Fine wine, fine company, plenty of betrayal, and the Starveling Cat
What Became Of Us All?
The fire in the sky cast long tendrils of reaching light to scare away the oppressive darkness that once soaked London as a fondly remembered towel, forever hanging by the wash basin but otherwise unchanged. To have it cast aside would perhaps be seen for the best if it did not reveal the mold and unkempt mildew left behind by negligence; the disuse oft indicative of lazy or complacent residents. The darkness gone London and hee Citizens were forces to contend with the sights of a city torn asunder by years of exploitation and permitted cruelty. Truly not one Londoner could be called the cause of it all but to be faced with the true skyline of their once beloved city was simply too much.
One could watch from on high and watch as the ants saw the face of their God for the first time, truly, and feel the shame for letting their city fail into such disrepair. With the darkness gone it was simply an expose of the complacency and greed of the power. However, as streets were roamed and those red clad Constables brought order once more the questions began to cross the minds of the more politically expedient. Where were the Masters? Why in this newfound light had the Bazaar’s skin gone dark? What of Her Enduring Majesty? In between throbbing headaches and scattered thoughts one could not be criticized for not knowing where they might be or their screaming in the moment. Screaming such as this had not been heard since London had fallen so it was certainly of note to many. Nobles and workers alike sought comfort in their vices - of the bottle, of the snuff box, of the body - to simply cope. The bats that once could hide in the blanket of darkness were truly shown to all now. Not driven away but given a renewed splendor the endless clouds of black and white furred bodies acted as the first call to home the city could accept as true weather was so rare and even then so rarely kind.
Among those flapping clouds were messengers seeking out proper recipients. This was a development that must be spread! Nothing would travel faster than the light of that horrible red sun but words would give meaning where the mind would fail. Amidst these messengers flew ravena of night. Squeals and sharp calls echoed into the ceiling as the messengers deemed unworthy were robbed of their leg bound scrolls or stolen from this life for the time. It would be impossible to stop them all, indeed it would be foolish to believe it so, but a delay would prevent works somewhat. A delay was crucial to whomever set the ravens to work but the bats that fell prey to the One-Eyed Enforcer were truly those carrying messages of distinction. Even as these efforts took many away from their paths and goals one black bat was not to be set over the Unterzee but instead into a portion of London below.
Twisting paths away from its comrades to escape into the higher reaches of the Urchin walks and the lower Mad Court gave it ample protection even from the determined One-Eye. Clothes hung to dry were disturbed by a body tumbling through them and clothespins snapping free to fall below in a clacking song of discordant toil. Perhaps those living there were more concerned for the star in the sky than their drapery. Regardless of this the bat was forced to tumble with the mess it made as it dove into the alleys below. It saw her, the Masqued Idealist, laying where she had been when the star had erupted into life, head bleeding onto the cobbles and her attackers likewise stunned and cast into a stupor across from her. The bat landed upon her brow and gave a wiggle of a foot, dislodging its letter into her cloak before taking to the sky. The sun was out and the game was afoot. The Masqued Idealist would wake to it soon enough.
A New Dawn
His hand rested upon the railing of his balcony. From his spire, the city below was once only for him to see and none could see up to him. The Bazaar Emporiums afforded a level of privacy so few could ever truly understand. In the darkness of the times past it was possible for the mighty of the Neath to look down into a lit London below and bask in the knowledge they would never be seen from below. Indeed even now as the red light of the New Sun cast long shadows across a previously shrouded Neath the distance was simply too much to see as the Victorious Hegemon took in his victory with an open smile. Fingers drumming and glasses glinting he was seeing the fruits of his labor finally in the light.
It would be chaos for a time as things came to a new order. Indeed, even his work was not done, so his time here was to be limited. Below though his will was being enacted. Constables dressed in blue following the orders of the newly established Red Heralds would scour the city for remnants of what simply could no longer be. He was no fool. Even with the star above he knew it was an imperfect project so he expected some things and people slipped through. It would need to be rectified in time. Permitting himself a moment of respite the socialite offers up a brief and lonely chuckle. “It is nearly over, my dear. It has been all very much worth the blood.”
