”Three decades ago, London was stolen by bats. Dragged deep into the earth by the Echo Bazaar. The sun is gone. All we have is the gas-light of Mr Fires. But Londoners can get used to anything. And it's quiet down here with the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine. Peaceful. But then YOU arrived.”
Miles below the surface of the Earth, nestled beside the Stolen River, lies the bustling city of London. It’s a lovely place, with the most charming of people (if you don’t count the madmen, murderers, honey-addled or Rubbery, that is), and with incredible real-estate to boot. Veilgarden nourishes budding poets and socialites alike with liquor and Prisoner’s Honey, a substance which transports the user into dreamlike worlds. Ladybones Road is perfect for those who wish to test their intellect by solving crimes or riddles, spies who wish to get tattooed with the latest encryptions, or haunted souls on their way to the underworld via the railroad that passes through. If you prefer taking care of your problems with your fists over your mind, then Watchmaker’s Hill lets you hunt all manners of beasts for coin, and if you’re particularly sticky-fingered, then you can likely find a home in the dim alleys of Spite. While London itself is ruled by the Mayor, and Her Enduring Majesty above them, the Bazaar seems to be largely controlled by the Masters. Mysterious, enigmatic figures, they dictate a large part of the city’s business and economy through their various trades. It’s incredibly difficult to seek counsel with them- even more so than the royal family!- but they claim to have London’s best interest in heart. Some, however, take this claim with a grain of salt. The world of the Neath is mysterious and bizarre. Odd sigils that speak of romance line the Bazaar’s walls, and, if studied too closely, can make one’s eyes bleed. It’s nigh impossible for someone to die, save for old age and being hacked up into bits and pieces (although if one attempts to return to the Surface after this false death, they will swiftly perish). Spiders the size of kittens roam caverns and crevices, devils and men with the faces of Squid conduct business alongside Londoners, and colors previously unimaginable paint the underground with new rainbows.
It’s an incredible, if not somewhat disturbing place.
And always remember- in matters of the Bazaar, look to love. Always.
Information
The Victorian era. A time of class, smokestacks, and uncomfortably tight corsets. As one might expect, however, life in the Neath holds many differences from the Surface. Traditional crops do not grow- anything that would require the light of the sun to blossom must be imported directly from the outside world. Mushroom wine and crackers and the flesh of Zee monsters have become most popular to see on the dining table. Rats, bats and cats have somehow developed the means to talk, death is as foreign a concept to Londoners as the sky, and, perhaps most shockingly, women can work alongside men, and anyone can get married to d-mn well anyone- regardless of race, gender, or even species (in fact, love stories are among the most valuable commodities one could offer to the Bazaar, oddly enough). These qualities, among the fact that one’s reputation could be completely cast to the wind upon moving underground, can make London a rather appealing place to live to some.
So long as you’re able to tolerate the nightmares, the shades of purple that make you lose your most precious memories, or Jack of Smiles slitting your throat from time to time. Little things, really.
Humans are not the only species to roam the Neath. Many, many things show their faces in the absence of the sun’s warmth, and not all are friendly.
Mysterious, charismatic, ruthless. These golden-eyed inhabitants of Hell often journey to London to conduct business, to intermingle with mortals, or for purposes only they seem to know for certain. They’re well-mannered and refined, but don’t let that distract you from their true nature. For all their honeyed words and gifts and whispers of sweet-nothings, at the end of the day, they’re cold-blooded hunters of the soul. They largely reside in the Brass Embassy- their own personal “hell away from hell”, and maintain a colony far overzees called the Iron Republic. For the sake of your own sanity, don’t go to the latter. Ever.
The eventual fate of all Londoners, unless they manage to avoid getting themselves killed up until they leave for the Surface or die of old age. Tomb Colonists are those who have been murdered or maimed enough to become permanently disfigured, leaving their nerves numbed and their social lives ruined. Tomb Colonists are forced to reside across the Zee, in the Tomb Colonies, and wrap themselves in bandages to conceal their ruined bodies. Due to their lack of nerve endings, and the fact that they have little else better to do, they often conduct duels that end with someone with a sword through their chest. If you’re looking to become a master duelist, the Tomb Colonists are some of the best trainers out there.
