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[maxootb]

[maxootb]

The Refem — Worshippers of the Yellow Maw

~The brakes screamed as he crested the hill, same as always. Nicco winced, tapping the pedal like it made a difference. He should’ve gotten them checked two weeks ago. He wasn’t sure if he was waiting on the city to notice or if part of him liked the way it made an entrance.

Below, the goblins were already gathering — painted yellow, clattering bones, waving T-shirts on sticks like flags from some idiot kingdom. One of them did a somersault into a puddle and screamed praise at the sky. Nicco sighed.

He pulled the lever. The back hatch rattled open, and the trash rolled out in a sloppy avalanche of expired pasta, soft cans, and damp cardboard. The goblins screamed again — joy this time — and threw themselves at the pile like it was treasure.

Nicco leaned back in the seat. Lit a cigarette. Window down, elbow out. Didn’t make eye contact.

He didn’t understand it. Never had. They called the truck “the Yellow Maw” now. Made little idols out of car parts and greasy chicken bones. Said it fed them. Said it blessed them.

And he was the guy who brought the blessings, apparently.

He honked the horn once, out of habit. The goblins dropped to their knees like it meant something. Like it meant anything.

Nicco exhaled, watched the smoke drift.

It was a job. That’s all. He hauled trash. He didn’t run a religion.

He shifted into gear and rolled back down the hill, engine coughing, goblins dancing in the rearview like sparks off a fire.

Tomorrow, he’d do it again.

—

The Refem are the ones you actually see around the city.

They're the best-fed — and not coincidentally, the most docile.

Since they’re "provided for" at a basic level — fed from the curated garbage dumps outside the west wall — they don’t have much reason to stir up real trouble.

They loiter, they dig, they hawk weird little trinkets to tourists.

Mostly, they keep cool, mind their business, and stay out of anything sharp enough to cut back.

But that's just the surface.

Underneath, the Refem have changed.

They’ve found faith — in a yellow, rusting dump truck.

They worship it like a god.

They call it the Yellow Maw — the great, grumbling mouth that feeds them.

And what's got everyone chuffed is: they're getting spells from it.

Real, no-joke divine magic.

Healing wounds. Blessing food. Little blasts of light.

Nothing earth-shattering — but still enough to make experts scratch their heads and mutter into their coffee.

Your guess is as good as theirs.

I'm just as confused how a bunch of goblin "clerics" banging chicken bone rattles and painting their faces yellow are tapping into anything real.

The Refem have built a whole little culture around it.

They're the only tribe that's stitched together a pigeon language — a half-melted mess of Langgobba, Elysian, and Trade Common — just enough to heckle street vendors or charm scraps off soft-hearted tourists.

Their "holy men" are easy to spot:

Yellow-painted domes (refreshed daily, using industrial paint if they can steal it)

Bleached-out T-shirts

Blue denim cutoff short shorts

Chicken bone necklaces that rattle like a bag of angry crabs when they pray.

Every morning, their leader — some squat, paint-dripping goblin the others call the Yellow Herald — struts out to the west wall and starts the rites.

Arms up, chanting in that broken mess of a language, shaking bones at the horizon.

And right on cue, the Yellow Maw comes rumbling over the hill, hydraulic brakes screaming like a demon choir.

The goblins lose their minds — singing, dancing, throwing scraps in the air in offering.

And then they feast.

Of course, their comfortable little setup has earned them enemies.

The other tribes hate the Refem for it.

And hate, among goblins, is never quiet — or clean.

[maxootb]

The ruins of the colony reeked of death. A thousand voices had been silenced beneath the weight of fallen earth, their bodies crushed, their work undone in an instant. Smoke and dust still clung to the air, and the once-thriving tunnels of their home were now little more than a broken grave.

39 stood at the edge of what had been the nursery, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his antennae limp with grief. In his arms, three small eggs trembled with fragile life. Three. Of the thousands that had once lined the chamber’s walls, cradled in warmth and care, only three remained.

Around him, the last survivors gathered—workers caked in dust and dried nectar, their eyes hollow with loss. Soldiers, their armor cracked, their numbers pitiful. A colony that had stood strong for generations had been brought to ruin in a single act of violence.

By the two-legs.

The ones who walked upright. The ones who built their great wooden hives, who stole the nectar from the bees, who dared to set fire to the tunnels and bury them all alive.

A murmur passed through the gathered crowd, a low and uneasy hum of antennae brushing, mandibles clicking. It was Soldier 600 who finally spoke, stepping forward with slow, deliberate movements.

“We move,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “The two-legs have destroyed us. The colony is dead. But we have a royal egg. We can rebuild.”

Silence.

479, a worker, her shell scarred and scraped, let out a low, keening sound. “Move?” she repeated, her voice thick with something ugly. “You weren’t in the collapse, 600. You don’t know what it was like.”

600’s antennae twitched, but he did not reply.

479 took a shaking step forward, her mandibles grinding together. “Thousands,” she hissed. “Thousands of us. Pressed together. Writhing. Screaming. The weight of the tunnels crushing limbs, tearing wings. I felt them—felt them—ripping, thrashing, drowning in soil and fire.” She trembled. “I heard them crying out for the Queen, for the soldiers, for anyone. But no one came.”

Another worker let out a clicking wail, then another. The air was thick with the sound of mourning, with anger barely held at bay.

600 straightened his posture. “That is why we must move. We have lost, but we have a chance to—”

“Lost?”

The word came from 39.

Slowly, the old one stepped forward, each movement heavy, deliberate. His body bore the scars of a hundred battles, his shell chipped, one leg dragging slightly from an old wound.

“We have not lost,” 39 said, his voice low, steady. “We were attacked. The two-legs did this. They stole our home, our hive, our Queen. They buried our sisters in the dark. They walked away, laughing, thinking us weak.”

His mandibles clicked together in rage, and his grip tightened around the eggs.

“They took everything from us. And now, we take from them.”

The murmurs grew louder, uncertain, but hungry.

“The two-legs drink from golden hives. They take the honey from the hive-builders, the bees. They feast while we starve.” 39’s voice rose. “I say we tear down their hives! I say we spill their blood like they spilled ours! I say we make them suffer as we have suffered!”

The workers let out a shriek of agreement, their bodies tensing, antennae raised high.

600 raised his arms. “This is madness! We don’t have the numbers to—”

“We had the numbers!” snapped another worker. “And where were you? Where were the soldiers when the tunnels collapsed?”

There was a beat of silence.

And then they fell on him.

600 shrieked as the workers swarmed, mandibles tearing, legs kicking, his cries lost beneath the furious roars of his own kin. When they finally pulled away, there was nothing left of him but shattered chitin and the scent of old fear.

