There is something about Fallen London that is so charming, in such a weird, creepy, fantasy-horror sort of way.
I’m attending an illegal spider fighting ring underneath a pub down the docks, and obviously I have the option to bet on the contenders. Of which there are four, described thusly:
Bet on Millie, the Moloch Street Mangler. A gargantuan beast, half the height of a man and twice as hairy. She lumbers into the ring on seven bristling legs. The eighth is a mere stump, capped with a steel hook.
Bet on Florence, the Stackside Spinner. The local champion, Florence, is a fleet-footed Wolfstack bruiser who ensnares her victims in ropes of sticky silk.
Bet on Daphne, The Graveside Creeper. Raised on the blood of tomb-colonists, Daphne is slow and ponderous and bandaged, but supposedly impossible to kill.
Bet on Alonzo, Scourge of the Marshes. He doesn't look like much. If a beer-mug fell on him, that would probably be it for the night. But they say his venom can burn holes in lead.
And I just … Those are four characters immediately sketched in about as many sentences. They’re spiders, we’re in a weird-as-hell victorian cosmic horror game, but they’re so clearly and perfectly and immediately sketched.
And obviously I’m betting on Daphne, and will continue to bet on Daphne, whether she wins or not, because as far as characters go, I will always put my money on the slow, battered, beat-to-shit old girl who’s hanging on by sheer grit but who might still know a few things that younger, fitter, more ostensibly dangerous contenders might not. Heh.
Here’s for the Graveside Creeper! I’m rooting for you, girl!
