meteordust (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
meteordust) wrote2023-10-20 11:37 am
meteordust) wrote2023-10-20 11:37 am
Entry tags:
Making a garden is an act of hope
Just like Yuletide is the highlight of my fandom year, Estival has become the highlight of my Fallen London calendar.
It takes place in the northern hemisphere summer, and unlike the other annual festivals in the game, Estival is a unique story every year. Following Mr Chimes' Grand Clearing-Out in 2021 and F.F. Gebrandt's Prelapsarian Exhibition in 2022, the event for 2023 was the London Horticultural Show. As the official promo said:
Participate in 'flower' arranging. Join the masses competing for the coveted title of 'Best in Show' – or the even more coveted 'Largest Mushroom'. Cultivate unusual greenery (well, brownery) and contribute to the beautification of London in a horticultural event with a Neathy twist.
Growing plants for exhibition and competition! What a lovely thought. Surely this isn't the innocent beginning of a disaster movie.
I originally meant to do a giant post with a detailed recap of all the exciting twists and turns. But it's been nearly three months now, and I've put it off long enough, so here's the highlights version.
Timeline of events (on the wiki)
Promo post 1 (with the "before" poster)
Promo post 2 (with the "after" poster)
Playing with expectations
By the third time, the playerbase kind of knows what to expect. The first stage of the event is pretty chill, with an interesting new activity, where individual actions contribute towards a community goal. The next stage is unlocked once the community fills the progress bar to 100%, which is when the sudden twist happens and Shit Gets Real. Subsequent stages feature London in peril, a scavenger hunt for solutions, and eventually an epic finale.
By the third time, the baseline has been established. So it's also a great time to surprise people.
The official opening ceremony was scheduled for the day after the event started. Most players were pleasantly engaged in growing their plants, trying to produce at least one of each, and speculating when the advanced plants would become available. There was a long list of options yet to be unlocked, and the progress bar was a long way from being filled.
So that was when the giant stalactite fell from the sky, smashing the glasshouse to smithereens, and pouring out a horde of rampaging Starved Men. These are mysterious shapeshifters who normally live in the roof of the Neath. They seemed to be on a mission to reshape the streets and buildings of London, and killing anyone who stands in their way.
Guess I won't get to grow that Cautionary Orchid after all.
Two other ways the game subverted expectations:
* When the stalactite falls, you have two options, "Yield (There is no time.)" or "Endure (Stand strong against the stone.)" "Yield" gives you a whole lot of Wounds. "Endure" has the button greyed out, indicating that you don't have the attributes required to unlock that option. The hover text is "No." and "Not even you."
* After the stalactite falls, you have the option to appeal to the various powers for help (eg the Masters, the Empress, etc). Each power has its own progress bar, showing how many times people have appealed to them. Even before the progress bars are filled, some of them become greyed out, with the hover text saying "They are not coming."
Favourite moments
* Communicating with the Starved Lithologer, who reveals that there are two factions of the Starved Men: one that is trying to reshape London to save it from the next Fall, and one that is planning to destroy London by exposing it to the burning light of the Sun. The need to stop this existential threat, but also the hope of building bridges in the future.
* Airships! Yes, at last! I flew reconnaisance missions with all three types:
- Sparrow-class - The Lost Rembrandt
- Obliterator-class - The Encaved Arcadia
- Vigilant-class - Third Time Lucky
But I love speed above power (my zailing ship is a Swift Zee-Clipper), so my favourite was the Sparrow-class, and the one I took into the final battle.
* "All flights are recalled." The massed Air Fleet embarking on that last desperate mission. The Masters finally coming out to join the fight. The huge oculus preparing to focus deadly sunlight on the city. And at the last, ramming my airship into the oculus.
* The new garden on the former site of the Horticultural Show.
* Visiting the final resting place of my airship.
Favourite scenes
I think I've been at this type of meeting before.
Unsolicited commentary
The arts of the Starved Men embrace the visceral and the organic. Perhaps they are tunnelling towards the Surface, scooping deposits of fat out of the earth, rather than rock. Perhaps a Starved Man has sacrificed himself to act as a channel, stretched taut over a great rift in the ceiling. Perhaps they have concocted some new organ that can absorb—
"Do you in fact," the Commodore interrupts, "have a question?"
