see to it that the cellars are securely locked during her stay.”
Charles bowed again. “Of course, Mistress, I will make sure everything is under lock and key.”
As her footman hurried off to attend to his duties, Vena went upstairs to refresh herself from the evening. Though it was nearing the time of night where the London lights were extinguished and most decent people went to sleep, Vena was determined to investigate what she had learned while the memory was still fresh in her mind.
After washing herself, she changed out of the pearlescent evening gown in favour of a set of dark trousers and a deep red satin shirt beneath a black floral-patterned vest.
When ready, she proceeded downstairs to find her adoptive niece sprawled across the Georgian divan in the spacious living room. Vena raised an eyebrow at the sight of the girl’s discourteous position, and Clara quickly sat up properly the moment she realised the adult woman’s presence, her cheeks flushing gently.
“I am sorry; I didn’t hear you come in.” Clara said. She was clearly distracted; her tone of voice was still the rough drawl common to Spite, rather than the polished accent she normally adopted in Vena’s company.
“Really? You must have been troubled then.”
The girl took the cup of tea from the table in front of her and sipped. “It’s nothing serious; a little occurrence with some friends didn’t go as planned. And I am just lying low here until things blow over.”
Vena saw her hands shaking ever so slightly and her gaze wander preoccupied. She didn’t comment. After a moment of evaluating silence Clara changed the subject. “Was the ball as good as you hoped? You were looking forward to it all week.”
It was a clumsy attempt at discretion from her protégé, but Vena let it slide. “Yes and maybe more than just entertaining or socially useful.”
“Did you find any interesting leads on something?” Clara asked, as ever observant.
“Perhaps. Most of what I learned was baseless rumours of the typical useless kind, but one of them bears closer investigating.”
With this she turned and walked into her private library. With a hand on the door handle Vena paused and spoke over her shoulder. “Remain as long as you like. The servants will have a room prepared if you want to stay for the night.” To which Clara nodded gratefully.
‘Library’ was perhaps too grandiose a name for what amounted more to a well-furnished study. The room was built in symmetrical Palladian style with floor, walls, and ceiling made of a deep brown hardwood that shone with a warm patina. With a large Persian carpet beneath a set of lavish rococo furniture, and a dozen bookcases lining the walls and framing a marble fireplace, the study felt like a plush little vault of secluded knowledge.
As far as personal libraries went it wasn’t the most impressive in terms of size or contents, but since her arrival in London Vena had managed to assemble a decent collection of miscellaneous volumes ranging from the practical through the classically and contemporary popular, to the esoteric. Literature written since the descent to the Neath, or translated from works of the earlier fallen cities had been of particular interest to her.
Closing the door behind her, she ignited the fireplace which quickly engulfed the room in a pleasant glow before she started pacing the bookshelves, tracing a finger along the dust-free spines of the books.
Where to start looking? One of the most essential elements to discovering hidden secrets was knowing what to search for. Seeking information directly about the shuttered cellars was unlikely to turn up anything interesting. It was more often than not the little nuggets of patterns and oblique references that were the unseen backdoor to opening the heart of a mystery.
She had long ago picked up a sense for when a rumour sounded exaggerated, distorted, or plain fictitious, and most of the rumours the bachelor had told her about the shuttered cellars were vague and nonsensical. But his comment about the five gold-framed doors leading into the deep cellars had the ring of authenticity. The kind of specificity that was entirely irrelevant to the rumours themselves often bespoke something beyond mere fiction. It seemed her best lead to begin.
Just to be safe she picked out a heavy book on the cultural history of London and searched for anything related to the Shuttered Palace. Predictably, the books mentioned cellars of the palace, but glanced over them with no more detail than a remark about wine and food storages.
Undeterred, she found a handful of volumes she suspected might be relevant, each detailing somewhat more esoteric areas of research – chthonic legends, occult numerology, dream interpretation, crypto-symbology – and sat down in a plush rococo armchair by the fire to begin searching for references to doors or gold-framing.
There were some mentions of mirror-doors, gold-framed paintings, and a handful of strange, obscure references to a gate going North, but little of immediate value. The most promising lead was a note about the seven doors of the Bazaar, one of which was of ormolu. But it seemed more a coincidence than anything.
Then, far into the night when she was beginning to think she would have to search beyond her private collection, she found something. In a published journal of discoveries a late prelapsarian scholar discussed numerology in the fallen cities and under the entry detailing the number ‘5’ made a reference to a Second City myth containing a ‘quintet of portals framed by sun-metal and guarding the prison.’ Unfortunately, Vena’s library didn’t include much Second City related literature, but she found a simplified retelling of the myth in an anthology of ancient children fables written by Benthic Professor Amanda Bones.
The story itself was a simple heroic tale where the beautiful and beloved daughter of a king was stung by a scorpion and ends up dying. To save her, the king made a desperate bargain with a demon who promised to restore the princess to life for an unknown cost. The demon healed the princess but took her humanity as its payment, thus turning her into a monstrous creature. Horrified, the king sealed her beneath the palace, behind five sun-framed doors guarded by a pair of lionesses. The rest of the story then detailed a young hero’s journey to restore the princess and win her hand in marriage.
Excited, Vena hurried to retrieve the heavy culture book she had searched in the start. Leafing through the chapters, she quickly found something that she had skimmed over earlier. There was a passage about the art of the Shuttered Palace, which included a mention of a matching pair of lioness statues.
Putting her books aside, Vena leaned back in the armchair and turned to gaze into the fireplace. The two statues were in a corridor accessible only through the palace ballroom. Which left her two options, sneak in during the night, or go in under the cover of a social event at day.
She considered both before settling on the latter. In a week’s time there was to be a soirée held at the palace, in celebration of Governess Brite’s recent expansion of Port Carnelian’s borders.
This seemed the more prudent course. So despite smouldering with curiosity she steeled herself with patience. Putting the situation out of her mind for now, the mistress of the house put out the fire and left the Library to get some rest, trusting that as soon as she was gone her servants would return the room to the state she had found it in.
---
For the uninvited, entering the Shuttered Palace was a nightmare. Tall, barbed walls surrounded the perimeter while armed patrols of the Queen’s Guard kept watch of the premises with trained hounds, and every entry was manned at two separate checkpoints. The protective measures within the palace itself were even harsher.
But prestige, or the imitation thereof, came with its own perks. So a week later, wearing a dark purple suit of Khaganian cut and carrying herself with the appropriate air of aloofness, Vena strolled into the residence of the royal family, with the name of her hostess for the evening serving as her credentials if challenged.
There was always an arrangement one could partake in at the palace if one was so inclined, at least if one possessed the status to procure an invitation or the charm to induce a smile by turning up unannounced. The Duchess and His Amused Lordship hosted weekly salons, and every few days at least a handful lesser socialites held their own social events to garner favour and influence.
As the heart of London’s politics and finer culture, on any given day the palace played host to a decent measure of the city’s social elite. This was no less true today than usual, and the moment Vena stepped foot inside the main entrance, she could already taste the sharp concoction of tension and anticipation that always surrounded the gathering of high society.
But today she was not here to socialise. Ignoring the darting servants, lavish courtiers, and uniformed guards, she made her way through the vaulted hallways and stately chambers. Access to the backrooms where the lioness statues stood was only possible from the ballroom. These backrooms were nowadays sealed and only likely to be opened when in use by the servants.
When she found the ballroom a dance was already underway. Bashful young maidens were asked up by keen bachelors, while older veterans of the dance steered their partners to the soothing tones of the waltz. With the ease of one raised for this kind of thing, Vena nonchalantly slipped into the gathering with little notice.
The atmosphere was festive. The news of the celebrated Lady Brite’s accomplishments in London’s little colony in the Elder Continent could not be more welcome. There were few things Londoners enjoyed more than tales of proper British valour and virtues triumphing over villainous continentals in the name of the Empire.
Vena drifted amongst the crowds, exchanging greetings with those she didn’t know and sharing a joke or piece of gossip with those she did. With her friends she discussed topics like what the reaction from the Presbyterate might be, and the possibility of having the Governess’ term of office extended, all the while keeping an eye on an opportune moment to follow the real reason for her being here.
Then something caught her eye. By the balcony, the Prim Baronet was engaged in conversation with a young lady of singular exquisivity: the Captivating Princess, wearing a scandalous dress of black and scarlet lace and a scalding air of glamour. There was no one in London who made notoriety look more appealing.
The Baronet was solemnly trying to impress upon her the validity of him financing a new monument in the honour of her mother, the Empress. The Princess, however, scarcely seemed interested. Half-a-dozen minor socialites hovered close by, trying very hard to look like they weren’t there simply for the hope of the merest morsel of royal attention.
On a sudden excited impulse, Vena made the gamble to intervene.
“I will have it installed at a place of prominence in honour of your mother. That goes without saying, of course.” The Baronet said. Vena cut in before he could continue. “London has so many statues of her Imperial Majesty that it is a miracle the Masters haven’t started taxation of them yet.”
She held her breath. The Prim Baronet looked outraged, but the Princess chuckled. It was a small thing, but it was all the invitation Vena needed. “If one has to spend money on frivolous ornamentation, I think even the Empress would prefer a bit of novelty over sycophantic ego stroking.”
The Baronet looked like he was about to turn purple, but rather than start an argument in front of royalty, he seemed to decide that discretion was the better part of valour and turned to leave with a last cold nod of civility.
The Captivating Princess turned to Vena. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.” She remarked brightly. Her diamond drop earrings and tiara sparkled like liquid moonlight in tantalizing contrast to her lush, dark hair. The scent of her perfume smelled like honey.
“Your Royal Highness.” The young lady replied with a smart bow, her pulse rising in excitement. “My name is Lady Vena Delacroix.” Much to her delight all the socialites around them sent her withering glares.
