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#1 2020-05-07 18:32:03

Анон

[Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

...и весь остальной Лондон тоже.

Fallen London - браузерная текстовая игра. В альтернативной истории в 1861 году королева Виктория заключила сделку с космическим крабом-курьером космическими летучими мышами-капиталистами подозрительными торгашами. По условиям сделки торгаши вернули к жизни принца Альберта, а взамен весь Лондон был перенесен под землю в царство ебанины и немедленно организовал войну с Адом. И все заверте...

Прочие игры этого сеттинга

Sunless Sea - рогалик-торговля-выживач в темном подземном море. LOSE YOUR MIND. EAT YOUR CREW. DIE.
Sunless Skies - рогалик-торговля-выживач в темном альтернативном космосе. SAIL THE STARS. BETRAY YOUR QUEEN. MURDER A SUN.
The Silver Tree - браузерная текстовая игра про падение Каракорума. СПИЗДИ МАСТЕРА БАЗААР В РУЛЕТИКЕ ИЗ КОВРА.


На самом деле я сделал этот безблог просто чтобы таскать все найденные ололо-моменты в одну кучу, только тссс  :cool:

Отредактировано (2020-05-08 11:41:01)

#2 2020-05-07 18:41:47

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Самое главное, выпрошенное у кого-то из дискорда: гуглдоки с полным текстом амбиций, окончания которых ждали десять лет:
Nemesis
Bag a Legend
Light Fingers

#3 2020-05-07 18:57:03

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

По Heart's Desire гуглдока нет, но есть рисунок пересказы:

Скрытый текст
Анон пишет:

Разбавлю обсуждение чуток.

Fallen London, продолжение Heart's Desire, часть первая

Пока никаких охуительных вотэтоповоротов. Персонажу нужно напечатать колоду и найти место для проведения игры, предварительно опросив всех остальных участиков по поводу их предпочтений. Mr Pages тусуется у персонажа дома, раздает советы и расставляет книги на полках  =D
Пока спрашиваешь у остальных игроков насчет места проведения игры, можно каждого спросить, чего их душенька желает. Думаю, будет вариант помочь кому-нибудь из них в конце.

Mr Pages

The air of the Neath is notoriously calm. Wind is a stranger, here. But tonight, you conjure a storm. A whistling gale whirls the weathervanes and rattles the windows. Percussive thundercracks keep time. Cups shiver in their saucers, chiming prettily. Your loft booms like tuba as the air pressure changes.
Mr Pages, in your drawing room, waltzes clumsily to the aerological sympthony. You watch, carefully, as it performs some soaring dance of heavens long since abandoned. Beneath its robes, shapes stir and bulge, as if trying to break through the cloth. Are those wings?
"Home," it says, it's voice slurred, "I want to see the stars again."

Епископ

The Bishop smiles, though he is no longer looking at you, instead off into some middle distance. "South," he says at last, his voice low as though thickened with honeyed wine. "To be forgiven. To be welcomed. To end all these darkened days of wandering. To taste sweet fruit upon my tongue and walk in pastures gold. I would lie down upon that splendid glade like cloth of emerald and feel my cares mist away, like dew on a cold morning. And I would not walk there alone. I would open the gates, and lay a path so that others could follow, those who knew the signs." Thin tears streak his face.

Виктория

Virginia gives you the thinnest smile you have ever seen. "Sanctuary," she says, in a voice as soft as bare feet on snow. She looks away, indicating the end of the discussion.

Управляющий

The Manager offers a hungry phantom of a smile. "Cities are odd beasts, don't you find? One can never tell where one begins."
"My needs are simplicity itself. I want a bright diamond. I will make it my heart and grow from there into something strange and wild. Like my beloved. I will carry the seed of a new city. Perhaps I could be of sandstone and gold. That would look very splendid, don't you think?"

Обезьяна, информативно

The monkey looks up from its hand, briefly, and makes a series of emphatic but incomprehensible squeaks, hoots and growls. It returns its attention to the game.

The Topsy King

The Topsy King blinks at you, as though you were mad or stupid or both. At last, he lets out a discordant roar – of laughter or rage of both. A bead of sweat breaks on his forehead as he struggles to master himself. At last, Tristram Bagley triumphs over the Topsy King.
He taps his head, thrice. "Staked it," he says, "Hadn't got enough coins to stay in the game. Staked what was left. What was left was what was left of my mind. All aflame it was but best I had. In safe keeping now, with the Priest-King of Bethlehem. Kept, like he'd keep me if he could." The King drops his gaze, returning to his pages and his coals.
The Manager of the Royal Bethlehem, it seems, holds all that remains of Tristram Bagley's once brilliant mind.

После опроса игроков персонаж местом проведения выбирает Арбор и просит аудиенцию у Королевы Роз, Королева дает добро и говорит, что в следующий раз может сама станет участником, инкогнито:

Скрытый текст

Her voice is thick as incense, her eyes rouged with attar. "The Marvellous. Here." Her lips move in wonder. "A novelty for my city. Good, we grow bored. Though I suppose I shall have to excuse myself from being present." She smiles as though a thought occurs to her. "Your Mr Pages would not be happy to see me again. Perhaps I shall enter myself, in another year. Incognito of course." She laughs, a musical sound. "They would not enjoy having to grant my heart's desire, I assure you."
She shakes her crowned head. "Don't worry. I have enough to occupy me for the moment. Funny, really, how I seem to carry on my sisters' work, even after all these years. Come, let's get down to the details."
She has been well briefed. She plans for a great Dome to be constructed, and has handpicked a brace of poets and architects to do the dreaming for her, in lush, grandiose faux-Byzantine style. She consults you over the construction of the gaming table and the seating arrangements. She insists upon adding a thorn for Mr Pages' chair.
You outline your vision for the venue to the Queen, until the Attar has faded from your eyes and you find yourself in Arbor proper again.

После нужно отправиться в Параболу и провести ритуал над колодой, чтобы ее нельзя подделать (я думал, что все-таки можно будет как-нибудь хитро подделать в свою пользу, но нет). Ритуал проводит вот этот мужик:

Скрытый текст

The Custodian splits his face with a smile. "I am very old, now. I was born in the First," he says. He pauses for such a long time that you wonder if that is everything he will say. But, at last, he continues.
"I was very old then. Lived too long, bored out of my gourd. I went to one of the Lords: the Lord of Blood," the Custodian pauses. "I beseeched it. Begged it to give me my heart's desire. The Lords, who had themselves grown restless, devised the game: the Marvellous. They found six others, as afflicted as I was. I imagine it was not difficult to do so."
He smiles. "We played for First City Coins. Their joke, to commemorate me. I'm afraid that requirement is my fault. The last person here cursed me vociferously." He sighs. "We played that first game and I won. The Lords were surprised, I think. They asked my my heart's desire – the thing I had wanted most. But when the time came, I had no answer. I did not know! So they devised one for me. They gave me purpose: this task. Keeper of the Marvellous, chronicler of its history and rulings. Its high priest."

Пока до него добираешься, можно на полпути отдохнуть и подумать, чего ж персонаж хочет (не окончательный выбор). На выбор было: власть, любовь, время и свобода.
Следующее обновление 28 апреля, не переключайтесь =D

Анон пишет:

Анон с Heart's Desire, там в новом обновлении подвезли личности трех прошлых победителей.

FL, спойлеры

10 - это Октябрь из революционеров. Она победила в прошлой игре. Ее желанием было ПМЖ в Параболе и немного суперсил там же на сдачу. Подвохом стало то, что теперь она не может вернуться в реальный мир.
G.B. - это один из родственников Topsy King. Вроде, он был в позапрошлой игре (Mr Pages упоминает, что когда тот победил, Лондон еще не спиздили). Парень написал трактат о том, что человек произошел от обезьяны, но поскольку он не мог возвыситься без помощи бога, то эта эволюция была на самом деле деградацией, и обезьяна суть высшая форма бытия. Разумеется, был осмеян и церковью, и учеными, поэтому в качестве награды за победу в игре попросил неоспоримого доказательства своего трактата. Мастера превратили его в обезьяну. Теперь он снова участвует в игре (видимо, это превращение позволило обойти правило "победитель выбывает") в качестве... Да, именно, той самой обезьяны, которую гг искал в самом начале амбиции.
A scrawled coat of arms: an apple and a mountain - это His Amused Lordship. Когда именно он играл - неясно. Его желанием было вернуть "больше чем друга" с "темного пути". Больше чем другом была Mrs Plenty, темным путем - поиски имени Mr Eaten. Судя по всему, ей просто прогресс сбросили до нуля, и теперь она медленно и печально гриндит все заново  :lol: во всяком случае, судя по разговорам, она это дело так и не бросила окончательно и к тому же непосредственно участвует в одном из поздних этапов поиска.

Чот пока так себе перспектива - каждое желание выполнили с подвохом в лучших традициях всяких легенд.

Анон пишет:
FL Heart's Desire

В общем, у меня персонаж в первом раунде обскакал Епископа, Вирджинию, Менеджера и Обезьяну, поэтому во втором раунде играл с Topsy King. Его люди перед игрой перевернули апартаменты персонажа, спиздили все, что нажито непосильным трудом половину доступных эхо (у меня это было около 3,5к, потом вернули, слава яйцам), и оставили "в подарок" портрет принца Альберта, который висел в покоях Императрицы, а за такое изгнание еще самое мягкое наказание. После того, как портрет достаточно муторно вернешь, с Topsy King договариваешься перед игрой, что если он поддастся, ты ему поможешь вернуть разум, мол, для этого не обязательно выигрывать Marvellous. В парах Епископ-Менеджер выиграл Менеджер, в парах Вирджиния - Обезьяна выиграла Обезьяна. 5 мая Mr Pages, как победитель первого тура, будет выбирать, с кем он хочет играть, оставшиеся двое играют между собой. Учитывая его ненавиздь к Обезьяне, думаю, выберет его ;D

Анон пишет:
FL HD
Анон пишет:

А ты где играл с Topsy King? Там есть какая-то реакция, как на комнату в отеле?

