The Tomb-Colonies
Few die in Fallen London. They come here instead.
A cheerless nook in a far corner of the Neath. Known chiefly for its flowstone, its masks and its depraved bats.
The Tomb-Colonies: home to outcasts, the generally disgraced, and of course, zombies. (Well, Fallen Londoners call them tomb-colonists, but still... they're undead.) These dreary encampments lie north of London.
A Maelstrom of Scandal!
Londoners who are just too scandalous, decrepit, or unappealing for polite society are often forced to reside here until their names are cleared. Life in the tomb-colonies can be depressing, especially when a sudden movement results in a loss of a limb or two. Because of this, it's no surprise that many tomb-colonists choose to visit or reside in London proper, often seeking excitement or a reminder of their old lives.
The tomb-colonies have existed since before the fall of London, and visitors may encounter tomb-colonists who lived during the time of the Fourth City, or even longer before that. The colonies are dotted with relics and iconography from cities past. Certain factions own private tomb-colonies of their own, such as the the God-Eaters.
Venderbight is the largest tomb-colony, and it is the only one open to those who wish to travel to the Tomb-Colonies by zee. There are some amenities for visitors, given that it's the area's only port, but these are... rather meager (not that amenities are usually necessary). Tomb-colonists pay handsomely for transportation to and from here; these colonists are often stowed in coffins as cargo.
The Grand Sanatorium, the largest building in Venderbight, is where some tomb-colonists go to waste. They consider this more dignified than the alternatives, such as being eaten by moths or dying in combat, but of course everyone's choice of death is different.
A tomb-colony by the name of Xibalba is known to exist, which is where the God-Eaters conduct their business. There are also many other minor tomb-colonies, such as Tanah-Chook.
Tomb-Colonies are place of origin for many bizarre traditions of the Neath. Dustwine, a mysterious "drink" with unusual properties, can be found there. Some tomb colonists seek peace in art: poetry of Tomb-Colonies is known as tomb-poetry. It is written on colonist's own bandages, often with blood instead of ink. Many tomb colonists are centuries old, and their poetry can be extremely insightful, if one can ignore sanitation problems.
| File:Collatedresearch.png One of more well-known pieces | ||
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Little bandage, my only clothing now Your humble fashion befits these dreary times Blots of my body's decay your only decoration. Carry my words back to the bustling city – Alas, without me – Convey the woeful greetings of my leaky heart To the footpads' alleys of mouldy Spite Remember my ruined visage to the Garden's painted ladies That one, at least, might sigh upon my fate! Trial by Society, so undeserv'd Calumny spread by poison'd words Daggers to my unprotected heart! The storm-toss'd zee-voyage I endured – Gobbets of flesh dropping from my bones – Delivering to this long-forsaken pile My corse – for that is all I am Without the touch of that fair hand For which, as Tantalus thirsts, I yearn... | ||
The Tomb-Colonists
Tomb-colonists: technically, passengers rather than goods. But you'd never know it to talk to them.
The tomb-colonists are quite notorious for their unparalleled experience in many activities, such as dueling, chess, even sex. This makes them extremely dangerous if provoked. The tomb-colonist dueling style favors well-practiced and precise forms over the unrefined assaults of the typical riffraff.
Generally speaking, a person becomes a tomb-colonist by being thoroughly, thoroughly wounded; it's no wonder that many tomb-colonists are duelists or other daring individuals. Other tomb-colonists are simply people who became very, very, old. Being exiled due to age or injury is basically permanent, and people may become tomb-colonists (voluntarily or not) to escape their past lives for good. Despite their horrific appearances, tomb-colonists are basically normal people if you ignore the mold and decay, so they can be perfectly respectable individuals if they're treated as such.
Emergence
"...tomb-colonists do not exactly die. Many end in the Grand Sanatorium, withering slowly to insensate horror. (This is not publicised.) A few end in Emergence: transformation to a flimsy thing of wings and knowledge, an end in ecstacy, the delight of becoming an egg, of sorts. This is accounted a grand and vile and tempting sin..."