The Princess’ face was alit with good-natured amusement. “Charmed.”
Eyes the exact scarlet shade of pomegranate seeds found the gaze of ones the sparkling green of embers glimpsed through an emerald. It was Vena who looked away, but both of them chuckled as she did.
The Princess cocked her head in amusement, as if she recognised something. “Tell me: weren’t you involved in the recent expedition to the Tomb of the Seven in the Forgotten Quarter?”
Vena was taken aback. “Indeed, that was me, I led it actually. I didn’t know you had an interest in such things, Your Royal Highness.”
Lips so red they could have been stained from drinking blood curled into an infectious smile. “Not many do. But it is not just that. I have seen you around a few times since you entered the palace. You intrigue me.”
Vena felt a stab of excitement. Where she shrouded herself in respectability, the Captivating Princess wore scandal like a Parisian gown; her interest was not piqued by the mundane.
She half-turned away. “I do hope I’ll see more of you later.” She blew Vena a kiss with a smile full of promise. “And I hope I can introduce you to my sister at some point, I think she’ll like you too.”
With this she waved goodbye and turned to disappear into the crowd, while Vena was left pondering this puzzling parting remark. Except for the Captivating Princess none of the royal children had been seen in public for years. Brushing it aside as another royal eccentricity, Vena returned to her original purpose with an excited new spring in her steps.
---
It didn’t take long to find the lioness statues. After slipping out of the ballroom unseen by the guests and savants she found them standing back-to-back halfway down the hallway. Across from one of them was an unobtrusive door.
If she hadn’t read so many Gothic novels about tempting fate she would have remarked upon it almost seeming too easy.
Making sure no one was nearby, she checked that the door was unlocked, and went through. The corridor beyond was black as pitch, but she had expected as much when entering the cellars and lit a fox-fire candle. Unlike the rest of the palace the walls here were entirely plain, covered only by an undecorated layer of pale plaster.
The path ahead quickly turned into a steep downwards incline, and it wasn’t long before she figured she was underground, well, more underground, beneath the Neath floor plane. Soon the corridor came to a halt, with three separate paths forking off in their own direction.
It seemed that the cellars were a lot more extensive than she had first expected. Careful to keep track of her location she went down one path and set about exploring what quickly turned out to be a considerable network of interconnected underground tunnels. A few times she was forced to double back due to dead ends or hide because of approaching servants. Twice she ended up back where she had started. She had the eerie feeling that some of the paths had changed ever so slightly when she passed them again. Eventually, following the age-old maze-traversing trick of always following the left-hand path, she reached her goal.
Straight ahead was an old but robust oak door with a gilded frame, the first of five. The lock looked simple enough.
Pursing her lips, Vena retrieved a set of kifers from the chatelaine purse hanging from her waist. Unlocking it was child’s play and after a moment it swung soundlessly open before her.
The next two gold-framed doors revealed themselves shortly after each other. Both were of iron, the first cast and old-fashioned, the second wrought and gleaming new. The locks were modern and well-made, each more complex than the last. The latter was tricky, but both gave way after a handful of minutes of dedicated work with her thief tools.
When she reached the fourth door the plaster on the walls had given way to unadorned stone, as in some medieval dungeon. This door was cast from hardened steel with a ratwork lock of meticulous precision engineering. By this point her confidence of getting through all five doors was waning.
Wetting her lips and furrowing her brow she carefully set to work. A half-dozen minutes of fruitless tinkering ticked by, then another and another. Then finally, after what must have been almost a half hour of scrupulous work, a satisfying little click rang out.
With a mounting sense of foreboding she pushed the door open and stepped through to the fifth and final door. When she saw it, her heart sank. She recognised the copper-coloured alloy as thrice-tampered ratwork steel; the same material which the navy used for the hull armour of their battleships. She could blow a decent sized bomb in front of this door and it would have had negligible effect. The lock was a nevercold brass contraption that looked more like a labyrinthine clockwork nightmare than a keyhole. She didn’t even know where she was supposed to begin.
She examined the door, but found no way through it. There was a small furrow under the door, perhaps an inch high. It was barely enough to get a hand through, and she didn’t really feel much like sticking her fingers in there to try.
Then she paused. There was a sound coming from the other side. She leaned close to listen. It was heavy and irregular, like bellows through a grill, or even deep, laboured breathing.
Then she jumped as the door shuddered, followed by a rumbling growl, like the dull grinding of heavy machinery; and a hoarse voice, full of pain and unused to speech. “Who’s... there...?”
Vena hesitated, but then replied. “I’m a visitor.”
“A... visitor? Mother.... doesn’t like.... visitors... only.... sister....” The half-broken words were accompanied by a sound a little too close for comfort to the gnashing of tremendous teeth.
The voice went quiet. Vena strained to listen, and could only barely make out the pained breathing. Then it sounded again, so close to the door that she flinched. “Bring... mirror.”
A mirror? That was an odd request. But something told her that whatever was behind that door didn’t want it out of vanity. She had a silvery hand mirror about the size of her palm in her chatelaine purse, a standard requirement for any young lady of status.
Carefully, she slid the mirror under the door and waited. Suddenly there was bright flash of amber light from beneath the door. “Cruellest... of mercies... is regret.” The voice was so pained that Vena shivered despite herself.
Then there was quiet. She couldn’t hear anything; even the breathing had ceased.
For several moments Vena waited, unsure of what to do now. She looked at the fifth door again, but it was a moot point. Even if she wanted to find out who, or more likely what, was on the other side there was no way for her to get through the door. Figuring that the time was running late and that it wouldn’t due to be discovered down here, she cast a last look on the door and then turned around and left, wondering if this was a mystery that was to remain unsolved.
----
It was two days later, about late morning had one still been on the surface. She was sitting on her Georgian divan and examining a small collection of Correspondence plaques, using a semiotic monocle to protect her eyes from extended exposure to the effects of the unnatural sigils.
Falarah lay on the richly-coloured carpet and whispered small secrets to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room. Rather than a midnight cat, her reflection was that of a black panther.
“My Lady?” Charles asked as he entered the room. Vena looked up. Her footman was carrying a small package, and placed it on the table in front of her. “I found this on the doorstep; someone must have left it there for you.”
“Oh?” She handed the monocle to him. “Please take these back to the others.”
“Certainly, Mistress.” He said and gathered up the Correspondence plaques before leaving with crisp steps.
The little package was trimly wrapped in whisper-satin as red as a ripe apple. Holding it up to her ear she could hear soft voices murmuring sweetly. There was a cream card attached which bore no signature or watermark. A single phrase was written in neat, fluid script: ‘It is the duty of conscientious souls to help others realise their potential.’ She wondered whether this was meant to refer to the sender or to her.
Intrigued, she opened the package with no further ceremony, and to her vague surprise found a small glassy-eyed doll of porcelain skin and silken dress inside. As she lifted it out of the box the left arm fell back down with a thud, broken.
The break was messy, with a lot of jagged edges. She surmised the arm had been broken off by a solid blow against something angular, a table edge or a fall on the step of a stair perhaps.
The quality of the craftsmanship was obvious even at a glance. All joints could bend with anatomical accuracy, the hair was from luxurious animal fur, perhaps mink or chinchilla, and its clothes were expertly embroidered from surface silks. Despite Vena being born a noble herself this one was finer than any of the dolls she had played with when she was a little girl.
But despite the obvious value, it wasn’t very well maintained. Blemishes and stains of something unidentifiable dotted the dress, and the porcelain skin was marred by tiny dents and hairline fractures from minor impacts.
Which left the question: who would buy what must have been a very expensive doll like this and then not take care of it? And why send it to her? She noted that none of the materials used were of Neathy origin, so the doll might have been made before London’s fall to become the Fifth City, or been imported from the surface.
Falarah leapt up on the table and wandered over. She licked her front paw and arched her brow lazily. “A doll?”
“Apparently, though I could probably use an expert’s opinion.” Vena said, putting the thing down. “Vanessa!”
A keen, dark-haired servant girl hurried breathlessly inside. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Bring Sophia up here, please.”
“Of course.” She said, nodding. She was halfway out when she hesitated and blushed. “Ehm... which one of them is Sophia again?”
Vena rolled her eyes, but smiled patiently. “The white one.”
“Ah, of course.” Vanessa said and hurried out of the room with the kind of exuberant dedication normally reserved for young people in love and lawyers catching smell of a promising lawsuit.
“That girl is far too eager to please.” Falarah purred with typical feline condescension.
“That’s why I hired her.” Vena replied indulgently. “And don’t you have somewhere to be?” She knew better than to try to have Falarah and Sophia in a room together.
“I suppose.” The black cat stretched indolently and jumped down from the table. Entirely without a sound she stalked back over to the mirror in the corner of the room, and stepped through the glass to disappear. For a moment the glass rippled like water in her wake and Vena saw a glimpse of a familiar jungle landscape before the reflection regained coherence and showed the living room once more.
After a few moments of silence Vanessa returned. After her came a small snow-furred rat walking in on her hind legs. The servant helped the rat up on the table and then left the room with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning, Sophia.” Vena said. The albino rat nodded timidly. Her eyes looked puffed and shiny; Vena hoped she hadn’t been crying again. She politely didn’t mention it, knowing that the rat would just claim that she was fine.
She pushed the doll over to her. “What can you tell me about this?”
Sophia sniffed at it and looked it over for some time. “It’s a doll?” She squeaked uncertainly.
Vena sighed, reminding herself to be a little more specific when talking to rodents. “Yes, but beyond that. Could you guess where it comes from, or even who might have made it?”