Я специально выбрал именно комнату в отеле, чтобы посмотреть на реакцию =D  :evil:

The Manager's Domain
Tristram Bagley arrives as every clock in your chambers strikes a different hour. You admit him. Or perhaps he admits you. Or perhaps a Reprehensible Lizard admits you both. The order of events at the Royal Beth is frequently unclear.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that you are both sitting across from each other at a table of stained glass whose colours glow and shift as if the sun was rising beneath it. Your opponent looks miserable, casting furtive glances at the Beth's sumptuous decor. Between you sit the cards. "Please, be quick," says Tristram. This is his place." He pushes the cards towards you, looking to you to cut the deck. You begin to shuffle.

Анон пишет:

Алсо, Вирджиния  -   одна из самых давних игроков, слилась в первом же раунде. Да еще и проиграв чуваку, считавшему обезьян венцом творения.

Обезьяна очень хорошо играет, к слову. Может он свои скиллы неустанно прокачивал с тех пор ;D Там пока готовишься к игре и спрашиваешь у них предпочтения относительно места проведения и про предыдущих игроков, с ним надо сыграть пару раз, и оба раза он выигрывает.

Анон пишет:

Затраллено 11/10. Я бы поседел, наверное

Ну, там сразу жирным текстом внизу пишут, что потом вернут.

Анон пишет:

:chearleader:

FL Heart's Desire, часть третья

Итак, я был прав насчет того, что Pages выберет себе в противники обезьяну. Мештем, мой персонаж сыграл с Менеджером. Помимо, собственно, победы, можно выиграть на выбор разум Topsy King обратно, либо одну из пуговиц Менеджера (в описании говорилось, что оно помогает выбраться из state of some confusion быстрее). Я решил помочь Topsy King:

Скрытый текст

Sometimes as you were
The Topsy King frowns as you approach. He puts down the wooden spoon with which he had been energetically conducting an imaginary orchestra moments before. "Bowsy," he murmurs, warily.
You open your coat – and in a flash of viric, the lizard leaps out. The Topsy King instinctively catches it. He cradles it in his arms. When he looks up, there is a flash of identical, frondular green in his eyes.
"Thank you," he says, his voice steady as a ship in calm waters. "I will always be the Topsy King. I'm as much Topsy as Bagley now. But sometimes the fog will part and I will remember Tristram." He sends for a raggedy man. "Fetch Cora," he says, "I want to see my sister again. Tell her— tell her it's Tristram."

За это получаешь новый предмет для affiliation - The Thief-Oath of Tristram Bagley (Shadowy +1, Dreaded +1, Bizzare +1, Mithridacy +1, Visiting Tristram Bagley +1).
Когда возвращаешься, Pages начинает вставлять обезьяне (и персонажу, потому что обезьяна живет у него) палки в колеса. Сначала он присылает смотрителей из Лабиринта Тигров. После того, как их отвадишь, происходит это:

Скрытый текст

Ambition: A Master's Wrath
The keepers from the Labyrinth of Tigers were, as you suspected, only the beginning.
Individually, Mr Pages' movements against you and the Monkey could be mistaken for inconveniences and annoyances. But when a dozen – then a hundred – mount up, it's like being under siege.
A dizzying variety of construction and repair work begins outside your house, all of it 'vital for the municipal interest'. Your water is cut off, then your gas. The cries of foremen and the clamour of building work continues every hour God sends. An official-looking letter informs you that a new railway is going to be laid through your living room.
Your address' postal district is reclassified daily, causing your correspondence to go amiss. A string of inspectors – of tax, of planning, of safety, of decency – knock at your door. Banks reject your custom; your favourite coffee-house is abruptly closed. Traffic is redirected down your street. Your attic is declared a protected bat-habitat. London's night-soil collectors are told that your yard is a suitable site for them to dispose of their... material.
This is war. You cannot prepare for the Marvellous with all this happening. But how to put an end to it?

Одна из опций прекратить безобразие - потратить 3 очка Connected: Masters, чтобы угомонили коллегу. Mr Irons for the win =D

Скрытый текст

A helping claw
You intimate your desires to a trusted intermediary and wait. With the affairs of the Bazaar, there is little else to do – either they are moved to act or they are not.
More quickly than you expected, a reply arrives. It is written in black copperplate. 'YES.' The speed is interesting; perhaps there is some new discord in the ranks of the Masters.
One by one, your problems fall away. A night-soil collector is run over by a carriage. The prospective railway is rerouted. A replacement manager is appointed at the post office. There is a terrifying visit by a robed and demanding presence to the Office of Works, after which your services are promptly resumed and the building work is abandoned.
The string of inspectors continues for a while, but only so that each of them can apologise in person for any aspersions they may have cast upon your impeccable character. The coffee-house is reopened, with a sign in the window that reads 'AS PATRONISED BY THE BAZAAR'.
There are even rumours that Mr Pages is suffering some inconvenience. The rough draft of its 'Dictionopedia', on which it has laboured for decades, has gone missing. Suddenly, your days are clear of distractions.

Параллельно выясняется, что один из предыдущих победителей - это лодочник, и с ним можно посоветоваться тоже, но я пока в процессе. А еще после того, как посоветуешься со всеми бывшими победителями, можно будет опционально напейсать книжку, но это тоже в процессе.

Анон пишет:
FL HD простыня спойлеры
Анон пишет:

Охуеть, одна из теорий подтвердилась. Расскажи потом, пожалуйста, что он себе пожелал. Наверное, работу - в одной из ES можно было его замещать некоторое время, развозя в загробный мир души революционеров, пока сам лодочник хорошо отдыхает в отпуске. И в общем контенте там какое-то обещание упоминалось, емнип.

Почти угадал ;D Он пожелал себе замену, но подходящей замены не было, поэтому пришлось ждать, пока родится и повзрослеет, но момент вроде и подошел, а чот все никак. Короче, и его наебали похоже:

Скрытый текст

An unpaid debt
(a slow boat passing a dark beach on a silent river)
Grey-green light washes over the bleached white of his bones as he steers the craft away from one of the River's hungry tributaries.
At last, he answers in his creaking voice. "A replacement. I grow weary." His voice echoes in the hollowness of his skull. "My desire was granted, but difficult to arrange. An appropriate substitute did not exist; therefore one had to be born." The Boatman punts the craft further into the centre of the river.
"They should be of age now. And yet." The Boatman's gaze is briefly reflected in the water, dark empty sockets lost in the darkness. "Perhaps there has been a complication." His voice cracks, a splinter of melancholic menace. He turns back to the oar. There is always farther to go.

Анон пишет:

О, в Nemesis тоже можно написать книгу о своем квесте, и только дойдя до этого момента понимаешь, почему иногда текст амбиции был как кусок мемуаров - от первого лица и в прошедшем времени. В HD тоже что-то такое?

Нет, там просто.

Скрытый текст

The most crimson of truths
Some days, you wonder if desire is what turns the Earth. Others, you are tempted to blame it as the root of all mankind's miseries. You set to work.
The leather is as white as spilled milk, as soft as lamb's wool, as thick as an emperor's cushion. The ink is of gold and azure and emerald. There is a chapter for each of your opponents in the Marvellous, and a chapter for each of the prior winners you have interrogated. It is a comprehensive guide to the heart – to that captain of organs, to all the rocks it has led humanity to founder upon, and all the far, silver beaches it has led them to.
The desperate might consider it aspirational. The privileged might consider it a instruction manual, for bending the world to their will. The wise might consider it a warning. It is, unquestionably, horrifically dangerous. When you rest your hand on the cover, it throbs.

Книга занимает слот оружия, дает +7 persuasive, +1 respectable, + a player of chess и +1 glasswork.
С ее написанием меня наебали, кстати.  В том сторилете, где ее пишешь, также предварительно готовишься посетить лодочника, и можно оставить свои амулеты на хранение (которые умереть не дают). Но если книгу напишешь перед тем, как заберешь их обратно, то сторилет пропадает вместе с амулетами без какого-либо предупреждения вообще.

Скрытый текст

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Хз, может баг, конечно, и вроде мелочь, но бесит.
Pages играет с обезьяной. В процессе игры обезьяна проигрывает все монеты (специально) и хочет поставить на кон что-то другое (когда заканчиваются монеты, можно поставить что-то другое ценное, если есть, и если оппонент согласится). Закладом становится, ВНИМАНИЕ, персонаж :lol: На что Pages соглашается с энтузиазмом :lol:  :lol:  :lol: Персонаж пытается возражать, но Pages заявляет, что ставкам говорить неположено. Обезьяна выигрывает, но какого хуя только что произошло :lol:  :facepalm: 

Скрытый текст

A bitter bout
The Helmsman is packed. It seems the Monkey made Mr Pages a very public challenge. A table has been prepared, and the cards are in place. Mr Pages teeters on an inadequate stool, its robes drawn about it. It seems eager to begin, and directs the pub's clientele to be silent, or to face 'vivimemberment'.
The Monkey takes its seat, and the game begins.
Pages hunches over its cards like a sorcerer over a crystal ball. It opens cautiously. The Monkey raises. And raises. And raises again. Soon the entirety of the Monkey's store of coins is piled in the centre of the table, all of it staked on this first hand. Pages is flustered. But its own pile of coins is larger. It can cover the bet and have plenty left. The risk is worth it.
Pages lays down a Stone Pig and a Conspiracy of Kings. The Monkeys blinks. Sheepishly, it reveals its Murder of Queens. A losing hand. Its simian impatience has cost it the entire match in the first round!
Pages preens. Its voice is silky. "Of course, being a soul of unmeasured charity, I might consider accepting a Chance. If you had something to offer."
The Monkey scratches its chin. Its eyes flick to you.
"Accepted," Pages declares, immediately.
Now hang on a minute— you protest, but Pages raises a talon. "Quiet please! It is inapproprisiderate for the stake to speak. The Chance has been offered and accepted. One more round; all or nothing."
The Monkey gives you a wink, then darts a glance at Pages' now useless mountain of remaining coins. Was that the play? To tempt Pages into giving up his stake advantage? To even the odds by risking everything on a single hand? With you as the prize? Well, it could have bl__dy asked!
Cards are drawn, discarded, drawn again. The Monkey does not stand on ceremony now; there is no showmanship. It calmly puts down a straightforward Ascension of Cats: the three, four, five, six, seven, eight and nine. Pages stares. It contorts beneath its robes. "I offer a Chance of my own!" it screeches, in panic. The Monkey shakes its head, but Pages persists. "Name a price! A flask of Hesperidean Cider! A vial of my own blood! The very robe from my back!"
The Monkey hesitates. It is obviously tempted. To disrobe a Master, to expose its true nature here, before Londoners... But no. The Monkey keeps its eyes on the prize. It picks its nose, dismissively. Thwarted, Pages emits a strangled noise, and jerks spasmodically to its feet. "Impuderagous!" it squeaks, and hurls its cards across the room before sweeping from the Helmsman.
Curious, you collect Mr Pages' cards from the floor. It had an Ascension of Bats – the two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight. The Monkey tugs at your sleeve. It's done now. It wants to go home.

