Me: Okay I'm gonna make it so the languages in this story are literally just mirrors or real ones but with different names slapped over them so i don't bog myself down building yet ANOTHER fucking conlang.
Me, later on: Damn, none of the languages I can find really fit this particular group of people, what do I do?
Another Fucking Conlang:
Me: No
Another Fucking Conlang: :^)
Me: GOD DAMN IT
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A DRUMMING OF ASPHALT
SUMMARY: It’s routine - a short walk for a Ventrue bureaucrat and the Anarch leader. (hinted!gretel x nines rodriguez, 1.6k words)
“You won’t compromise.”
A statement, not framed as a question. A statement strung out, vowel and consonants clicking, in a manner that suggested Gretel had said this before, time and time again.
Defeated repetition. Nines Rodriguez supplied his usual answer, as expected. “No.”
They had found - through a similar kind of repetition - the quiet routes in L.A, the streets that were easy for two Kindred to meander through, lined with empty warehouses and the occasional rumble of midnight traffic. Pavements well-mapped by a pair of clicking Ventrue heels and well-worn Brujah boots under hazy city lights.
“That makes life difficult, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Difficult for you and the LaCroix. The Camarilla.”
“For the city, too.” Her side-glances during these nights were sparing, still, she used up one of her quota then, slate grey hewn sharp behind dark-rimmed glasses. “It cannot carry on like this.”
Familiar sentences; as if they hadn’t already circled around this topic, night after night, long after she had first entered the Last Round bar, spine rim-rod straight and refusing to move five feet away from her Toreador friend. As if their hissed arguments hadn’t eventually dragged them onto the street, pacing around L.A like tempestuous animals in a cage.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Nines voice, caught between a drawl and a snap. Impatience coupled with resignation. They would be here again, in a couple of nights, when Gretel would return with another set of negotiations - the same as ever before, but glossy-laminated and presented with slick new titles, a new barbed wire cage around old stories. “Listen, Rushforth, you’re the ones who chose to stampede back here as if nothing ever happened. You’re the ones trying to push against us and failing.”
“Failing? Your Anarchs aren’t exactly standing steady on two feet.”
“They’re not mine. They don’t belong to anyone. That’s the whole point.”
Tremere theorists and scholars often talked around the houses when it came to a Kindred’s state of unlife. Kindred biology was a point of fascination, a series of contradictions within itself: they were alive and yet they weren’t. Not exactly changed but transformed into something else entirely, human and monster coalescent in the same form.
Breathing was one of those funny things: lungs that should be dormant twitched. A mimic of a sigh and Nines reached inside his shirt pocket.
It was mildly concerning when Gretel realised her first instinct wasn’t to think gun. Either the past few weeks had dulled her, or she had learned to recognise when Nines was reaching for his cigarettes.
Oh.
“Don’t pretend to care for the city either.” He continued, splintering the two-second silence with a flick of the cardboard carton lid. “Can’t be here two seconds and pretend to give a shit.” And, absurdly, he gestured the carton in an offering.
“No thank you, I’m trying to quit.” She caught his look. “It’s a bad habit.”
“I’m pretty sure there are worse things in your line of work, Cammy.”
“Still bad.” She reached over and took one. “Just because I haven’t lived here all my life does not mean I’m not invested.”
A lighter was soon procured and the two naturally slowed down on the sidewalk. The sharp lines of Nines’ face grew deeper in the darkness. “Invested. Provin’ my point there Rushforth - you Ventrue putting all your stock into who you think is useful and when they’re not? You don’t want to know anymore. Cut your losses and head to the next big thing. L.A is just another kind of Camarilla project to you all. A conquest we’re paying for.”
“And it’s not to you?” She shouldn’t have bristled. Shouldn’t have let the hound dig his claws under her skin. Flint to the flame, like the one she balanced between her fingers. Ironic, considering the danger of fire to the Kindred. Since when had she been so drawn to self-sabotage? “The great last ‘free’ state. The Anarch playground. It’s chaos, it’s not sustainable, you’ll burn out before the year is over.”
His answer arrived after a plume of smoke. “We won’t. Even if we do, ‘least we keep our pride. ‘Least we don’t treat everyone around us as expendable.”
“They’re not-” Too quick, too hasty, she wanted to curse it, “- expendable.”
