Lore of Yore
Histories of the known universe... and beyond
The Royal Space Docks sprawl across the muddy face of London, a meshwork of girders and supports for the grand spacecraft of the Navy. From here, ships of the Royal Fleet launch into the vast cosmic empire beyond the blue.
Expansion is Britain's byword, and these days all berths are occupied—especially the bay at the end of the dock. That one is occupied more than most. Nobody goes near it. It's a death trap. Haunted. Just plain filthy. The vessel itself must have started life sleek and speedy, a sports yacht of the skies, but time and sheltering vagrants have left it dilapidated and infested. A small hamlet of vagabonds resides on one wing. They say some mad professor built it in a drunken fit. That the craft is as likely to implode as take to the sky. That the good ship will never fly again. There's an allotment in the dorsal turbine. You'd have to be mad, desperate, or deluded beyond measure to approach the ship at the end of the dock. Let alone board it.
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May 2017
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