Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - Turn 1 - Welcome to Weatherby!

Do we not, as excellent gentlesentients of standing, have access to lines of credit?

Isn’t it terribly gauche to spend our actual holdings?


Begging your pardon, but the 14% represents Mr. Boulderclaw’s margin in the endeavor. Although it seems counterintuitive at first, it is in fact standard practice for oddsmakers everywhere.

Of sorts - the Bank of Weatherby will automatically extend a loan to any gentlesentient that finds themselves in unexpectedly dire straits. In time and perhaps with greater access to and sway with the financial sector, improved options may allow access to immediate lines of credit for leverage in larger negotiations.

Not at all! The alternative is to trade the sweat of one’s brow for a wage. Having holdings that generate passive income liberates the finer members of society from the toil and misery of a hand-to-mouth existence.


Well then, I shall simply have my manservant place my orders, and accounts shall surely be settled up at a later date. It ill-becomes us to quibble over figures when a gentleman is always good for his debts.


Ah, yes. Thank you. I believe I had the meanings of the final numerator and denominator reversed in my mind. As I have said, no head for bookkeeping whatsoever. My thanks once again for the information. I shall consider my investment based on the information you have so kindly provided.

A good day to you, sir.


So. This is Weatherby. A young man, perhaps about thirty, steps into the sunlight and adjusts the smoked glasses covering his eyes. He is slightly above average height, of a slender build but one that hints at a certain athleticism. He’d expected… he isn’t sure quite what he’d expected, but this isn’t exactly it.

He flags down a paper boy, surreptitiously adding a couple of extra coins to his payment. “Don’t tell your boss,” he murmurs, just loud enough so only the boy can hear him. “Anything good that isn’t in the paper?” The best news never is, after all, but a lad like this hears everything. Paperboys, messengers… no one ever notices them and everybody talks freely as a result.

Scanning the sheet confirms his suspicions. Merely the news that’s fit to print, and not much of it at that. Sounds like a bit of a party he missed, but other than that… One of the smaller items catches his eye, and he smiles slightly, but without a lot of humour. “Interesting.”

First things first, however. He’s supposed to be making money. “There’s that every week, if you keep me up-to-date,” he informs the paperboy. “Bonuses for anything really interesting.” Half the key to beating the other guy is knowing something he doesn’t. Most Citizens wouldn’t think a pretender would know anything of value, but Liv knows that sometimes they’re the only ones that know anything of value. As for the cost… well, everyone knows that you need to spend money if you’re going to make any money. Well, someone said it once, anyway.


Meanwhile at Abacus Racks

"I simply cannot believe this … place … will not recognize a proper title handed down to me by my Father’s bookkeeper. But then I suppose that no one at Leviathan’s was held in any higher regard. But still…

“If I am to regain my proper place among the elite, I shall be forced to fall back on my old Price Watermoose days and see what can be done about that.”

With that, Hieronymoose begins to look through the papers that had been delivered to Abacus Racks in his abscence.

"Hmmm. Weatherby’s Home for Wuthering Wights… what type of school is this? I won’t be giving the undead any of my monies.

"The Moon and Stars. Weatherby’s Source for gossip and intrigue. It would do no good to be part owner ofthe very rag that will be talking about me. No, no, no.

"Oh, an expedition into the unknown. I’ve had my fill of marching and can’t say I’d pay anyone else to do so.

"Import/Export. Tempting. Perhaps I could get Rocco on with them. Hmmm.

“Oh. My. What is this. Real Estate. Father always said they weren’t making anymore of that. Oh yes, Real estate.”

Setting that pile of mail aside, Hieronymoose, looks through another stack of papers.

"Hmm. Lagoderm racing. Oh that takes me back to ol’ Ben Wheat’s. Maybe just a few pounds for ol’ time’s sake. {sigh}

"And if I am to fit in around here, I guess I must purchase some of this season’s accessories.

“Rocco! Rocco! Where is that lad. I must find marry him off to someone before he becomes the Scandal de’Jour”

With that, Hieronymoose once again donned his great coat and hat and proceeded to do the rounds of the other estates.


[a devious lust briefly passes through your body]

{OOC: Request has been made to remove my GIFs due to epilepsy concerns, sorry to those affected!}


Oh dear cousin Hieronymoose it’s so good to see you.
Grandmother told me you would be here and said I must look you up.

You know, us Farnsworths need to stick together.

Which do you think looks better on me the sash or the ring? Or maybe I should get a monocle, does it make me look older and more sophisticated?

