Maps
This page contains each Map made for the wiki. They can be embedded into a page with {{:Maps/NameOfMap}} where NameOfMap is the header just above the map.
London[edit]
"What can you find in Ladybones Road? Moloch Street Underground Station is the first stop on the journey to Hell. Clathermont's Tattoo Parlour, haunt of spies, is here. Hangman's Arch can be a good place to hear gossip, and is always a good place for a hanging."
"What do they say about Veilgarden? A haunt of poets, prostitutes and other low types, and location of the notorious Singing Mandrake. Elderwick is famous for its booksellers. Hollow Street offers the best honey-dens in the city."
"The ragged old market of Spite is known for its silk-weavers and its pickpockets. Blythenhale is notorious for its feral cats. Flowerdene Street is the heart of the worst rookery in Fallen London."
"Smoke and mirrors! Light and shade! Bright paint and squealing children and the roar of lions! And the music, as a great man once said, is like electric sugar."
"What can you find at Watchmaker's Hill? A sinister fungal wilderness by the river. The Department of Menace Eradication subcontracts the adventurous to deal with the things that slither out of Bugsby's Marshes. An observatory atop the hill employs only blind men."
"The Quarter is the last remnant of the Fourth City, which the Bazaar acquired five hundred years ago. Statues of warrior-kings line silent avenues. A fountain shaped like a silver tree stands before a ruined palace at its heart."
"Why is the Empress' Palace shuttered? Apparently the Empress doesn't like light. Or sudden movements, loud noises, foreigners, treason, peaches. When you're Empress, you can do this kind of thing."
"What's the Flit? A bad altitude. The Flit is where you go when you're no longer welcome at ground level. Or if you really rate a good view from your window."
"This is where the trading steamer fleets come in from the lands across the Unterzee, the sunless sea of the Bazaar. Mr Fires, who deals with trade in coal, keeps his office here among the warehouses and rowdy dockside pubs."
"What can you find in the Bazaar Sidestreets? Respectable firms crammed into [workshops and offices]. The rent here is astronomical. But the quick and the hungry turn profits in the shadows of the spires. Just keep your eyes off the carvings up high. And whatever you do, don't fall in love."
"Beasts from every corner of the Unterzee are caged in the Labyrinth. But tigers walk free. There are very few accidents."
"Concord Square: a small yard in London, and a metonym. A location seething with coppers. Not the place to commit unsanctioned crimes."
"The residents of Moloch Street largely ignore the devils who loiter by Moloch Street Station, a vast edifice dominating one end of the road."
"Old women sell sugared mushrooms between executions at Hangman's Arch. They know a surprising amount about what goes on in the city."
"Beneath London are a myriad of tunnels dug deep into the earth. The Clay Men regularly close old entrances, and carve out new ones. It is rare that the same route down can be used twice."
"With so much business in Fallen London, you can't expect the inhabitants of Hell to go home at the end of every day, can you? The Brass Embassy is a cozy hell away from hell which, they say, holds the best masked balls in the city."
"If you want to become a sensation in Veilgarden, here's the place to start..."
"The candles are all lit in the great cathedral of St Fiacre's. Flickering, wispish lights steer parishioners down processionals towards the central altar and its hulking pulpit."
"What is the University? It is what you may call a castle manned by learning and scholarship. Or a vicious and permanent dog-fight between Benthic College and Summerset College."
"Everything here is white. Walls, floors, uniforms. Silent masked orderlies wander up and down identical corridors. It's easy to get lost."
"Workers with black-stained fingers hurry from one newspaper office to another. The thump and hiss of newspaper presses fill the air. Here, the Truth—or something claiming to be it—is prepared for distribution to the citizens of London."
"Fallen London's MOST POPULAR MUSIC-HALL presents a NEW EXTRAVAGANZA of ENTERTAINMENT each and every night!"
alias Horatia's. Location approximate.
Approximate location. The only known synagogue in London.
Approximate location.
"A venerable institution necessary to the proper functioning of the Fifth City. The Department of Menace Eradication subcontracts the adventurous to deal with the things that slither out of Bugsby's Marshes."
"The stamping, shouting, raucous, rowdy tavern on Watchmaker's Hill where the Cheery Man holds court."
"In an unprecedented move, the clandestine and obscure Temple Club has opened its doors to the public. It is a place for free thinkers, radical antiquarians and luminaries of the modern age to gather amidst the ruins of the Fourth City."
"A shabby, raucous, full-throated zailor's pub, sequestered amidst the warehouses and wharves of old Wolfstack."
"This is Wilmot's End! Whispered about in the stories of the Great Game. It's where the serious business of London's spycraft happens, if the stories are to be believed."
"The Foreign Office occupies two of the larger minarets and a copper pagoda in Wilmot's End. Wipe your feet."
"I've heard tell that there's a fancy club for exceptional sorts. It's on the river, in the shell of some old clock tower. The things that go on there! They'd curl your hair and clench your toes."
"Flute Street, the home of the Rubbery Men. It's a cavern. Nothing like the size of the Neath, but still huge. There's light here. A hazy golden glow, like the bottom of a honey sea, of uncertain source. You brush past delicate floating motes, the seeds of coral dandelions."
"The Royal Bethlehem Hotel. The most luxurious place to stay in London. The guests are surprisingly singular for such an expensive establishment."
