There is a wild and glorious scent in the air. Let us clasp our souls tight, lest the Pentacost Apes take them from us.Īnd now we enter the Calumnies. This is the Pillared Sea, where Irem will lie. Strange puffs of warmth from the air behind the ice. It is not unusual to find yourself in unsuspected tears.Ī buttery bloom of light on the southern horizon! You approach Varchas, the Mirrored City. The mists of the Sea of Autumn get into the eyes, the heart. Stamford's Expanse, named for one who lost his child to cats. The false-stars above are feral amber, like tigers' eyes. This is the domain of the New Khanate, whose ancestors came here long before London fell. Scuttering and chittering in the corners of the hold. Very far away we see the great light of the Ragged Crow. St Eligius sends his fire to dance on the air, on deck. We're approaching Adam's Way, 'where flows the Mountain's blood'. Violet vegetable bulks break the surface. The water is sluggish with hyphal threads. The corpse-rainbow glow from beneath the waves echoes the false-stars above. There is a prison here, guarded by knot-oracles. We watch for fungal-pads in the Sea of Lilies. ' We hear those voices that will not be drowned.' This is the Sea of Voices, where nothing is truly dead. To the North, the false-stars fail in the darkness. The Crying Heights, where the Blue Prophets call the names of those about to die. The sound echoes flatly in the soupy air. Long-dead priests still count the hours in this place.Ī sudden fog of spores! Zailors sneeze. The wind carries the echo of distant chants. Spined towers rear in the light of the false-stars. Our lookouts are watchful.Ĭreeping tendrils of fungus, zee-weed, unnamable flora. Stalagmites loom in the distance like the cranes of Wolfstack Docks, but vaster, vaster. Here the slate-black sea is like rippled glass, spiked with light from the roof. But you feel the air prickle on your skin. Tighten them, and it would split like a fruit. The world is webbed with invisible lines. A fortress sieged by questions, answers, and riddles. Far to the South, the Neath-roof glimmers above the Mountain of Light.įrostfound, vast and chilly. All through this place, the song of the Drownies lies shivering-sweet along the wind. Shepherd's Wash, the salty hinterland of London, home to hermits, nuns and shadowy business. Demeaux's Gate, named for a navigator lost above. Here the wilder airs mingle with the airs of the near reaches. There is brimstone on the wind.Ī baked breeze rises, the improbably scent of stone out of some distant desert. We are under the hand of the Iron Republic.Ĭame on deck to find the metal sharp with sparks. A coil of rope has stung a stoker, and his fellows beat it to death. We draw near to the Cumaean Canal, the way to the surface. The crew go wistful: they swap old stories of sunlit sea. Zailors dawdle at the rail, watching for the lights of London. These are the waters around the Tomb-Colonies. Your crew huddles close to the warmth of pipe and funnel.ĭust, echoes: even a sepia tint to the air. Is this snow? Touch it, and it puffs to vapour. This is a comprehensive list of each tile's name, ports, and the Log entry given upon entering.īoreal Reach. While this arrangement is only one possible tile arrangement, the list of ports for each tile, not including light-ships, is accurate.Įach tile has a unique entry into the Ship's Log when you sail into it. Here is one possible layout of the map tiles, represented with a table. Crossing from one tile to another will be recorded in the Ship's Log, mentioning the name of the new tile, if any, and a short blurb about it. The map is divided into 36 "tiles," most of which can be rearranged.
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