"It was a necessity brought upon us not only by the demands of our Art, but by Society's refusal to appreciate what must be done in its pursuit. But even without customers, they thrived: The advances we've made in the tobacconist's art are unrivalled. And while that is thanks to my own genius and creative passion."
Rosegate is located under the beautiful Reef of Roses, and consists of little more than a shop with a zubmarine dock. This is home to the finest Tobacconist and his apprentices, where they set out to do magnificent things in the art of cigar making. The Tobacconist is a Surface-born Londoner brought down in the Fall, and 20 years ago set up shop in this remote location. Here he relies on commissions from his patrons (strongly implied to be either the Anarchists or Iron Republic) to stave off starvation and boredom. He recently lost his contracts, but seeks his ultimate work of art, a cigar so good it can stay lit underwater. How far is this man willing to go for the sake of his craft? Expensive acquisitions? Torture? Teaching a blemmigan how to write romantic poetry? Where does the line between art and insanity end in the Neath?