Please give me some advise on who I should wager on at the races. at Madame scalopini’s they wouldn’t let us students place any wagers . we were simply brought to the races to work on our etiquette. How boring. And you know father. He never goes to the races. He’s all “I didn’t build this fortune from nothing by gambling.”

I am so excited to be in Weatherby all on my own. Finally spreading my wings. Father sent me here to make sound investments for our family but really it was grandmother who convinced mother to let me come. She said Everyone of any importance would be here. And that I Must come and remind everyone that our side of the famil are Farnsworths as well.



It warms my processor to see so many fresh faces. Certainly you are out taking the airs,

Cmdr Damerl Capstanturnbuckle (@pogo)
Cmdr William T. Piker (@fintastic)
Lady Jane (@penguinchris)
Carcinogennifer Honeyvenom (@Donald_Petersen)
<pleasing hum> (@manwich)
Julius Rothschild Karekin (@David_Falkayn)
Jean-Rhys Witherspoon Wilhelmina Winnifred Rodchaser née Westingham (@MrMonkey)
Eudaemonia Betalinda Ponsonby-Britt (@Nightflyer)

but it is my duty to remind you that 32 hours remain for your decisions to be recorded in the Public Ledger.

fffzt! ptoing!


Dearest Cousin, it has been ages has it not. Please give my regards to GrandMama when next you talk.

Truly, the sash brings out your eyes so nicely, you would be remiss to not purchase that. Don’t take this wrong, but the monocle just does not look right for you.

With regards to the races, I heard Bricklayer was a sure bet, but what does this old Space Moose know about Lagoderm racing, eh?

But do you know who does know something about the races? My young ward, @Rockford_Julius. You have to meet him soon. Devilishly handsome, more rogue than dandy I’d say. I think you’d get on spledidily with him.

So much to attend to, dear cousin, I will see you again soon.


Oh cousin hieronymoose leaving so soon? Where are you going?
Well do come and visit again. Come pick me up next time you are on your way to the club.


(following a deep curtsy) [falsetto] "Oh, Lady Jane! You honor me with your interest. Quid est? Rem haec antiqua? quoth my great-grandmother, but she did have a predilection for simultaneous humblebraggadocio and poorly-conjugated snobbery, and it is well that she was devoured for chronic insufferability some years before I matriculated from Madame Scal… Scallywag… Scalawhatsis… um, school. Er… the dress. Yes, the dress was made by… er, my cousin Ssskidwish. Have you had the pleasure? She’s… oh, bother, where did Ssskiddy get off to? She was just here. Well, never mind, she’ll be back soon, I have no doubt. Bit flighty, that one, but an innocent darling at heart. And quite cunning with needle and thread! Not a bad cook either, now that I think on it. Someday she’ll make someone a very fine mate. First rate, yes indeed.

“Goodness, I’m parched. Shall we nip into the Leviathan for a wee whistle-wetter?”





This is Ensign Crusher. Go ahead Commander


Ensign, How’s your Period Holographic Interchange Formatter holding up?


Commander, my .HIF seems to be doing fine. Most sentients whom I’ve met, which hasn’t been many, appear to accept my appearance as a space-human from the Federation. There’s only one so far that seems to have a taste for sandfish, and he’s making me a bit skittish.


Very well, Ensign. My formatter has been experiencing intermittant fluctuations, so be alert to the potential for .HIFsy-fits on your end.

Per Captain’s orders, I’m going to investigate whether there’s immoral trading of sentient sandfish. I think the most likely avenue is to explore the import/export traders. If there’s fish trafficking aboot, we should find clues there.




I must say the delights of the city are innumerable, yes?

Cmdr Damerl Capstanturnbuckle (@pogo)
Julius Rothschild Karekin (@David_Falkayn)
Jean-Rhys Witherspoon Wilhelmina Winnifred Rodchaser née Westingham (@MrMonkey)
Eudaemonia Betalinda Ponsonby-Britt (@Nightflyer)

Yet I must inform you that only 6 hours remain for your intentions to be recorded in the Public Ledger.



When I first arrived in Weatherby, I kept my eyes open. I looked for anything in the landscape that seemed to hint at some elaborate meaning beyond appearances.

Late that night I stood at a third-storey window of my spartan apartment in town. I looked past the regular pattern of streetlights towards the dark country beyond. A breeze came in warm gusts from the north. I leaned into the surges of air that rose up from the nearest miles of undeveloped land. I composed my face to register a variety of powerful emotions. And I whispered words that might have served a character in a film at the moment when she realised she had found where she belonged.