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| The Bureau of Entertainments | |
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| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 287775 |
The Bureau of Entertainments is a Sunless Skies Story Event.
Story description[]
Oh, how beautiful. Chandeliers dripping with diamonds; gilt-limned cornices of marble, baroque atria so magnificent it could drive one to tears, all leading to a sumptuous little office, its walls painted gold by candle-flame. The Toymaker, who looks like an amber-cast cousin to the Couturier, sits at the desk, mending plush toys. He glances up. "If you're here to assist, you may speak with me."
Trigger conditions[]
Area: Limbo
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions[]
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
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| Speak with the Toymaker
Talk of the cult. Of the state of the port. Of how you can assist the authorities.
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"Reports tell me you were with the cult, but not of the cult." The Toymaker sutures the teddy bear's black-button eye in place. "That sermon caused a fuss –" He spits the word like it was a jag of sharp bone. "– in the Off Season. People are taking risks. People are dying. So very wasteful." Assisting the Bureau of Entertainments(Class)
Bureau officials hover nearby. Assisting the Bureau of Entertainments(HQChat)
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| Offer to help the officials of the Bureau
"Stop the cult for everyone's sake." The Toymaker flutters a hand. "It's aesthetically displeasing and dangerous."
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"It's no good us clamping down. Not now. It'll drive the workers into the Parson's arms." The Toymaker glowers at his needle. He pricks the plush in his hands. Once, twice. Three times for good measure. "Just make them realise that the cult is not the answer. Or, I suppose, you could hamper the cult directly. Up to you."
The Toymaker rings a tiny silver bell. One of the Authorities steps in, uniform bright blue, buttons polished to a mirror-sheen; you can see your face upside-down in their gleam. "Help our guest to the nice exit, will you?" The officer doffs their hat and walks you to an ornate door, its trim comprised of nymph-like figures, limbs salaciously intertwined. Wordlessly, they crowd you forward until you take the hint and make the crossing into the Off Season.
The Off Season
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| Return with news of your triumph
The cult's influence is lessened. The Toymaker will want to hear about this.
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Today, a plush elephant lies disembowelled on his desk, cotton spilling from the wound. The Toymaker appears to be replacing its stuffing with iridescent sea-glass, each cut a perfect glimmering trapezoid.
"Speak," he drawls, his voice castrato-sweet, now replacing the toy's eyes with verdigris-caked coins. So intent is the Toymaker on his labour that he does not look up once, not even when you reach the coda of your exposition. It is only at the end that he speaks again, his tone bored. "Well done, you radiant muck snipe. I'd say you've exceeded my expectations but that'd be lying. I had none."
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| Agree to fly into the Sun
The Toymaker crooks a ring-choked finger at you. "You feel like being useful again?"
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"You're interested in helping? Divine." The Toymaker sets down his plush-patient, his stainless steel tweezers, his needles, and coils of glistening thread.
"London is ignoring our plight. They cannot see the danger the cult presents. How untidy it is. How it draws workers to them till we cannot maintain Worlebury's perfection. I must sort this mess out myself." His frown is sharp. "I once worked with the Dazzled Sequencer. We were as close to friends as colleagues can be. He has workers in the Clockwork Sun. Devices. He must be able to spare something. Go to him. Get help."
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| Tell the Toymaker what the Sequencer said
"Quickly. Tell me. Now."
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The Toymaker is visibly disappointed, his porcelain veneer splitting. Enough to reveal a savagery of rage few would expect from the affluent, but not enough for it to be a disgrace. "I'd expected more. But paupers cannot be picky."
Then, in a moment of inspiration so utterly vivid that it congeals in your pocket, the Toymaker straightens, expression irradiated by glee. "You're expendable. Take the bomb down into the depths of the mists. That's where the Fluke the cult worships resides. Destroy it. If you survive, we can talk about your edification and won't that be lovely?"
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Game note: If you take this choice, you will no longer be able to work with the cult.
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| Descend into the mists. Bomb the cult's god
You have come this far. You might as well follow this story to its grave.
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"I'm afraid we won't be able to offer company." The Toymaker leans back, fingers laced above the base of his breastbone. He is in brocade and raw velvet, the lining of his coat subtly nacreous. "But it is nothing personal. Someone needs to operate the diving device. And I must send people to check in on the health of the Cult."
Distaste rots his expression. "Sadly, I doubt the bomb will be sufficient to kill the Fluke – it is, by all accounts, rather large. But that isn't necessarily a terrible thing. Sepsis has a habit of keeping one busy. Make sure you place the explosive somewhere it will hurt." A pack of officials herd you away from the headquarters, and towards a rickety diving bell, attached to a thick, long chain. Your transport.
Lowered into the Mists
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| Assist the Toymaker with an extermination
The Toymaker clucks. "These cults don't know how to stay dead. We'll need to do something."
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"The poor are such artless creatures, no hope of their own. Bereft of ambition, they cling instead to the idea that there is something bigger than them, some being that can promise them a better world. That Scorn Fluke –" here, the Toymaker allows a sigh to ladder from his lips "– is one such creature. Even now, wounded and writhing, it still draws the desperate to the shore. The cult will never gain full strength again, but we must ensure it remains nothing more than a forlorn residue.
"But don't worry. That's why we have people like you. When you get time, give the Off Season workers something to focus on. If they want us to stop, they can drive the Cult out themselves."
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Advanced query needs investigation Game note: This will, eventually, get you a Ministry-Stamped Permit.
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| Return to Worlebury-juxta-Mare
You abscond from the office and scurry away to the commercial clamour of Worlebury-juxta-Mare.
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Worlebury-juxta-Mare
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Links[]
Links In[]
Worlebury-juxta-Mare, In the Depths, Lowered into the Mists
Links Out[]
Worlebury-juxta-Mare, The Off Season, Lowered into the Mists
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