No, you are forced to concede, you do not. As you sit back down, a devil from the row in front cranes back. "I think they have a colossal beetle whose carapace is polished to refract and spread sunlight."
*
Ahhhh! The space bats are back, baby!
Intercession
You see the effect they have on the dockers and soldiers first – a sudden and unthinking parting, similar to how pedestrians might dodge the spokes of a horse-drawn carriage. Then the towering, hunched shapes of Masters – three of them – stalk into view.
Some of the Admiralty zailors snap to attention. Some of the flight captains jump to their feet, sending makeshift chairs tumbling across the airfield. Nobody seems certain of the correct degree of obeisance. The Overworked Commodore, visibly sweating, settles for clasping his hands behind his back, his spine ramrod straight.
"A commendable ornithargosy." Mr Pages gestures towards the fleet. The Commodore has not yet exhaled. "We understand you tried to reach us. We had a more pressurential item on our agenda, but have elected to disfer it in light of these events. We have since established that it would be deletrimental were this venture to fail."
Beside its fellows, the ember eyes of Mr Fires sweep across London, its wreckages and conflagrations. Its high voice is curt and impatient. "In short. We shall assist."
*
An awkward question:
Plan of Attack
Ripples of relief travel through the crowd. The Commodore, realising that he is not, in fact, in trouble with the de facto rulers of London, sags a little. "Right, well. Yes. Jolly good show, what? Delighted to have you." A thought occurs to him. He fixes his eyes on a point six inches above and to the left of Mr Pages' eyeline. "Will you... er. Will you require a ship, or do you intend to..."
The Commodore's ironclad composure, so thoroughly tested over the last few days, fails him beneath the searchlight glare of Mr Fires. Any alternative method of flight he may have been considering withers in his mouth.
There is a flutter, and the silent Mr Iron produces a pen and cardstock from within its cloak. It scrawls a reply. 'INDUSTRY SHALL BEAR US.' A talon flicks out to indicate Fires' personal airship, moored a little away from the others, screened by a cordon of neddy men who eye the ground crews with suspicion.
*
Seeing them in action is pretty terrifying. It makes you remember that they are kin to the Vake.
This Wild Highness
Three dark shapes plummet from the bottom of Industry. Is it dropping ballast? No.
The first of the shapes spreads vast, membranous wings, and the plummet turns into a glide, a bank and rise and an impossible curve. Claws gut the first Starved Man before it has seen the creature coming. The other two shapes unfurl, and the heights are quickly awash in blood.
*
My airship, my beautiful airship. Together for such a short time, but you were faithful till the end.
Final rest
"Here," says the Bosun, her smile aflame.
The Wastes are littered with bones – bones of wood and steel. The bones of airships. Ruined gas envelopes drape the landscape like discarded skins. Perhaps one hull in a dozen has any semblance of completeness. Many fell here, during the battle. Others – those too damaged to be refitted for zailing or commandeered by Mr Fires – were dragged here by the Admiralty. To rot. To rest.
"It took us a while to find her," she says. "But we knew she'd be here."
And here she is – the Lost Rembrandt, her prow gone, the rest of her blackened and scorched. Her aft is nearly intact. You could stand on the bridge, if the boards could bear your weight for one moment more.
The crew stand with you in silence for a while. You know where to find her now. She will be here, at her peace. She has earned it.
Favourite lines
Singing to your plant, to make it grow better:
It seems a little more healthy. Maybe a little taller, even. Is that... movement? Is its stalk turning towards you? Perhaps it wants to be closer, to hear you more clearly. Or perhaps it's angry. Maybe that's enough singing.
When the stalactite falls:
Get to cover. It's imprudent to stand near glass houses when stones start being thrown.
A heartbreaking thing retrieved from the ruins:
Permanently Ruined Cautionary Orchid
A crushed flower. Something that could never be.
Seeking allies among the pirates:
You do not say 'wouldn't it be awful if a big rock fell onto the people who make the things you steal.' You do not need to.
