Everyone knows how the clock tower sank into the Thames during the Fall - meanwhile, the infamous ale-house named Pineapple had partially collapsed into what had formerly been the Fleet River - indeed, the two seemed to have merged, as Heaven onto Earth after the end times, or the sewers onto Hell right now.

Business had been a struggle for the first few years; however, younger Londoners had noted Pineapple's charming resemblance to a tomb-colonist battling a Zee monster, pinched their noses, and accepted fungal interpretations of ale. Ruins belong to the Raven King, even a mile underground, but he would need to wrest these particular ruins from an unnervingly adaptable proprietor and a horde of damp, drunk journalists.