Quiet, meek, and terribly polite, these creatures take the shape of men with the faces of squid. They can understand English, but can only communicate with burbling, miming, and an assortment of...fluids. They enjoy music, feed on small fish, and control the amber trade, but despite their manners and respectable means of dressing, they’re often the victims of harassment and scorn by the residents of London. Their territory is Flute Street, located miles below the city.
The official servantry class of London. Imported from Polytheme, where the walls talk and your shoes plot your demise, this primarily male race is crafted of clay, and possesses incredible strength. While it’s possible for them to become as refined as the everyday gentleman, most possess limited intelligence, and are used for grunt work. Many reside beneath Ladybones’ work, toiling away in the mines.
Reside in the world behind mirrors. Allied with the magicians of the Glass. Difficult to trust.
The Masters of the Bazaar. Each one commands a certain trade deep in the Neath, whether it’s meat, silk, wine, or even immortality. They refer to themselves as “Misters”, but it’s clear that they don’t fit into any gender role known to man. The Masters all speak in high pitched, shrilling voices (save for Mr Fires, who speaks in a purr, and Mr Iron, who doesn’t speak at all), and wear heavy cloaks that obscure their faces and their forms. Walk in an oddly hunched, shuffling manner.
Mr Wines The Master of the beverage trade, with stakes in the entertainment and prostitution industries. One of the more friendly and vibrant of its kind, Mr Wines is often the host of lavish parties filled with music, honey, and, not unexpectedly, the sweetest of wines. The women that work under him in the Parlour of Virtue wear bright scarlet stockings, marking them as a group not to be meddled with.
Mr Spices The Master of the spice, smokeables, and honey trade. Irritable and dignified, Mr Spices has a long-lasting quarrel with Mr Wines over who has domain over dreams.
Mr Apples The Master of agricultural goods, from fresh fruit to lumber (and, if you ask the right people, of immortality). Has a deep passion for gambling.
Mr Hearts The Master of the meat trade. Sinister, enigmatic, and disturbingly friendly, it runs a butcher shop with a rather...questionable menu.
Mr Veils A young, impatient Master, Mr Veils controls the fabric industry and holds stakes within the entertainment industry. One of the more aggressive and brash of its ilk.
Mr Cups Controls the trade of pottery, and is a collector of the strange and unusual via its rag-and-bone men.
Mr Pages One of the kinder (and somewhat awkward) Masters, Mr Pages controls the trade of knowledge and publications. It communes with the Special Constables and Ministry of Public Decency to claim, censor and manipulate unfavorable texts- or to add to its own personal collection. Writes love stories in its spare time under a pseudonym, and adores romance and romantic novels.
Mr Mirrors The Master with dominion over the glass trade. Possesses secret knowledge of the land behind mirrors, and claims mirrors of any kind as its domain.
Mr Iron The silent Master of metalwork and mechanisms, and of Knife-and-Candle- the game of polite and boyish stunts of murder. While mute, Mr Iron is ambidextrous, and writes in order to communicate its will. It’s grumpy and stoic, and hates being disturbed.
Mr Fires The Master who controls the trade of fuel, from candles to coal. Tends to be at odds with the workers of the Wolfstack Docks, who will often protest its sub-par treatment, and even the other Masters. Unlike the others, Mr Fires speaks in a low, hypnotic purr, with strange tones and harmonics.
Mr Stones A greedy and covetous Master, with dominion over minerals such as building materials and precious stones. Speaks in a curt, terse manner, and hoards gems obsessively.
Mr Sacks A jolly Master in a red cloak, and one who only appears to Londoners every Neathmas. It doesn’t control a trade, nor does it seem to have any stake in the London economy whatsoever. Instead, it takes gifts. It could take your headache. It could take your dreams. It could take your aunt, or, if you’re unwise, it could take you.
Mr Eaten DO NOT SEEK THE NAME
If you’re looking for jobs, there are many available opportunities to earn a crust scattered about the city. The traditional doctors and librarians and whatnot still exist, albeit alongside some of the stranger occupations such as Correspondants and Midnighters.