Assembling all the allies you've recruited:
Call to Arms: Docks
The docks are empty of dockhands – they're all here, with you.
Call to Arms: Gaider's Mourn
You have enticed as many pirates as possible to your cause.
Call to Arms: Godfall
The monks of Godfall have spared what forces they can.
Call to Arms: Hell
Hell is empty, and all of your allies are here.
Call to Arms: Khanate
There is no time to wait for additional Khaganian forces.
Call to Arms: Polythreme
Polythreme can spare no further forces.
Contributions to the Fleet
The time for preparations is over.
Flying with the Air Fleet on that last mission:
The Roof above is black and empty. There are no false-stars to navigate by tonight. If you are lucky – if the fleet breaks through and achieves its mission – London will not have to confront a light worse than any darkness.
The Fallen London version of the proverb:
The Dark before a Long-Averted Dawn
Snippets from the final confrontation:
The vast, pendulous eye turns its gaze towards London.
No cannon could bring this creation down.
This was the only move left.
In the afterlife (don't worry, you get better):
The Boatman surveys his passengers slowly. "London's destined end has yet to arrive." It is unclear whether this is intended as comfort. The Boat drifts on into the darkness.
In the aftermath (and somehow, a garden):
Amid the bedraggled-but-proud displays of flora, a nascent garden has emerged. No one decision was made. No one declared it should be what it is. Londoners just started planting.
The Overworked Commodore takes a leave of absence and an interest in gardening:
"We did what we could with what we had. That'll have to do."
The memorial garden:
There is no sign. No one has ordained that this garden should be so. It is not even sanctioned by the London Horticultural Society; they are conducting their own attempts to assert normality. There is a wide disparity in horti- and fungicultural knowledge on show – some of these plants may well strangle and kill each other before the season is out. But the garden is not there to be beautiful.
A second chance:
You take your Cautionary Orchid – lifted from the wreckage of the glasshouse and the fallen stalactite – and plant its roots deep in the earth. Will it grow again? Prosper? Unlikely. But that is not the point. The point is to give it what chance you can.
The Horticultural Show, take two:
But whichever plants could be salvaged (or photographs of plants; or verifiable eyewitness reports of plants) have been recovered. Judgement must be exercised upon them. Life must carry on.
It takes place in the northern hemisphere summer, and unlike the other annual festivals in the game, Estival is a unique story every year. Following Mr Chimes' Grand Clearing-Out in 2021 and F.F. Gebrandt's Prelapsarian Exhibition in 2022, the event for 2023 was the London Horticultural Show. As the official promo said:
Participate in 'flower' arranging. Join the masses competing for the coveted title of 'Best in Show' – or the even more coveted 'Largest Mushroom'. Cultivate unusual greenery (well, brownery) and contribute to the beautification of London in a horticultural event with a Neathy twist.
Growing plants for exhibition and competition! What a lovely thought. Surely this isn't the innocent beginning of a disaster movie.
I originally meant to do a giant post with a detailed recap of all the exciting twists and turns. But it's been nearly three months now, and I've put it off long enough, so here's the highlights version.
Timeline of events (on the wiki)
Promo post 1 (with the "before" poster)
Promo post 2 (with the "after" poster)
Playing with expectations
By the third time, the playerbase kind of knows what to expect. The first stage of the event is pretty chill, with an interesting new activity, where individual actions contribute towards a community goal. The next stage is unlocked once the community fills the progress bar to 100%, which is when the sudden twist happens and Shit Gets Real. Subsequent stages feature London in peril, a scavenger hunt for solutions, and eventually an epic finale.
By the third time, the baseline has been established. So it's also a great time to surprise people.
The official opening ceremony was scheduled for the day after the event started. Most players were pleasantly engaged in growing their plants, trying to produce at least one of each, and speculating when the advanced plants would become available. There was a long list of options yet to be unlocked, and the progress bar was a long way from being filled.
So that was when the giant stalactite fell from the sky, smashing the glasshouse to smithereens, and pouring out a horde of rampaging Starved Men. These are mysterious shapeshifters who normally live in the roof of the Neath. They seemed to be on a mission to reshape the streets and buildings of London, and killing anyone who stands in their way.