“Hathhorn & Son.” She said immediately, her voice was quivering as usual, but she sounded certain. “Doll-maker in Spite. I recognise the patterning of the porcelain work, and the facial features. He makes dolls for wealthy people. This one is particular fine. It must be custom work for an important client.”
Vena rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. I think I better make a visit to see for myself.”
---
It took a surprisingly long time to find the place, but in due course she was directed to a small shop at the crook of a narrow alley. Unexpectedly the window display held old bottles rather than dolls, and the sign above the door read ‘Hathhorn Sporage.’ But beneath the boldly painted letters she could just make out the etchings of an older name ‘Hathhorn & Son: Doll-Maker by appointment of H.E.M.’
H.E.M. – Her Enduring Majesty. Interesting. Vena pushed the door open and entered. A small series of bells rang.
The inside of the shop was dusty and if not exactly dilapidated then certainly showing signs of neglect. The place didn’t look like it received a lot of visitors.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” A voice called from the back, which was quickly cut off by a loud thud and bitter curse. Then emerged a middle-aged man with hollow cheeks and an overcoat that would have looked respectable had it not been stained by spots of wine. One hand was rubbing his head where he must have hit a low doorframe; in the other he held a bottle marked Greyfields 1882. Despite the bottle being opened the man appeared sober enough.
“Can I help you?” He asked with a hopeful smile.
“Yes, I was looking for Mr. Hathhorn, the doll-maker.” She said.
The man’s smile faltered. “Then I fear you are sixteen years too late, miss. My father died and I liquidated his business as soon as I inherited it. I was never a good craftsman, but I have turned my passion into the new Hathhorn business.”
He gestured proudly around to the barrels and ordered rows of bottles filling the room.
“You are a wine trader?” She asked.
“Indeed!” The man said, with the air of someone all too eager to discuss it at length. “I trade the mushroom wines grown since the fall, specifically those distilled from unusual or mutated strains. Such as this one.”
He held up the bottle in his hand. “I was just sampling it. Lepidopteraceae. You can recognise them by the butterfly-mark. A distinctive aspiring flavour, thwarted by undertones of recrimination and moth.”
“Really? That sounds fascinating.” She lied. “Is it one of your own?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I just trade and sell them. But I have acquired quite a few highly specialised ones.”
He put the bottle aside and pulled out another made of dark greyish glass. “This one was distilled from the mushrooms that grow on the back of claymen; it’s quite a new invention. Would you like to sample a taste?”
“Why, I’d be delighted.” She said with all the sincerity of a devil swearing he only has your best interest at heart.
Being poured a small glass, she took a sip, fought the impulse to choke, and forced herself to swallow. She shuddered in distaste but compelled a smile on her face even so. “Ah, refreshingly astringent.”
Mr. Hathhorn nodded eagerly and pulled out two other bottles and started excitedly expanding upon the various kinds, virtues, and techniques related to the spore-infested vintages. For the next half hour or so she gave him her undivided attention and helped split a bottle of something sticky with a small jewel-eyed thing that wriggled at the bottom with increasing agitation as the level dropped. She personally thought she did an admirable job of not looking like she would have been willing to drink rat blood just to remove the taste.
As the minutes ticked by and Hathhorn’s opinion of her had been noticeably enhanced by wine, Vena started to steer the conversation towards his father’s business. It turned out that Mr. Hathhorn Senior had been one of the premiere doll-makers in the city, but that his apparent paternal neglect had caused his son to cancel all outstanding commissions and sell practically anything that reminded him of his father and his business.
“I do still have the box with all my father’s papers though.” He said. “You know, in case the authorities should have any questions about the legality of my new business, or any old client wanted to bring lawsuits against me for feeling cheated by my father, or some such.”
Vena’s eyes lit up. “You do? Can I see them?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I don’t see why not.” He rose and retrieved a dusty old box filled to the brim with papers. “Help yourself; just put it back when you are finished with it.”
She nodded and started going through the papers as Mr. Hathhorn Junior returned out back to continue his work. There was quite a substantial amount of paperwork, but given the high quality of the doll in her possession Vena started her search with looking for the most expensive orders. Soon enough she found invoices addressed to the Shuttered Palace. Even though most of them were censored with a heavy dose of ink, it was clear that Mr. Hathhorn Senior had been making dolls for the six royal daughters. It didn’t take long to find a description matching the one that Vena had received in the package. It had been made just before the Fall of London, for the second-youngest princess, the Playful Prodigy.
Putting the papers and boxes back, Vena started her trip home to clear the alcohol in her bloodstream while pondering this development. Why would someone – and presumably someone from the palace – send her a doll that belonged to a member of the royal family? Could this be related to her recent meeting with the Captivating Princess?
Now she knew which doll it was, but she still didn’t know why it had been delivered to her doorstep. Who had brought it?
Warning: This story contains spoilers for the Fallen London Fate Story 'The Gift'
Date: 1894, June 6th
Pain, confusion, fear. When she woke those were the first things that flashed through her mind. Her neck stung, as if she had been stabbed with a needle. Her thoughts were foggy and unfocused. Something was wrong. She tried to lift a hand to her head, but her hands wouldn’t move. They were bound behind her back.
“Don’t worry. The poison will wear off soon.” A joyful voice spoke in the darkness, rousing her. She snapped awake from her stupor. An exquisite woman wearing a tiara was kneeling by her side, stroking her hair with delicate fingers. The woman’s smile was excited, almost hungry. Her eyes were bright scarlet. Something moved in the shadows, something unnatural. The woman’s grin grew wider.
------ Nine Days Earlier -------
North of Tyrant’s Gardens the Ambassador’s villa glowed with life. The perpetual night was held at bay by a shield of light from half-a-thousand candles lighting up the ballroom of the great mansion. Within, many of London’s most influential and prominent socialites were gathered for the Ambassador’s seasonal ball.
As always their host had created a party at the height of fashion and refinement. A soothing waltz moved the attendees in genteel tunes to poised steps as the enticing scent of sweet perfumes wafted through the air. The chequered floor was polished to a mirror sheen, and the refracted light of the crystal chandelier turned the ballroom as colourful as a flower garden bathed in forgotten sunshine. The attendees of this fine assembly were keenly engaged, either dancing, drifting about in search for a partner, or gathered in small crowds to network through socialising, gossip, and the occasionally earnest conversation.
By the swan fountain stood one such crowd of five. Two young bachelors of the gentry in sombre jackets that contrasted their gregarious demeanours stood attending a pair of fine ladies from even finer families, one clad in a gown of gold, the other of soft pink. The youngest amongst the five, wearing an ivory evening dress of pearlescent velvet, was a socialite of recent prominence.
“So what did you do?” Vena asked, her eyes sparkling with admiration.
The young man squared his shoulders. “Well, I knew that I had to act quickly, or my friend would be dead. So I leapt down from my horse just as the marsh-wolf charged. I snatched the pistol from the ground where it had fallen and fired at the very last moment. My shot caught the foul beast in stride, and it turned tail and fled back from whence it came.”
“Ooooh, how very brave of you!” One of the ladies cooed, her friend fanned herself avidly to hide her blush, and the other gentleman nodded his heartfelt approval.
Vena playfully twirled a lock of her golden-brown hair around a finger. “Indeed. Such devotion and bravery in the face of danger is what will carry London’s majesty into the future.” Each of the others voiced their concord to that sentiment and added their own flattery. She tactfully neglected to mention how she knew from personal experience that a single wounding shot from a simple pistol would never stop a hungry marsh-wolf that had scented a kill.
A servant passed by with a tray of refreshments and everyone took a drink of cool lemonade. Vena savoured the revitalizing delight of the sweet liquid as it tickled its way down her throat.
The gentleman who had told the story seemed about to launch into another anecdote when a commotion drew their attention off to the left. A lady in a pale dress of feathery design was sobbing uncontrollably while her companion was very awkwardly trying to both comfort her and avoid making a scene, hopeless though both acts appeared. Already the guests were distancing themselves from this overly emotional display and murmuring unkind things.
The bachelor waited politely until the young lady had recovered enough to be escorted out by her friend before commenting. “What was that all about?”
“That was Johanna Ashmoor. I heard that her brother recently died.” One of the ladies said with the air of a matron dying to share gossip.
“Oh my goodness, will he get better?” The gold-clothed girl asked.
“I doubt it, I heard that he drowned himself by jumping in the Stolen River, he might even have joined the drownies!”
The younger of the two gentlemen looked shocked. “My word, that is horrible! What could posses a man to do such a thing?”
“What else but love, of course.” Vena said, her voice soft as silk. She batted her dark lashes alluringly to illustrate her point. “He was spurned by the Captivating Princess.”
She enjoyed the shift of mood that immediately fell on the group. The two ladies giggled with admiration; the younger bachelor blushed bright red; the elder, who had told the story, scowled in reproach.
“Was he her lover?” One of the ladies asked, hungry for gossip about the palace affairs.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t know, I have no interest in the private affairs of royalty.” Vena smiled, drawing out the tension. “But... a friend of mine who knows one of her maids said that Jonathan Ashmoor had been assigned as her chaperon for his irreprehensible standards of conduct, but got a little too smitten by his charge’s marvellous virtues.”
The gathering sighed sympathetically. It was a common sentiment amongst the fine society that chaperoning the Captivating Princess generally met with as much success as chaperoning a mischievous tiger on a trip through a wildlife sanctuary. Even if no one was crass enough to ever suggest such a thing out loud.
The older gentleman made a discontented snort. “With the number of paramours she goes through it is a wonder there are any eligible bachelors left in London.”
“I would be careful with saying things like that.” Vena nonchalantly swirled the liquid of her drink in placid circles. “In some circles inventing baseless slander and disingenuous insinuations about the fair character of our youngest princess could be considered treasonous.”