The two remaining soldiers tensed, their antennae whipping between the workers and 39. They knew what was coming next.

With a cry, they lunged.

The first soldier struck fast, mandibles snapping toward 39’s throat, but the old one was faster. He twisted, his good leg bracing, and slammed the soldier aside. The workers surged, tackling the second soldier, biting, tearing—devouring.

39 turned to the last soldier, the one who had tried to kill him.

“This is our war now,” 39 said softly.

And then the workers descended.

By the time the dust settled, there were no soldiers left.

In the quiet that followed, 39 looked to the last survivor of the nursery—a nurse with only three legs, her body frail, but her arms still cradling the royal egg.

He stepped forward, lowering the three eggs he had saved into her grasp.

“Stay here,” he said. “Guard them. If we do not return, let the next Queen know what we did.”

The nurse clicked her mandibles softly in understanding.

39 turned back to the workers, to the survivors, to the warriors who had been born from death itself.

“Tonight, we march,” he said. “We take their honey. We take their blood.”

And the swarm screamed.

[maxootb]

The men were anxious. Four days out from the foul stink of the Sickly Mountains, where rot dwarves lived in the belly of the Adamantoise they had murdered. None among them had ever seen this land before. Char Tseren Gan wondered if, like him, they had expected something stranger—something wholly unfamiliar. But while the distant trees bore names they did not know and the plants were unlike anything from home, the green stretched westward as far as the grasslands of Grawn, perhaps even farther.

Once, this land had been called Garden—an empire that grew too vast, stretching beyond its limits until it snapped like a taut bowstring. One half became Rosehold, named for the thorny red flower that pervaded its heartland. The other lay north of Ningen, where the Whulhav people once thrived. Now, all that remained was half of a shattered empire, filled with weak men who worshiped the same god thrice over.

They would break like the others.

"Baghat!" he called.

Baghat rode forward on his chocobo, dismounted with practiced ease, and unwrapped the bundle from his back. His hands were steady, but his eyes flicked toward Char as he held the bow out to him.

Char took it without a word. His focus was on the Jade Arrow in his other hand.

It was simple for something so powerful. A black-lacquered pine shaft, its surface marred by two shallow scrapes—its only two uses, each defining the breadth and width of the empire Temujin Khan had once sworn to claim in his name. A fletching of chocobo wing feathers. A round arrowhead, unassuming, yet sacred.

“My lord… are you sure?” Baghat asked.

There was a tremor in his voice. Was it the land that unsettled him? Or Char himself?

"Speak your mind, Baghat."

The man hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "The Jade Arrow will prove our right to empire under all its arch. We must retrieve it. But… what if they take claim? What if—”

Char had considered it. Of course he had. He had not stolen the arrow without weighing every outcome. Even this moment, he had foreseen. Though he had expected a lieutenant to challenge him, to call his honor into question with steel.

But the Sanshea murmured behind him. No challengers.

His voice cracked like a whip. "Listen."

The murmuring stopped.

"Every last one of you who calls yourself Sanshea, hear me now—hear the words of Char Tseren Gan, true Khan of Grawn!"

A few voices stirred, but none dared speak over him.

"Those who know this truth will march into this land and claim all beneath the arrow’s path—in the name of the Golden Khan, and the Jade Khan above! Those who disagree—” He let the words hang, sharp as a blade. “—should gash open their guts and feed their entrails to the chocobos."

The air went still.

Char let the weight of his words settle before raising the Jade Arrow high.

"It is not a mere man who fires this arrow—it is the decree of something greater. A mandate, to and from the Living Khan, Equal to the Jade Khan. And I will be that man."

His voice rang out, rolling back from the mountains behind them.

"We shall claim all beneath the arc of this arrow. Then we march. We will show the weak men of the west that their guardian mountains mean nothing before the terror of the riders. And when we are done here, we turn north. We will shatter their so-called Grand Unity, this dream of peace that would chain all of Shadoth under one banner.

No.”

He let the word sink in.

"Here, with the firing of this arrow, I extend Grawn to the Sea of the Leaf-Ears, who should have already bowed. We will bury the dwarves in their holes for daring to slay a Living God. And with this bow—"

His thumb wrapped around the grip, his right arm raised as he nocked the arrow.

The yellow fletching brushed against his cheek.

A movement.

Adag.

The fool stepped forward. A challenge.

Char did not falter.

The first light of dawn broke over the mountains, their shadows creeping like golden teeth. He loosed the arrow.

The Jade Arrow screamed into the distance, its light burning across the sky. In the same breath, he drew his Chanee knife, the curved blade flashing as he turned. The motion was smooth, effortless. Adag fell, his belly split open, his life spilling onto the damp earth.

A warning.

As the morning sun rose, Char stood in its glow, bathed in prophecy.

I am Char Tseren Gan, Genghis of Shadoth.

My bird will eat well tonight.

[maxootb]

The Moon Man Cometh

All Kobolds, regardless of region or upbringing, share one universal belief: Kerbus, the Moon Man, waits in the sky.

It is the duty of all Kobolds to make sure the world is prepared for his arrival. They don’t know when he’s coming. They don’t know why he’s coming. But he is coming.

No historian, wizard, or scholar has ever been able to explain how this belief took root. Even the Kobolds know they were created by Tim the Enchanter, a guy who, by the way, kept his dead wife as queen (her name was Helene, and to her credit, when she outlived him, she outlawed necromancy and passed some genuinely progressive reforms).

But regardless of logic, science, or history, if you ask any Kobold about the Moon Man, you will receive the same answer:

He’s coming. We must be ready.

[maxootb]

The Kobolds: Man’s Best Friend, Kingdom’s Best Cannon Fodder

We still know what we are. What we were.

Beasts given just enough reason to hold a sword, charge a battlefield, and—on rare occasions—understand sarcasm.

The Kobolds. The mutts.

Part dog, part goblin, all unbreakable loyalty and questionable impulse control.

Fiercely disciplined. Brutal.

Deadly warriors with years of training.

Focused. Sharp. Tactical.

SQUIRREL!

---

From Bark to Battlefield

The earliest Kobold fossils—which, let’s be real, probably include chew marks on ancient swords—date back 4,000 years.

First seen marching (or enthusiastically scampering) in the armies of Tim the Enchanter, last of the Shadothi Joutans, circa -3500 BA.

Tim, in his wisdom (or boredom), asked himself:

"What if I took a dog, made it stand up, and gave it a spear?"

And thus, through a combination of unholy magic, horrifying science, and possibly some peanut butter, the first Kobold warpack was born.

Take a dog.

Stand it up.

Make it just self-aware enough to hold a weapon.

Point it at the enemy.