Guess I won't get to grow that Cautionary Orchid after all.
Two other ways the game subverted expectations:
* When the stalactite falls, you have two options, "Yield (There is no time.)" or "Endure (Stand strong against the stone.)" "Yield" gives you a whole lot of Wounds. "Endure" has the button greyed out, indicating that you don't have the attributes required to unlock that option. The hover text is "No." and "Not even you."
* After the stalactite falls, you have the option to appeal to the various powers for help (eg the Masters, the Empress, etc). Each power has its own progress bar, showing how many times people have appealed to them. Even before the progress bars are filled, some of them become greyed out, with the hover text saying "They are not coming."
Favourite moments
* Communicating with the Starved Lithologer, who reveals that there are two factions of the Starved Men: one that is trying to reshape London to save it from the next Fall, and one that is planning to destroy London by exposing it to the burning light of the Sun. The need to stop this existential threat, but also the hope of building bridges in the future.
* Airships! Yes, at last! I flew reconnaisance missions with all three types:
- Sparrow-class - The Lost Rembrandt
- Obliterator-class - The Encaved Arcadia
- Vigilant-class - Third Time Lucky
But I love speed above power (my zailing ship is a Swift Zee-Clipper), so my favourite was the Sparrow-class, and the one I took into the final battle.
* "All flights are recalled." The massed Air Fleet embarking on that last desperate mission. The Masters finally coming out to join the fight. The huge oculus preparing to focus deadly sunlight on the city. And at the last, ramming my airship into the oculus.
* The new garden on the former site of the Horticultural Show.
* Visiting the final resting place of my airship.
Favourite scenes
I think I've been at this type of meeting before.
Unsolicited commentary
The arts of the Starved Men embrace the visceral and the organic. Perhaps they are tunnelling towards the Surface, scooping deposits of fat out of the earth, rather than rock. Perhaps a Starved Man has sacrificed himself to act as a channel, stretched taut over a great rift in the ceiling. Perhaps they have concocted some new organ that can absorb—
"Do you in fact," the Commodore interrupts, "have a question?"
No, you are forced to concede, you do not. As you sit back down, a devil from the row in front cranes back. "I think they have a colossal beetle whose carapace is polished to refract and spread sunlight."
Ahhhh! The space bats are back, baby!
Intercession
You see the effect they have on the dockers and soldiers first – a sudden and unthinking parting, similar to how pedestrians might dodge the spokes of a horse-drawn carriage. Then the towering, hunched shapes of Masters – three of them – stalk into view.
Some of the Admiralty zailors snap to attention. Some of the flight captains jump to their feet, sending makeshift chairs tumbling across the airfield. Nobody seems certain of the correct degree of obeisance. The Overworked Commodore, visibly sweating, settles for clasping his hands behind his back, his spine ramrod straight.
"A commendable ornithargosy." Mr Pages gestures towards the fleet. The Commodore has not yet exhaled. "We understand you tried to reach us. We had a more pressurential item on our agenda, but have elected to disfer it in light of these events. We have since established that it would be deletrimental were this venture to fail."
Beside its fellows, the ember eyes of Mr Fires sweep across London, its wreckages and conflagrations. Its high voice is curt and impatient. "In short. We shall assist."
An awkward question:
Plan of Attack
Ripples of relief travel through the crowd. The Commodore, realising that he is not, in fact, in trouble with the de facto rulers of London, sags a little. "Right, well. Yes. Jolly good show, what? Delighted to have you." A thought occurs to him. He fixes his eyes on a point six inches above and to the left of Mr Pages' eyeline. "Will you... er. Will you require a ship, or do you intend to..."
The Commodore's ironclad composure, so thoroughly tested over the last few days, fails him beneath the searchlight glare of Mr Fires. Any alternative method of flight he may have been considering withers in his mouth.
There is a flutter, and the silent Mr Iron produces a pen and cardstock from within its cloak. It scrawls a reply. 'INDUSTRY SHALL BEAR US.' A talon flicks out to indicate Fires' personal airship, moored a little away from the others, screened by a cordon of neddy men who eye the ground crews with suspicion.