Behind him comes the Den Mother, the short woman turning her eyes between him and the New Sun. “I trust it has,” came her reply, a smile warming her expression and a hand coming to rest upon his. “You need to rest, Advocate. You have done so much over so long that it is any wonder you can stand here at all. Can you do that for me? At the very least, Pip would like to see you settle down.” Her smile broadens and she finds her place at his side whilst she sought the truth from him.
Pip. The dear child. She knew not the extent of this only that it had been so important to him. The Victorious Hegemon offers a gentle nod in recognition and turning his hand so that he might hold the Den Mother’s. “It is something so many have suggested for me, yes. I would see it as attempted treachery if not from you, you know.” He gives her hand a squeeze with his other coming up to her chin. “Be sure to rest yourself. Your roof runners, they will be alright from now on. You will be able to breathe. Once matters have settled all of London shall be able to.” A thumb traces along her jaw and the Hegemon steps back so that the balcony may be shared.
If only those below, beneath the truncheons of the Red Heralds and the familiar lockstep of the Constables, could be privy to such a gentle moment by their new master. No doubt some might find solace in there being some stability in the Neath after all is said. For now, however, there was only panic. There was only the clubs of a new justice to find those that did not belong.
A discarded page
-light! Bright and horrible! Kings could not stand against it even in their most regal and so I know that Her Enduring Majesty certainly did not! Her curtains are still drawn shut but her guards at missing at their post. I told my secretary to return to her home until this event has been understood but she was simply no longer with me! My ears are ringing fierce and I fear it will never stop. It is as though we had been suddenly thrust back to the surface in a brief moment of cruel flashes of memory but now I cannot think back far without my mind aching and my memories blurring.
Something has changed and I am so certain of it but my mind fails me and so it does naught but cast further confusion into my life! To know that this mind once broached the secrets of the Neath is now helpless to merely recall is the far greater horror of anything I may have studied yet. Perhaps time could mend this wound but now I am lost at the sight of the sun hanging above our dark Bazaar. There are no stars in the Neath! Yet to be proven so quickly wrong, am I but a fool among many? Have I never been truly sane! By the gods it is so horrific to gaze upon but the light, the sun, the sun! Oh how I have missed it upon me but I find no warmth from this. I can only feel dread.
Is this what is meant when one feels the hair upon their nape rebel so fervently? For one’s ears burn? Superstitious nonsense but this is so real and unavoidable. I write in a feverish mess but as my page ends I find no words to share the majesty of what now looms above me. Will it set? Will our nights return to us? I see constables rushing through the streets below and red clad gentlemen in tow! Is there a new order to contend with? Can there, truly, be a return to what was before this? What has been before, can it ever be again? The knocking at the street level is driving me mad! I must answer the door, I must answer to order but when my nib leaves the page I feel removed from what there is. If I stop writing I may very well-
A bright, terrible flash
London had been stolen some time back. It was no longer part of the British Empire and certainly not part of the Surface, no matter how they or any others might wish it. Queen and country became something more personal to those that still cared, far more intimate, but all old meanings have melted in time. What once stood resplendent was now in the shadow of the Neath and the high spires of the Bazaar.
A new order had been established to supplant the old but not in totality. The old powers, while diminished, were incorporated by necessity. Not all things were to change and enough familiarity was to remain to ensure a kinder transition. The screaming had stopped after the fall with perhaps infamous British stoicism seeking to win out against the new world these people had been subjected to but to adapt meant overcoming it. The Neath was familiar, yet alien. To shake the hand of a neighbor but find you truly have never known them, perhaps no one had. To see a language painted upon a wall that made your head hurt and your eyes burn. This simply could not be overcome and though so foreign a place it might be, old world ideals and powers had yet survived into this new age.
