Category:The Airs of London

Not every day in the Neath is the same.

Levels

 * 0: Out on the city's edge, zee-bats cry where black waves break on a black shore.
 * 1-10: A bat zips past, not far overhead.
 * 11-13: The softest of rains falls in the street: the cobbles glisten like fish-skin.
 * 14-15: In the street outside, fly-drivers squabble in a half-dozen different tongues: English, French, German...wait, is that Latin?
 * 16-17: A small child meditatively pings stones off a butcher's shop-window. Eventually the butcher emerges, cleaver in hand. The child disappears with remarkable speed.
 * 20: A devil lounges against a lamp-post, picking his teeth with a needle. He eyes you speculatively.
 * 21-30: Shadows lie still, here where there is no sun to move them. Sometimes they shiver in candle-light.
 * 31-32: A raven caws, coughs, and breaks into song. Something eighteenth-century? Is that a snatch of a Purcell sonata?
 * 33-40: The wall here is splotched with luxuriant russet fungus, like the fur of something mythical.
 * 41-42: Passers-by watch you with narrow eyes. What do they see?
 * 43: Someone speaks your name. But when you turn, there is only a mirror.
 * 45-46: High above, the false-stars glimmer. Did one of them - move?
 * 47-50: A window glows with the amber light of tallow-candles. Voices are raised in song.
 * 51-60: Today, something in the air makes the gas-lamps slink low, burn marsh-green.
 * 61-62: On the roof-tops at day's end, urchins whistle a tune from Mahogany Hall. One improvises lyrics that would make a Master of the Bazaar blush.
 * 63-65: Oof! That reek is a tannery. Hold your breath a moment.
 * 66-68: A glove-maker passes, holding his bag at arm's-length. The contents squirm.
 * 69-70: The cobbles are slippery with a thick black moss. Your footfalls bruise it, and a scent like fresh Surface rain rises.
 * 71-72: A cat's eyes glint on a high window-ledge. 'What a wretched day,' it remarks.
 * 73: Stray dogs fight over something in the gutter. A human hand? ...probably just a pork-chop.
 * 74-75: A barouche passes, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched greys. One passenger, a bearded chap in a top hat, throws his head back in laughter at something his bright-eyed female companion says.
 * 77-80: A scuffle! A pool of blood! A wild-eyed girl with a knife in either hand! The cry goes up, 'a Jack!' Is it a Jack? She's gone, regardless -
 * 81-82: The light from the false-stars clings to every surface like oil. This is the kind of afternoon when Londoners run mad, shrieking 'The sun! The sun!'
 * 83-90: A phaeton roars past! The crowd scatters, the horses roll their eyes desperately! Two tomb-colonists sit cackling in the back.
 * 91-94: Today, water has a metallic taste. It generally does. But is this a different metal? Copper? Silver?
 * 95-99: A huddled bundle lies in the gutter. Movement squirms beneath a blanket. Rats? Spiders? Black-clad, gloved, masked Special Constables lift it to the back of a cart, and you see no more.
 * 100-101: A church bell tolls.
 * 102: A beetle the size of a boot sits atop a tar-barrel, nonchalantly twiddling its antennae.
 * 103+: The wind toys with paper-scraps in the gutter.