OOC: Masters at Mrs Plenty's Most Distracting Carnival
...an incognito Master?
Who's that, high at the back? A hunched figure wrapped in a... well you could call it a cloak and cowl, it's like a winding sheet crossed with a tapestry and dipped in ink. A vigilant throng of neddy men menaces anyone coming too close. If you have the right connections, you could try to have a word. But the Masters don't like their privacy invaded.
---
It's Mr Apples!
Mr Apples seems delighted to see you. It presses honeyed wine on you and insists you try a variety of preserved fruits imported at tremendous expense from the Darker Continent. The fruits have wonderful healing properties, and taste extraordinary besides.
It whispers incautious gossip about the Masters in your eager ear. It indicates coyly that Mr Hearts and Mr Mirrors are trading names, though it doesn't say who for. It does - a little unnervingly - place its hand on your knee several times. (Hand? Whatever it keeps in its glove, in any case.) Is this Masterly flirtation? Or is it determining whether you're ripe and plump for some dreadful purpose?
-----
...it's Mr Iron.
Mr Iron does not seem especially pleased to see you. You sit in uncomfortable silence for a while until it writes something on a leaf of paper with its left hand and gives it to a neddy man. Who reads it and drops to the ground in a dead faint. A second attendant reads the paper with caution. Teeth chattering, he approaches you. 'I'd go now if I were you,' he hisses. Mr Iron does not turn to watch as you go.
-----
It's Mr Wines!
Everyone's favourite master, who probably doesn't eat children; only occasionally has innocents beaten by his neddies; and almost never ruins small shopkeepers with savagely devious back-room deals. He keeps a fine cellar, does Mr Wines. You are encouraged to taste its products until your head swims.
You do worry later what you might have said. Few in Fallen London are innocent, and you're no exception. But you enjoy a pleasant half-hour listening to Mr Wines' tales of previous cities: the fermented mare's
milk he sold in the Fourth, the maize-wine of the Third, the sour beer of the Second. Mr Wines presses a wax-sealed bottle on you as you leave. 'I think you'd look charming in black,' it says enigmatically.
Who's that, high at the back? A hunched figure wrapped in a... well you could call it a cloak and cowl, it's like a winding sheet crossed with a tapestry and dipped in ink. A vigilant throng of neddy men menaces anyone coming too close. If you have the right connections, you could try to have a word. But the Masters don't like their privacy invaded.
---
It's Mr Apples!
Mr Apples seems delighted to see you. It presses honeyed wine on you and insists you try a variety of preserved fruits imported at tremendous expense from the Darker Continent. The fruits have wonderful healing properties, and taste extraordinary besides.
It whispers incautious gossip about the Masters in your eager ear. It indicates coyly that Mr Hearts and Mr Mirrors are trading names, though it doesn't say who for. It does - a little unnervingly - place its hand on your knee several times. (Hand? Whatever it keeps in its glove, in any case.) Is this Masterly flirtation? Or is it determining whether you're ripe and plump for some dreadful purpose?
-----
...it's Mr Iron.
Mr Iron does not seem especially pleased to see you. You sit in uncomfortable silence for a while until it writes something on a leaf of paper with its left hand and gives it to a neddy man. Who reads it and drops to the ground in a dead faint. A second attendant reads the paper with caution. Teeth chattering, he approaches you. 'I'd go now if I were you,' he hisses. Mr Iron does not turn to watch as you go.
-----
It's Mr Wines!
Everyone's favourite master, who probably doesn't eat children; only occasionally has innocents beaten by his neddies; and almost never ruins small shopkeepers with savagely devious back-room deals. He keeps a fine cellar, does Mr Wines. You are encouraged to taste its products until your head swims.
You do worry later what you might have said. Few in Fallen London are innocent, and you're no exception. But you enjoy a pleasant half-hour listening to Mr Wines' tales of previous cities: the fermented mare's
milk he sold in the Fourth, the maize-wine of the Third, the sour beer of the Second. Mr Wines presses a wax-sealed bottle on you as you leave. 'I think you'd look charming in black,' it says enigmatically.