Repeat as needed.

And—against all common sense—it worked.

Kobolds fought with the tenacity of a starved wolf and the boundless enthusiasm of a golden retriever seeing you hold a leash. Their enemies were left with one overwhelming thought:

"Are they terrifying? Or do I want to give them belly rubs?"

---

What Is a Kobold, Exactly?

Imagine if someone took every breed of dog—from mighty warhounds to yappy little ankle-biters—and mashed them together with the survival instincts of a goblin and the loyalty of a knight.

Now imagine they were really, really excited to charge into battle.

That’s a Kobold.

Their breeds vary—some look like sleek wolfmen, others like angry chihuahuas standing on two legs and demanding vengeance. Regardless of appearance, they share three things in common:

1. They are loyal to a fault. Seriously, if they ever betray a master, they will literally smash their own heads against a rock until they forget it happened.

2. They are single-minded in battle. Once pointed at an enemy, they will not stop until victory is won… or their attention is stolen by something more exciting.

3. They are weirdly good at paperwork. No one knows why.

For centuries, Kobolds were treated as vermin. They didn’t come from the Army of Light, so obviously, they had to be evil, right? Never mind that they were just doing their job. Never mind that they didn’t choose their overlords. Never mind that some of them just wanted to play fetch instead of storming castles.

---

A New Lease on Life (And Land)

Eventually, people wised up.

They realized that a Kobold’s true strength wasn’t just in battle—it was in absolute, undying devotion.

You get a Kobold in your corner? They are there for life.

They were there when you first doodled your banners on parchment.

They were there when you needed a warrior to watch your back.

They were there when you wanted a friend but were too emotionally unavailable to admit it.

And they don’t need much.

Just a patch of land.

A fair shot at life.

Maybe a chew toy.

---

The Modern Kobold

Nowadays, Kobolds aren’t just warriors—they’re citizens.

They live in packs and tribes, bound by ancient oaths to whoever signed the original deal with their ancestors. A lord, a council, a merchant with surprisingly good treats—whoever earned their trust first.

Of course, some lessons have been learned.

There are strict laws banning the creation and exploitation of new Kobolds—because, shockingly, turning dogs into disposable soldiers was eventually deemed unethical.

But the ones that already exist? They still hold their oaths.

They still stand ready to fight—or, you know, run a bakery.

Because, fun fact? Kobolds are smart.

You give them a sword, they’ll fight for you.

You give them a book, they’ll learn from you.

You give them a chance, and next thing you know, they’re opening the first Kobold-owned law firm (which, frankly, would probably be terrifyingly efficient).

So if you ever find yourself in need of a friend, a warrior, or just someone who will absolutely die for you without question...

Find a Kobold.

They probably already consider you their best friend.

[maxootb]

False Copy

(So named to differentiate from the True Vampire. Those guys are looking to eat your soul. Literally.)

Now these are the ones you’ve heard about. In all their ridiculous variations. The old guy who needs a young, hip mortal to explain modern technology. The Sparkle Boys™. The ones with the ugly mustaches who still insist capes are a good idea. All of them, well-documented side effects of the Mad Wizard Darkkar, a man who took one look at the whole "you drink my soul, you vomit into my torn-open throat" method of becoming a vampire and decided, "No, thank you. I’ll make my own vampires. With blackjack and… well, mostly just vampires."

Darkkar, like all great mad wizards (see: Vulkae the Evaporator, who discovered humans whistle when you boil their insides; and Tim the Enchanter, who invented the holy hand grenade just to one-up Eldritch Blast), was not very good at risk assessment. So, armed with an obscene fortune spent on books about how not to die (and never once realizing the grift), he dabbled in black magic, alchemy, and what we now recognize as "a profound misunderstanding of the food chain." Unsurprisingly, he failed to make his patron, Omar Dragul, into a True Vampire. Instead, he created the first of the False Copies. Probably because Nergle, god of disease and questionable life choices, saw someone messing with his ideas and decided to let it ride.

Dragul Blood

Named after Patient Zero, Lord Omar Dragul of Vulkatch, these vampires come with all the standard weaknesses, now with extra inconvenience:

Running Water? Check. Even a light drizzle gives them an existential crisis.

Silver? Obviously.

Holy Water? Like acid, but with extra self-righteousness.

Garlic? Induces projectile vomiting.

The Sign of the Cross of Zot? (Doesn't matter if Zot is your god or not. Something about geometric shapes and the predator brain.)

Hawthorn Bushes? Turns them into sobbing wrecks.

Lightning? You ever see a vampire get hit by lightning? It’s hilarious.

Sunlight? Day-walkers aside, standard setting is "extra crispy."

Pointy Bits of Wood? Not recommended for casual use, unless you enjoy excessive gore.

Fire? At a primal level, this is their ultimate fear. Turn up your lighter too much and they’ll go flying.

Powers

Strength: At least three average men. Or one adventurer who min-maxed incorrectly.

Durability: Immune to non-magical damage. It’ll take more than a few bullets to slow them down.

Hypnosis: They insist it’s a "subtle art." It’s not. It’s glorified suggestion magic with a 50/50 chance of working.

Control over Ill-Defined Creatures of Evil™: Bats, wolves, and, for reasons no one understands, the occasional ominous goat.

Shapeshifting: Wolves, bats, mist, and on one documented occasion, a very confused badger.

The Curse of the False Copy

Getting bitten isn’t a party. You get one month of a long, drawn-out death as your body shuts down and your soul is slowly fed into the Leviathan—a terrifying storm of potential thought that may or may not exist in the black moon, Pulse. Your soul is rended through, all the good stripped away to power your immortality.

At the end of that month, congratulations! You are now a soulless husk. But not in a cool, brooding way.

This is The Nothing.

The Nothing is an empty, gnawing void where your soul used to be. And the only way to keep it from turning you into an out-of-control murder blender is to feed it. One death a month. Blood helps, but it’s like trying to survive on black coffee and protein bars. Sooner or later, you snap, and someone has to put you down.

If, in that first month, you kill someone, congrats! You’re in it for eternity. Only final death can free you now. Hope you enjoy existential dread!

Variations on a Bad Idea

All False Copies operate under these same basic rules, but with regional variations:

Nosferatu: Twisted by a curse in the Gloomlands. Ugly, hunched, and looking for a hug. They will not get one.

Day Wakers: Somehow able to walk in the sun. They don’t sparkle. They glow. Like, "freshly bleached skeleton in a rave light" glow.

Dunpeal: The spawn of a living being and a False Copy. Not to be confused with the True Blood Dhampir, who at least get better PR.