Seeing them in action is pretty terrifying. It makes you remember that they are kin to the Vake.
This Wild Highness
Three dark shapes plummet from the bottom of Industry. Is it dropping ballast? No.
The first of the shapes spreads vast, membranous wings, and the plummet turns into a glide, a bank and rise and an impossible curve. Claws gut the first Starved Man before it has seen the creature coming. The other two shapes unfurl, and the heights are quickly awash in blood.
My airship, my beautiful airship. Together for such a short time, but you were faithful till the end.
Final rest
"Here," says the Bosun, her smile aflame.
The Wastes are littered with bones – bones of wood and steel. The bones of airships. Ruined gas envelopes drape the landscape like discarded skins. Perhaps one hull in a dozen has any semblance of completeness. Many fell here, during the battle. Others – those too damaged to be refitted for zailing or commandeered by Mr Fires – were dragged here by the Admiralty. To rot. To rest.
"It took us a while to find her," she says. "But we knew she'd be here."
And here she is – the Lost Rembrandt, her prow gone, the rest of her blackened and scorched. Her aft is nearly intact. You could stand on the bridge, if the boards could bear your weight for one moment more.
The crew stand with you in silence for a while. You know where to find her now. She will be here, at her peace. She has earned it.
Favourite lines
Singing to your plant, to make it grow better:
It seems a little more healthy. Maybe a little taller, even. Is that... movement? Is its stalk turning towards you? Perhaps it wants to be closer, to hear you more clearly. Or perhaps it's angry. Maybe that's enough singing.
When the stalactite falls:
Get to cover. It's imprudent to stand near glass houses when stones start being thrown.
A heartbreaking thing retrieved from the ruins:
Permanently Ruined Cautionary Orchid
A crushed flower. Something that could never be.
Seeking allies among the pirates:
You do not say 'wouldn't it be awful if a big rock fell onto the people who make the things you steal.' You do not need to.
Assembling all the allies you've recruited:
Call to Arms: Docks
The docks are empty of dockhands – they're all here, with you.
Call to Arms: Gaider's Mourn
You have enticed as many pirates as possible to your cause.
Call to Arms: Godfall
The monks of Godfall have spared what forces they can.
Call to Arms: Hell
Hell is empty, and all of your allies are here.
Call to Arms: Khanate
There is no time to wait for additional Khaganian forces.
Call to Arms: Polythreme
Polythreme can spare no further forces.
Contributions to the Fleet
The time for preparations is over.
Flying with the Air Fleet on that last mission:
The Roof above is black and empty. There are no false-stars to navigate by tonight. If you are lucky – if the fleet breaks through and achieves its mission – London will not have to confront a light worse than any darkness.
The Fallen London version of the proverb:
The Dark before a Long-Averted Dawn
Snippets from the final confrontation:
The vast, pendulous eye turns its gaze towards London.
No cannon could bring this creation down.
This was the only move left.
In the afterlife (don't worry, you get better):
The Boatman surveys his passengers slowly. "London's destined end has yet to arrive." It is unclear whether this is intended as comfort. The Boat drifts on into the darkness.
In the aftermath (and somehow, a garden):
Amid the bedraggled-but-proud displays of flora, a nascent garden has emerged. No one decision was made. No one declared it should be what it is. Londoners just started planting.
The Overworked Commodore takes a leave of absence and an interest in gardening:
"We did what we could with what we had. That'll have to do."
The memorial garden:
There is no sign. No one has ordained that this garden should be so. It is not even sanctioned by the London Horticultural Society; they are conducting their own attempts to assert normality. There is a wide disparity in horti- and fungicultural knowledge on show – some of these plants may well strangle and kill each other before the season is out. But the garden is not there to be beautiful.
A second chance:
You take your Cautionary Orchid – lifted from the wreckage of the glasshouse and the fallen stalactite – and plant its roots deep in the earth. Will it grow again? Prosper? Unlikely. But that is not the point. The point is to give it what chance you can.
The Horticultural Show, take two:
But whichever plants could be salvaged (or photographs of plants; or verifiable eyewitness reports of plants) have been recovered. Judgement must be exercised upon them. Life must carry on.