“What? Would you tell Her Royal Highness that I said it?” He replied. His voice didn’t shake, but the colour was draining from his face.
Vena splayed a hand over her chest. “Me? Of course not. She barely sees me when I pass her at the Court.”
“You have been invited to the Court of the Shuttered Palace?” The younger bachelor asked intrigued.
She smiled modestly, a suggestion of red tinting her complexion. “Oh yes. It was quite the happy accident; while at one of the Duchess’ salons, I must have impressed her, for she arranged for my invitation to the court.”
“Ah, my sincere congratulations!” The elder bachelor said, quickly covering his recent jibe. “You must tell us all the latest news. I hear that his Amused Lordship has visited the Parlour of Virtue, is this true?”
The two ladies giggled. Vena held her hand over her heart. “I couldn’t possibly comment on the behaviour of such an outstanding member of society. But I will say that I saw Jenny herself at court, in animated conversation with his Lordship, but I am sure that their relationship is entirely platonic...”
The ladies looked scandalised, and within moments a lively discussion was underway about the fine intricacies of the palace-goers interactions and connections to one another, in which conversation Vena enjoyed centre stage. At a lull in the gossip, the younger bachelor turned to her. “If you are a regular at the Court, have you perchance then visited the shuttered cellars?”
Without warning the atmosphere of the conversation turned chilly, and the air almost audibly tenser. She didn’t know the implications, but this was clearly a subject one did not discuss in polite company.
“Of course she hasn’t.” One of the ladies said in a mortified tone. “She is obviously a lady of fine character and virtuous moral purity.”
Vena turned up her nose, affronted. “What are you going to suggest next? That I have visited the Tomb Colonies?”
The rest of the group looked suitably horrified at such implications and the young man paled as he realised his mistake. He quickly excused himself by offering to retrieve more refreshments, but clearly just wanted to leave without embarrassing himself further.
When he had disappeared into the crowds, one of the fine women turned to Vena. “Suggesting that you have visited the cellars! I mean, really, the nerve! Don’t worry, dear, I will make sure that such a suggestion does nothing to tarnish your immaculate reputation. You shouldn’t suffer from such a lack of tact on another’s behalf.”
Vena laid an appreciative hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I sincerely appreciate that, Ms. Henna.”
The conversation quickly shifted to a less scandalous subject, but Vena’s mind was elsewhere. Why was the shuttered cellars such as taboo? She had heard mention of the cellars beneath the palace when she was at the Court, of course, but only ever fleetingly in passing.
After the conversation, Vena left to mingle with other guests. But through the rest of the evening her mind was set on schemes of a less than social nature; so she waited and kept an eye on the young man who had asked her about the cellars. When an opportune moment appeared she timed the end of a dance with a parliamentarian so that she would end up beside him at the dining table.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She said when she ‘accidentally’ bumped into him. The bachelor blushed but quickly recovered his wits. “Not at all, miss, a gentleman such as I should always watch where he is going and give preference to young ladies of such grace as yourself.”
Vena’s smile reached her eyes. “You are too kind. I do hope there are no hard feelings between us about the little affair of the conversation earlier.”
The man nervously tried to return her smile. “No, no, not at all. I should not have brought it up. I do apologise again if I in any way offended your dignity.”
The young lady let her hand trace across his arm, her touch light as a breeze. “Oh, no. In fact I am flattered that you thought that I was fascinating and brave enough to have explored such a mystery.”
“Really? But I thought that you said-”
“That I was insulted? Not at all, sir, but would you have said anything else amongst such bores as Lady Henna and Sir Cameron?”
The young man uncertainly rubbed his arm where she had touched; he couldn’t quite get himself to meet her eyes. “I suppose not. But... do you really find such rumours intriguing?”
“Of course, dear. What could be more exciting than the mysteries and hidden intrigues of the palace itself? And, of course, the men who happen to appreciate and know about such things...” Vena’s voice was a velvety purr, and her eyes seductively half-lidded.
The bachelor stammered and cleared his throat. “Well, I am no expert on such matters. I don’t even have regular access to the palace itself. But I have been told that I am rather observant and I do remember strange rumours when I hear them.”
The young lady’s smile was radiant. “Oh, I haven’t the slightest doubt. What kind of rumours might these be?”
He rubbed his neck. His cheeks were reddening. His eyes had found hers and wouldn’t stray. “Well, I heard that there was once someone who went down there and never returned! And I heard servants say that strange things lurk the tunnels and will eat anyone they find.”
“Really? Are you sure?” She asked.
The bachelor nodded, becoming more assured now that he had a captivated and captivating listener. “Yes, it is said that they hide behind five gold-framed doors that guard the way into the deep cellars. And when someone displeases the Empress she has them thrown down into the cellars to be hunted through a maze by these creatures.”
The young socialite’s face lit up in fearful fascination. “My dear goodness, do you really think that there could be monsters underneath the palace?”
The bachelor cleared his throat and stood taller in an attempt to seem more authoritative. “I dare say so, yes. Some say that they are the Bellicose Prince’s hunting dogs, which became infected with something horrible that turned them monstrous; others that the Empress hides a menagerie of beasts she had brought in secretly from all the strange shores of the Neath. But... I think that I know the truth.”
Vena’s eyes sparkled mesmerised in the refracted glow of the chandelier. “Really?”
He made a theatrical show of checking if anyone was listening before he learned in close to whisper. “There are plenty of people who don’t support our ‘Traitor Empress’, and though the crown only rarely reacts directly to these dissidents they sometimes just disappear. I have come to believe that the Empress’ political enemies are taken in secret and imprisoned within the shuttered cellars where they are hunted and broken like animals until madness consumes them and there is nothing human left of the men and women they once were.”
The young lady placed her hands over her mouth in horror. Nodding self-satisfied, the bachelor let the subject wander to other rumours in similar vein that he had overheard. It was clear, however, that he now merely wanting to impress. Vena indulged him courteously until she politely excused herself as an elegant heiress came up and asked her for dance as the ball started to creep towards the night.
---
A small hour and a brisk carriage ride later and Vena found herself at the entrance to the handsome townhouse she owned in central London. Within a moment of knocking, the door was opened by a tall, well-built and -dressed man of bronze complexion. He bowed as he held the door open for her.
“Welcome home, Mistress. I trust the evening was to your satisfaction?”
“Quite, perhaps more so than I expected.” She said, stepping inside and handing him the coat she had worn over her dress, which he took and folded neatly over one arm.
“Shall I have Julia prepare you a meal?”
“No, that won’t be necessary; I have eaten and will be in the library for the rest of the evening.”
Charles nodded. “Will you be taking the messages that arrived during the evening there too?”
“Are any of them important?”
“Nothing that can't wait a day or two.”
“Then place them on my writing desk and I will see to them on the morrow.”
“Very good.” He bowed. “Incidentally, young Miss Clara arrived a few hours ago and asked to stay for the evening.”
“Was she looking for me?”
“She didn’t say, Mistress, but I don’t believe so.”
“Very well. Have one of the guest rooms prepared, and see to it that the cellars are securely locked during her stay.”
Charles bowed again. “Of course, Mistress, I will make sure everything is under lock and key.”
As her footman hurried off to attend to his duties, Vena went upstairs to refresh herself from the evening. Though it was nearing the time of night where the London lights were extinguished and most decent people went to sleep, Vena was determined to investigate what she had learned while the memory was still fresh in her mind.
After washing herself, she changed out of the pearlescent evening gown in favour of a set of dark trousers and a deep red satin shirt beneath a black floral-patterned vest.
When ready, she proceeded downstairs to find her adoptive niece sprawled across the Georgian divan in the spacious living room. Vena raised an eyebrow at the sight of the girl’s discourteous position, and Clara quickly sat up properly the moment she realised the adult woman’s presence, her cheeks flushing gently.
“I am sorry; I didn’t hear you come in.” Clara said. She was clearly distracted; her tone of voice was still the rough drawl common to Spite, rather than the polished accent she normally adopted in Vena’s company.
“Really? You must have been troubled then.”
The girl took the cup of tea from the table in front of her and sipped. “It’s nothing serious; a little occurrence with some friends didn’t go as planned. And I am just lying low here until things blow over.”
Vena saw her hands shaking ever so slightly and her gaze wander preoccupied. She didn’t comment. After a moment of evaluating silence Clara changed the subject. “Was the ball as good as you hoped? You were looking forward to it all week.”
It was a clumsy attempt at discretion from her protégé, but Vena let it slide. “Yes and maybe more than just entertaining or socially useful.”
“Did you find any interesting leads on something?” Clara asked, as ever observant.
“Perhaps. Most of what I learned was baseless rumours of the typical useless kind, but one of them bears closer investigating.”
With this she turned and walked into her private library. With a hand on the door handle Vena paused and spoke over her shoulder. “Remain as long as you like. The servants will have a room prepared if you want to stay for the night.” To which Clara nodded gratefully.
‘Library’ was perhaps too grandiose a name for what amounted more to a well-furnished study. The room was built in symmetrical Palladian style with floor, walls, and ceiling made of a deep brown hardwood that shone with a warm patina. With a large Persian carpet beneath a set of lavish rococo furniture, and a dozen bookcases lining the walls and framing a marble fireplace, the study felt like a plush little vault of secluded knowledge.
As far as personal libraries went it wasn’t the most impressive in terms of size or contents, but since her arrival in London Vena had managed to assemble a decent collection of miscellaneous volumes ranging from the practical through the classically and contemporary popular, to the esoteric. Literature written since the descent to the Neath, or translated from works of the earlier fallen cities had been of particular interest to her.
Closing the door behind her, she ignited the fireplace which quickly engulfed the room in a pleasant glow before she started pacing the bookshelves, tracing a finger along the dust-free spines of the books.
