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At all costs, you must keep the world illuminated. You and your beloved may be the only Surface-dwellers who know what the Device does. You've left the Neath behind: but not the Liberation of Night. It's night, but the air is warm, and scented with summer. You breach the surface, at last, in an apple orchard just outside Shepton Mallet, through a Neolithic tomb of unlikely age. You ascend through the galleries of fossil and memory. You pass through the fungus-choked corridors, the pits where the Inhabiters walk, the broken gates. Without someone you could trust absolutely, you'd never have made it through. But you have the key to the Last Labyrinth and you have the Ferryman's Promise to preserve you from the Surface-death. The ways to the surface – the Cumaean Canal, the Travertine Spiral – are choked with refugees. There's only one way to go, if you want to be together: up. London is in flames, but the flames give no light. Let them save themselves! The Device has worked beyond its wildest dreams. You'll have to move quickly if you're going to take advantage. This is the greatest opportunity of the age for loot! Your competitors will already be at work. She understands a great deal about darkness. Honestly, she can probably do quite well on her own. Start with the closest, and the most helpless. You'll save who you can, but there's one who must come first. And you can barely hear, for the screaming. They shed a feeble, feeble light for moments only.
#FALLEN LONDON DESTINIES SKIN#
On the skin of the Bazaar, faint traces of fire fitfully shudder and crawl. Candles, gas-lamps, oil-flares – the false-stars of the roof, the fungus-glimmers of the marshes. All at once, when the Device was set in motion. You touch your forehead: your fingertip comes away dark. He goes out the way he came in, hurriedly. He lays a finger on your forehead. "You'll dream of it at Hallowmas. He has not washed lately: his single eye is terribly bloodshot: his breath reeks of spirits. "The Liberation of Night," he hisses.
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"Excise the infection, I thought, but the cure can be worse than the disease." Eyes!" – and that sets him laughing again. You don't know what I'm saying, do you? Perhaps you do. The things I've seen – the trees, the apples" – this with a hollow laugh – "the orchards, one could say. He refuses to say who recommended you: only that you have been recommended. "I've had enough.