London is a place of fortune, and a place of nightmares. However, her arms are open to most anyone who appears.
Hello, all. I’m Echo, and I’m looking to be your GM this fine evening.
If y’all don’t know, Fallen London is a free browser game featuring a world in the 1800s, where London was taken underground by bats, and now has to deal with eldritch abominations, sudden immortality, demons, and surreal worlds behind mirrors on a daily basis. Lovecraftian horror, tales of fleeting romance, and grim humor all make up Fallen London, and, as a result, this roleplay. The plot will largely be dependant on the characters, and the actions and choices that they make. It could easily be a somewhat morbid and eldritch slice of life, it could be a disturbing journey, or it could be an overzees adventure.
I plan to not be overly strict about the story and world, as a result. I do have a set of rules, however.
- Be polite to your fellow players. Characters could be murdering one another left and right, but that still means that you shouldn’t pick fights OOC.
- Romance is encouraged! Just keep it PG on the board itself, however.
- No PPing, no Mary Sues, etc. Basic stuff.
- You don't have to have played Fallen London in order to join. What lore is provided on here is all the lore that you're required to know. c:
- If you plan on leaving, or have to disappear for a short time, please tell me beforehand. If you’re gone for thirty days without saying anything, your character will be taken out of action, and may be sent on an extended boat trip.
- While I’m not being strict about the roleplay lore, please do try to follow it if possible.
- Be creative, and, most importantly, have fun!
- dontseekdontseekdontseek
(An image isn't needed, but feel free to add one if you want one in. Otherwise, you can delete this bit.)
Full Name:
Nicknames/Aliases:
Age:
Gender: (Male/Female/My dear sir, there are individuals roaming the streets of Fallen London at this very moment with the faces of squid! Squid! Do you ask them their gender? And yet you waste our time asking me trifling and impertinent questions about mine? It is my own business, sir, and I bid you good day.)
Occupation:
Description: (What do they look like? Even if you've got a picture, a bit of writing would be nice. Include their usual attire, any notable scarring or markings, etc.)
Personality:(A brief outline of their demeanour.)
Skills: (Combat abilities or otherwise- go wild!)
Weaknesses: (Achilles' Heels that can be exploited by enemies.)
Brief History: (Any notable events in their background that might have shaped them. If you don't want to reveal too much, that's fine. If they’re immigrants to the Neath, it might be a good idea to mention why they decided to live in London.)
Other:(Anything else you think everyone needs to know about your character. Perhaps they’ve found themselves missing a soul, or have a deep loathing of a certain group.)
This looks like a lot of fun, I'd love to join in if you'll have me...
Full Name: Elias Suthmeer
Nicknames/Aliases: Eli, "Jimmy Slip"
Age: 11
Gender: Male
Occupation: Urchin/Pick Pocket
Description: A dirty, disheveled boy of around 10 years old, Elias looks as though he is afraid of bath water. Knowing the things that lurk in the pipes of Fallen London, that fear could be legitimate. The boy has dirty, freckled cheeks and bright green eyes that look almost out of place on his face, that are framed by the bangs of his long, greasy brown hair. Likewise, his clothing is patched, ripped, and covered in dirt and stains.
Personality: Happy-go-lucky, living each day on its own. Elias generally always has a smile plastered onto his young face, which may or may not be genuine, but likely even he doesn't know. Aside from his outward personality, the young lad is also loyal to his close friends and will go out of his way to take care of them.
Skills: Elias Suthmeer is a world-class picker of pockets (and not in a fashion sense), he is also especially adept at picking very large pockets on very baggy clothing worn by very distracted people, but he is also able to pick ordinary pockets and has been known to dip his hand into a lady's handbag or two, as well.
Additionally, he has learned to run fast for his age and is also capable of climbing buildings and navigating the rooftops of Fallen London as if he was a native, which, in fact, he is.