Tomb-colonists who severely overstay their welcome may spawn frost-moths. Apparently, these creatures use tomb-colonists as a sort of cocoon, and burst out of them when the time is right. Tomb-colonists have mixed feelings about these things; some see their birth as a ritual of sorts, called Emergence, while others consider them filthy.
The source of some of London's candles? Tomb-colonist fat. These candles are called mourning candles, and they give off a "smudgy, dolorous light".
Notable Tomb-Colonists
Feducci is the self-styled Prince of the Tomb-Colonies. He's usually seen covered in bandages and runs an underground dueling society. However, there may be more to him than meets the eye...
The Bandaged Poissonnier is the best cook in Venderbight, even by London's standards. He seems to have an affinity for zeefood.
The Once-Dashing Smuggler
An acquaintance has told you of a Once-Dashing Smuggler who's in need of help. Your friend is willing to make an introduction.
The Once-Dashing Smuggler is a mysterious and gallant tomb-colonist who may be looking for a new romance. He's highly competent at his job, and a good cook as well, though he may be a little too trusting. The Smuggler is often seen in a purple suit, and he's fond of Myrrh-Scented Roses. It turns out he's from the Fourth City, and he may have had a relationship with the Gracious Widow.
The First Curator
A bandaged shape no larger than a child lies crumpled on a couch. It lifts its head with obvious effort. It takes several seconds for you to distinguish its voice from the soft buzz of the bees.
The First Curator is responsible for the preservation of all the tomb-colonies. Residing in Venderbight, this individual of mysterious and indistinct gender apparently dates back the the Third City. As a result, it (yes, it) is by far the most decayed of the tomb-colonists; it can barely even move or speak. The Curator lies in total darkness, it seems fearful of light and moths, and it wants to see the Neathbow before it finally expires. It'll pay handsomely in return.
A Mysterious Letter
The following writing is not canon. Click here to read a letter from a different recipient!
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A letter soaked in tears
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|...This place is horrible, like a crypt that's been locked for centuries. Air's muggy, food's tasteless. The people, or at least what's left of them, are dull as all the colors. No theaters, no shops, no soap. And everyone seems alright with that! Yes, the worst thing about my exile is not the ash and dust, not the lack of most basic conveniences, but the d___ed people. Filthy, wrapped in old bandages, sometimes missing a limb or two - it's like all joy, imagination, vitality and spirit was soaked from them after death, and all that's left is an empty husk. You won't believe me, but the most pleasant people here are the zailors, however they got to this wretched backwater. They are coarse, stinking, and often uneducated (not to say that tomb colonists are extraordinary minds themselves), but at least I get some snippets of what is going on in London - and I can drink something that doesn't taste like sea water from Pompeii. But as I was saying: Even animals can't shake the inertia; they're all listless. I don't know what it is about the Colonies, but I don't ever want to be here again, and I certainly don't want to be like those b____y walking corpses. But sometimes I fall asleep, and dream I am among their ranks...
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A letter blurred with dust
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|...This place is awe-inspiring, as if time has stopped here. Dust blows through the half-empty streets and collapsed buildings. There are no salons, operas, or other places of entertainment, so I often find myself sitting by the shoreline, watching the black water and the occasional steamer passing by. I finished my last bottle of Greyfields quite some time ago, and now it is a living place for spiders, small ones. I suppose I should stop drinking; not only is it impossible to get good wine around here because the local stuff tastes quite coarse, but it would also be a good decision as far as my near-empty pocketbook is concerned. Such things happen when you stay in such an inhospitable place. The people are just beyond my comprehension: not dead, nor fully alive, they hardly require the smallest comforts to go on. Those who can still walk often challenge each other and visitors like me to different contests of skill, and I should not be surprised that their age allows them to pose a significant challenge. Even these decrepit things have some sort of social life, hosting balls inside crypts and all kinds of activities from the cultures they come from, but it all feels so alien to me. Thus I mostly sit in the corner, dealing with incoming mail. Maybe one day, I will be just like them, but... we shall see.
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