
It would be an error to think of Fallendrift as remarkable at first glance. The city presents the expected features of a thriving port and seat of commerce: warehouses stacked to their rafters, thoroughfares clogged with wagons, clerks bent over ledgers by the light of oil lamps. The visitor may remark upon the soot that settles on every sill, or the damp fog that creeps in from the river, but these, too, are only the marks of industry.
Beneath this familiar exterior, however, lies another truth. Drawn across the city is what those few who know of it have named the Caul—a curious shroud that clouds recollection and obscures sight. It is the Caul that persuades the citizen that the pale figure in the stairwell was only a trick of smoke, that the whisper at his ear no more than the settling of timbers, that the stain upon the cobbles came from iron, not blood. In this way, life proceeds, and the multitude remain secure in their ignorance.
There are, however, those with The Sight, those for whom the Caul falters. Such persons are condemned to witness Fallendrift as it truly is: to hear the muttering of shades in empty parlours, to perceive the hand of secret societies moving unseen through halls of power, to feel the chill presence of relics that cling to their bearers with an almost human will. Whether Anatomist, Spiritualist, Debutante, Undertaker, Inventor, or some other soul marked by ill fortune, you are one of these. What you discern, no one else will believe; what you endure, the city itself will contrive to forget.