Weaknesses: The poor boy, growing up on the streets, lacks any formal education. He can barely write his name, let alone read his letters. Additionally, he is young and spry, but not very strong. This can be forgiven, considering he has not even reached the age of puberty yet. Finally, the boy can sometimes be loyal to a fault, probably because he fears abandonment due to his mother leaving him. He is slow to trust, but once he trusts someone he will do what he can to ensure they are safe.
Brief History: Elias Suthmeer was born to Gregory and Constance Suthmeer not so long ago in the Wolfstacks Docks, where the family lived and Gregory worked. They were a working-class family, Gregory serving as a zailor on a local trade vessel that made regular runs to the Salt Lions. When Elias was but five years old, his father left on a zee voyage, never to return. Overcome with grief, Constance abandoned her young son and fled their small, one room flat for better fortunes elsewhere. Elias has been on his own, ever since, falling in with a gang of like-wise abandoned or orphaned youths, he quickly gained a reputation among his peers as something of a dip. His ability to steal from unsuspecting grown-ups, and escape the bobbies whenever he was detected, earned him the playful nickname, "Jimmy Slip" from his friends. He now wonders across London with his pals, stealing money to buy food, sleeping in gutters, and just enjoying the hand that life has dealt him.
Other: Elias is curious what became of his parents. He knows their names and faces, but has no idea where they have gone, or if they're even still alive. This is something he'd like to pursue, if he's ever given the opportunity.
Description: A grumpy old man, a bit ragged since the loss of his job since it involved the sun. Wears ragged-ish clothes. Greying hair with a grey beard. slouchy and wields a old cane
Personality:Old, Grumpy and kind of losing it sue to old age. In all actuality he wants things to go back to the good old days
Skills: Very brutal with that cane of his Very brutal
Weaknesses: He's aging and not that fast.
Brief History: He once made sundials for the rich Londoners but as London fell there was no use for sundials and thus lost his business. He kinda went crazy and still thinks that this is all just one big nightmare Hopefully
Nicknames/Aliases: The Gardener, the Lady in Red, the Ruin in Red
Age: Indeterminate, and an impertinent question to boot, sir! Young enough to be foolish, and old enough to know better.
Gender: Female, if you must be so vulgar – and blinded – as to enquire.
Occupation: Socialite, at least on the surface. Alex St. Clair’s actual occupation is the management – the praesidium, really - of a complex and shifting web of fiduciary instruments, actual businesses, inheritances and – of course – gardening, maintaining her magnificent, if macabre, gardens of red exile’s roses. Nothing so crass as trade; she has people for that, but occasionally things and secrets might discreetly change hands, for a consideration, at her scarlet-choked spire-emporium. Or perhaps in the hushed and smoke-wreathed hallways of the Parthenaeum, or even yet whispered in the soundproofed rooms of the House of Chimes. For the right people. Usually ones of Some Importance, or those aspiring to such heights.
Description: Alex St. Clair is not tall, although she compensates for this lack of verticality with viciously-spired heels, ophidian in their glossy allure and flashing with a little more than mere reflection. Parabola dances close around her heels, for those with eyes to see it. She is pale, ghost-white as all the aristocracy of Fallen London tend to be, even before the Fall, with perfectly coiffed straight black hair, pierced with half a hundred diamond-headed hairpins such that it glows like the Neathy roof above.
Her lips are rich and full and always painted the colour of Mr. Wines’ finest burgundy, a dash of rich colour in an otherwise-bloodless face, whilst her eyes are a baleful green, a poisonous viridian evaluating the world before her.
The rest of her body, insofar as can be told beneath the gleaming splendour of her dresses and gowns, is lithe and trim, impressively wasp-waisted and without an extra gram of fat anywhere. She has a fondness for black opals and rubies; it is a rare day indeed to see her without an adornment of one or the other, and still rarer to see her without her gloves, leather with the same ophidian allure as her boots.
Personality: Playful and ruthless by turns, Alex St. Clair is a creature of layers and masks and never seems quite satisfied with any of them. Case in point; if she takes tea on the lawns of Summerset College, her poisonous eyes will, sooner or later, wander to the copper-eyed denizens of Benthic and fill with a certain longing. If she’s engaged in frenetic discourse with the wild-eyed academics of the more devilish College, though, those selfsame eyes will turn to the plumply self-satisfied idyll of Summerset with that same indefinable longing. Alex St. Clair is never satisfied for long; something hungers in her that she can’t put a name to.