Where to start looking? One of the most essential elements to discovering hidden secrets was knowing what to search for. Seeking information directly about the shuttered cellars was unlikely to turn up anything interesting. It was more often than not the little nuggets of patterns and oblique references that were the unseen backdoor to opening the heart of a mystery.
She had long ago picked up a sense for when a rumour sounded exaggerated, distorted, or plain fictitious, and most of the rumours the bachelor had told her about the shuttered cellars were vague and nonsensical. But his comment about the five gold-framed doors leading into the deep cellars had the ring of authenticity. The kind of specificity that was entirely irrelevant to the rumours themselves often bespoke something beyond mere fiction. It seemed her best lead to begin.
Just to be safe she picked out a heavy book on the cultural history of London and searched for anything related to the Shuttered Palace. Predictably, the books mentioned cellars of the palace, but glanced over them with no more detail than a remark about wine and food storages.
Undeterred, she found a handful of volumes she suspected might be relevant, each detailing somewhat more esoteric areas of research – chthonic legends, occult numerology, dream interpretation, crypto-symbology – and sat down in a plush rococo armchair by the fire to begin searching for references to doors or gold-framing.
There were some mentions of mirror-doors, gold-framed paintings, and a handful of strange, obscure references to a gate going North, but little of immediate value. The most promising lead was a note about the seven doors of the Bazaar, one of which was of ormolu. But it seemed more a coincidence than anything.
Then, far into the night when she was beginning to think she would have to search beyond her private collection, she found something. In a published journal of discoveries a late prelapsarian scholar discussed numerology in the fallen cities and under the entry detailing the number ‘5’ made a reference to a Second City myth containing a ‘quintet of portals framed by sun-metal and guarding the prison.’ Unfortunately, Vena’s library didn’t include much Second City related literature, but she found a simplified retelling of the myth in an anthology of ancient children fables written by Benthic Professor Amanda Bones.
The story itself was a simple heroic tale where the beautiful and beloved daughter of a king was stung by a scorpion and ends up dying. To save her, the king made a desperate bargain with a demon who promised to restore the princess to life for an unknown cost. The demon healed the princess but took her humanity as its payment, thus turning her into a monstrous creature. Horrified, the king sealed her beneath the palace, behind five sun-framed doors guarded by a pair of lionesses. The rest of the story then detailed a young hero’s journey to restore the princess and win her hand in marriage.
Excited, Vena hurried to retrieve the heavy culture book she had searched in the start. Leafing through the chapters, she quickly found something that she had skimmed over earlier. There was a passage about the art of the Shuttered Palace, which included a mention of a matching pair of lioness statues.
Putting her books aside, Vena leaned back in the armchair and turned to gaze into the fireplace. The two statues were in a corridor accessible only through the palace ballroom. Which left her two options, sneak in during the night, or go in under the cover of a social event at day.
She considered both before settling on the latter. In a week’s time there was to be a soirée held at the palace, in celebration of Governess Brite’s recent expansion of Port Carnelian’s borders.
This seemed the more prudent course. So despite smouldering with curiosity she steeled herself with patience. Putting the situation out of her mind for now, the mistress of the house put out the fire and left the Library to get some rest, trusting that as soon as she was gone her servants would return the room to the state she had found it in.
---
For the uninvited, entering the Shuttered Palace was a nightmare. Tall, barbed walls surrounded the perimeter while armed patrols of the Queen’s Guard kept watch of the premises with trained hounds, and every entry was manned at two separate checkpoints. The protective measures within the palace itself were even harsher.
But prestige, or the imitation thereof, came with its own perks. So a week later, wearing a dark purple suit of Khaganian cut and carrying herself with the appropriate air of aloofness, Vena strolled into the residence of the royal family, with the name of her hostess for the evening serving as her credentials if challenged.
There was always an arrangement one could partake in at the palace if one was so inclined, at least if one possessed the status to procure an invitation or the charm to induce a smile by turning up unannounced. The Duchess and His Amused Lordship hosted weekly salons, and every few days at least a handful lesser socialites held their own social events to garner favour and influence.
As the heart of London’s politics and finer culture, on any given day the palace played host to a decent measure of the city’s social elite. This was no less true today than usual, and the moment Vena stepped foot inside the main entrance, she could already taste the sharp concoction of tension and anticipation that always surrounded the gathering of high society.
But today she was not here to socialise. Ignoring the darting servants, lavish courtiers, and uniformed guards, she made her way through the vaulted hallways and stately chambers. Access to the backrooms where the lioness statues stood was only possible from the ballroom. These backrooms were nowadays sealed and only likely to be opened when in use by the servants.
When she found the ballroom a dance was already underway. Bashful young maidens were asked up by keen bachelors, while older veterans of the dance steered their partners to the soothing tones of the waltz. With the ease of one raised for this kind of thing, Vena nonchalantly slipped into the gathering with little notice.
The atmosphere was festive. The news of the celebrated Lady Brite’s accomplishments in London’s little colony in the Elder Continent could not be more welcome. There were few things Londoners enjoyed more than tales of proper British valour and virtues triumphing over villainous continentals in the name of the Empire.
Vena drifted amongst the crowds, exchanging greetings with those she didn’t know and sharing a joke or piece of gossip with those she did. With her friends she discussed topics like what the reaction from the Presbyterate might be, and the possibility of having the Governess’ term of office extended, all the while keeping an eye on an opportune moment to follow the real reason for her being here.
Then something caught her eye. By the balcony, the Prim Baronet was engaged in conversation with a young lady of singular exquisivity: the Captivating Princess, wearing a scandalous dress of black and scarlet lace and a scalding air of glamour. There was no one in London who made notoriety look more appealing.
The Baronet was solemnly trying to impress upon her the validity of him financing a new monument in the honour of her mother, the Empress. The Princess, however, scarcely seemed interested. Half-a-dozen minor socialites hovered close by, trying very hard to look like they weren’t there simply for the hope of the merest morsel of royal attention.
On a sudden excited impulse, Vena made the gamble to intervene.
“I will have it installed at a place of prominence in honour of your mother. That goes without saying, of course.” The Baronet said. Vena cut in before he could continue. “London has so many statues of her Imperial Majesty that it is a miracle the Masters haven’t started taxation of them yet.”
She held her breath. The Prim Baronet looked outraged, but the Princess chuckled. It was a small thing, but it was all the invitation Vena needed. “If one has to spend money on frivolous ornamentation, I think even the Empress would prefer a bit of novelty over sycophantic ego stroking.”
The Baronet looked like he was about to turn purple, but rather than start an argument in front of royalty, he seemed to decide that discretion was the better part of valour and turned to leave with a last cold nod of civility.
The Captivating Princess turned to Vena. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.” She remarked brightly. Her diamond drop earrings and tiara sparkled like liquid moonlight in tantalizing contrast to her lush, dark hair. The scent of her perfume smelled like honey.
“Your Royal Highness.” The young lady replied with a smart bow, her pulse rising in excitement. “My name is Lady Vena Delacroix.” Much to her delight all the socialites around them sent her withering glares.
The Princess’ face was alit with good-natured amusement. “Charmed.”
Eyes the exact scarlet shade of pomegranate seeds found the gaze of ones the sparkling green of embers glimpsed through an emerald. It was Vena who looked away, but both of them chuckled as she did.
The Princess cocked her head in amusement, as if she recognised something. “Tell me: weren’t you involved in the recent expedition to the Tomb of the Seven in the Forgotten Quarter?”
Vena was taken aback. “Indeed, that was me, I led it actually. I didn’t know you had an interest in such things, Your Royal Highness.”
Lips so red they could have been stained from drinking blood curled into an infectious smile. “Not many do. But it is not just that. I have seen you around a few times since you entered the palace. You intrigue me.”
Vena felt a stab of excitement. Where she shrouded herself in respectability, the Captivating Princess wore scandal like a Parisian gown; her interest was not piqued by the mundane.
She half-turned away. “I do hope I’ll see more of you later.” She blew Vena a kiss with a smile full of promise. “And I hope I can introduce you to my sister at some point, I think she’ll like you too.”
With this she waved goodbye and turned to disappear into the crowd, while Vena was left pondering this puzzling parting remark. Except for the Captivating Princess none of the royal children had been seen in public for years. Brushing it aside as another royal eccentricity, Vena returned to her original purpose with an excited new spring in her steps.
---
It didn’t take long to find the lioness statues. After slipping out of the ballroom unseen by the guests and savants she found them standing back-to-back halfway down the hallway. Across from one of them was an unobtrusive door.
If she hadn’t read so many Gothic novels about tempting fate she would have remarked upon it almost seeming too easy.
Making sure no one was nearby, she checked that the door was unlocked, and went through. The corridor beyond was black as pitch, but she had expected as much when entering the cellars and lit a fox-fire candle. Unlike the rest of the palace the walls here were entirely plain, covered only by an undecorated layer of pale plaster.
The path ahead quickly turned into a steep downwards incline, and it wasn’t long before she figured she was underground, well, more underground, beneath the Neath floor plane. Soon the corridor came to a halt, with three separate paths forking off in their own direction.
It seemed that the cellars were a lot more extensive than she had first expected. Careful to keep track of her location she went down one path and set about exploring what quickly turned out to be a considerable network of interconnected underground tunnels. A few times she was forced to double back due to dead ends or hide because of approaching servants. Twice she ended up back where she had started. She had the eerie feeling that some of the paths had changed ever so slightly when she passed them again. Eventually, following the age-old maze-traversing trick of always following the left-hand path, she reached her goal.
Straight ahead was an old but robust oak door with a gilded frame, the first of five. The lock looked simple enough.
Pursing her lips, Vena retrieved a set of kifers from the chatelaine purse hanging from her waist. Unlocking it was child’s play and after a moment it swung soundlessly open before her.