Далее обезьяна-Бичвуд нанимает переводчика из The Empire of Hands, чтобы они с персонажем наконец-то поговорили нормально. Обезьяной ему быть очень не нравится, но он считает, что фарш уже невозможно провернуть назад, а играет второй раз потому, что хочет положить игре конец, и поэтому просит персонажа дать ему выграть.
Хрен его знает, конечно, но мне кажется, что даже если выиграешь, то у персонажа должна быть такая же опция.
Следующий апдейт завтра-послезавтра, потому что мне надо дофига действий потратить на 15 Nights on the Town для финального раунда =D

Анон пишет:
Fallen London, Heart's Desire, спойлеры самой-самой концовки

Постепенно подвозят эхо всех возможных наград за окончание амбиции:

1) Power - гг делают (пока только формально) одним из мастеров Базаар  :bu: и выдают собственный плащ. Отныне гг - Mr Cards, и описание плаща намекает, что постепенно гг трансформируется в куратора. С одной стороны - ахуеть, судьба "The long road" бесплатно очень платно и без СМС  :lol: с другой стороны - звезды пизды дадут, если узнают.

плащ

The Robe of Mr Cards
The robe is huge and concealing, and glistens like wormskin. It contains an ingenious framework, which grants its wearer the profile and stature of a Master of the Bazaar. 'Mr Cards,' of course, is you. Every month you call at the Ormolu Door of the Bazaar, and are taken inside to undergo various painful but improving procedures. Already you have grown a few inches, though your posture suffers. You ears are lengthening. And one day – one bold, magnificent day – those nubs on your shoulder blades will be wings
Persuasive +11; Artisan of the Red Science +1; Dreaded +2.

эхо

As the holder of all of the Cards in London, you formally request to be the newest star in the firmament...
A vehement argument erupts. Hearts says your request must be granted. Fires storms out. Iron furiously scribbles a note on a convenient blackboard: 'IT IS HARD ENOUGH TO KEEP TRACK OF OUR NUMBERS ALREADY.'

Spices approves, though, as does Wines. "This is our part of the bargain, and that's all there is to it," Wines insists.

Another argument follows, this one not about whether but about how. There is some debate as to your bailiwick and whether this can be a purely titular bestowal. It cannot. Spices and Hearts begin to mix steaming concoctions at one of the workbenches. Mr Veils measures you for a robe.

In the end, Hearts approaches you. "It is decided. You will be Mr Cards." You are presented with a heavy robe, identical to those the Masters wear. It is much too big, but includes a cunningly-wrought framework that bulks it out, allowing you to appear larger and less pleasantly-formed than you are now.

"Should we ask its gender?" Wines ponders.

"Immaterial." Hearts says with a swish of a claw. It turns back to you. "Understand: this responsibility is not one that a creature of your nature could bear. Therefore you must be improved. There will be processes. There will be transmutations. We will fashion you into one of our number. It will take some time – perhaps a century. The changes will be gradual. And your full authority and responsibilities will be conveyed upon you when the transformation is complete.

"But before then we will announce that a long-lost colleague has joined us, to take up initial lighter duties. You will have the respect of London, and an initial jurisdiction that you can perhaps grow into something more substantial. But for now, come. Drink this. And lie on this table. Yes, the one with the straps."

When you leave the Bazaar, you leave as Mr Cards, clad in your ingeniously-frameworked robe. Citizens of London scurry from your path. You can feel the effects of the Masters' impossible operations coursing through you. They called it the Red Science. The experience was terrible beyond description, but power has a price.

One day, you will be indistinguishable from the rest of them, a true Master of the Bazaar. And wasn't that your heart's desire.

2) Love - тут мастера говорят, что у них лапки, и они не могут дать гг тру лав. Мол, строго говоря, они вообще в душе не ебут, что такое эта ваша истинная любовь, и все и так видели, чем закончились их предыдущие попытки сфабриковать что-то похожее.

эхо

An unfortunate fact
There is a long silence.

"The problem, oh perspicacious, indeed brilliant, victor of our game," Spices says in its sibilant whisper, "is that despite our very best efforts – and I do not wish to disparage our dear Mr Fires in saying this – we cannot manufacture love." Fires only grunts.

"Does it have to be true love?" Wines interjects, thoughtfully. "There are approximations that, as far as we can tell, are indistinguishable in all meaningful ways—"

"We are not all convinced," Hearts cuts in, "That true love even exists. Certainly, we have yet to isolate it. But! Happily, we can offer something better: adoration. Celebration! The whole city, united in recognition of your evident magnificence. Fame, and of course, glory."

После этого опция меняется на Adoration, и ее можно выбрать еще раз. В этом случае гг объявляют любимым родственником императрицы Виктории, который с вероятностью 99% будет наследником, т.к. дети императрицы по ее собственному признанию неоч.

Тут и далее эха нет, к сожалению - сам пока не нашел, пересказываю чужой пересказ  :please:

3) Time - мастера теперь будут регулярно отправлять гг бренди Вдовы из омолаживающих пЭрсиков. Но самое главное: гг отдают тот самый договор, которым спиздили купили Лондон. Причем переделав его так, что отныне гг является собственником Лондона, и мастера не могут уничтожить город или ебнуть сверху шестой иначе как с разрешения гг, или если не будет иного выхода. Ну, лазейку они, конечно, оставили, но где-то тут явно рыдает от счастья Mr Fires  :lol:

4) Escape - мастера дарят гг поместье размером с Люксембург где-то в Мурманске на поверхности на севере. С прямым доступом в подземье и обратно. На севере - чтобы как минимум полгода вокруг поместья была ночь, ибо солнце и прочие звезды пизды дадут, если узнают (ну и стандартные проблемы возвращения на поверхность).

5) Можно натурально просрать свою амбицию и дать выиграть обезьяне Бичвуду. Он завершает игру навсегда (мастера, наверное, с облегчением выдохнули, учитывая все прошлые желания), а гг получает два уникальных предмета: собсна, обезьяну Бичвуда и колоду карт. Оба дают бонусы к стату Player of chess, который пришел с апдейтом параболы.

Тлдр: у самой скучной амбиции оказались самые ебические в плане лора награды. Уникальные итемы тоже ничо так, и их больше, чем в Nemesis и, вроде, Bag a Legend

Анон пишет:
FL, оставшиеся спойлеры по концовкам Heart's Desire

Так, вот эхо для концовки Time. Тут прекрасно все, начиная от "Hearts, скажи, блядь, что ты это предусмотрел, когда создавал свою сраную игру" и заканчивая энтузиазмом Mr Fires  :lol:

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Эхо и награда Escape. Забавно, что мастера во время спора выбегают проораться, а потом снова возвращаются  :lol:

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Adoration. Скучновато по сравнению с ололо в остальных концовках.

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Если отдать победу Бичвуду. Анон, который это выбрал, не смотри пока  :evil:

Скрытый текст

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Теперь, после всех вотэтоповоротов в амбициях все с нетерпением ждут, как изменится (и изменится ли) рождественский ивент. Кто-то предположил, что в этом году будет бегать только крайне заебанный Mr Wines  :troll:

#4 2020-05-07 19:09:03

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

:rainbow:

#5 2020-05-07 19:12:08

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Еще несомненно важного: сомнительные one night stand  в Sunless Skies  :cool:

Анон пишет:

Аноны с Fallen London, Sunless Sea и Sunless Skies, мне тут на почту упало письмо про новый апдейт в Sunless Skies в сентябре, И Я БЛЯДЬ ОРУ %)

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A new officer: the Chiropterous Hoarder! Recruit a winged horror of profound cunning and unreliable manners. Rumoured to have once been one of the Masters of old London, this peddlar of immortality has fallen on hard times. Take it on a macabre journey to perfect a new method of prolonging life. Perhaps you might become friends on the way. Perhaps you might become more...

Анон пишет:

Пока свечи восстанавливаются, вспомнил, что в Sunless Skies обещали кого-то из Мастеров в спутники, пошел гуглить.

Спойлеры к Sunless Skies и Fallen London

Chiropterous Hoarder оказался Mr Apples, и да, как было обещано, игроки могут с ним переспать.  :lol:  и в отличие от няшного Mr Pennies этот вполне соответствует уебищному описанию Вейка из Лондона.  :affraid: И судя по диалогам, первая реакция на стрессовую ситуацию у них вполне мышеподобная - распластаться по стенке  =D
Переспать на реддите метко обозвали "one transcendental blowjob". Согласен, старая шуточная версия была веселее, а в соседнем House of Many Doors Повелитель Ворон был задорнее. Ииии... В результате персонаж поучаствовал в размножении космических летучих мышей, блеать, и обзавелся потомством  :lol: без своего активного в этом участия. Я вспоминаю квестовую линейку зоопарка в Лондоне и встречу там же с Mr Hearts на карнавале и ржу как скотина  :lol:

Полный текст есть на вики Sunless Skies.

#6 2020-05-09 15:03:26

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Моя прелесть: сторилайн "Cloacked Emissary" из The Silver Tree.

Это, если кто не в курсе, своеобразный приквел к Fallen London, рассказывающий про падение четвертого города. ГГ - европейский священник, приехавший с дипломатической миссией в Каракорум. У игры несколько концовок, но FBG подтверждали, что ни одна из них каноном не является: Каракорум пал, но не совсем так, как в The Silver Tree. Таки дела.