Regardless, Alex is usually pleasant and charming and with the sort of self-assured certainty that comes with money and power down generations. Emphasis being on the ‘usually’; she has a temper best described as volcanic, made all the stronger by its repression under a thick coat of etiquette and good breeding, such that when it finally erupts, Alex’s stores of violant ink are usually easily replenished from the carnage.
Skills:
• She is an excellent shotgunner • She is a dab hand with poisons and their application • Skilled apiarist • Skilled gardener • Excellent calligrapher
Weaknesses:
• Hates – and is hated by – the Bishop of Southwark • Impious; she openly visits the Brass Embassy, and is a frequent guest at their masquerade balls. There are always devils around her. • Sadist; Alex St. Clair does not partake of the bounty of red honey her gardens yield. She takes her pleasure from the…ahem…fertilizer instead, and uses the honey to bargain for, oh, all manner of things. • Vindictive; In defeat, malice. In victory, revenge!
Brief History: A Fallen London native, born and bred, Alex St. Clair was that most fortunate of children; born to a wealthy and titled house and cut free of outmoded male-preference primogeniture in the darkness of the Neath. With the world her darkly-gleaming oyster, she has held several jobs, although she’d never call them that. Favours, instead, for Crown and Country and the good of Society, as the long arm of the knives-in-the-dark Foreign Office. She’s met the Pirate King on the Isle of Cats; the two of them have a complex relationship, built on and broken by the roses they both cultivate, and is one of the few to thrive in Irem.
In return for ‘services rendered’, of which a mere enquiry will bring down a host of Baseborn and Fowlingpiece’s finest in a twinkling of lawyerly brogues, she was given the honour of a Bazaar writ to purchase one of their spire-emporia, a glittering jewel in which she now resides for much of the time.
Other:
• Long-standing member of the Parthenaeum • Frequenter of the House of Chimes. • Has Baseborn and Fowlingpiece on a hair-trigger retainer. • Intimate of the Captivating Princess
Gender: Female, though one could be quite easily forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Occupation: Monster Hunter (currently), Swashbuckler, Duellist, Leg-Breaker, look, if it pays in rostygold, she's done it.
Description: Tall and muscular, with hair the colour of rostygold (a most fortuitous coincidence) and eyes dark as the zee. Dresses much like a zee-captain, in fact, though she spends the majority of her time on land. Carries her favourite weapons openly, and a few more hidden away.
Personality: Rough, ready, and vivacious. Always eager to embark on another adventure.
Skills: - Well acquainted with weaponry of all sorts, but prefers her cutlass and pistols. - Popular with the lower classes, and fairly well-known due to a few published exploits. - More intelligent than she seems, and has a knack for archaeology.
Weaknesses: - Overconfident, one would say suicidally so if that meant anything down here. - Uncouth and shunned by Society due to her rough living. -- Associated with Anarchists and Rubbery Men, even! The nerve! - Has a serious drinking habit.
Brief History: A well-to-do Parisian who fled to the Neath to escape a marriage that ended in murder. Since arriving, she has found that violence and peril quite agree with her, and has developed something of an addiction to both.
Not quite one yet, but thought I'd put up what I have so far on my first submission!
Full Name: Caede
Nicknames/Aliases: The Dauntless Chelonite
Age: Somewhere in her mid to late twenties.
Gender: Female
Occupation: Monster-Hunter, sometime zailor.
Description: Caede, the Dauntless Chelonite, is a new figure in London, who rather stands out from the crowd. A native of the rotting carcass of a great zee creature, she comes from a place of rather differing values, and reflects it.
She’s tall, to the degree that it’s a little intimidating, near six and half foot high, with a build that suggests a lot of athletic activity. Her hair is a mop of wavy ginger fronds, still choked with salt, occasional bone beads and bits of shell braided in. She has a squarish face, marked with two white scars across her brow and cheek, and one on the bridge of her nose. For a chelonite, it could be considered pretty light scarring.