These are the schemers. The planners. The world domination types. Why? Because they think money, power, sex—literally anything—will fill the void left by The Nothing. But it’s all a waste. The universe doesn’t care. The universe is busy running on a set of rules so ridiculous that somewhere, right now, a Chocobo is outrunning an airship powered by forbidden magic and sheer narrative convenience.

And, in the end, a False Copy Vampire is just another footnote in an already absurd cosmos.

[maxootb]

The Sanshea do not, under any godsdamned circumstances, mess with temples. Ever. Like, you could have a temple to Chthonic Murder Goat Who Eats Babies and the Sanshea would still give it a respectful nod as they rode by.

And there's a reason for that.

See, one time — and I mean one time — a horde of Sanshea made it across the Guardian Mountains into Gardenian lands. Now, normally when they crossed the mountains, it was business as usual: burn villages, steal food, grab some slaves, wave at the locals as they screamed for mercy. Just another Tuesday.

But this time, they came across a temple to Dionysus. You know. God of Wine. God of Parties. The Party God.

And one of the Khans — Batu the Ignorant, I think it was — looks at this temple, sniffs, and says, "This does not align with our beliefs."

So they burn it down. Smash the marble statues. Spill the wine. Cut down the grapevines. Standard "not our god, not our problem" behavior. And then they rode off, very pleased with themselves, thinking they’d just done something real pious.

And Dionysus... oh Dionysus noticed.

See, normally a god like Dionysus doesn’t get involved. You pray to him, he makes sure your wine doesn’t turn to vinegar. Maybe you get a good harvest. Maybe your parties are slightly too wild. Standard divine perks.

But when Dionysus showed up for his nightly nightcap and found his temple smashed to dogshit, his priests red as wine stains in the rubble, and his grapevines turned to ash —

Well. He did not take it well.

The next time the Sanshea tried to throw a party — and the Sanshea love a good banger — it went wrong. Horribly. Meat rotted the second it hit their tongues. Wine turned black in the cup. Bonfires screamed when lit. And the music? It sounded like children crying.

And then it got worse.

Because Dionysus showed up. Not in his divine glory. No grand entrance. He just... walked into the party. Ordinary man. Dark curls. Lazy smile. Cup that never emptied.

And then the bad things happened.

At one wedding, everyone danced until their feet were bone. Another time, all the food started bleeding. Once, the bride drank her own veil and choked to death. And the worst part? There were always survivors. One or two people left just intact enough to tell the story.

And what they said? It got them put away. Like, immediately. Because they’d babble about the man who laughed while the children drowned in wine. Or the eyes in the grapes. Or the song that peeled the skin off their backs.

And Dionysus just kept coming.

Any time they tried to celebrate anything — a victory, a wedding, a baby’s first step — he showed up. Sat in the corner. Watched. Smiled. And then the fun started.

It took a hundred years before the Sanshea could even think about celebrating again. A century of joyless, barren silence. No festivals. No weddings. No victory feasts. Entire bloodlines just grew up grim and cold because nobody dared risk another visit from him.

Eventually, Batu’s grandson — Tegal the Empty — couldn’t take it anymore. He personally led a pilgrimage back to the rubble of Dionysus’ temple. He built a new one. By hand. Stone by stone. Filled it with wine. Made a full sacrifice. And then he cut his own throat on the altar and prayed Dionysus would forgive them.

The next day, the Sanshea threw their first feast in a century. But it never quite felt right. Meat still tastes a little off. Fire always burns a little too hot. And no matter where the Sanshea celebrate, there's always one man — dark curls, lazy smile, full cup — sitting quietly in the corner. If you ignore him, nothing happens. If you talk to him, he smiles and says:

"Dionysus. You remember now, don't you?"

So now? The Sanshea don’t touch temples. Doesn't matter which god. Light, dark, holy, unholy — doesn’t matter. If it’s a temple, they leave it the hell alone. Because no matter how terrifying a war god is? A pissed-off party god is infinitely worse.

[maxootb]

Check out my song made on Suno!

[maxootb]

War is hell. It’s a chorus of violence, blood, and huts burning down while the worst aspects of humanity come out to play. We send our young men off to die for their country, each one promised the chance to become a hero. Except, of course, they don’t. They become cannon fodder. But this is all in the name of duty, right? The tradition of honorable death in battle.

But let’s be clear here: that’s all fine and dandy until you’re the one actively exploding on the front lines. You’ve just been blown to bits. Your legs? They’ve gone on a field trip to the next county over. Your intestines? They’re now a grotesque road map of carnage, spread out in front of you like a horrible modern art piece that even Picasso would reject. You’re dying. You know it. You feel it. Your body is, quite literally, being taken apart by a really bad party trick. You see your death looming, but before you take the final plunge into oblivion, a strange thought crosses your mind: "I’m going out with dignity. At least I had a good run."

And then, just as you’re gearing up to give the greatest death speech of all time, you gurgle. It’s not poetic. It’s more like a lung trying to flex its yoga moves in ways nature never intended. Your breath is a battle between your left lung and liver, and the liver is winning.

That’s when you see it. The angel. Or so you think. It’s all soft light and hope, like some celestial being sent to carry you away. You brace yourself for salvation. Then you blink, and it’s not an angel. Oh, no. It’s much, much worse.

It’s the Terminian Combat Medic.

The angel is wearing a battle dress, and the only thing that’s glowing is the red cross emblazoned on their chest — probably because it’s freshly stained with someone else's guts. This isn’t a compassionate figure in white robes. This is a maniac in a uniform who, instead of offering you comfort, is looking you over like you’re some kind of project.

You’re sprawled out, dying, with your intestines on display like discounted sale items, and this medic rushes up, starts sticking fingers in holes like they’re trying to figure out a complicated jigsaw puzzle. They’re not phased. Not even a little bit. They don’t look at you like a human being. They look at you like they’re examining a chocobo at an auction.

And the worst part? They tell you it’s not that bad. It’s not that bad.

Listen here, buddy, you’re literally in pieces. I don’t even have legs anymore. I’m a human jigsaw puzzle. But they’re casually poking your exposed organs like they’re fixing a broken toaster. They act like you’re the tenth person today to get blown apart in the same way, and it’s only then you realize something: this is their first time. How do you know? Because they’re merrily singing some childish nursery rhyme while stuffing your organs back into the wrong holes.

“The head bone’s connected to the neck bone… the neck bone’s connected to the shoulder bone…”

Yeah. No. Not today, buddy. You're not walking away from this one.

Then the healing magic kicks in. Well, it’s not really "magic" magic. It's more like they took a 100-hour crash course on it, and you’re about to pay the price for their negligence. Your vitals start tanking, but instead of panic, there’s just this manic grin on their face.