The next two gold-framed doors revealed themselves shortly after each other. Both were of iron, the first cast and old-fashioned, the second wrought and gleaming new. The locks were modern and well-made, each more complex than the last. The latter was tricky, but both gave way after a handful of minutes of dedicated work with her thief tools.
When she reached the fourth door the plaster on the walls had given way to unadorned stone, as in some medieval dungeon. This door was cast from hardened steel with a ratwork lock of meticulous precision engineering. By this point her confidence of getting through all five doors was waning.
Wetting her lips and furrowing her brow she carefully set to work. A half-dozen minutes of fruitless tinkering ticked by, then another and another. Then finally, after what must have been almost a half hour of scrupulous work, a satisfying little click rang out.
With a mounting sense of foreboding she pushed the door open and stepped through to the fifth and final door. When she saw it, her heart sank. She recognised the copper-coloured alloy as thrice-tampered ratwork steel; the same material which the navy used for the hull armour of their battleships. She could blow a decent sized bomb in front of this door and it would have had negligible effect. The lock was a nevercold brass contraption that looked more like a labyrinthine clockwork nightmare than a keyhole. She didn’t even know where she was supposed to begin.
She examined the door, but found no way through it. There was a small furrow under the door, perhaps an inch high. It was barely enough to get a hand through, and she didn’t really feel much like sticking her fingers in there to try.
Then she paused. There was a sound coming from the other side. She leaned close to listen. It was heavy and irregular, like bellows through a grill, or even deep, laboured breathing.
Then she jumped as the door shuddered, followed by a rumbling growl, like the dull grinding of heavy machinery; and a hoarse voice, full of pain and unused to speech. “Who’s... there...?”
Vena hesitated, but then replied. “I’m a visitor.”
“A... visitor? Mother.... doesn’t like.... visitors... only.... sister....” The half-broken words were accompanied by a sound a little too close for comfort to the gnashing of tremendous teeth.
The voice went quiet. Vena strained to listen, and could only barely make out the pained breathing. Then it sounded again, so close to the door that she flinched. “Bring... mirror.”
A mirror? That was an odd request. But something told her that whatever was behind that door didn’t want it out of vanity. She had a silvery hand mirror about the size of her palm in her chatelaine purse, a standard requirement for any young lady of status.
Carefully, she slid the mirror under the door and waited. Suddenly there was bright flash of amber light from beneath the door. “Cruellest... of mercies... is regret.” The voice was so pained that Vena shivered despite herself.
Then there was quiet. She couldn’t hear anything; even the breathing had ceased.
For several moments Vena waited, unsure of what to do now. She looked at the fifth door again, but it was a moot point. Even if she wanted to find out who, or more likely what, was on the other side there was no way for her to get through the door. Figuring that the time was running late and that it wouldn’t due to be discovered down here, she cast a last look on the door and then turned around and left, wondering if this was a mystery that was to remain unsolved.
----
It was two days later, about late morning had one still been on the surface. She was sitting on her Georgian divan and examining a small collection of Correspondence plaques, using a semiotic monocle to protect her eyes from extended exposure to the effects of the unnatural sigils.
Falarah lay on the richly-coloured carpet and whispered small secrets to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room. Rather than a midnight cat, her reflection was that of a black panther.
“My Lady?” Charles asked as he entered the room. Vena looked up. Her footman was carrying a small package, and placed it on the table in front of her. “I found this on the doorstep; someone must have left it there for you.”
“Oh?” She handed the monocle to him. “Please take these back to the others.”
“Certainly, Mistress.” He said and gathered up the Correspondence plaques before leaving with crisp steps.
The little package was trimly wrapped in whisper-satin as red as a ripe apple. Holding it up to her ear she could hear soft voices murmuring sweetly. There was a cream card attached which bore no signature or watermark. A single phrase was written in neat, fluid script: ‘It is the duty of conscientious souls to help others realise their potential.’ She wondered whether this was meant to refer to the sender or to her.
Intrigued, she opened the package with no further ceremony, and to her vague surprise found a small glassy-eyed doll of porcelain skin and silken dress inside. As she lifted it out of the box the left arm fell back down with a thud, broken.
The break was messy, with a lot of jagged edges. She surmised the arm had been broken off by a solid blow against something angular, a table edge or a fall on the step of a stair perhaps.
The quality of the craftsmanship was obvious even at a glance. All joints could bend with anatomical accuracy, the hair was from luxurious animal fur, perhaps mink or chinchilla, and its clothes were expertly embroidered from surface silks. Despite Vena being born a noble herself this one was finer than any of the dolls she had played with when she was a little girl.
But despite the obvious value, it wasn’t very well maintained. Blemishes and stains of something unidentifiable dotted the dress, and the porcelain skin was marred by tiny dents and hairline fractures from minor impacts.
Which left the question: who would buy what must have been a very expensive doll like this and then not take care of it? And why send it to her? She noted that none of the materials used were of Neathy origin, so the doll might have been made before London’s fall to become the Fifth City, or been imported from the surface.
Falarah leapt up on the table and wandered over. She licked her front paw and arched her brow lazily. “A doll?”
“Apparently, though I could probably use an expert’s opinion.” Vena said, putting the thing down. “Vanessa!”
A keen, dark-haired servant girl hurried breathlessly inside. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Bring Sophia up here, please.”
“Of course.” She said, nodding. She was halfway out when she hesitated and blushed. “Ehm... which one of them is Sophia again?”
Vena rolled her eyes, but smiled patiently. “The white one.”
“Ah, of course.” Vanessa said and hurried out of the room with the kind of exuberant dedication normally reserved for young people in love and lawyers catching smell of a promising lawsuit.
“That girl is far too eager to please.” Falarah purred with typical feline condescension.
“That’s why I hired her.” Vena replied indulgently. “And don’t you have somewhere to be?” She knew better than to try to have Falarah and Sophia in a room together.
“I suppose.” The black cat stretched indolently and jumped down from the table. Entirely without a sound she stalked back over to the mirror in the corner of the room, and stepped through the glass to disappear. For a moment the glass rippled like water in her wake and Vena saw a glimpse of a familiar jungle landscape before the reflection regained coherence and showed the living room once more.
After a few moments of silence Vanessa returned. After her came a small snow-furred rat walking in on her hind legs. The servant helped the rat up on the table and then left the room with a cheerful smile.
“Good morning, Sophia.” Vena said. The albino rat nodded timidly. Her eyes looked puffed and shiny; Vena hoped she hadn’t been crying again. She politely didn’t mention it, knowing that the rat would just claim that she was fine.
She pushed the doll over to her. “What can you tell me about this?”
Sophia sniffed at it and looked it over for some time. “It’s a doll?” She squeaked uncertainly.
Vena sighed, reminding herself to be a little more specific when talking to rodents. “Yes, but beyond that. Could you guess where it comes from, or even who might have made it?”
“Hathhorn & Son.” She said immediately, her voice was quivering as usual, but she sounded certain. “Doll-maker in Spite. I recognise the patterning of the porcelain work, and the facial features. He makes dolls for wealthy people. This one is particular fine. It must be custom work for an important client.”
Vena rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. I think I better make a visit to see for myself.”
---
It took a surprisingly long time to find the place, but in due course she was directed to a small shop at the crook of a narrow alley. Unexpectedly the window display held old bottles rather than dolls, and the sign above the door read ‘Hathhorn Sporage.’ But beneath the boldly painted letters she could just make out the etchings of an older name ‘Hathhorn & Son: Doll-Maker by appointment of H.E.M.’
H.E.M. – Her Enduring Majesty. Interesting. Vena pushed the door open and entered. A small series of bells rang.
The inside of the shop was dusty and if not exactly dilapidated then certainly showing signs of neglect. The place didn’t look like it received a lot of visitors.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” A voice called from the back, which was quickly cut off by a loud thud and bitter curse. Then emerged a middle-aged man with hollow cheeks and an overcoat that would have looked respectable had it not been stained by spots of wine. One hand was rubbing his head where he must have hit a low doorframe; in the other he held a bottle marked Greyfields 1882. Despite the bottle being opened the man appeared sober enough.
“Can I help you?” He asked with a hopeful smile.
“Yes, I was looking for Mr. Hathhorn, the doll-maker.” She said.
The man’s smile faltered. “Then I fear you are sixteen years too late, miss. My father died and I liquidated his business as soon as I inherited it. I was never a good craftsman, but I have turned my passion into the new Hathhorn business.”
He gestured proudly around to the barrels and ordered rows of bottles filling the room.
“You are a wine trader?” She asked.
“Indeed!” The man said, with the air of someone all too eager to discuss it at length. “I trade the mushroom wines grown since the fall, specifically those distilled from unusual or mutated strains. Such as this one.”
He held up the bottle in his hand. “I was just sampling it. Lepidopteraceae. You can recognise them by the butterfly-mark. A distinctive aspiring flavour, thwarted by undertones of recrimination and moth.”
“Really? That sounds fascinating.” She lied. “Is it one of your own?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I just trade and sell them. But I have acquired quite a few highly specialised ones.”
He put the bottle aside and pulled out another made of dark greyish glass. “This one was distilled from the mushrooms that grow on the back of claymen; it’s quite a new invention. Would you like to sample a taste?”
“Why, I’d be delighted.” She said with all the sincerity of a devil swearing he only has your best interest at heart.
Being poured a small glass, she took a sip, fought the impulse to choke, and forced herself to swallow. She shuddered in distaste but compelled a smile on her face even so. “Ah, refreshingly astringent.”
