Gramarye & Regret
Inside every train is a heart of potential fire and fury, burning and hoping that some day, some where, the millions of kilojoules of coal energy, electrical current and locomotive muscle may one day speed across the landscape and crash like a storm against its rival trains, piling up into a tower of destruction that ends the long, stubborn life of the labouring trains for good.
And so this place has come to pass, a graveyard of mangled machinery and lost industrial wreckage: Trainwreck Falls, piles of rusty trains and rotten carriage compartments stacked one atop another into a tower that descends into the pits of Night’s Bridge itself, or so they say. The carcasses of these great lumbering beasts fit a cricket stadium, each compressing the one beneath it into unrecognizable shapes. It is said the spirits of old railroad magnates haunt the carriages, trying to figure out what went wrong. Or perhaps the trains are deserted, filled only with lost changelings or grim nockers or clever gnomes, tick-tocking away at their work fixing these black stallions of the Steam Age, refining them back into a serviceable means of transport so that all of London Below may once again enjoy the luxury and comfort of travel by rail.