And, before you can even say goodbye to your last breath, they look down at you and say, "Nah, you’re not dying today. You’re not gonna be that easy, pal."

You know what's worse than knowing you're gonna die? Knowing you're gonna be forcibly kept alive by a medic who’s up to their wrists in your mangled guts, completely ignoring your screams like they’re background noise to their amateur surgery show. They’re pulling you together like a drunk person trying to assemble IKEA furniture without instructions. Your insides are being pushed back inside you like an unsorted grocery bag, and you realize, with horrifying clarity, that they don’t care. They’ll push your organs around, shove your stomach back into your ribcage, and when you scream in pain, they’ll laugh.

These medics are horrific. And the worst part? They like it. They’re thriving in it. They’re not even going to let you die with dignity. They’re going to take your soul, pin it down with their boot like they’re stopping a runaway pig from escaping the slaughterhouse, and stitch you back together while they curse at you for not cooperating.

“What’s your problem? You’re not dying on my watch, pal. So sit tight while I sew your head back on...”

They don't have bedside manner. There are no beds on a battlefield, just mud and blood and souls caught in the wind. And if it’s a bad mood day for them? Forget about it.

They turn into flesh-hungry goblins, eyes wild, grinning like maniacs as they start knife-fighting death itself for your soul. Death is like, “Look, I’m just trying to do my job here…” and the medic’s like, “Nope. NOT TODAY. THIS ONE'S MINE. YOU GET BACK IN THERE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER.” They’re pulling on your soul like a rope in a tug-of-war with the afterlife, and they’re winning. They’re gonna keep you alive even if they have to wrestle your very essence back into your body.

If you were hoping for comfort or compassion, you might as well have been hoping for a unicorn to drop down from the sky and sprinkle fairy dust on you. That’s how little mercy you’re getting.

And when you finally do die — when they’ve held you soul hostage, stitched your head back on (badly, I might add) and slapped a fresh bandage over the worst of it — you know that when you reach the afterlife, that medic will be waiting. With a grin on their face.

You’ll finally get to rest… but only after they’ve pulled your spirit back into your broken body one more time.

And that’s if you’re lucky. God help you if you’re not.

[maxootb]

The Sasquatch of Maxxax are an ancient and storied people, a mix of tragic backstory and resilience—basically, the original "I'm too old for this" warriors. Created by Wyrm, a primordial being as ancient as the concept of bad decisions, their origin story is as grim as it is epic. Wyrm, tasked with eroding reality and devouring the Dream (sounds like a fun job), created the Sasquatch as his personal wrecking crew. These hulking immortals, who numbered a completely arbitrary "999×1000," were practically invincible—except for the occasional "honorable" death in battle. Their mission? Conquer, spread Wyrm’s influence, and hurry up the whole reality-unraveling thing.

The Turning Point

Enter the Blue Fairy, who—honestly, where was she during all of this?—decided the Sasquatch needed a little more soul-searching and less apocalyptic conquest. She gifted them the ability to dream, and suddenly, these ancient warriors got a whole new perspective. No longer were they just out there doing Wyrm’s dirty work; they were questioning their entire existence, like that one friend who starts going on about the meaning of life after watching a documentary about dolphins.

When Wyrm returned to demand they get back to their world-ending business, the Sasquatch had had enough. They hunted him down in the Dreaming and, in a battle so climactic it could have had its own soundtrack, they killed him. But of course, victory isn’t without its price—half their number went down in flames. The survivors, probably feeling a little over the whole violence thing, tossed their weapons aside and swore off fighting. Nothing says "we're done" like quitting after you've already killed a god.

The Long Struggle

Fast forward a few ages, and the Sasquatch have been through more than their fair share of chaos. They fought eldritch horrors during the Dark Times, survived the Sea of Flames (which was less "vacation spot" and more "living hell"), and witnessed elves arriving to plant the Life Tree—an artifact now cursed, which is probably why it doesn’t get much attention in tourist brochures.

When the East Men—Terminians and Chiss—arrived, the Sasquatch were like, "Hey, let’s talk peace!" and the East Men were like, "Haha, nope!" The Sasquatch got kicked off their land, their history rewritten into something that could have been a corporate-sponsored bedtime story. Oh, and during the corporate wars, the region was bombed so badly, even the map needed therapy. But the Sasquatch? Still standing.

Philosophy and Power

Despite all the nonsense they've endured, the Sasquatch still hold onto their belief that reality and the Dream are like one big cosmic Wi-Fi network. They believe everything is divine (even that one guy who always microwaves fish in the office break room), and that stories have the power to connect the Dreaming to the waking world.

Each of the seven remaining tribes has its own take on the whole "stories rule everything" thing. But here's the kicker: their strength doesn’t come from brute force—oh no, it’s from how many people are talking about them. The more their legends spread, the stronger they get. It’s basically like viral marketing, but with ancient warrior tribes instead of TikTok influencers.

Modern Day

So, fast-forward to the present, and the Sasquatch are down to around 300,000—kind of a far cry from their glory days. They’re scattered across lands ruined by corporate greed and magical messes, clinging to the ruins of their former greatness like that one band that still tours even though no one remembers their hits. But hey, the Sasquatch are still here, still telling their stories, and still trying to make sure they’re not erased by the modern world. After all, the Dream still needs them, even if the world doesn't always remember.

[maxootb]

Progress: A Mega-City Built for Ambition, and Maybe Sinking

Progress is a mega-city on the east coast of Merra, where millions of souls are packed into shoebox apartments stacked up a quarter mile high. The place is drenched in bright neon signs, constantly reminding you that you're in the best country on the planet—and you better prove it by buying domestic. They promise that if you just work hard, smart, and give 1,000 percent, you’ll make it. But you know better. Everyone knows better. You're all just pretending, because if you don’t, you’ll realize how deep you've already sunk. And by then, you’ll get that final gulp of mud as the city pulls you under. Progress... yay!

Originally, Progress was supposed to be the shiny new capital city after the first Over-There was heavily damaged in the last Union War in 395 AA. Construction began in 404, and they kicked things off by removing the local Kroaque tribe and bulldozing their totem sites. Nothing says "future success" like starting with a little cultural erasure! But then, the Great War broke out in 405, and suddenly civil planning wasn’t as important as blowing things up. But hey, at least they had the 4F and felons to build and run everything—because nothing says “well-planned city” like sketchy labor.

By 425 AA, all the investors had backed out faster than a politician dodging a scandal, especially with the Sanshea Conflict heating up. Oh, and don’t forget—by that point, they had already rebuilt Over-There, leaving Progress half-finished and abandoned, except for the greedy and the desperate. Then came the sinking. The whole city sank 12 feet due to sub-par labor and cheaper materials. Apparently, when you skimp on 30-foot support anchors, they get eaten by the Swamp and dissolve before you even hit 30 years old. Progress, indeed, is now slowly sinking into the Bog of Eternal Stench, a fitting final resting place for a city built on bad ideas.