Mr. Hathhorn nodded eagerly and pulled out two other bottles and started excitedly expanding upon the various kinds, virtues, and techniques related to the spore-infested vintages. For the next half hour or so she gave him her undivided attention and helped split a bottle of something sticky with a small jewel-eyed thing that wriggled at the bottom with increasing agitation as the level dropped. She personally thought she did an admirable job of not looking like she would have been willing to drink rat blood just to remove the taste.
As the minutes ticked by and Hathhorn’s opinion of her had been noticeably enhanced by wine, Vena started to steer the conversation towards his father’s business. It turned out that Mr. Hathhorn Senior had been one of the premiere doll-makers in the city, but that his apparent paternal neglect had caused his son to cancel all outstanding commissions and sell practically anything that reminded him of his father and his business.
“I do still have the box with all my father’s papers though.” He said. “You know, in case the authorities should have any questions about the legality of my new business, or any old client wanted to bring lawsuits against me for feeling cheated by my father, or some such.”
Vena’s eyes lit up. “You do? Can I see them?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I don’t see why not.” He rose and retrieved a dusty old box filled to the brim with papers. “Help yourself; just put it back when you are finished with it.”
She nodded and started going through the papers as Mr. Hathhorn Junior returned out back to continue his work. There was quite a substantial amount of paperwork, but given the high quality of the doll in her possession Vena started her search with looking for the most expensive orders. Soon enough she found invoices addressed to the Shuttered Palace. Even though most of them were censored with a heavy dose of ink, it was clear that Mr. Hathhorn Senior had been making dolls for the six royal daughters. It didn’t take long to find a description matching the one that Vena had received in the package. It had been made just before the Fall of London, for the second-youngest princess, the Playful Prodigy.
Putting the papers and boxes back, Vena started her trip home to clear the alcohol in her bloodstream while pondering this development. Why would someone – and presumably someone from the palace – send her a doll that belonged to a member of the royal family? Could this be related to her recent meeting with the Captivating Princess?
Now she knew which doll it was, but she still didn’t know why it had been delivered to her doorstep. Who had brought it?
This is based upon the story ‘The Gift’ that is playable in Fallen London, for which the writers deserve full credit. I have however changed and expanded on certain details and events to better fit my particular narrative and character.
This takes place roughly three years before the events of the Tallyman. And I get to actually include my main character this time, huzzah!
I think that this may be my best piece yet, at least in terms of actual writing. The pacing flows better, the dialogue was smoother, the characterisation feels more natural, and I think the more concise descriptions goes better with the tone and style.
In short, I am super proud of this one 
A Royal Rose, Red as Honey - Part 2"
Fallen London is ™Failbetter Games Limited: www.fallenlondon.com. This is an unofficial fan work.
Comments13
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Interesting. I needed longer than on the previous short to get into it, but once tha ball was over, it did get pretty captivating. It would surely have helped to know the game, but oh well.
The Shuttered Palace seemingly doesn't take its security too serious, if someone could get into the cellars that easily.
Vena seems to have a whole menagerie of talking animals. I wonder what else lives with her.
That wine doesn't sound too appealing. Like the contents of an infected cyst thinned with wash water.
Grammar:
The Shuttered Palace seemingly doesn't take its security too serious, if someone could get into the cellars that easily.
Vena seems to have a whole menagerie of talking animals. I wonder what else lives with her.
That wine doesn't sound too appealing. Like the contents of an infected cyst thinned with wash water.
Grammar:
her tone of voice was still the rough drawl common to spite
And I am just lying low here until things blow over
After slipping out of the ballroom unseen by the guests and ?servants
examining a small collection of Correspondence plaques
He said and gathered up the Correspondence plaques
AkernisHobbyist General Artist
I had to much fun writing it to remove it, but I can see why it might well be slow to get through. It's something I'll bear in mind for next time.
True, I suppose I probably should have add some royal guards on patrol there, but I figured that there was little need, it's not like it was the vault to the crown jewels or the Empress' bedrooms. And if there came a master good enough to get through the five doors, he would probably be able to get through pretty much anything else in the way.
Well, beyond the cat there is a raven with a head for crime, a gang of rats (who don't technically live with her, but answer to her), and one singular and very mean plant.
Ah, glad to see I was able to invoke a suitable level of nausea.
Thanks for the fixes.
Spite has to capitalized, it's the name of a city district.
True, I suppose I probably should have add some royal guards on patrol there, but I figured that there was little need, it's not like it was the vault to the crown jewels or the Empress' bedrooms. And if there came a master good enough to get through the five doors, he would probably be able to get through pretty much anything else in the way.
Well, beyond the cat there is a raven with a head for crime, a gang of rats (who don't technically live with her, but answer to her), and one singular and very mean plant.
Ah, glad to see I was able to invoke a suitable level of nausea.
Thanks for the fixes.
Spite has to capitalized, it's the name of a city district.
SunjinjoHobbyist General Artist
Good to be back, I love this setting. Ah, I see your touch in that little prologue already
Forgotten sunshine, a nice nod to the past.
Her brother died – will he get better? I presume death isn’t final here? Otherwise that’s just hilarious
Hehe, gotta love how blabbermouthed some guys get when confronted with distracting beauty…
Lock the cellars when Clara is over? I smell a tiny alcoholic
Aah that library, it’s just like I envisioned it when you first mentioned it, how do you always find the words to hit the nail on the head like that? I know what I see in my mind, but I can never find the words for it! Maybe I should also have been a linguist! I sometimes get so jealous of your life choices
Ooh, what a lovely myth. I love properly monstrous female monsters. And cats again…
Hah, even in this setting they love their imperialism. So they have contact with other subterranean continents, and the surface? They have to trade with someone for all this luxury after all.
Shrouded in respectability, but not well enough, or she wouldn’t have drawn the Princess’ attention Such a delicate dance.
Ooooh. ‘Sister’, eh? I think the royal family just got even more intriguing.
Vena surrounds herself with interesting people and creatures. Now I’m even more curious about Falarah.
The plot thickens… on to part 2! Slowly but surely
Stuff:
“Nothing that can wait a day or two.” I think you meant ‘can’t’ ^^
For the uninvited entering the Shuttered Palace was a nightmare. Nothing wrong here, but it made me hitch for a moment. I think it’d be better with a comma; for the uninvited, entering the Shuttered Palace… (I reread my stuff endlessly for this sort of thing, but I still find it afterwards occasionally)
Wetting her lips and furrowing her brow she carefully sat to work. => set to work.
Forgotten sunshine, a nice nod to the past.
Her brother died – will he get better? I presume death isn’t final here? Otherwise that’s just hilarious
Hehe, gotta love how blabbermouthed some guys get when confronted with distracting beauty…
Lock the cellars when Clara is over? I smell a tiny alcoholic
Aah that library, it’s just like I envisioned it when you first mentioned it, how do you always find the words to hit the nail on the head like that? I know what I see in my mind, but I can never find the words for it! Maybe I should also have been a linguist! I sometimes get so jealous of your life choices
Ooh, what a lovely myth. I love properly monstrous female monsters. And cats again…
Hah, even in this setting they love their imperialism. So they have contact with other subterranean continents, and the surface? They have to trade with someone for all this luxury after all.
Shrouded in respectability, but not well enough, or she wouldn’t have drawn the Princess’ attention
Such a delicate dance.Ooooh. ‘Sister’, eh? I think the royal family just got even more intriguing.
Vena surrounds herself with interesting people and creatures. Now I’m even more curious about Falarah.
The plot thickens… on to part 2! Slowly but surely
Stuff:
“Nothing that can wait a day or two.” I think you meant ‘can’t’ ^^
For the uninvited entering the Shuttered Palace was a nightmare. Nothing wrong here, but it made me hitch for a moment. I think it’d be better with a comma; for the uninvited, entering the Shuttered Palace… (I reread my stuff endlessly for this sort of thing, but I still find it afterwards occasionally)
Wetting her lips and furrowing her brow she carefully sat to work. => set to work.
AkernisHobbyist General Artist
Heh, funny you mentioned it, I actually had that exact same feeling when writing it. This seems like an almost 'glaring' example of my writing style
Yeah, death is weird in Fallen London. A 'small' death like a stabbing, beating, or being shot, poisoned, or hanged usually have person back up again fine and dandy within a few hours or days. Though there are limits, and some deaths sticks and then there are the usual host of fates-worse-than-death you tend to find in such settings.
That was about where I realised that I am having way too much fun writing seductions, and Vena can be flirtatious enough to compete with Pendragos from RD
Oh, there is something far worse than alcohol down there, and that is entirely for Clara's safety. It might pale next to the Shuttered Palace, but Vena has her own secrets in that cellar...
Thank very much, that scene also came really to my liking. That's heartwarming compliment to hear. Except for my love of etymology, I actually think studying linguistics has surprisingly little impact on my writing
Thank you
. I made up that story on the spur of the moment and I liked how it turned out.
All the cats! Cats are fantastic in Fallen London. Well, animals in general are sentient and fun to some degree, but cats, bats, rats, and snakes earns the price.
Well, we are in the middle of the Victorian Era so there's imperialism left and right. Granted having you capital sunk miles under ground meshed up those plans pretty bad, but as the game says 'Londoners can get used to anything' and so they just start over and tried again. Yes, there are other cultures down here that they trade and sometimes fight with, and some intrepid merchants still keeps ties to the surface.
I'll get even more intriguing in the second part
You can get quite a lot of interesting people and creatures in the game, and I do try to incorporate a few of them into the stories, at least where it makes sense. Falarah is probably not the most 'exciting' of them, but she is easily my favourite even so. If I write more FL stories, I am sure she will make an appearance every so often.
Have fun!
Thanks for the fixes
Yeah, death is weird in Fallen London. A 'small' death like a stabbing, beating, or being shot, poisoned, or hanged usually have person back up again fine and dandy within a few hours or days. Though there are limits, and some deaths sticks and then there are the usual host of fates-worse-than-death you tend to find in such settings.