Conspiracy and murder; skulduggery to empower the legitimate facade of earnest rulers; a place unwelcoming of its new inhabitants laid bare not all the secrets below but enough to discourage - or entice. The Neath was where the laws of nature held weaker hold and the laws of man must adapt with fears of the Iron Republic to the south spreading their particular brand of freedom to London. So nefarious indeed were the machinations of the Neath that to it is instead better not to look above one’s path and simply toil in the ground or factories, what could be tended to indeed. Such a mindset was able to save Londoners, if not at least soften the blow from the new home their city found itself in. Work was to deliver them all and if not work, then perhaps the Church, but each day, each week proved it to be not an impossibility but rather mere distraction. From leather aprons to white collars there would be no proper peace but simply an unfocused one. A dull thrum behind the eyes to simply pass the time and even at times under the guise of some token effort to change the circumstances under which they toiled.
Years have passed since the city has been stolen and those downcast eyes, those averted gazes, were blind to the powers that be. All things must end but some sought to preserve and perfect. What is the Neath if not a chance to redeem oneself? It was a place to escape to to forge a part ahead. A place to escape your chains above for new chains below. With such a focus on the self and an ignorance of the curtain that hid the powers of the city, the battle in the shadows went without great interruption. One man stood above many others and had become hegemon to that which he cast his gaze. London would be his. The Vicious Viceroy would be absent for some weeks as he had set off on a journey none within London would know. So sensitive a task was this that he permitted fame to squander and fall away. It would be a quiet return when he did dock once more but the lack of a greeting caused him no ill will. The Vicious Viceroy was to be consigned to the annals of time as he returned to London instead as the Victorious Hegemon. He need no more crowds to find success. They had played their part admirably and without faltering when needed.
Many will tell you there are no stars in the Neath, that to gaze upon the sun again was but some fantasy. However let it be known that the endless shadow war was not endless. It was won. A great red flash erupted within the Neath and those whose eyes had been downcast for so long could not help but look upwards. There are no stars in the Neath but Londoners now will beg to differ.
Something terrible has occurred. More is yet to come. The Victorious Hegemon desires it to be so and his reach is now limitless. Beware all, for the Horrible Red Sun has risen above London and now, truly, the sun never sets over the British Empire. The year is 1901 and the screaming has started anew.
Do you recall Letters? Do you recall those turbulent days and how we forged out terrible ways? Beware, friends. The Terrible Red Sun has risen and it shall never set.
It shan’t set. The path is cruel but the light is here. Beware no longer, delicious friends, my victory is near…
A Deep Red
The false-day had been the same as much of the day to day that London was known to hold. Criminals roamed in the hope of a singular good purse, the mayor rode abouht in their carriage, the palace silent as it ever was. Glittering above it all were the wonderful and foreboding false stars, forever still - or at least so Londoners hoped - as they watched the city below.
Truly nothing could be said of the Neath without mentioning an air of circumspect and foreboding. For the silence often preferred by London and those within it would be a lie to say the city was ever truly still. Even with brawls at the docks or Revolutionaries setting fires there was a constant sheen of unseen machinations, Machiavellian in their very being. The powerful of London were rarely inactive, even if they sat in their armchairs to enjoy their tea, but something quite queer was happening.
Groyard Mayatt, the Vicious Viceroy, had been absent for quite some time. Now and again claims would be made that his arrival at some social gathering or going between homes could be accounted for and, though sometimes true, it seemed the man had gone rather quiet. He would host charity events for the orphans and poor only to to appear briefly to offer a toast; once eagerly inspecting his orphanages he would rarely appear but to deliver clothing and food, avoiding public eye throughout. He had thrived on social recognition and yet now he somehow avoided it all. His ship finally set zail, the great yacht leaving for the South, and though he went with it his memory remained. Suitors and staff alike awaited his return.
What none expected was his return with a dreadful sunrise at his back, red cascading over the death black Unterzee and casting new shadows but revealing horrible truths with it. Groyard had returned, a triumph in his smile.