A Stranger in Fallen London.

A framed moment of the early days, when all was wondrous and new:

It was drizzling lightly when he passed through the Fifth City's gates.

(Readers should note that the pronoun 'he' is employed merely for the sake of convenience. Using 'it' with reference to non-tentacled persons is often regarded as crass and uncouth in polite society.)

So;

What passed for dusk in the Neath had fallen, though the denizens rarely kept to a common schedule. A fine mist had risen above the ground like mushrooms in the night; silent and unnoticed. The individual at the gates tilted his head - surveying, and considering. The only sign of his satisfaction was in a slight narrowing of his glowing amber eyes.

Yes. What better way to begin, than in anonymity? And what better place for secrets and mysteries, than in the Echo Bazaar? Deep. Dark. Different from the Surface inasmuch as could be perceived.

It was Marvellously Perfect in every way.

The Stranger within my gate,/ He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk--/ I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

-Rudyard Kipling, "The Stranger"

Reminiscently,

and remaining Yours Always,

 
La Cravate.