The Iron Republic

"Hell's client-state. Be wary. Their laws are not the laws of Man or Nature."

Factory-engines roar like false lions. Blood thunders in the dock-pipes. Crimson lightning skitters across the deck, leaps to the rail, coils there like a cat. The city is reflected in glassy-calm harbour water: the citizens there have the heads of dogs and serpents.

Hell has brought freedom to the Iron Republic: freedom from all laws, even those of nature.

The Iron Republic is a chaotic colony of Hell, permanently free of tyrants... and laws. All laws and tyrants. Including those humans previously thought were impossible to repeal, such as gravity. Visitors often stay until numbers stop working, or they will at least be subjected to constantly shifting norms. The laws change every day, with no rhyme or reason (except possibly protestors advocating a change to something more convenient, which is known to work on occasion).

Today in the Iron Republic...

<choose> <option>...a boy and his mother built a snowman out of factory ashes. Or did the snowman build them? Would that make him or them an ash-man? You can't tell, they're all the same gray color. Everyone is gray here, the factories are gray, the beggars are gray, even the docks are gray. And by gray you mean screaming. The boy is screaming. The snowman is screaming. You are screaming. You curse the Mountain for her unwarranted vitality. In return, a large piece of diamond hits you on the head. Is she...smirking? You pocket the gem before Mr Stones finds it, he could be anywhere right now. Like over there! No, that's just a man with spoons for hands. Do the Masters ever leave London? Best not to find out the hard way.</option> <option>...the rain is finally here! Oh how it beats down, relentless and choking, on your coat, your hat, your skin, your face, you can barely say a word without catching a mouthful of the stuff. This is...not like the rain of the surface, nor that of the Fallen London. This the purest form of precipitation, this...is rain. And it hurts. As you take shelter under a tarp you ask a man if it ever rained small, domestic animals. He laughs, his face the shape of an inbred donkey. "That was last week's rain, newcomer, next week we're getting weasels and bats!"</option> <option>...the Iron Republic is Aestival! Ah, the sunlight, how you have missed it! The surface-plants! The beaches! The fact that this is not Aestival! It is Mangroove College! Everything is dark, rotted, and shabby, but you've been in the Iron Republic long enough that you know that even the slightest courtesy is a luxury out here. This place reminds you of Pigmote Isle, strangely enough. You would be there...if the Iron Republic wasn't Watchmaker's Hill. Why is it always the d___ Hill? What is this, the Castle? The Horizon? Since when does everything converge at this point? Then suddenly, the Iron Republic is...the Iron Republic! Again! For the first time since your arrival here you can finally breathe a sigh of relief. Well you would, if it wasn't for that damnable violinist! Curse those street performers, especially those with Irish fiddles!.</option> <option>...the elephants have arrived! Good lord, the elephants are here. They are huge, ferocious, and they are utterly without mercy. And they hunger. In your desperation to escape, you rush back to the docks, only to find that the bastards are amphibious. And they murdered a boat. Risking a glance at the streets, you notice a rather bohemian lady chopping up unfortunate bystanders with an ax. While on fire. Jack-of-Smiles would be proud.</option> </choose>