Wapping

Nestled along the north bank of the River Thames, Wapping in 1893 is a district steeped in salt, soot, and silent secrets. Once a marshland, now a maze of narrow alleys and creaking wharves, Wapping is a place where the scent of the river never quite fades — nor does the memory of the men it has claimed.

The docks remain the lifeblood of the area. Cargo from every corner of the Empire is hauled ashore daily: tea, tobacco, rum, and silk pass through calloused hands and vanish into warehouses guarded by more rats than men. The once-bustling London Docks, though still active, now cast longer shadows — their prosperity threatened by newer, larger ports downstream. Dockers line the taverns at dusk, their pockets light, their tempers shorter.

Life here is rough. Housing is cramped and damp, and the line between sailor, smuggler, and dock thief is often no thicker than a fogbank. The Metropolitan Police patrol Wapping's cobbled streets with caution; locals trust their own code more than the law’s reach.

Yet amidst the grime, Wapping harbours a certain stubborn pride. Its churches still ring out on Sundays, children still dare each other to race along the riverwall, and the pubs — like The Prospect of Whitby and The Town of Ramsgate — remain alive with tales, tall and true. Ghost stories flourish here, as do whispered rumours of bodies in the water and "things best left undisturbed" in the cellars beneath the warehouses.

By 1893, the old execution dock at Wapping Stairs has been silent for decades, but the iron hook where pirates once dangled still rusts in place — a grim reminder that justice, here, was never far from the river's pull.

Wapping stands as it always has: soaked in brine and shadow, stubbornly clinging to life between the tides.