Эта игра не такая задорная как FL, и в ней очень. много. сука. гринда. Я осилил только две концовки. Говорят, там еще можно заключить сделку с Fingerkings, но я пока не осилю снова гриндить все статы и все сторилайны. И поскольку в ней нет журнала, я не могу и надатамайнить текст  :sadcat:

Итак, сперва побочные карты, так или иначе связанные с этим "послом".

Скрытый текст

Observing the Emissary
'Will I ever see his face?'
Only Darkness
'I've looked, but all I can ever see is a glimpse of eyes that glow coldly, like distant blue planets. Once, a hint of a cheekbone, textured like fine down, but I might have imagined it...'

A dutiful evening
'Not all the parties at Court are equal. Sometimes they can be excruciatingly dull...'
Polite acceptance
'Dinner with that Nordic fellow. Have other business, but the Cloaked Emissary wants me to attend, and he did just give me that ugly leather pouch...'

Scholarship
Secrets flowed to the Cloaked Emissary like a river to the sea. Perhaps I could soak up a few before they vanished.
Wild words
'The Cloaked Emissary's secrets were either profound truths or elaborate jokes. He told me, "There is a language, of the hot nations far West across the endless sea. And if you were to speak it, your eyes would fill with blood and your hair would light like a candle..."'

More valuable than gold
'What kind of tree bears such fruit?' I scoured Karakorum's markets in search of the answer. I found pears, plums, apples and dates; cherries and lychees and figs, all dried by the sun and glowing in their heaps. When I enquired about peaches, they sent me from one stallholder to the next, until I ended up near the little temple they said belonged to the Magi. Here, a trader from Cathay lurked in the shadows, careful not to draw too much attention to himself. I gave him a pouch of jewels to talk to me. He told me of the trees at the end of the world, whose fruit granted longevity to those that ate it. I asked how long one could expect to live. 'Long, very long,' was the answer. I did not ask what would happen if the fruit was distilled... The next afternoon, I returned, but there was no one there. I heard a rumour of a body, drained of blood, that had been found outside the town walls...

An approach
'The two ladies often sit together at dinner, and I have seen them exchanging manuscripts with much animated discussion...' The Princess's friend must have seen my interest, and one evening we fell to talking over cups of airag.
A fruitful discussion
'The lady speaks a passable French, which she was keen to practise. We discussed the Khan's library...' She was clearly aware the Princess honoured her by lending her the scrolls. 'I like stories from distant places,' she told me. 'I hope to add yours to my collection.' The Princess smirked at that. 'We shall see,' she said. 'Look. Here comes the Emissary. Did he tell you to ask for the envoy's story?' She smiled, but the Huntress frowned at her words. I think she did not like the Cloaked Emissary...

The Cloaked Emissary and the Captain
'Saw the Cloaked Emissary talking to a Captain of the Khan. Went to find out secrets for bargaining with Khan...'
An abstract purchase
'The Captain was heartbroken - his wife killed in a hunting accident. The Cloaked Emissary was trying to buy their story. Buying a story? What sort of merchant is he? I resolved to tell the Khan...'
В случае провала там что-то вроде '"Seven is a number" he said. A number of what?'

'The love between the Princess and the Sculptor had built the Silver Tree and threatened the stability of half of the Mongol empire. I had to decide what to do...'
I set the Cloaked Emissary against the Empire
I dangled the love story before him like bait. His hunger would bring down the city.
Delight
There was a sound from his hood. Was he licking his lips? 'Delectable.' He breathed. 'I had engaged in certain blunt speculations, of course, but the details are so much more satisfying. Nost satisfying. I will speak with my compatriots. This city is exactly what we were looking for. Karakorum will never trouble the world again.' He studied me, shrewdly. 'And you - you are a hero to their people, although they will never know it.'

Karakorum was under threat from the Cloaked Emissary.
That was most important. I advised the Princess to reconcile with her father. It was best for the city, with the Emissary looking around for a way to steal it.
'You have been meddling.'
They realised they should be providing a united front. The Emissary came to me, furious at my interference. 'It's not over,' he whispered. 'We can still take it, you know, Do you really think their love will save it from us? Or from Cathay?' We have celebrated love for centuries - we are its curators and its hierophants! No one understands it as we do!'

Далее сама история.

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The Emissary's Secrets
'He stalks through the town, draped in his cloak, and I wonder again why he is here, and how I will uncover his secrets...'

The Cloaked Emissary
'Karakorum is a crossroads. People gather here from every corner of the world; with all kinds of dress and manner. And yet the day I met the Cloaked Emissary, I thought he was the strangest-looking fellow I had ever seen...' It was a quiet day at the Palace. I was strolling in the courtyard when I found him lurking at the foot of the Silver Tree.
'We have something in common, you and I?'
'"We are both foreigners at the court of the Great Khan. The palace has many visitors, but you and I have come further than most, have we not?"
'He is taller than anyone I have met, and walks with an odd, cramped gait. Perhaps he struggles with the desert's heat. Odd, then, that he wears a thick cloak, the hood of which quite obscures his features. When he first addressed me, I was surprised by the high pitch of his voice. "As I say," he said, "we have much in common. See, even your habit is not so different from mine."'
An occurrence! Your 'The Cloaked Emissary's Secrets' Quality is now 2 - He was unusual, but very friendly to me!

A strange figure by the town gate
'Swathed in his dark cloak he would have gone unnoticed, were it not for the glint of his eyes...'
'It is a peculiar glint. Scarlet, like a glowing ember...'
Although he was taller than most by more than a head, the Cloaked Emissary often went unnoticed. That evening, I had paid the guards at the gate to let me follow him out of the town. He shambled along the path up the hill to stand on a rocky outcrop. I watched as he spread his arms; they were longer, by far, than is natural even for a man of his height. A cloud of bats flew from under the trees and surrounded his head; I heard sibilant sounds, hissing and screeching, as if he were speaking with them...

The Cloaked Emissary haunted the streets
The Emperor did not always feel the need to watch me too closely. When there were fewer eyes on me, it was easier for me to find the Cloaked Emissary.
Inns and markets
'For one so distinctive, the Emissary is hard to find...'
And yet, once I began to look for him, I started to see him all over town. In temples and inns, even at the livestock markets. The Khan was always interested to hear of where I had seen the Emissary, even though I knew he had his own spies following him everywhere.

'More foreign than anyone...'
'Where is the Emissary from? It cannot be Europe or Asia - none of the peoples of those lands that I have ever encountered are so preternaturally tall...'
A survey of the marketplace
'I will take another turn around the markets with the Interpreter. She is au fait with the diversity of those that gather here...'
I recall the outing. We mingled with spice-sellers and cloth-merchants; bought fruit from heaps that gleamed like jewels. We spoke to merchants from Egypt, from Arabia, from Cathay and India, from the frozen tundra to the north and the vast deserts to the west. All said the same thing. 'He is no countryman of mine.'

A troubled mind
'The Cloaked Emissary has been infiltrating my dreams, of late...'
A gathering of Emissaries
'I dreamed something I have never encountered in life; a room full of tall, cloaked men like the Cloaked Emissary, sitting and conversing quite socially...'
The gloom was relieved by flames contained in delicate glass tubes, and the walls covered in painted boards, as if this were a church. The Emissaries held vessels of steaming liquid on their laps, and chattered in piping voices, ignoring my presence. I asked the Interpreter if she knew of a colony of people like the Emissary, but she considered him unique. She was pleased I had asked her, though, and I could tell she was storing the fact away.

Rumours
'They say there's a secret market, hidden somewhere in the temple district, and that the Cloaked Emissary is a valued customer there. I will ask the Interpreter...'
The Temple of Fire?
'An unassuming building, frequented by only a few idolators... '
It was not difficult to spot the Emissary leaving the temple. He towered above the crowd. It was as if, realising that hiding was impossible, he flaunted his comings and goings. An urchin lingered, hopefully, as I watched from a corner. I slipped him a few coins to find out what the Emissary had been doing. He scampered off and returned within minutes. 'Buying fires. Fires you can't look at.' he told us firmly. The Interpreter assured me she was translating correctly. Well, at least I had a chance to buy some fragrant incense.
You've gained 1 x The Cloaked Emissary's Secrets (new total 7 - I was getting closer to understanding the Cloaked Emissary's secrets).

Familial ties?
'Khan occupied with other matters; must find other ways to fill my time. NB. Cloaked Emissary - wife? Children? Could be better route to discovering why he's here...'
Alone at court?
As always, I asked the Interpreter first, but she was reluctant to discuss the subject. 'I believe that he is unmarried,' was all she would say. 'Chastity is important to those in orders like yours, is it not? It should not seem so strange to you, then.'

The Interpreter's suspicions
She and I were in the courtyard, watching the sun glint on the silver leaves of the fountain. We caught sight of a tall, hooded figure slipping behind it.
'Look what he does' She pointed at the fountain. 'Look how the light's dulled now he's standing there. Like he wants to soak up the sun for himself. We can't see his face, but he looks to me like he's smiling. Don't you think?'
The Emissary's posture could have been relaxed, I supposed. His hunched back made it difficult to say. Yet, the Interpreter was right. There was something about the way he observed the Silver Tree that made it look as though it delighted him.

Children's Stories
'The children of the town like to follow me, whispering and giggling. One, bolder than the rest, asked me a question...'
Stories for Children
The Interpreter explained. 'They see your habit,' she told me, 'and they ask if you are the Cloaked Emissary. They believe that the emissary is a devil, hiding fangs and burning red eyes under his cloak. Their parents tell them that if they are bad, the Emissary will come for them at night.'

'The Cloaked Emissary is partial to a drink...'
'However, he rarely seems impaired, the way most people are after airag...'
His love of music
The Emissary loved music.
He could be found wherever someone was playing the morin khuur or singing in the khoomii style. He seemed blissful, as much as someone wrapped so heavily could appear to feel anything, and would sit for hours, swaying in time to the music. Afterwards, his tongue would be loosened, and he would speak of things he otherwise would not.
You've gained 1 x The Cloaked Emissary's Secrets (new total 15 - The Cloaked Emissary was not who he seemed: he may have been an ambassador from a hostile power).

Ambush
I was walking through the courtyard at night, admiring the starlight on the Silver Tree, when the Cloaked Emissary stepped out on the path in front of me. Decisions 'Do not be afraid. Have you ever been afraid of me?' he squeaked. 'We are not sure...' The folds of his cloak shivered, as if he were shaking his head. 'I am going to need you to think about your loyalties. 'My cohorts and I would buy this city. We want to take it somewhere it would live forever. The story of the Princess, the Sculptor and their love is delicious. We do treasure a good love story.
'The city has many enemies. They approach, even now. So tell me, would you rather see the city fall into ruin, or live forever?'
An occurrence! Your 'The Cloaked Emissary's Secrets' Quality is now 25 - He was here to buy Karakorum because he treasured love stories!

I told him that Karakorum should fall
The Mongol Empire was a thorn in the Pope's side. The loss of Karakorum could bring it down. It is time to decide what to do about the Cloaked Emissary.
'A loyalty worthy of praise.'
'I will approach him after dinner...''You are still loyal to the Pope, then?' observed the Emissary. 'I am glad to know that. Nevertheless, the city's future is in the balance. More than one power is interested in Karakorum.'
Try as I might, I still could not discern his face. Behind a curtain, a servant was playing a pipe of some sort, as was customary at these dinners. The Emissary was swaying, very gently, in time to the music. 'How charming this is,' he said, suddenly. 'You are a dear friend to me, you know?' He lurched, suddenly, and stumbled off. I would have believed him intoxicated, but that night, as usual, he had not had even a sip of airag.

I held fast against the Emissary
I told the Cloaked Emissary that he could say nothing to change my mind. I would not see Karakorum sold.
The Emissary was there
'I see,' he said, simply. 'Perhaps you will be able to influence what happens. Perhaps not.' He gestured to the crate of dusty wine bottles in the corner of his room. 'At least take a drink with me, for civility's sake. I have many French vintages, look.'
That night, I fell into a fitful doze. The Emissary stole into my dream and led me out, beyond the city walls. The city was ablaze. We watched from the hill where the bats gather. 'Look,' he said. 'Karakorum falls. Couldn't you have prevented that? You're outside. But who's still there? Do you know?' I thought I could make out the Palace, and the silver spike of the fountain now drowning in red. The Princess and the Sculptor clung to one another at its foot. I knew that a dream could be a prophecy, but how could I know if it was false or true?

Завершение этой истории требуется для нескольких концовок: можно помочь продать Каракорум, можно помочь разрушить Каракорум, можно спиздить "посла"  =D

Спиздить "посла"

I confronted the Emissary
The invading forces must have come from Cathay, from the most belligerent branch of the Khan's family. The Emissary wanted to strike a deal with the Khan to take his city intact. How better to do that than engineer a siege and make him fear its destruction? But I believed the Khan could hold Karakorum. So I went to the Emissary, who was still lounging in the Palace, to stop him poisoning the Khan's mind with his offers. I could still influence the city's fate. But on my way, I collected an ally...

Mr Wines
The Emissary is happy, although the Khan has not given in yet. 'You've seen it already,' he chuckles. 'Karakorum won't die. The Khan will sell his city because he loves it. It's his crowning glory. Of course it should endure. We - the Echo Bazaar - we are good to the cities we collect. The Silver Tree will still be standing in a thousand years.

'We will take good care of the Princess Cheren,' he goes on. 'She will continue her life's work. I myself am particularly concerned with wines and liqueurs. In fact, you may call me by my true name, now: Mr Wines, at your service! We will get along splendidly, Cheren and I.

'I will show her the places where the Third City's rivers flowed. I will hand her necklaces from the Second, in the shape of snakes. I will show her the crossroads shaded by cedars and she will understand.

'But what to do with you?' He cackles softly. 'You have a choice to make, my friend. Will you come with us? Down beneath the Earth, where marvels and long life await? Or will you take your chances on the long, dusty road back to Rome?'

I make my decision. I motion to the morin khuur player, and he strikes up a mournful melody. The horsehead fiddle is potent; the Cloaked Emissary sways, drugged by the music, and I push him over and roll him up in the carpet. He is light, so light; as if his bones are hollow and he is nothing but skin and sinew.

I ride to Samarkand with the Emissary strapped to my horse. No one even questions an innocent trader, escaping with one last carpet. I sing, all the way there, and the Emissary remains compliant. I have the odd feeling he is intrigued to see what I will do next.

We are settled, now, in the Lateran Palace. The Emissary does not seem to mind his accommodations, which are quite comfortable and secure. He makes liqueurs and wines for the Pope's cellars, and goes by the name Mr Wines. He's something of a curiosity here. If he is plotting an escape, we see no signs of it, but I watch him, regardless. I am vigilant.

Разрушить город

I confessed my mission to the Interpreter and allied with her
I knew she was more than she seemed, and that she, too, wanted an end to the Empire.
Revelations
Honesty is a stranger to spies. My frankness startled her - not its content (she had always suspected me), but the fact I had confessed. 'We are spies together, then,' she said. 'But we serve different masters, I think. You serve your Pope; I, vengeance. The Mongol Empire destroyed my family. I have committed my life to its destruction. 'But the joke is on us: the Empire is already dead. The Khan's family are at each others' throats. They will tear their half of the world apart, and need neither you nor I to do it. 'Come. Sit. We will drink airag and watch an empire die.'

Fate of the City
I still crouched in my hiding place. My journals were damp now with the sweat of my palms. I could ignore the sounds from the courtyard no longer: the screams of men and horses, the shivering thrum of arrows. The forces from Cathay were here! It was just as my dream had prophesied.
I resolved to flee with the Interpreter
This was none of my affair. Let the city fall. Let the Khan die at the gate of his own palace. Let the Tree be felled for the silver of its leaves. But I would be better off not being there when it happened. Perhaps the Interpreter could help me. Could I trust her? I decided to risk it.
Escape
I find her on the walls, watching the armies with a kind of greedy joy.
'Fool!' she spits at me. 'This is the culmination of my life's work, and you think I won't stay to witness it? You think you hate the Khanate? My hate will consume it. The Tree will burn! Yes, I have spied for the Khan's nephews in Cathay. I could not let the Emissary buy the city before it could fall.' I let her rant until she runs down like a clockwork toy. I know that, in the end, she has to take me with her: she cannot let an outsider suffer, and and she could hardly survive the city's fall herself.
We scurry like rats through the smokes of Karakorum's death, retrieving the supplies she had hidden, the horses she had prepared. She always intended to watch Karakorum's death from a safe distance. On the way out of town, as we pass the little stand of trees, a tall figure emerges. The Cloaked Emissary!
Nimble as a bat, he hops onto my horse behind me. He weighs almost nothing: his arms circle my waist, cold and brittle as winter branches. 'Be calm,' he hisses in my ear. 'All shall be well. But you must take me west, now Karakorum is lost to me. The Khan might have sold the city for the sake of love,' he tells me. 'His nephews from Cathay will simply burn it. Nothing else will do. I will have to begin again in Paris, or Budapest, or Rome, or Dresden. Or London...'
We reach Samarkand, and part. He says he will transport himself from here. He has given me a quantity of brandy, which he says he stole from the Princess's own stores. The Interpreter and I may be travelling companions for a while. 'I am resolved to try a different life, now,' she told me. 'Perhaps I will take religious orders, like you. I think I will travel north, when we reach Europe. I have friends in the bishopric of Oslo. Perhaps I will go there.' She smiled, and I remembered the shining silver hair of the Danish emissary. Steppe, river, sea, city. The journey back to Flanders takes more than a year. I submit my report to the Pope, receive some modest fame, and settle back into religious life. At Vespers, I sometimes wonder what became of the Princess. But all that is so far away, now.

Что интересно: каждая концовка дает ачивки на storynexus. Так разрушение города дает Gloom (типа плохой конец) и, кажется, Pride (вы обломали планы Базаар). А вот вариант с ковром дает Gleam (типа хороший конец) и Diplomat (вы покрали мастера, поздравляем)  :lol:

Отредактировано (2020-05-09 15:05:15)

#7 2020-05-10 12:40:28

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

До этого еще далеко, но: что можно выцыганить на новый год (за 50 fate).

Бонусная предыстория: кто из мастеров как чистит снег

Pages

A torrent of explication

It takes the hunched figure almost an hour to clear your path: it simply will not stop talking. You are forced to leave to answer a call of nature while it rambles. When you return, it doesn't even seem to have noticed your absence.

Unfortunately, what it tells you is almost incomprehensible. It uses words like "castigant", "purificaceous", "estrangible" and "comatory", which may or may not find purchase in any earthly dictionary. It seems to be suggesting that the snowfall functions like laudanum, although on whom, it is not clear... "As Original," it tells you proudly, "I am of course best equipped to explain these matters. But you'll see. Now, invite me in."

Once indoors, it roams your bookshelves, commenting rather pertly on your choice of authors. It drops names. It engages in tuppenny philosophies. It attempts an anecdote in which the Epigrammatic Irishman has a starring role, becomes muddled, and takes refuge in tea. It does not drink the tea: rather, it critiques your tea-making abilities, or your servant's. It awards you a merit, but not a distinction.

"The time!" it shrills. "I have other paths to clear if nomen are to walk. So many burdens. You little appreciate what we do for you, you bloodful little charmlings. But we do our best. Yes, we do. Here. Before I leave." It dips a claw into an ink-pot (you see from the stains on its robe that it carries many ink-pots), and scrawls a hasty note of recommendation, signed with a very competent approximation of the Bazaar's seal. It misspells your name, but perhaps it's wiser not to point that out.

Wines

A mob of eyes

A crowd of gawkers quickly gathers, to the Master's apparent pleasure. Its movements have a theatrical air. Each flip of its spade becomes a little performance.

Accordingly, although whatever's under that cloak is strong, it takes a while before the way to your door is open. You notice that the Master packs some handfuls of snow into a big-bellied green glass vessel. "Excellent!" its voice skirls. "Port wine, I think, if you would. And do you have musicians? No? No matter."

It accompanies you into the parlour, and arranges itself like a blanket-wrapped crocodile on the largest couch you possess.

"A burdensome duty!" it confides. "But the lacre from your threshold makes it worth the effort. Allow me to explain..."

Does it explain? You're not sure. The world wavers as it speaks, and your consciousness is elsewhere. When you come back to yourself, peculiar facts are arrayed in your mind, and the Master is gone.

Spices

In utmost silence

London is quiet tonight. There are no passers-by to witness the event. You watch with some trepidation as the hunched shape scoops up the 'snow'. Some of it goes into a padded box...

Rather quickly, your door is clear again. Whatever's under that cloak is strong. "I am weary. I suggest you invite me in for spiced pastries and egg-hot," the figure shrills.

This is how you find yourself in your parlour, tea in hand, while a Bazaar-Master perches opposite you. Odd movements occur under its cloak. It doesn't touch the egg-hot. Perhaps you selected an inferior brandy. You think it's staring at you.

"I lost a bet," it informs you rather sulkily. "And the lacre from your threshold has a particular value. Don't expect this to be a regular event. Not after Christmas, anyway. At least you've been courteous."

Perhaps you would ask it more, but at that point it leans forward to whisper its payment for the 'lacre'. Under the force of the payment, your mind flaps like a flag in a storm-wind, and you collapse to the floor. When you recover consciousness, the Master is gone.

Fires

A ruddy twinkling

There are twin glows beneath the Master's hood. They might be eyes, or stray lamp-lighter bees of unusual hue. Trapped stars, possibly. It bends to work with a will, shovelling snow efficiently out of the way. Every so often it pauses, examines a patch of snow, and packs it carefully into a lacquered wooden box lined with India rubber.

The door is open in no time. The Master slaps snow off its sleeves. "Invigorating!" it assures you in a melodious alto voice. "The processes involved are complicated, but – invite me inside, and I'll demonstrate."

It stoops to pass beneath your threshold, and paces impatiently about your parlour. It unfolds a complicated clockwork fountain from the space beneath its robes. "Observe the motions of the fluids from the base to the summit to the base. As the sluices open, the pressure is relieved: the model, of course, is imprecise. You might choose to imagine that the fluids at the base have anaesthetic properties—"

It breaks off. "The d__ned thing is leaking! I should never have contracted for – never mind. The knowledge would have done you considerable harm, but I would have been curious to see its effects." It kicks the fountain, which slews sideways, gouting melted Neath-snow over your rug. "I'm sure you can find a use for the parts. Good day to you."

Первая порция подарков:

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Apples: Mostly Stuffed Bound-Shark (Dangerous +3, Dreaded +1)

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A happy parting

Mr Apples keeps its apartments on the ground floor of the Bazaar. You push the glass doors open – your sack limp on your back. Heavy airs unfold around you, hot, sweating and green.

A singular plant fills the chambers. Its ivies climb the walls. Its branches crawl along the rafters. Bulbous fruit hang at head-height, the livid colour of albino strawberries. Each wears a cherubic face: fat-cheeked, watching, silent.

Mr Apples steps across the sprawling roots. It carries a horror! Or at least part of one. Hooked teeth and grey skin, bound in rusting bands and mounted on a wooden shield! "Mr Sacks, my dear. Take this. Please." Together, you wrestle it into your sack. Mr Apples encourages you outside, as your gift begins to gnash its way free.

Chimes: A Replica of the House of Chimes, Awash with Snow (Persuasive +3, Respectable +1)

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A Parliament of Chimes

Mr Chimes' apartment feels cosy. It's like being inside a brass bell; but the walls are ribbed so as to act as shelves. Starting at the bottom are tablets, stacked tight together. You recognise the ones bound in twine as bearing the inscrutable scratches of First City script. Above those are reams of scrolls: you recognise the picture-words of the Second City, rendered in faded colours; then the blocky, condensed symbols of the Third; then the bold, black brush strokes of the Forth City. And at the top, an encyclopedic collection of English words: all names. But where is Mr Chimes?

As if on cue, Mr Chimes bursts into the room. "Salutations!" it cries. "Accept my utterful regards! And take this gift." It fumbles in its robes; and as it does, the door opens again. And it's Mr Chimes! Again! The second one pauses, and fumbles in its robe for a placard. After a moment's scribbling, it holds up the sign: 'UNDER CONTROL?' The original Mr Chimes rushes to the newcomer's door and slams it, before turning back to you and offering a sweeping bow. "Take this!" It hands you a snow globe containing a replica House of Chimes. What detail it has! You can even see a number of London's most exceptional within!

Cups: Khan's Tea-Set (Shadowy +3, Respectable +1)

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An unparalleled collection

The ceilings of Mr Cups' parlour soar high above you. The walls are lined with vast display cabinets, filled with crockery, pottery, and sculpture. Some are worth trading a spouse for. Others are tools of social suicide.

Mr Cups hunches before one of its many cabinets, holding a plate up to the light: rendered delicately in the porcelain, against a floral background, are two cats in bow-ties.

You nudge a wicker chair so that it groans against the floor; Mr Cups starts. "Mr Sacks! Oh, my – I apologize. One moment!" It stretches to full height; a cabinet opens above you. You hear the delicate re-arrangement of stone and clay; Mr Cups stoops, and shows you an ancient tea set. "There you are." It places it carefully into your sack. "The Khan's own; for fortune-telling. Take it!"

Fires: Probably a Coincidence (Persuasive +3, Dreaded +1)

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Like a crystal castle

The apartments of Mr Fires blaze with light: gas, candle, scintillant stone, peculiar incandescent arc-bulbs of glass. You blink. It's like the Surface in here. Mr Fires wears a hooded robe of red so deep that in ordinary light it would appear black – but here, each element of its hue is individually distinguishable.

"Mr Sacks," intones Mr Fires. "Take this Little Brass Bell." It hands you a little brass bell. "If you ring this, probably nothing will happen. Probably, a stalactite will not fall from the roof on to the house of your enemy. Probably. You have my full permission to tell your enemies that the bell came from me, and repeat the assurance I just gave you. Good day."

You examine your prize in the lift, while the Attendant gently slips the Incarnadine Robe off your shoulders. A strip of felt secures the clapper, to protect against accidental use.

Hearts: Semi-Autonomous Scrutinising Machine (Watchful +3, Respectable +1)

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Is it... humming?

The Unctuous Attendant leads you into a vast kitchen. The room is steaming hot. A broad marble counter is strewn with knives and cleavers and gobbets of gristle. Carcasses hang from ceiling-hooks. The air smells of blood and peppery seasoning.

A tuneless crooning emits from a hunched bulk. Is Mr Hearts committing a carol? The Master is fiddling with a fiendishly intricate machine, as big as an oven. A clank. A whirr! Its glove is snatched into the mechanism. Mr Hearts' gloveless finger vanishes into its hood, from where you hear sucking. 'Finger' may be an inaccurate word. Perhaps 'talon' would be better. "Mr Sacks! Take this... device! I had hoped to use it as a mandoline, for the fine slicing of meats, but it is entirely malevolent." Mr Hearts reaches out, as if to pat your leg, catches itself, and instead pushes the machine towards you. "My sincerest apologies. I will arrange for someone to transport it for you." Mr Hearts sways as it departs. Is it drunk?

It is definitely not a mandoline. There is a paper thin slot marked 'Input' and a small reservoir for red ink. It's some kind of annotation contraption.

Iron: Terrifying Weathercock (Dangerous +6)

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Elegant as an unadorned femur

In all the vast room where you meet Mr Iron, you see only its chair and desk; a single many-lensed instrument of obscure function; and ranks of watchful neddy men. It does not meet even Mr Sacks alone.

It comes forward and hands you a note. It reads: MR SACKS. TAKE THIS THING OF HORROR. It motions with a gloved hand for you to turn the note over. It's written on the back of an iron-monger's receipt.

The Unctuous Attendant coughs and requests the return of the robe as you leave. You make haste for the iron-monger's shop. Quailing, he unlocks his cellar, where the light of a flickering candle reveals... something. Those lines! Those – limbs! What is it? Nothing the Surface has ever seen

Mirrors: Brass-Framed Dark Mirror (Shadowy +3, Dreaded +1)

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A scintillating study

The room is covered with a tessellation of mirrors. A tiny hand mirror has been tucked into the gap between the frames of two full length mirrors. The walls filled, more are suspended from the ceiling on thick chains. Each mirror differs from the next, but all have one thing in common - from the edge or corner of each, a shard of glass has been removed.

"Mr Sacks!" Mr Mirrors has stalked in behind you. Is that a saucer it's tucking into its voluminous sleeve? Mr Mirrors folds down to open a wooden chest on the floor.

"Take this! It came under my purview after a decommissioning. I could not bring myself to remove a single piece." It thrusts a bundle the weight and size of a large baby towards you. The cloth unfolds to reveal a dull glass. It is polished enough to suffice as a mirror, but the slight curvature is highly unflattering. "Not here, Mr Sacks!" Mr Mirrors hurries you, apologetically, to the door.

Pages: White Glim Telescope (Watchful +6)

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A Master's wrath

Mr Pages harangues a gang of sorry-looking Special Constables amongst a desperate wreckage of books and papers. "Decency Evaluator? The man is a menace! A griolite! A ghoulicant! Snuffers are the least of it! Resolve the—"

It catches sight of you. "Ah, Mr Sacks. Your arrival is intimate and connubative! Please – please, take this wonderful instrument. It will show you secrets."

A Special Constable shows you out. The Unctuous Attendant subtracts the Robe from your possessions. The lift deposits you on the street. You peer through the telescope. Impossible figures step into shadow, and are gone.

Sacks: You're Not Quite Sure What (Watchful +3, Bizarre +1)

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Fate in white

The Unctuous Attendant pales, but motions for you to follow him. He guides you to a small brass cage. "In here", he says, before closing the gates on you. "The lever is beside you," he says, helpfully. Pulling it plunges you immediately into a darkness complete as the inside of Mr Sack's hood. The descent is interminable.

Eventually, the lift shudders to a halt. The gates creak, and you find yourself in a chilled and chemical-smelling chamber. The cold seeps through the pores of your flesh to freeze your blood and haunt your bones.

You inch forward, until you reach the end of the tunnel. Beyond, a crowd of faces, smiling to greet you. But the faces bob and roil in a vast sea of lacre. They shift, disintegrate, commingle; some are human, some are entirely not; but the smiles remain.

Just below you, there is a ripple. A man rises from the lacre, fully formed from the snow: improbably tall and impossibly handsome, like Michaelangelo's David come to life. And as it reaches you, it plunges a hand into its chest and removes a small burlap sack; it drops it into your hand, and melts entirely into a perfectly formed puddle at your feet.

What is wrapped within the sack? It is hard to say. It hurts to look at, and you cannot keep it long in your head. You can tell, though, that it still carries the bleak cold of sunless skies, and is perhaps oblong. Best to keep it wrapped.

Spices: Luxury's Lap (Dangerous +3, Bizarre +1)

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In the desert of plenty

Mr Spices' den is a fragrant, colourful desert of seasonings. Your eye wanders over ridges of turmeric and basil; over dunes of lavender. Escarpments of cinnamon rise shoulder high. Scents press onto your tongue. The olfactory bombardment is exquisite; unbearable. How many kingdoms could this be worth?

"Mr Sacks!" Your reverie is interrupted by Mr Spices' shrill voice. It lurches toward you, sending a hill of pepper kernels rolling. It gestures for you to follow; behind one of the huge heaps is a chaise-longue. "Take this bed of pleasures," Mr Spices says. The cushions are lush with colour, and soft as saffron. A silver, retractable honey-tray winks in the light. No dreamer would wish to rise from this chaise-longue; why would they want to?

It's an ordeal to get it into the sack – let alone back to your lodgings! – but it's d__nably cosy.

Stones: Ray-Drenched Correspondence Paperweight (Persuasive +3, Bizarre +1)

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Distracted by other matters

Mr Stones' workshop is as bejewelled as a rainbow's colon. It shimmers. It scintillates! The floor, a mosaic of malachite and moonstone. The benches, bristling with lapidarists' tools. Clamps grip cabochoned opals. Brass arrays of lenses scrutinise hapless sapphires. Here is a plate, moist with emeralds. There, garnets scowl on a bed of silk.

Mr Stones grips a chisel of adamant in one dusty sleeve; in the other, a hammer is poised. The diamond under its attention roars with light – not reflecting it, but blazing it. Stones growls at your interruption. "Sacks! Take..." it gropes about distractedly, "– this." A paperweight flies into your sack. It simmers at the bottom, the improbable colours of its core burning through cracks in its crust. Wait – are they cracks? They seem deliberate. Exact. Their shapes ravage your reason. You close the sack, quickly.

Veils: Thoroughly Cowed Pony (Transport; Shadowy +6)

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Where never light is welcome

Mr Veils' rooms are black. Black-black, closed-eyelids black, Bazaar-buried black. But not empty, or silent. Its residents shriek distantly, flutter in ghastly proximity. There are airs: there are voices.

"Mr Sacks," a voice whispers, very close. "Take this... thing of darkness." You don't jump. But you do jump when something moist presses into your outstretched palm.

Back in the lift – an enormous lift, fortunately – you examine your find. Apparently Mr Veils has given you a pony, saddled and bridled, black as his rooms. It watches you with a dark and velvety gaze in which you discern the sentiment: just please don't hurt me any more. The Unctuous Attendant requires the robe of you before you leave, but at least you get to ride home.

Wines: Extraordinary Drinks Cabinet (Persuasive +6)

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A celebration!

There appears to be some sort of banquet going on in Mr Wines' rooms. As one, the guests rise and toast you. There is a rousing cheer.

"Mr Sacks! Take this very fine drinks cabinet. But first. Do have a glass of First Sporing with me. Rather good, isn't it? Another? And another? And... one more?"

You're entirely not clear how you get home. But the robe is gone, and your drawing-room now sports, indeed, a very fine drinks cabinet. And you feel you might want to spend the afternoon lying down.

Eaten: A Complete Set of Preserved Internal Organs (Dangerous -15, Persuasive -15, Shadowy -15, Watchful -15, Unaccountably Peckish +1)

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Just desserts

Before you can finish speaking the name, the Unctuous Attendant slams the door in your face with such force that you stumble back, slip on a lacre-slicked stone, and crack your head on the cobbles.

The whistles of a brigade of Special Constables are ringing in your ears. You stagger to your feet and flee along the Bazaar. The whistles grow louder. But what is this? The Bazaar has seven doors, and seven only. None, as far as you know, are doors of milk. Yet here one is, gushing and foaming. An eighth door? No. There are seven doors, and this is not one of them. It is not here and never will be.

The whistles sound again. With no recourse, you step through. The milk – is it milk? No, it is glutinous, like molten wax. It cakes your clothes. You scrape it from your eyes, and find yourself in a narrow tunnel. The walls are caked in a thick, pale coat of candle-wax. There is a stink of offal, worsening with each step.

Look back, and the tunnel stretches endlessly. But you do not have far to go, now. You come to a room. In the centre is a ring of crumbled bricks, stacked waist-high. A well. The room around it – the walls, the ceiling, the floor – is tortuously warped, as if the well has dragged everything towards it. It drags you, too, dragging you towards it as if a weight were tied to your neck. A voice is calling. The well-mouth gapes, gulps, swallows.

The space between stars is the space between your atoms. Nothingness dissects you. You are made hollow.

You awake, the next day, in your bed. Your head aches. The dream (was it a dream?) is fading. And – oh? What's that on the table? Oh god.

И вторая опция, доступная только после получения первого подарка от того же мастера (50 fate нужно будет платить еще раз).

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Apples: Amaranthine Coil, Sealed in a Jar (Watchful +3, Dreaded +1)

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A proud creator

You are shown to the ground floor apartments of Mr Apples. As the Unctuous Attendant holds a glass door open for you to enter, a damp, acrid miasma rolls out. The rooms are something part greenhouse, part laboratory, and posses the worst stenches of both.

Mr Apples is hunched over a vast steel desk bristling with many-lensed contraptions. The Master looks up, then capers towards you. "My dear Mr Sacks! Immaculate timing – as always." It gestures you towards a large, glowing mason jar at the centre of its desk. "Take this. This rare specimen is almost eternal. Like my appreciation for your good self!"

As you approach the jar, a shape lifts from the bottom and rapidly circles the inside surface of the glass. There is a sound like a ring being scraped down a window. "I advise against letting it out." Mr Apples cautiously lowers the jar into your sack and turns away. In moments, the Master is once again at its desk, humming over its work.

Iron: The Iron Correspondents (Affiliation; Dangerous +1, Bizarre +1, Dreaded +1, A Member of the Pen-Bearers +1)

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Discarded, dangerous

Mr Iron sits hunched over recent copies of the Gazette. It turns a page every few seconds. On a notebook to its left, it writes continuously in serrated capitals – even upside down, you can decipher them. Mr Iron is in an avuncular mood – there are only two 'UNACCEPTABLE's and a single 'DISAPPOINTED'.

A pair of neddy-men standing behind Mr Iron's desk watch you. Finally, the braver neddy-man clears his throat. Mr Iron's head jerks towards the sound. The Master stands, rounds on its employees, and— sees you.

Mr Iron tears a sheet from its notepad and writes: MR S— The ink smears. A fresh sheet: MR SACKS. TA— The nib tears the paper. Mr Iron gathers another sheet: TAKE. It hands you the recalcitrant pen. It is long as your forearm and heavy as lead, but with practice you could master it. You have heard of other people who have found or been given Iron's old pens. Perhaps you should get in touch.

Pages: A Maudlin Gift from the Heavens (Shadowy +3, Bizarre +1)

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A friend in the Skies

Mr Pages is at its huge desk, piled high with towering stacks of books, papers and catalogues. It is cradling something tenderly. There is a pensive quality to the Master's posture, as if it is lost in old memories.

"Mr Sacks! Your arrival is deliciously apposite. We have discovered a munificorium from the Heavens! A touching gift, sent by indeterminate means at an indeterminate point in the past. Look—" A frozen bat is thrust into your face; its icicle-tipped snout brushing your hood.

"It is unquestionably a token from Mr Menagerie: a sometime acquaintance of ours who chose, disjudiciously, not to accompany us to the Neath." It pats the dead bat with a sleeved 'hand'. "This was a noble messenger, which has tragically subestimated the leagues and challenges of its journey. It is a symbol of good service and diligence, which are (as we are sure you will agree, Mr Sacks) in a state of tragic paucepiscosity. Here! Take it! No, no, you needn't gratifulate me. My kindness is so widely accepted it is never spoken of. Now away, away! Spill your seasonal cheer elsewhere!" Mr Pages returns to its desk, humming to itself.

Wines: Beggar's Crown (Dangerous +3, Respectable +1)

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A seasonal melancholy

Mr Wines keeps its rooms near the pinnacle of the Bazaar. Those who have visited describe them as 'majestic', 'magnificent', 'obscene' and 'drowned in wine.'

Today, a fire roars in the hearth; a mellow sonata is playing somewhere close by. Mr Wines is in residence. Its bulk is hunched up in a reinforced rocking chair before the fire. It is cradling something in its velvet sleeves.

"Ah, Mr Sacks. We have been expecting you." Mr Wines does not look up. "We have something special for you this year." It rises, almost unsteadily. Is Mr Wines drunk?

It staggers, before steadying itself against the mantelpiece. "It is time to part with old mementos. We are who we are, not who we were." It places the thing it was holding on the chair, and lurches – without further comment – from the room.

What it has left behind is a battered crown. It is far too large for a human skull, and is made from a hard wood that gleams like bronze. A vine is wound around it, still locked in unmelting frost. It is yours, now.

#8 2020-05-10 20:12:12

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Завтра начинается пасхальный ивент. И пока пасха здорового человека выглядит как яйки-зайки-лужайки-куличи, пасха царства ебанины выглядит как-то так:

Скрытый текст

whitsun%20poster%20with%20date.jpg

Лично я жду лора про spider senate  :smoke: или про звёзд, т.к. про это иичко на плакате уже наванговали, что оно может быть связано с judgement egg. Или про одно главное местное развлечение, учитывая, что в эту же дату стартует мини-ивент про клуб любителей жрать что ни попадя.

#9 2020-05-12 01:40:43

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Обсуждение ивента в дискорде плавно перетекло в "все эти яйца 100% были произведены Mr Hearts". А потом в "кто из мастеров согласился бы эээ сделать тонну странноватых яиц с Базаар". Тут снова все указали на Mr Hearts впрочем  :lol:

Из интересного:

"Not saying I believe it, but..."
"An urchin – you know, the bright one, with the thing on his face – he said they are from the Bazaar itself. And nothing to do with the Masters." The Charcutier rubs his moustache thoughtfully. "Can you imagine? The Bazaar, broody? And these its children? No, that must be wrong. It's too horrific to contemplate."

А это, если я правильно понимаю, из завершения какого-то сезона ES (что-то там про революции, вроде), когда гг довелось пообщаться с Mr Iron, Mr Stones и Mr Hearts разом

Ask the Masters whether they have children
Mr Stones closes its gloved hand around its opal. "I have all I need," it says. Mr Iron and Mr Hearts exchange a glance over their texts. Mr Iron dips its pen into its pot, and writes: 'MY FACTORIES REPLICATE ON MY BEHALF.' Mr Hearts says "Continuity through conjoining disparate flesh."

#10 2020-05-12 11:05:20

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

А, нет, напиздел. Тот разговор с тремя мастерами был в конце Season of Stones.

бубубу про ES

Отдельное бубубу - переделывая сайт и стремясь обезопасить его содержимое от таких, как анон, FBG поломали заодно и отображение журналов других игроков в поисковиках. Теперь хуй что найдешь через гугл или яндекс, даже если знаешь точный кусок фразы. В совокупности с тем, что ES практически не обсуждают, искать эхо из них - тот еще квест.

Еще неодобряю эту политику, по которой контент из ES можно упоминать всуе только в теме ее обсуждения на форуме (на котором сидит полтора землекопа), а в части случаев - еще и после предъявления усов, лап, хвоста и прочих документов,  подтверждающих, что ты сам эту ES прошел. Ну что за херня, а.

Чтобы два раза не вставать: еще спекуляции, откуда все же яйца для местной пасхи.

"Not saying I believe it, but..."
"Some people – and people will say anything, mind – are saying that this is how the Masters reproduce. Shouldn't be prying into their intimate lives, I say. But – if it were true – we'd be swarmed with them!" His forehead creases with wrinkles. "But I've heard from a noted authority that the Masters' babies are raised live in a nursery, not hatched from eggs. So it's all fine."

Итого сиротки и кто-то еще уверены, что яйца произведены Базаар. Сиротам об этом рассказал Шторм, но он ебнутый и вряд ли свечку держал. В то же время из черного яйца может вылупиться тварюшка Дилли. В Sunless Skies такая же Дилли вылупляется из Curator's Egg. Также исследования в лаборатории показывают, что яйца и их содержимое были "усовершенствованы". Красные - при помощи shapeling arts, которым резиновые люди кукожат себе подобных, а черные - с помощью red science, которое суть шатание законов мироздания.

#11 2020-05-12 22:42:29

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

"Not saying I believe it, but..."
"There is a rumour that it's a smuggling scheme set up by a tomb-colonist to impress the widow. That it's a gesture of desperately unrequited love. If it is that, I can be pretty certain it didn't work. I mean, they're pretty bl__dy obvious!"

Мимими, они вспомнили про этот древний роман с Once-Dashing Smuggler  :heart:
Все ещё держу у себя полный комплект роз в надежде, что однажды эту историю дополнят  =D

Отредактировано (2020-05-12 22:52:05)

#12 2020-05-19 21:02:48

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Кто-то принес это в дискорд, из дискорда это утащили на реддит, так что давайте и я сюда это утяну  :lol:

FBG в концовках амбиций и праздничных постерах тизерели new game+. И тут кто-то нашёл уже введенные в игру карты (хоть пока и заблоченные).

Дополнительная опция в море: 1, 2, 3

Еще говорят, что у Лодочника тоже появилась новая карта.

Но вообще охуеть интересно. Особенно вариант "вернуться на поверхность" - а что будет с теми, кто уже неоднократно помирал или того хуже - дошел до предпоследнего этапа в SMEN?  :smoke:

Отдельный лол - похоже, вангования по Heart's Desire о том, что гг - та самая долгожданная замена Лодочнику, таки оказались как минимум частично правдой. Или гг таки тот самый избранный обещанный принц, или мастера вздохнут с облегчением, т.к. и этого бесноватого в городе больше не будет, и лодочника можно больше не кормить обещаниями.

#13 2020-05-20 14:55:24

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

:love: :love: :love:

#14 2020-05-20 14:58:10

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Так, появилось чуть больше инфы. Пока известно о трех способах эндгейма (помимо SMEN, но оно для энтузиастов):
1) Заменить себе нахуй абсолютно все части тела и душу. Опция в отеле. Альтернативный текст для тех, кто присвоил себе глиняную руку из какой-то там ES. Чот мне это не нравится  :creepy:
2) Стать новым лодочником. Опция у реки. Альтернативный текст для прошедших Heart's Desire.
3) Вернуться на поверхность. Опция в море. Альтернативный текст пока не нашли, вангуют на поместье из финала Heart's Desire.

Точной информации ноль, особенно насчет всего нажитого непосильным гриндом.

Чтобы два раза не вставать: текст из прошлого сезона ES. В колокольне поселилась Wings-of-Thunder Bat и мешает церковникам и прихожанам - много жрет, много гадит, срывает службы и охоту на себя же.

Скрытый текст

The church is closed today. The bellringers are on strike; they refuse to work under these conditions. There are hazards in operating heavy iron church bells – ropeburn, for instance. But among those hazards, having one's fingers devoured by an avaricious giant bat is not recognised by the insurance companies.

A planned visit by the Bishop of St Fiacre's is postponed. While all are certain he could solve the problem, no one wants to be around when it happens.

A league of senior churchladies arm themselves for battle. They carry posies, brooms, thuribles filled with ha'pennies. As one, they march to the belltower. Some hours later, the Vicar ventures up himself. He finds the ladies cooing over the bat, which is rolling about on the floor, entirely on its best behaviour.

A nervous deacon delivers the homily today. He mostly addresses it to the rafters, which he watches fearfully, white knuckles gripping the lectern. He finishes the thin gruel of his sermon on Christian charity and steps down from the pulpit. He thinks he's got away with it, when the bat descends and devours his stole.

In a doomed attempt to placate the bat, some brave parishioners have created a replica bat, in hopes of enticing the original. Unfortunately, this simulacrum was designed by committee – the size is right, but the fur has been taken from a range of unfortunate bath mats, the wings are of different sizes, and someone has painted a large smile on its face. It does not have the desired effect. The Wings-of-Thunder bat devours it immediately.

The Vicar attempts a sermon on the unity of church and state, the upkeep of the home and the upkeep of the heart. It is a message of harmony and order; of letting the outside world turn and tending to one's own garden. It is all going well until the bat dives into the choir and sends the choristers running.

A flower-arranger departs the church in tears. Her scented spider-silk chrysanthemums have been despoiled by the remnants of the bat's last meal, deposited from on high.

#15 2020-05-20 15:30:12

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

анон, можно оффтопный вопрос от человека вне сообщества: а какой-нибудь самопальной приложеньки на телефон нет случайно или не планируется ли? потому что в браузере на телефоне как-то очень уж неудобно.

#16 2020-05-20 15:59:20

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Анон пишет:

анон, можно оффтопный вопрос от человека вне сообщества: а какой-нибудь самопальной приложеньки на телефон нет случайно или не планируется ли? потому что в браузере на телефоне как-то очень уж неудобно.

Было официальное приложение, но в конечном счёте от него отказались из-за проблем с синхронизацией. Поэтому сейчас только в браузере.
О самопальных приложениях не слышал, честно говоря. Максимум - небольшие расширения для браузера, облегчающие геймплей (блокировка нежелательных опций, трекеры для гринда и т.д.).

#17 2020-05-20 16:19:10

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

эх.. спасибо!

#18 2020-05-20 21:08:51

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Совсем забыл: гуглдок со всеми приветствиями в House of Chimes
Из-за ограничения на количество текста в вики в этом фандоме очень любят гуглдоки.

Дополнительно: на основе движка Sunless Sea и с благословением/финансированием FBG в далеком 2017 выпустили House of Many Doors. В котором среди опций "кого бы заромансить" есть 10 миллионов ворон, что меня очень радует  :lol:

сперва скормите воронам труп божества

You find yourself living two realities an once. In by far the clearer of two, you sit at the head of a feast, drinking the most delicious wine and gorging on the tenderest red meat. It is so maddeningly good. Satisfaction unparalleled.

But in some screaming corner of your brain, you know what is really happening. You are hunkered down among a million squawking crows, stuffing rotten god-meat into your mouth, soaked in blood and elbow-deep in flyblown entrails.

A crow settles on your shoulder and nibbles at your ear, sweetly, affectionately. A thrill of pleasure rushes through to the tips of your fingers. You couldn't. Or could you..?

Crows descend upon you, with a different hunger.

:cool:

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#19 2020-05-23 21:39:36

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Анону давно интересно, что такое Liberation of night, которое повышается, если взаимодействуешь с революционерами. Никто случаем не встречал объяснения?

#20 2020-05-23 22:26:53

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

#21 2020-05-23 23:01:59

Анон

Re: [Игры][Фандомное] Падает, падает лондонский мост

Анон пишет:

Анону давно интересно, что такое Liberation of night, которое повышается, если взаимодействуешь с революционерами. Никто случаем не встречал объяснения?

Анон выше дал нужную ссылку.
Если совсем-совсем вкратце, то это убийство всех звезд и уничтожение их системы законов. Ну, света тоже не будет.

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