Quite notable about the woman are her eyes. The colour of them is something not quite natural. A blue so dark you’re not entirely sure how you know it’s even blue at all. They are peligin, the colour of the Unterzee, the colour that anyone’s eyes turn after they’ve eaten the raw flesh of the darkest zee creatures. It doesn’t appear to have had much of an effect on her otherwise...but it makes holding eye contact for a long time feel a little.. Disconcerting.
Her attire is practical, if a little outlandish. Her cropped trousers resemble something a little bit like sealskin...if seals grew patches of uneven scales amidst the fur. Her long jacket is made from the leather of something reddish and scarred, and bristly fur lines its collar. The boots most certainly came off a dead man at some point. A necklace of serrated teeth hands around her neck. Slung over one shoulder is a harpoon made of the bones of something big. Something with an anatomy that makes it quite difficult to determine what original purpose the bone served.
Personality: Caede is a rather brutish, unsophisticated individual... though if one can get past that, she's relatively easy to get along with. Well, as long as you never make any attempt to question her chelonite superiority as far as hunting goes. Questioning her bravery and savagery in the face of creatures of the zee is likely to provoke the kind of feral rage that makes people worry about drinking in the Chelonate.
Caede has a high opinion of her own skill, and that of her people, and won;t stand to see it demeaned.
Beyond that however, she's a pleasant enough companion. She has a strong sense of right and wrong, and tends to be driven by that sense over some desire for her own benefit.
Skills: - -Astonishingly handy with a harpoon.
-Bears a wealth of experience from a life lived out on the very edges of civilization, far from the reaches of London’s influence. As such, she is very difficult to rattle.
Weaknesses:
-Possibly not too discerning about where she uses the harpoon.
-Polite society of London doesn't look too kindly on the sorts of things that a chelonite like herself would consider perfectly normal. Adorning yourself with white clay and the teeth of sea creatures, habitually carrying around harpoons, eating raw meat and drinking fermented eel blood... holding bloody sacrificial rites in an attempt to placate Storm... the list goes on. None of these things really do a lot to win her friends.
Brief History: Caede was born and bred in the Chelonate, a settlement hollowed out into the corpse of an enormous zee turtle. The child of a well-known hunter… and a woman who was not native to the place. Some say she came from Irem, the city f the seven serpents. Regardless, she left for elsewhere when her daughter was still young, and disappeared off into the fog of the zee.
Growing up, learning to swim, hunt and fight, Caede didn't acutely feel such a loss. The Chelonate was a place of peril and shifting fortunes, to lose someone was not a great surprise, but her unusual parentage had netted a bit of attention.
At the age of twelve, one of the Bone Men, the priesthood of the corpse-island, told her that her destiny was, one day, to go to zee, like her mother. Caede took this seriously. It was one of the shouting holy men tht told her of it, though it was the woman herself who fulfilled it one day, when a passing trading vessel, having lost a number of its crew in a freak accident with a jllyfleur, started recruiting for able hands.
This began Caede's zailing career. What she lacked in experience she made up for in her ability to learn fast, her fearless attitude, and her apparent willingness to eat practically any creature hauled out of the zee.
Other: Is a worshipper of Storm, one of the gods of the zee. Will do her best to appease him with loud and bloody sacrifice (the only sort he's interested in.).
@astralGemini Hey, Astral! Geneviere looks great so far! However, I do have a question. You listed her as having several different kinds of occupations, such as an archaeologist, monster hunter, and leg-breaker. It's perfectly fine if she skips from one job to the next a lot, but would you mind highlighting her current occupation in that section, please? c: Most characters have their current profession listed, such as Madison being a Correspondent, Alex being a socialite/exile garden owner, and Dawn being a detective, so I would appreciate it if you could set it apart somehow. Other than that, I really enjoy her page.
@VitoftheVoid Caede's looking good! Feel free to move her over to the character sheet if you'd like.
@Rig I've been waiting to see if a few more people would join/for some people to finish sending in their characters, but I'll probably try posting either later today or tomorrow. I'll be stuck in classes for most of today before going to see It, so I might be a bit busy, but I'll try my best. c:
