Shar’d Ney of the Echo Bazaar
I’ve never had any difficulties with the gentlemen in blue. They’re about as corrupt as they come, and unburrying modern gossip has been my forte since I was a child. A red stocking here, a little blackmail there. “Oh my, Mr. Constable, what have we here?” They’re never too difficut to dissuade from investigating my daily activities.
The Special Constables, though. They are formidible indeed.
There was a time when I didn’t care for politics. If Mr. Pages and the Ministry of Public Decency claimed a topic was too vile for the public to muse over, I could only benifet. Social climbing becomes natural, like breathing air, so long as the words you’re exhaling are teetering on the Ministry’s edge. I don’t miss those days. Perhaps if I were still as naieve as I was then, I may long to return to the safety of Society’s posh social rings, but I have come to realize there is heracy afoot, and it’s not in the ranks of the Flit.
My association with the revolutionaries is purely coincidential. Hellfire and cannon is not to my liking, and there are many war-ragers among the revolutionaries. My knife and candle is the words I press to those in the public willing to listen (and there are many.) Yes, I own a printing press. Yes, it is likely the revolutionary pamphlet in your hand was written by yours truely. Do I consider myself a revolutionary? Not particularly, but my kinship with the higher-minds of the revolutionaries is absolute.
The constables that drew up beside me in Spite were dressed in black. They consider themselves important, and I was not impressed. However, being a gentleman, I politely agreed to pull our conversation to a location more private.
I did not, nor will I ever, succomb to blackmail.
To die a thousand deaths rotting in the bowels of New Newgate would be far more attractive to my immortal conscience than to become the dog of the so-called “Masters.” The men determining the fate of our lives are churlish, impertinent, and base individuls with mental capacities comparable to bats. If the truth can only be expressed in the form of insult, it is only the fault of those neddy men in officer’s garb (and I did not hesitate to inform them of this.)
So I was taken to prison.
I will not reminise on my time there, only admit that it was as abhorrent an experience as I remember it being the first time.
However, since then, the Special Constables have been following my movements closely. Again they approached me (not even two days after my escape!) to inquire about The Giver. It was to my fortune I happened to be dressed finely on that occassion (details withheld.) It gave the illusion that my time in New Newgate assisted in redirecting my ambitions back to trivial matters of Society. As a direct result, my winding, backhanded lie as to why the idol was in my possession was concievable. They let me go-
only to chase me down for jay-walking outside of the very Veilgarden retreat we’d held our conversation.
A fool’s error. I’d underestimated their desperation for the information I carry. Again, I sit in New Newgate, sighing whistfully and waiting patiently for the next opportune moment to escape. They’ve bought some time, perhaps three days, before I return to the roads of Fallen London. The “Special” Constables better make good use of it. They won’t have me again.
I’ve never had any difficulties with the gentlemen in blue. They’re about as corrupt as they come, and unburrying modern gossip has been my forte since I was a child. A red stocking here, a little blackmail there. “Oh my, Mr. Constable, what have we here?” They’re never too difficut to dissuade from investigating my daily activities.
The Special Constables, though. They are formidible indeed.
There was a time when I didn’t care for politics. If Mr. Pages and the Ministry of Public Decency claimed a topic was too vile for the public to muse over, I could only benifet. Social climbing becomes natural, like breathing air, so long as the words you’re exhaling are teetering on the Ministry’s edge. I don’t miss those days. Perhaps if I were still as naieve as I was then, I may long to return to the safety of Society’s posh social rings, but I have come to realize there is heracy afoot, and it’s not in the ranks of the Flit.
My association with the revolutionaries is purely coincidential. Hellfire and cannon is not to my liking, and there are many war-ragers among the revolutionaries. My knife and candle is the words I press to those in the public willing to listen (and there are many.) Yes, I own a printing press. Yes, it is likely the revolutionary pamphlet in your hand was written by yours truely. Do I consider myself a revolutionary? Not particularly, but my kinship with the higher-minds of the revolutionaries is absolute.
The constables that drew up beside me in Spite were dressed in black. They consider themselves important, and I was not impressed. However, being a gentleman, I politely agreed to pull our conversation to a location more private.
I did not, nor will I ever, succomb to blackmail.
To die a thousand deaths rotting in the bowels of New Newgate would be far more attractive to my immortal conscience than to become the dog of the so-called “Masters.” The men determining the fate of our lives are churlish, impertinent, and base individuls with mental capacities comparable to bats. If the truth can only be expressed in the form of insult, it is only the fault of those neddy men in officer’s garb (and I did not hesitate to inform them of this.)
So I was taken to prison.
I will not reminise on my time there, only admit that it was as abhorrent an experience as I remember it being the first time.
However, since then, the Special Constables have been following my movements closely. Again they approached me (not even two days after my escape!) to inquire about The Giver. It was to my fortune I happened to be dressed finely on that occassion (details withheld.) It gave the illusion that my time in New Newgate assisted in redirecting my ambitions back to trivial matters of Society. As a direct result, my winding, backhanded lie as to why the idol was in my possession was concievable. They let me go-
only to chase me down for jay-walking outside of the very Veilgarden retreat we’d held our conversation.
A fool’s error. I’d underestimated their desperation for the information I carry. Again, I sit in New Newgate, sighing whistfully and waiting patiently for the next opportune moment to escape. They’ve bought some time, perhaps three days, before I return to the roads of Fallen London. The “Special” Constables better make good use of it. They won’t have me again.
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