That was about where I realised that I am having way too much fun writing seductions, and Vena can be flirtatious enough to compete with Pendragos from RD
Oh, there is something far worse than alcohol down there, and that is entirely for Clara's safety. It might pale next to the Shuttered Palace, but Vena has her own secrets in that cellar...
Thank very much, that scene also came really to my liking. That's heartwarming compliment to hear. Except for my love of etymology, I actually think studying linguistics has surprisingly little impact on my writing
Thank you
. I made up that story on the spur of the moment and I liked how it turned out. All the cats! Cats are fantastic in Fallen London. Well, animals in general are sentient and fun to some degree, but cats, bats, rats, and snakes earns the price.
Well, we are in the middle of the Victorian Era so there's imperialism left and right. Granted having you capital sunk miles under ground meshed up those plans pretty bad, but as the game says 'Londoners can get used to anything' and so they just start over and tried again. Yes, there are other cultures down here that they trade and sometimes fight with, and some intrepid merchants still keeps ties to the surface.
I'll get even more intriguing in the second part
You can get quite a lot of interesting people and creatures in the game, and I do try to incorporate a few of them into the stories, at least where it makes sense. Falarah is probably not the most 'exciting' of them, but she is easily my favourite even so. If I write more FL stories, I am sure she will make an appearance every so often.
Have fun!
Thanks for the fixes
SunjinjoHobbyist General Artist
Soft sadism I really have a thing for it but can never get it right, I always reach for overly big weaponry and rough methods. You really rock it.
Haa, video game logic but not quite I imagine a permadeath will incite rather shocked reactions. I hope we get to see such a worse fate
Vena and Pendragos meeting, make it happen
So you and your awesome mental dictionary are self-taught? ...I really should spend more time on those etymology sites. I too really like finding out the origin of words as well as exotic synonyms, but you've always taken it to the next level.
Cats are fantastic in general. Every year in this tiny house without a cat pains me. I'll have to go even longer without as Clunch wants to get a kitten and piglet together (and I respect that, I want them to have that 'sibling' bond too), so I can only have one as soon as we have a substantial garden, I cry D: And glomp every cat I meet, which is fortunately a regular occurrence as a mailperson (kitty breaks for days), but still. ...Heh, I wish bats were suited for pet life. Hm, maybe I will have a snake in our next tiny house...
Are those cultures human as well? And I presume traders from the surface come down, not the other way around with those lethal reactions to sunlight. Or maybe things go down at night.
She has a jungle portal, she's awesome in my book.
I really have a thing for it but can never get it right, I always reach for overly big weaponry and rough methods. You really rock it.Haa, video game logic but not quite
I imagine a permadeath will incite rather shocked reactions. I hope we get to see such a worse fate Vena and Pendragos meeting, make it happen
So you and your awesome mental dictionary are self-taught? ...I really should spend more time on those etymology sites. I too really like finding out the origin of words as well as exotic synonyms, but you've always taken it to the next level.
Cats are fantastic in general. Every year in this tiny house without a cat pains me. I'll have to go even longer without as Clunch wants to get a kitten and piglet together (and I respect that, I want them to have that 'sibling' bond too), so I can only have one as soon as we have a substantial garden, I cry D: And glomp every cat I meet, which is fortunately a regular occurrence as a mailperson (kitty breaks for days), but still. ...Heh, I wish bats were suited for pet life. Hm, maybe I will have a snake in our next tiny house...
Are those cultures human as well? And I presume traders from the surface come down, not the other way around with those lethal reactions to sunlight. Or maybe things go down at night.
She has a jungle portal, she's awesome in my book.
AkernisHobbyist General Artist
Thanks 
. And you are much more apt at those hard tools than I am (much to Jinri's delight I have noticed ) but I do have a fondness for the softer side, especially where I can work fear into it in some shape or form. It helps to have a character that is more human, Vena is much more susceptible to fear, excitement, love etc., than Kelaris is. It took a trip down to meet Alcazar and Drakainion to really get her scared
Yep, those are bad news. Hmm, I hadn't actually planned it, but it could be fun to explore, I just played through a story in-game that dealt with a few of such fates that was intriguing to see.
I have a character in RD who would be an more scandalously flirting to pair with her, but I have yet to introduce them (which will happen sometime in the next arc, I am so excited)
Yes, that is entirely self-taught. As far back as I can remember I have had an odd fascination with words, exactly which to use and how they all fit together and invoke certain feelings and images and I love to hone that reading works like in FL or your guys' stories or writing myself. It has reached the point now that I am undisputedly better at English than at my native language, which I always find fun, which is especially odd, since for several years English was my worst subject in school.
I have never had a pet myself, but a friend of mine had a litter of cats years ago which I absolutely adored. And I am pretty much a cat-person even though I don't mind dogs either. But would still take a bird or snake over either. Then I hope that you get a large garden soon, that would be an adorable combination 
. In the meantime hopefully you can get enough dose of cat for it to be bearable
Most yes. There aren't really non-human species with their own cultures. Well, there are but they aren't some you just interact with, e.g. Flukes, giant Lovecraftian monster sea urchins, and Sorrow Spiders, nasty small hive-mind buggers that steal human eyeballs to use as birthing chambers and feed off melancholy.
There are a few 'proper' non-human creatures one can interact with, though they don't have a culture as such. E.g. snuffers (cunning, face-stealing, candle-eating monsters) which can talk and disguise themselves as humans, and the Masters, a small group of eleven humanoid space-bats that work with the Bazaar as the de facto rulers of Fallen London, both of which factions I adore and hope to interact with in some way
Now there is a convincing argument if ever I heard one. Also, sorry for the rambling, I do that when I get excited
. And you are much more apt at those hard tools than I am (much to Jinri's delight I have noticed ) but I do have a fondness for the softer side, especially where I can work fear into it in some shape or form. It helps to have a character that is more human, Vena is much more susceptible to fear, excitement, love etc., than Kelaris is. It took a trip down to meet Alcazar and Drakainion to really get her scared Yep, those are bad news. Hmm, I hadn't actually planned it, but it could be fun to explore, I just played through a story in-game that dealt with a few of such fates that was intriguing to see.
I have a character in RD who would be an more scandalously flirting to pair with her, but I have yet to introduce them (which will happen sometime in the next arc, I am so excited
) Yes, that is entirely self-taught. As far back as I can remember I have had an odd fascination with words, exactly which to use and how they all fit together and invoke certain feelings and images and I love to hone that reading works like in FL or your guys' stories or writing myself. It has reached the point now that I am undisputedly better at English than at my native language, which I always find fun, which is especially odd, since for several years English was my worst subject in school
. I have never had a pet myself, but a friend of mine had a litter of cats years ago which I absolutely adored. And I am pretty much a cat-person even though I don't mind dogs either. But would still take a bird or snake over either
. Then I hope that you get a large garden soon, that would be an adorable combination . In the meantime hopefully you can get enough dose of cat for it to be bearable Most yes. There aren't really non-human species with their own cultures. Well, there are but they aren't some you just interact with, e.g. Flukes, giant Lovecraftian monster sea urchins, and Sorrow Spiders, nasty small hive-mind buggers that steal human eyeballs to use as birthing chambers and feed off melancholy.
There are a few 'proper' non-human creatures one can interact with, though they don't have a culture as such. E.g. snuffers (cunning, face-stealing, candle-eating monsters) which can talk and disguise themselves as humans, and the Masters, a small group of eleven humanoid space-bats that work with the Bazaar as the de facto rulers of Fallen London, both of which factions I adore and hope to interact with in some way
Now there is a convincing argument if ever I heard one
. Also, sorry for the rambling, I do that when I get excited 
Intriguing story so far. I can absolutely agree on that this is your best written piece i have ever read. I honestly think this atmosphere fits your writing style much better.
So we have the lady and the cat/panther we read in the tallyman story going on an adventure seeing that plays after this i suppose she cannot die in the traditional sense of the word. But reading the drowning part it seems death is peculiar in fallen london.
It feels like she found the second youngest daughter in the cellars over there. And soon she will be captivated and caught by the youngest and sit in the same room she so dearly wants to discover.
So we have the lady and the cat/panther we read in the tallyman story going on an adventure seeing that plays after this i suppose she cannot die in the traditional sense of the word. But reading the drowning part it seems death is peculiar in fallen london.
It feels like she found the second youngest daughter in the cellars over there. And soon she will be captivated and caught by the youngest and sit in the same room she so dearly wants to discover.
AkernisHobbyist General Artist
Thank you, that's really good to hear. ^^
Now to see if I can copy some of that to my Overlord writing. I might be tricky as the OL setting focuses much more on exploration and warfare than intrigue and mystery of this kind.
Yes, death is weird in Fallen London, if you die from a 'small injury' like getting stabbed or shot there is a chance you return to life, though it is not guaranteed. There are ways to die permanently, such as from old age or illnesses, or extreme trauma like a beheading. And then there are other unpleasant fates-as-bad-as-death, such as drowning and eating yourself alive...
That would be an appropriately dark case of curiosity-killed-the-cat, and I do love me some poetic fates
Now to see if I can copy some of that to my Overlord writing. I might be tricky as the OL setting focuses much more on exploration and warfare than intrigue and mystery of this kind.
Yes, death is weird in Fallen London, if you die from a 'small injury' like getting stabbed or shot there is a chance you return to life, though it is not guaranteed. There are ways to die permanently, such as from old age or illnesses, or extreme trauma like a beheading. And then there are other unpleasant fates-as-bad-as-death, such as drowning and eating yourself alive...
That would be an appropriately dark case of curiosity-killed-the-cat, and I do love me some poetic fates
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In