#fishtwin

Living in the Fifth City, a city re-baptized as Fallen London, has not been easy on you. Then again, it has not either for the city dweller. Though industrial revolution had wrought prosperity to the kingdom in general, only select few of the populace could enjoy such luxury. For those in the lower hierarchy pyramid, gruel and hard bread remains as staple. Even more so after London was taken into the Neath, a vast network under earth's surface.

Everything has been different ever since. London, which originally a melting pot of various culture in the surface, had become more eccentric compared to herself under sunlight. More foreigners coming from all directions of Neath, bringing their respectively unique culture. Some more disturbing than the others. Nevertheless, Londoners prevailed the waves of unknown. Life continued as usual in the Fifth City, with its hierarchy pyramid where the gap between the rich and poor continue to diverse. 

For you though, nothing changed much. In the first place, rare were days sunlight graced London in her peak of Industrial Revolution. The skies were full of black pillars of smoke and low hanging gray cloud reaching beyond visible horizon. The Fall only replaced the cloud with the darkness of a vast cavern system. The rich remained rich, the noblemen remained pompous, and the street rats remained scrounging for rotten bread. 

Your humdrum of daily life started as you woke up abruptly on your bed, awoken to tiny voices of footsteps on your apartment's. City rats traversing on rooftops on ungodly hours. Seeking something, escaping something. When constables whistles follows, it's usually the latter. You would then reach for water basin at the edge of your small room on the second floor of old bookstore downtown. You vaguely heard your landlord groaning in distress. The cause was ever clear, rats. Living in the bookstore meant you never lack reading materials. The only downside is your landlord is unnervingly melancholic. You'd prefer avoiding running against him at every hours. 

Splashing some water on your tired face, the cold quickly awoke you from haziness that follows a rude awakening. Three o'clock in the morning. You couldn't decide whether to resume sleeping or not. You thought otherwise and sat by your study. Simple wooden chair and table tucked at one corner of your room, facing against a small window. White curtain covered the Fallen London scenery beyond it. You lit a candle and dipped the tip of your feather pen into inkwell, then you proceeded to scratch a few words on your journal. 

Awoken by city rats escaping constables again. Landlord's clearly not pleased, avoid him again. Visit Veilgarden later, again.

The Singing Mandrake in Veilgarden, a well-established café where poems, writers, artists, and all sort of artistic school personage gather. You would sit at one corner of the room, drinking tea and write solemnly while listening to artists of different schools debate in the center. Your poems had taken notice of several notable personae, who in turn encourage you to write some novels. Alas, no words flowed out of dark inky river. Papers containing scrapped plots and world building strewn about the wooden floor of your apartment, neglected and forgotten. 

'You're simply fresh out of inspiration, my dear. How about a trip to Unterzee?' 'Indeed, I know a competent captain. He'll escort your trip to wherever you wish' 'Irem perhaps? Or would you try the Khanate?' 'My word, those are dangerous options!' 'What, would you suggest the Iron Republic? That is similarly scandalous!' 'I would never, my good man! Perhaps to Elder Continent?' 'You jest!'

Many a times you considered obliging your patrons to sail with their selected captain to Unterzee and witness the wonders beyond London waters. Whether it's cowardice or reluctance you aren't aware of, you decided to stay in Fallen London. Knowing the unchanging humdrum of daily life that awaits you each day in the Neath. Knowing how many times you'd write 'again' in your journal. Knowing many times you'd listen to writers bickering on their choice of inspiration. Knowing that every morning you'd awake to city rats running above your rooftops. Knowing no words would ever trickle down your fountain pen. Knowing nothing you could do to ease welling frustration inside your heart. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Nevertheless, there was one action that differs from unchanging schedule. That morning, you decided to open your windows. You were expecting the usual Fallen London scent, a mixture of smoke and sewage odor. Sleepy scenery of downtown Fallen London before ‘sunrise’. To your surprise, a gust of wind brought long forgotten aroma of flowers and sunlight. As memory of the surface flooded into your mind, the view of Fallen London downtown rooftops before you was obstructed by a large figure. 

A man crouched by your small window. White curtain fluttered due to unlikely breeze. In the dim light of burning candle you could saw the man barely fit your window. An unlikely figure to be there, much less imagining him running across rooftops in expensive suit. Silver cross with ruby red center lines seemed to be his choice of accessories. Yet what strikes you most was fiery red mane and emerald eyes gleaming in candlelight, as well as a pair of protruding lower fangs decorating the sides of his mouth.

'My apologies for this untimely visit. Might you be xxxx?' He asked. You couldn't very well heard the last word he said due to approaching constable noise. The man before you observed at the surrounding nervously, visibly trying to stay calm. He looked at you again, obviously expecting some answers. Seeing your confused expression, he smiled - though that made you unnerved more than calming you -. 'Please come with me, we must be away quickly'. 

He extended his hand towards you then.