The Ghost Town of Progress

Now, the old city hangs above what should be an abandoned subway (keyword: should). But no, it's not really abandoned. It's full of the abandoned, the destitute, and the people chewed up by a system that was designed to drain money from the working class. You’ll find malfunctioning cyborgs, the sick, the old, and a whole bunch of people who really don’t like cops. And guess what? The cops don’t bother going down there because there’s just too much chaos to deal with. I mean, who has time for that when you're drowning in other shady dealings?

And to replace the sinking mess, they built a monorail system. Because nothing says “sustainable progress” like a train that doesn’t sink... for now.

The Corporate Takeover

By 430 AA, with no wars and no distractions, the Corporations pounced like well-dressed vultures. The main player? Intelligent Consumer Products (ICP)—who came in and privatized everything that was still left. The city’s now a lockbox of corruption, held together by questionable legal handshakes and the occasional shushed finger. It’s the kind of place where:

A politician’s daughter falls in with a gang, but surprise—the politician is the bigger crook.

Cops look away from their badges in shame while gunning down the guilty because, well, the law is on the payroll, and someone’s got to take out the trash.

Coin-operated boys (yep, that’s a thing) try to figure out how they’re different from the men who built and abandoned them. Spoiler alert: they were meant to be free labor, but then they got cursed with the ability to think. Oops. Now they’re just wandering around, trying to figure out if they’re more like people or like machines. The existential crisis is real, folks.

The native population? Oh, they’re practically forgotten. Mostly because humans buried their sacred totems, not realizing that mud reclaims everything—especially your cultural heritage.

Welcome to the Shiny Hellhole

In this glittering city, the streets never stop shining, and the neon lights never stop reminding you that you’re living in the best country on the planet—so you better prove it by buying domestic. You know, that American Dream? The one where you’re promised that if you work hard and give 1,000 percent, you’ll make it? But deep down, you know that’s a load of crap. Everyone knows that.

The city’s just a big performance, and you’re all putting on a show. Because if you don’t, you’ll finally realize how deep you’ve sunk, and by then, the city’s already pulling you under, with that last gulp of mud as you get swallowed whole. Progress. What a place.

[maxootb]

Char Tseren Gan was the kind of man who could make grandmothers shake their heads, young warriors puff out their chests, and bureaucrats develop sudden, mysterious illnesses just to avoid dealing with him. He was, in short, a problem.

He started out as nothing. Less than nothing, really—a grain foundling, the sort of person the Sanshea Khanate treated with all the generosity of a tax collector with a grudge. As a grain, he had a single guaranteed right: a jug of water a day and a pound of rice a week. That was it. No clan, no real prospects, no future beyond "probably dying of exposure or violence in the desert."

But Char had two things going for him: his mother, Katla, and an absolutely unshakable ability to believe his own hype. Katla had once been a princess of Grawn, but after her brother, Lum Tseren Gan, did some classic "family betrayal" nonsense, she ended up stripped of her title and dumped into exile. She took one look at her situation and decided to do what any self-respecting deposed noblewoman would: raise her son to believe in a completely sanitized, hero-worshipping version of Sanshea history.

Char ate it up. He was raised on the idea that the Khanate was a shining beacon of honor, glory, and badass horse archery, and he absolutely refused to let reality get in the way of that. He became a walking, talking, horsing embodiment of the old ways—honorable to a fault, rigid in his logic, and so driven for glory that you could practically hear an imaginary choir singing dramatic battle hymns whenever he entered a room.

The problem, of course, was that he was still a grain. And grains didn’t get glory, they got overlooked. But then fate, or the Sanshea gods, or just dumb luck, threw him an opportunity.

One day, out patrolling, Char came across a carriage under attack by Cazdovs—giant dragon-wasps with a delightful little feature where their venom could melt your skin off. Most sane people would have gone, "Well, that’s unfortunate" and turned their horse in the opposite direction. Char, however, was not most people. He took one look at the situation and saw destiny calling.

He pulled his riding bow and went to work, dropping three of the oversized murder-insects like it was just another Tuesday. When the dust settled, the carriage door swung open, and out stepped none other than the Khan of Grawn—his "uncle." A man who, up until that moment, would not have given Char a second glance unless it was to remind someone that "grains are not to be loitering near the palace."

But saving a man’s life changes things. Especially when you do it with style.

So Char, formerly a grain with the social standing of an old boot, was suddenly a somebody. He was brought into the Tseren Gan clan, officially given a name and rank. Most people would have been content with that—maybe settled down, lived comfortably, enjoyed the whole not starving thing. But Char? Oh no. Char went all in.

He quickly established himself with an "honorable" number of assassinations (read: a lot), built up a terrifying amount of influence, and started looking just a little too much like the next great Khan of Grawn.

The actual Khan of Grawn, understandably, did not like this. So he did what all insecure rulers do when a younger, cooler, and much more murderously competent relative starts getting popular—he sent him on an impossible mission.

"Go clear Dead Turtle Pass," the Khan said, fully expecting Char to either fail or conveniently die in the process.

Instead, Char did what Char always did—become a problem.

First, he stole the legendary Jade Arrow—a sacred artifact used by Temujin, the first Genghis Khan, to mark the reach of his empire. Then he gathered his army, led them through the treacherous mountain passes, and past the Sickly Mountain—the rotting corpse of an ancient Adamantoise.

And then, just to really make sure people remembered his name, he fired the Jade Arrow across hundreds of miles, obliterating a watchtower in Gardenkeep. The Sanshea equivalent of kicking in someone’s front door while simultaneously sending them an insulting letter from orbit.

What followed was two full years of raiding Rosehold. Char became a one-man apocalypse, terrorizing the region with the kind of relentless energy that suggested he was physically incapable of resting. By this point, his name was legend. Parents probably started threatening their kids with "Eat your vegetables, or Char Tseren Gan will get you."

Unfortunately, even legends have their limits.

After a brutal 30-day siege at the gates of Gardenkeep, Char finally met his end. But it wasn’t just some anticlimactic battlefield death—oh no. His life was too ridiculous to end any other way. Instead, he died in the most metal way possible:

His neck broken between the thighs of Barda Jarnford.

Barda, a warrior who had clearly had enough of Char’s nonsense, crushed him in a final battle that historians would later describe as "deeply uncomfortable to visualize." Just for good measure, she bashed his skull in with the pommel of the Burning Great Sword of Saint Linis, because, at this point, why not?

Of course, she didn’t get to enjoy her victory for long. Severely wounded and knowing her time was up, Barda decided to go out the Sanshea way—by wading into Char’s army like an absolute lunatic.

She almost made it out, too, but succumbed to her wounds sometime after Tousurn Xarmantes finally returned with reinforcements from Terminia. (Classic case of "too little, too late," if there ever was one.)

In the end, Char Tseren Gan won. He may have died, but his legend lived on. People still tell stories about him. Some say his ghost still rides the desert, forever searching for another war. Others just shake their heads and mutter, "Too damn Sanshea for his own good."

[maxootb]

Cuirass MK2

Power Armor: A Prince’s Overcompensation

The Cuirass MK2 power armor was commissioned by none other than Prince Maximus (long may he reign and accidentally launch himself into space), built by Anaheim Electric—yes, the same company with just a hint of a reputation for selling weapons to all the parties involved in a war and maybe sometimes collecting their payments after the war's over, just to keep things spicy. Now, Maximus, a man with a truly unique taste for the explosive and unnecessary, had a fondness for the MK1, but it wasn’t Dragoon enough for his particular flair. And when you're a trained Rozan Dragoon from Rosehold, there’s a certain expectation about how much backflipping and excessive use of momentum should be involved in battle.

But wait, it gets better. Maximus isn't just any Dragoon. No, no—he’s also a Terminian-trained Dragoon, which is a whole other level of ridiculous. Imagine a man riding a chocobo so angry that it could swallow the moon whole, all while strapped into a powered exoskeleton with a massive explosive lance in hand. That’s right, he charges into battle, both astride a chocobo and in powered armor, while wielding a double-barrel Lance/shotgun pogo stick, affectionately dubbed the Twin Lance.

Why, you ask? Because "Subtlety is for peasants." The recoil? Not a problem—for the unprepared. The joints of the MK1, on the other hand, might have something to say about that. The relentless acrobatics and recoil from a Lance/shotgun pogo stick that could take down a small tank were causing the joints to wear out faster than a newly-minted knight in a padded suit. In fact, it was costing the GDP of a recently conquered nation just to keep the thing functional. But that's Prince Maximus' style, right? Excessive, expensive, and, as always, explosive.

Enter the Cuirass MK2—the MK1, but with all the charm of a car crash. It's both worse and better at the same time. So far, they've made only one suit because, in Maximus' wisdom, it's more cost-effective to buy an entire MLRS battery (multiple-launch rocket system) than to field a single BANG Jet-equipped MK2. I mean, the man loves firepower, but even he realizes that a single suit of powered armor capable of going rogue during a really bad attempt at a backflip might be slightly more expensive than a rocket barrage that can take out a city block.

The BANG Jet: The Pulse Jet's Laid-back Cousin

Let’s talk about that BANG Jet—the pulse jet’s lazy, overconfident cousin. While the pulse jet is all about that consistent, efficient, scientifically sound propulsion, the BANG Jet prefers to skip all that and just go for one massive kaboom. It’s the jet equivalent of waking up and deciding that pulse is for amateurs, and you're here to create an earth-shattering explosion right out of the gate. Why settle for subtlety when you can liquefy bones and send the laws of physics into a tailspin in one fell swoop?

RCS Thrusters: The 42 Thrusters You Didn't Know You Needed

As for the RCS thrusters—there’s 42 of them. Why 42? Because 42 is the answer to everything, naturally. These compressed air thrusters don’t just provide forward thrust; they launch the suit into glorious chaos, like trying to control a toddler on a sugar rush while strapped into an airplane with no brakes. Need to steer? Just apply more thrusters, and hope the laws of inertia and physics haven’t quit on you just yet.

Control Surfaces: Because Who Needs to Actually Control Anything?

Control surfaces? Oh yes, it's got them. All of them. But don’t get excited—they’re mostly for show. Who needs real control when you have 42 thrusters and a jet that explodes every few seconds? The control surfaces are there purely for aesthetic purposes. They’re essentially the gilded accents of the military armor world—shiny, impressive, and not doing much at all. But Prince Maximus insists, and if there's one thing we know about royalty, it's that they love looking good while causing mass destruction.

The Mana Drive: For Reality-Bending Shenanigans

Ah yes, the mana drive. Because why not throw in a little reality-bending magic to really drive the point home that this suit isn’t just over-engineered—it’s over-reality’d. The mana drive ensures that physics, logic, and even basic reason have little say in the day-to-day operation of this suit. It's like a buffet of absurdity—everything’s on the table, including bending reality to the whims of a man who has probably spent more time watching explosions than attending any physics lectures.

Maintenance Budget: More Than Your Entire Armed Forces’ Payroll

Finally, there’s the maintenance budget—which, we’re not kidding, is roughly one-tenth of the entire armed forces. That’s right, every time the Curass MK2 takes a trip to the battlefield, an army of technicians needs to come along, like very confused janitors at the scene of a disaster. If they’re lucky, they’ll only need to repair half of the suit’s thrusters and all of the armor plating. If they’re unlucky, it’ll involve a whole team and several years’ worth of tax dollars to make sure that Maximus doesn’t explode in a spectacular but ultimately disappointing fireball.

In conclusion, the Curass MK2 is everything you'd expect from a prince with more money than sense, an overwhelming love for explosive weaponry, and a deep-seated belief that subtlety is for people who haven’t discovered the joys of uncontrolled carnage. It’s expensive, reckless, and frankly, a little terrifying—just like its owner. But hey, at least it looks amazing while it's trying to kill everything in sight.

[maxootb]

Amalthea Anatolia

High Queen of the Unity, Living Legend, and prime example of what happens when fate decides you’re the main character. Hail to the queen, long may she reign—and how lucky is it that her name has alliteration? That’s practically a prerequisite for historical importance.

The Queen of Everything (Almost)

Amalthea is, for all intents and purposes, one of the most important beings to ever exist west of the Guardian Mountains. As High Queen of the Unity, her influence spreads across most of the known world, and thanks to some particularly excellent boxing skills from her husband, Erick Knightengale, the Unity and the Sanshea Khanate are basically best friends. Yes, you read that right—boxing. We’ll get to that.

Her story starts long before she ever sat on a throne, though. See, Amalthea’s mother, Anatolia, once lived peacefully in the Undying Lands. That is, until she didn’t. One day, she just up and left, never to return—no explanation, no dramatic farewell, not even a “going out for milk and cigarettes.” Just poof—gone.

This, naturally, led to a whole series of events that involved a slave-turned-hero named Xyphos, a traveling merchant of questionable mortality, a prophecy about bleeding on rocks, and a dragon with a flair for the dramatic.

