"A smooth sea does not a skilled sailor make."
I sat on the edge of the wharf, looking out into the blackness. It was quiet around this time of day, not that it was easy to tell what the 'time of day' truly was. It had been over a dozen hours since that flash of green on the horizon announced the new day, but it had been years since anyone in Fallen London had seen the Sun.
I've heard, as we all have, the tales of the Surface. I'm told the Sun is so bright that you can walk through an urban city with no other lights when it is out, but I never believed those stories. Nobody in London ever left their house without a lantern at their side, and street lamps pierced the blackness, but could do nothing to halt the gloom.
So it was that I was fascinated with what else was out there, waiting for me in the cold dark. My father had been a traveler. He had seen everything there was to see, every settlement, forest, and forgotten structure peeking over the waters. He led the romantic life of a captain thirsty for adventure, always coming back with impossible souvenirs from even less possible places.
I stood from the docks, scanning, once again, to see if there had somehow been a ship that had docked without my noticing. I had always wanted to join my father, but both my parents persisted that I was too young to brave the dark, where no lights distinguished from up and down, from sky to water. It was always supposed to be a birthday present from when I turned twelve. My father would take me to see the Salt Lions. From what I was told, they are two basalt statues so large they rival the size of London themselves.