"Not every day in the Neath is the same."

Q: How do I unveil my Airs of London level?
A: Assign it as your Scrapbook Status.

As of January 2016 the Airs-value is also visible on the Myself-tab, see under "Qualities" and look for the "Randomizer"-category.

Ways to change your AirsEdit

Notable Ranges of Airs of LondonEdit

Clouds The Airs of London
0 Out on the city's edge, zee-bats cry where black waves break on a black shore.
1 - 10 A bat zips past, not far overhead.
11 - 13 The softest of rains falls in the street: the cobbles glisten like fish-skin.
14 - 15 In the street outside, fly-drivers squabble in a half-dozen different tongues: English, French, German...wait, is that Latin?
16 - 17 A small child meditatively pings stones off a butcher's shop-window. Eventually the butcher emerges, cleaver in hand. The child disappears with remarkable speed.
18 - 19 A shuttered black coach passes. The horses' hooves are muffled with sacking. The crowd falls silent. "The Empress," someone whispers.
20 A devil lounges against a lamp-post, picking his teeth with a needle. He eyes you speculatively.
21 - 30 Shadows lie still, here where there is no sun to move them. Sometimes they shiver in candle-light.
31 - 32 A raven caws, coughs, and breaks into song. Something eighteenth-century? Is that a snatch of a Purcell sonata?
33 - 40 The wall here is splotched with luxuriant russet fungus, like the fur of something mythical.
41 - 42 Passers-by watch you with narrow eyes. What do they see?
43 - 44 Someone speaks your name. But when you turn, there is only a mirror.
45 - 46 High above, the false-stars glimmer. Did one of them - move?
47 - 50 A window glows with the amber light of tallow-candles. Voices are raised in song.
51 - 60 Today, something in the air makes the gas-lamps slink low, burn marsh-green.
61 - 62 On the roof-tops at day's end, urchins whistle a tune from Mahogany Hall. One improvises lyrics that would make a Master of the Bazaar blush.
63 - 65 Oof! That reek is a tannery. Hold your breath a moment.
66 - 68 A glove-maker passes, holding his bag at arm's-length. The contents squirm.
69 - 70 The cobbles are slippery with a thick black moss. Your footfalls bruise it, and a scent like fresh Surface rain rises.
71 - 72 A cat's eyes glint on a high window-ledge. 'What a wretched day,' it remarks.
73 Stray dogs fight over something in the gutter. A human hand? ...probably just a pork-chop.
74 - 75 A barouche passes, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched greys. One passenger, a bearded chap in a top hat, throws his head back in laughter at something his bright-eyed female companion says.
76 - 80 A scuffle! A pool of blood! A wild-eyed girl with a knife in either hand! The cry goes up, 'a Jack!' Is it a Jack? She's gone, regardless -
81 - 82 The light from the false-stars clings to every surface like oil. This is the kind of afternoon when Londoners run mad, shrieking 'The sun! The sun!'
83 A phaeton roars past! The crowd scatters, the horses roll their eyes desperately! Two tomb-colonists sit cackling in the back.
84 - 88 Two costermongers stagger past, roaring drunk, their neckerchiefs alive with the colours of night.
89 A portly man sits weeping in the road. "The Menagerie," he sobs, "the Roses. They can no longer grow." A hackney carriage veers round him: "Honey-mazed," the driver sneers.
90 A rat runs along an iron railing, leaping each spike like an acrobat. "For the Scuttering Company!" he shrills, and fires his miniature pistol. A raven drops dead. The rat is gone.
91 Today, water has a metallic taste. It generally does. But is this a different metal? Copper? Silver?
92 A cry goes up: "Thief!" A pale young woman hurdles a barrel and is gone into the endless night.
93 A church bell tolls.
94 Drizzle is falling all around, like slow glass, or tears.
95 A huddled bundle lies in the gutter. Movement squirms beneath a blanket. Rats? Spiders? Black-clad, gloved, masked Special Constables lift it to the back of a cart, and you see no more.
96 The wind toys with paper-scraps in the gutter.
97 A governess passes with a child on a leash. No! No, only a young woman and a little dog.
98 A beetle the size of a boot sits atop a tar-barrel, nonchalantly twiddling its antennae.
99 A scowling boy distributes hand-bills. "MAHOGANY HALL: TONIGHT", they read. "HEPHAESTA." "M. PLEAT."
100 All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

Pages in category "The Airs of London"

The following 200 pages are in this category, out of 359 total.



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