There are those who have returned. Frightened at first, they once huddled in the shadows, fearing the Gentry, fearing the world around them, and fearing themselves. And still they do, but perhaps not as much. In time, they found one another, and having realized that the journey home was too daunting to take alone, many decided to band together. They built. They created. And indeed they learned.
London’s Lost learned quickly that to survive, they would have to find a place to call their own. The city many had once called home in another life was no longer worthy of such a name, and so a new home had to be found. In the shadows they built. On the rooftops and the sewers, in the cracks between buildings and upon the sides of buttresses just out of the sight of mundane eye—and in truth anywhere they could crawl or perch or hide in plain sight, here they built. Until at last they had their own city. It was a place constructed in the empty spaces overlooked by the first, hidden, but just barely from the others and from, as some dared to dream, from the Others. And it was here, in this city within a city—a majestically paradoxical place that ought not to exist at all, here at last some found a home. And it came to be known by many by a single name—one that did not express it’s true nature accurately, and perhaps this was intentional. They called it The London Below.
And through whatever happenstance, this is the place you’ve now found yourself. To thrive, or to live in squalor, to live or to perish, to remain content with your lot or to choose to listen to the terrifying whisperings of rebellion against the Gentry that float through the streets as of late. These are the choices you must make. Choose well, and welcome.