The Forgotten Host
Senior Member
The Slums
When the good people asked their democratically appointed representative, why are there more empty homes in London than there are actual homeless people, The fat overworked dough ball of a mayor on the verge of panic loosened his collar. True, a little infrastructural muscle pulling here and a some social programming there could rid the problem very easily, but when you inherited a job where you had to kill the person before you to get where you are now, prioritize need compromise. Especially when you are most likely in debt to a number shady chaps breathing down your neck with the favors you owe them. Not that he deserves to be burned in eulogy for the body count he has accumulated, but... you know what, never mind. Burn him. Burn Him!
The Ministry of Pest-Control
Did you know that pest-control is the most lucrative and harrowing of working class job opportunities? Doesn't sound so hard, but when a rat grows to the size of a golden retriever, offence must be taken. Moths the size of your fist can consume you like a school of piranhas. Spiders you can mistaken for Bosch paintings can spit acid webs and lay eggs under your skin. Black sludge that seems innocuous at first glance can lunge at you like a grasshopper, when you least suspect it. Oh, and did I mention the grasshoppers? Nasty things with an appetite for your children. Suffice to say, when a grizzled man or woman outside the office of the Ministry has a large bloody bag slumped over their shoulder, don't be alarmed. It probably doesn't have human parts in it... unless it was a human infected with fungal spores. Do those count? I don't think those count.
The Tomb of Kel
A rumor? A mad man's rambling? A real place? All of the above? Who can really tell? Information is scarce, and people who display more than a passing interest tend to disappear. The most accepted hypothesis is that London was built on the tomb of an ancient deity who dropped dead, because apparently gods can do that. All across London, Kel's worshipers pray the nights away, performing gory ceremonies, awaiting the arrival of their infernal mother. Suffice to say, if you decide to go spelunking in the old City Ruins, bring a friend with a heavy hand and ask them to slap you for having such a stupid idea.
Farron University
A place of higher learning where individuals displaying exceptional aptitude in the sciences work tirelessly for the betterment of mankind... is what they tell you if you press them about the rumors of there more extracurricular activities. You know, the usual affair: Human experimentation, consorting with old gods, not holding the door for someone literally right behind you; all of those are equally horrible things. The 'fruits' of their labor can be seen all across London. From the slimy tentacles masquerading as humans haunting the fishing hamlet, to the livelihood of the Ministry of Pest-Control. If it's slimy or wants to eat you, there is a good chance it was created inside the walls of Farron University.
The Proto-Natural
Demons, ghosts, ghouls, your mother, and all the things that go bump in the night. Every resident in London knows three things to watch out for if they find themselves in the forlorn streets of the city at night. The ghastly train that visits the stations at the witching hour, rumors say anyone foolish enough to take a ride go straight to hell. The soft voices that call your name. Turn back to see who it is and you will never be seen or heard from again, the only evidence of your abduction being the shoes you inexplicably leave behind. Not a single day goes by without a constable coming across a pair of empty shoes out in the open. Jack the Ripper, an entity as old as London itself. His calling card is always an intricately slaughtered victim. Beware if you are a common whore, for you might just find Jack knocking on your door.
When the good people asked their democratically appointed representative, why are there more empty homes in London than there are actual homeless people, The fat overworked dough ball of a mayor on the verge of panic loosened his collar. True, a little infrastructural muscle pulling here and a some social programming there could rid the problem very easily, but when you inherited a job where you had to kill the person before you to get where you are now, prioritize need compromise. Especially when you are most likely in debt to a number shady chaps breathing down your neck with the favors you owe them. Not that he deserves to be burned in eulogy for the body count he has accumulated, but... you know what, never mind. Burn him. Burn Him!
The Ministry of Pest-Control
Did you know that pest-control is the most lucrative and harrowing of working class job opportunities? Doesn't sound so hard, but when a rat grows to the size of a golden retriever, offence must be taken. Moths the size of your fist can consume you like a school of piranhas. Spiders you can mistaken for Bosch paintings can spit acid webs and lay eggs under your skin. Black sludge that seems innocuous at first glance can lunge at you like a grasshopper, when you least suspect it. Oh, and did I mention the grasshoppers? Nasty things with an appetite for your children. Suffice to say, when a grizzled man or woman outside the office of the Ministry has a large bloody bag slumped over their shoulder, don't be alarmed. It probably doesn't have human parts in it... unless it was a human infected with fungal spores. Do those count? I don't think those count.
The Tomb of Kel
A rumor? A mad man's rambling? A real place? All of the above? Who can really tell? Information is scarce, and people who display more than a passing interest tend to disappear. The most accepted hypothesis is that London was built on the tomb of an ancient deity who dropped dead, because apparently gods can do that. All across London, Kel's worshipers pray the nights away, performing gory ceremonies, awaiting the arrival of their infernal mother. Suffice to say, if you decide to go spelunking in the old City Ruins, bring a friend with a heavy hand and ask them to slap you for having such a stupid idea.
Farron University
A place of higher learning where individuals displaying exceptional aptitude in the sciences work tirelessly for the betterment of mankind... is what they tell you if you press them about the rumors of there more extracurricular activities. You know, the usual affair: Human experimentation, consorting with old gods, not holding the door for someone literally right behind you; all of those are equally horrible things. The 'fruits' of their labor can be seen all across London. From the slimy tentacles masquerading as humans haunting the fishing hamlet, to the livelihood of the Ministry of Pest-Control. If it's slimy or wants to eat you, there is a good chance it was created inside the walls of Farron University.
The Proto-Natural
Demons, ghosts, ghouls, your mother, and all the things that go bump in the night. Every resident in London knows three things to watch out for if they find themselves in the forlorn streets of the city at night. The ghastly train that visits the stations at the witching hour, rumors say anyone foolish enough to take a ride go straight to hell. The soft voices that call your name. Turn back to see who it is and you will never be seen or heard from again, the only evidence of your abduction being the shoes you inexplicably leave behind. Not a single day goes by without a constable coming across a pair of empty shoes out in the open. Jack the Ripper, an entity as old as London itself. His calling card is always an intricately slaughtered victim. Beware if you are a common whore, for you might just find Jack knocking on your door.