Xyphos, Not of Xyphos

So, Xyphos. You know the guy. The hero of one of the most important stories ever told, despite the fact that his actual name isn’t Xyphos and he’s not from Xyphos. He was a slave, once owned by the True Vampire Thadeus (terrible name, worse guy). But fate—or just really bad luck—saw him separated from his master and thrust into destiny’s meat grinder.

Now, here’s where things get especially messy. Xyphos, like all great heroes, ended up facing an impossibly powerful foe—in this case, the Crimson King. The King, being a sore loser and an all-around unpleasant entity, threw a curse so foul and filled with profanities that historians have politely omitted it from written records. The gist of it? Xyphos would be forgotten, and his homeland would be wiped from memory. His only legacy? The blade he carried. Tragic, poetic, and frankly, incredibly inconvenient for historians.

At some point in this mess, Xyphos teamed up with Anatolia. Why? Because fate enjoys comedy.

Enter Vano, Merchant of Questionable Origins

As every great adventure requires a guide (or at least someone willing to sell you extremely overpriced supplies), Anatolia and Xyphos ran into Vano of Barovia. The problem? Barovia doesn’t exist. Or at least, not in any way that makes sense in the current timeline. Vano, who should absolutely not be alive in BA 150, doesn’t seem concerned about this. The Guide, however, remains highly suspicious.

More importantly, Vano knew how to spot a mark, and upon meeting Anatolia, he realized something big—she wasn’t just anyone. She was a Unicorn.

Unicorns, as it turns out, have silverblood. More importantly, they are descended from Aphrodite herself, a being of pure love and divine meddling. And because no ancient bloodline of magical importance is complete without a prophecy, one was conveniently waiting for them.

The Prophecy & The Promise

The Great One, the first dragon (and arguably the most melodramatic being in recorded history), once spoke these words:

> “So long as Love bleeds on this stone, I hold my promise true. Closed shut are the Eyes of Bedlam!”

Then, in a final display of what can only be described as hardcore commitment, he ripped out his own heart—the Stone of the Promise.

Naturally, this meant that Anatolia, as a Unicorn and therefore a direct representative of Love Itself™, had to go on a quest to bleed on this very important rock. What followed was an absolutely epic journey full of battles, betrayals, and heroic moments that deserve their own entries (which, due to page limits, we are not covering here).

Amalthea: Born of Magic, Raised by Chaos

Now, back to Amalthea. She was not so much born as she was manifested in The Dreaming—an ethereal, magic-soaked realm south of the Two Dunes. As a fully realized creature of pure magic, she spent her early days frolicking, learning the ways of her kind, and, most importantly, avoiding the Red Bull. (No, not the drink. A different kind of nightmare.)

Her life in the Undying Lands could have continued indefinitely, if not for one small issue: her mother’s tendency to get involved in fate-altering events. It wasn’t long before Amalthea followed in those rather dramatic hoofprints.

Love at First Hoof

Enter Erick Knightengale. A man. A myth. A legend. A certified problem.

Amalthea, in a twist of fate (or divine comedy), ran into him in the woods one day. And by “ran into,” we mean she introduced herself by planting a hoof directly into his face. This was, evidently, the beginning of true love.

From there, she did what any self-respecting mythical being would do: inserted herself directly into a world-changing quest. Not because she particularly wanted to, but because that’s what happens when you run into the right (or wrong) people in the woods.

The Legacy of a Living Legend

Amalthea Anatolia has, through sheer force of destiny, charisma, and occasional violence, become one of the most important figures in history. She is the High Queen, the bridge between nations, the living proof that prophecies sometimes work out, and—most crucially—the reason we’re all still here.

And while we’d love to say this is the end of her story, let’s be real—Amalthea isn’t the kind of person history forgets. She’s the kind it keeps writing about.

This quest was epic—and we mean that in the "written-about-in-tombs" sense, not just the "cool story, bro" kind. There are books, entire tomes, dedicated to it. Scholars have argued for centuries over the finer details, and some guy in a red hat somewhere is still complaining about how history got all political.

The quest was so massive that it spans at least fifteen dime-store novels—the kind your mom somehow reads in public without blushing. (See A Knight of Coppers for the full bodice-ripping, monster-slaying, world-saving drama.)

But don’t worry—we’re going to cover it all here. Lurid details, dramatic speeches, battle cries—everything you need to truly appreciate the glorious madness of it.

However, we can’t just start breaking it down into volumes like:

Volume 1: Amalthea Anatolia

Volume 2: Anarchy-Zantetsuken

That would be expensive, exhausting, and—let’s be honest—physical torture.

[maxootb]

FUCK

That’s it. That’s the entire first page. No introduction. No welcome. No pompous foreword from a self-important scholar explaining the noble history of adventuring. Just a single, unadorned, entirely capitalized word.

Then, as if nothing of consequence just happened, the guide moves on to "A", like it didn’t just drop the most visceral, versatile, and universally understood expletive in existence.

Naturally, scholars have spent years debating what editorial meant by this. Was it a typo? An act of existential rebellion? The final, weary resignation of an overworked editor who had spent one too many nights arguing about the correct number of teeth on a Malboro? Perhaps it was all those things. Or none.

The Word That Defines an Adventurer

No matter what editorial intended, they captured something fundamental. Every adventurer says it. It doesn’t matter how noble, how powerful, or how extensively trained in the art of not dying they are—eventually, the moment will come.

King Erick uttered it when he first laid eyes upon Nyarlathotep, the Angel of Bedlam, and realized its feathers were fingers and its wings were arms and that all of them were waving.

His son, Prince Max, delivered the same verdict as his puddle-jumper plummeted from the sky because the red dragon Mulgrew had opinions about his engines, his political affiliations, and his continued existence in general.

A rogue says it when they realize that, yes, that was a pressure plate. A warrior says it when the beholder they just insulted actually speaks Common. A mage mutters it when they botch a teleportation spell and arrive slightly to the left of their original body.

An Exclamation. A Question. A Prayer.

It’s a word that encompasses all things. It is shock, despair, revelation, and joy compressed into a single syllable. It is doom and salvation, spoken when you realize death is both imminent and possibly your fault. It is the only appropriate reaction when the ceiling begins descending in a dungeon with no visible exits.

It is also, in certain circumstances, a term of endearment, murmured breathlessly after an evening involving one too many Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters and a companion who was, until very recently, just an adventuring acquaintance.

The Intent? Unknown. The Outcome? Inevitable.

Nobody knows why editorial left it there. Nobody knows why they refuse to change it. Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe it’s just the most honest piece of writing in the entire book.

What is certain, however, is that you’re going to say it. Probably before you think to check this guide.