Unterzee[edit]
That vast continent to the South with a glowing mountain at its heart - where the Presbyter has ruled for a thousand years - is older by far than any of London's civilisations. Which is embarrassing.
A hump of dark rock swathed in mist, like a hundred other Unterzee islands. But here's a grand house, windows aglow. Lawns, impossibly green and lush in the false-star light. Raked gravel paths. An unexpectedly warm breeze carries the faintest trace of lavender.
FALLEN LONDON! Deep. dark and marvellous. All voyages start here: and this is where successful voyages end.
Once, this simple fishing village was part of the London suburbs, before London fell and the waters rushed in. Smoke spirals from cottage chimneys. A lonely hill rises behind town.
The Canal ascends, through locks and gates and shadowed turns, to the sunlight of the Surface.
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.
A naval base, with the Royal Navy's emblems, curiously amended. Efficient, bright-eyed women and men work briskly. They are singing: hymns with unfamiliar words. Hard-faced Royal Marines bar entry to the Geode's heart. A plaque by the docks has been defaced with orange paint, 'STATION V (ADJUNCT)'.
HE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN T
Towers and ramps and galleries and stairs of ice, raised and spun like an architect's honey-dream. No spider ever wove so complex a web. The towers are utterly pristine, untouched by human life, but a pitiable encampment squats by the dock.
The Mourn is a stalagmite vast as a crag, and its foot has no safe harbours. The corsair's citadel nestles halfway up. An intricate system of winches takes the strain... and a ship rises slowly from the zee. Her hull creaks in protest. Grizzled zailors groan and cling to stanchions.
Higher, higher. The Unterzee shimmers like glass below. Children clambering in crevices cheer and wave alarmingly. The winch-motor slows, and it hangs in a cradle next to a red-bowed pirate cutter.
"You heard of the Pillared Sea, where Irem lies? Wise man from Irem came here, oh, eighty year ago. He planted three pillars. They were as big as fingers when I were young. Now they're as you see them. In my son's time, they'll be big as dock-cranes."
A black spit of an island, far from anywhere anyone would want to go. And that's how the Sisterhood likes it. Here stands their fortress-convent. There are bear-traps that look friendlier than this.
Machinery hums behind high steel walls. Up the hill, there are visible outlines of warehouses and a building with a spire. But the lamps are low where they burn at all, and your ship the only one in harbour.
Climb the fungal-fibre ladders to its summit. Shaggy, suspicious villagers scratch a living here, amidst endless clouds of spores and scurrying mobs of plant-animal hybrids. None of them ever leave. "Monsters," one explains darkly. "Zee full of monsters."
London's first Unterzee colony sweats under a blanket of southern heat. To the right of the dock, the sapphire-mines yawn. To the left, the Governor's house stands, prim as an Elderwick mansion. Behind lies the fungal jungle, ghostly in white and violet.
A deep, well-lit cavern, thick with a fungal smoke and cave moths. Far above, a lighthouse fire burns. The scent of it is curiously medicinal. It clouds your head and burns your lungs. Farther into the fog, you can make out laboured breathing.
There is no habitation in sight, no market, very little in the way of a maintained dock. A stretch of sand thickens into damp, black earth, from which sprout stunted... Palms? Not quite: tall fungal growths with frond-like caps, as if someone sculpted the idea of a tree from a mushroom.
Two basalt beasts, cathedral-sized. They frown eternally at each other across the black waves. The north one carries an encampment: creeping human figures eat away at its features like rot, pick-pick-picking. There's a supply dock below.
Ships lured by false promises and lights litter the zee-floor. Their broken hulls make a city for the wreckers. The citizens are in constant motion, working to survive and appease the Fair King, who sits deep within the city on his wheeled throne.
I & M has a funger operation here, felling giant bolegus shrooms for building materials, harvesting kirralee for its 'medicinal' properties. It's a desperate little outpost of something like civilisation.
Like an iceberg, like a Bazaar-Master's scheme, like the Neath itself, most of the Hold is invisible. You see only a tiny portion of sculpted coral - the rest waits below the surface. The Fathomking's bone-rooms and aquaria. His pearl-snares and his dining-chambers...
The station is pinned to the surface of Aigul. Once it was a roving vessel, the Fortas Kettle, and floated freely from place to place. Now it is stuck on spines of fluke-rock.
Sullen lights glow green at the jetty's edge. Behind the port buildings, the island is is knee-deep in ash. There are ruins here and there, of houses destroyed by fire. Far above, the mountain's top flickers red: just for an instant.
They call it the city of flowers, but the flowers are crystals, spiral matrices grown on the walls of Anthean caves. The inhabitants of Anthe are at least partly crystal too: they call it "going sharp." Becoming more perfect, and clearer, and colder.
Taciturn functionaries walk the docks, in the uniforms of postmen. An enormous crowned statue casts a chilling shadow.The shadows gleam with rats' eyes. Their ceaseless chittering rolls like the tide.
A gap in this colossal sea monster's throat has been forced open with thick heartmetal beams. They strain under the pressure, but hold. As you pass through, your zubmarine lights pass over a message carved in a floating piece of some unfortunate's hull. BEYOND IS NOOK. BEYOND IS FREEDOM. BEYOND IS- The rest is scratched out.
GHR[edit]
(Great Hellbound Railway)
