Purloiner of herbs, light-fingered around clocks, somewhat lacking a soul at present.
 
Free from surface ties; free to forge new ones in the Neath.
 
fallenlondon.com

A cool night breeze, moths flitting around the paper lanterns, and eavesdropping from behind your fan. High society soirees at their finest!

For when you simply can't be having your afternoon tea interrupted by ravening hordes of undead.

It's clear sailing ahead—well, apart from those pesky air-kraken. But that's covered in the small print on the back of your ticket!