“No?” Nines looked at her, then. Gretel wondered how many could stand that gaze: Nines Rodriguez did nothing in halves, nothing without the fullest push of intensity. It was different than the Prince she served, having long weathered the shifting of clinical disinterest to scathing hyperfocus of Sebastian LaCroix. It made her feel too solid. Too heavy. Too present.
But the Ventrue can take the heat. And she did. She met him, eye-for-eye, grey-for-bright-blue. “No.”
They had stopped again: another empty side-street caught in a gasp of forgotten industry, grey brick and glass interrupted by the slick outlines of graffiti. Modernism claiming old ground, just as it had every decade, looking different every time. The twenty-first century was colour and nihilism in one unholy package.
His cigarette was fading out, fingers curling tight.
It had been part of Gretel’s training - as a Kindred, as a Ventrue, most importantly as the childe of the new Camarilla protege - to predict the question before it arrived. To be clever and duck against the verbal blade of politicians, the simpering placating of diplomats. To read the weighted curve of a mouth, the flick of a tongue against fangs.
She knew, with certainty, what Nines was going to say.
“Who?”
There was a stone lodged in her throat, in her chest, in her stomach. An inevitability in the sudden knowledge that Nines knew.
That he knew about capricious Cassandra and how close Gretel followed her into the Last Round, echoing a familiarity with every movement.
That he knew about the rainbow reflections of Becca, neon lights glinting off the edge of the pier as they sat, shoulder-to-shoulder.
That he knew about Hester, drawing in Gretel’s pride with her talent and obstinance towards conformity.
That he knew about Katya and her blood-soaked, ichor-lined brilliance and Gretel’s worry for her, and her awe for how far she could reach - if she wanted.
She couldn’t give them to him. To anyone. Not yet.
“It doesn’t matter.” It does, they both agreed silently, but Nines didn’t push. Thankfully. “The Camarilla will not stop, will not cease. The Prince has never strayed from his goals. I’ll keep coming back, and if nothing changes then it doesn’t matter who’s expendable or not, the whole city will burn.”
“You’re the ones rolling in, pushing for war-”
“It wouldn’t be war.” A room exploded outward, her Sire blackened and charred, melting into the wind. Her scalp bleeding, hands slick and slippery, ducking her body against a hail of bullets.
Gretel knew war.
Had he ever served, or had he been tucked away in L.A, ducking from the jaws of gangs and cops alike? “It would be a slaughter. It would be needless.”
“Is that a threat?” His voice was quiet, pulled tight. The wolf prince raising his hackles.
“No.” The edging night was draining something out of her. A blanket of darkness, unperturbed by the absence of street lines ringing the roads from the Last Round. A smear of grey against a broad shoulder and Gretel was automatically reaching out. “Yes, perhaps. You have ash on-”
A hand grabbed her wrist just as her fingertips brushed the indent of bone and muscle. Nines was suddenly there, cold as all Kindred tended to be, but her arm burned all the same.
For a moment, there was nothing but the pressure of his thumb pressing the dip of her palm. Her elbow locked, the flat of the arm pressed against the inward curve of his chest
It didn’t hurt. Her sensibilities dictated that somehow, somewhere, that must be wrong. Enough space for her fingers to uncurl, for nails to scrape against the thread of a worn shirt, to collect and fix the irregularity how she wanted.
“Doesn’t matter.” He parroted back. She could almost feel the sound - the deepness - coming from inside of him. “You’re not gonna protect them like this, you know that. LaCroix’s got you playing for the wrong side. For the one that’ll get them killed.”
“What side is the right one then?” Her shoe slid closer despite herself. “Yours? A revolution clinging on? Rebels without a plan?”
“The side that doesn’t treat its people like playthings. The side that looks after their own.”
“Is that what you want, Rodriguez?” Words that weren’t laden in spite, words that ran away from her, tempered down by the gravity emanating from him. This is how you get caught in his orbit, his momentum. It’d be easy, too easy- “To look after me?”
She had meant it as a joke, deprecation - to him, to her, either way, she expected him to reel back.
He tightened his grip instead, looked like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.
“I could. Them too.”
A beat.
Somewhere, a broken exhaust pepper the air like a gunshot. Gretel’s arm was suddenly at her own side - when had she torn it away? - and she was turning and she was walking, quickly, a jaw slack, slamming shut. Cold air burned the arch of her cheeks, seared her eyes hidden by her glasses.
Ash, still collected under her nails. She wiped them against her coat, but it was resolute in clinging to her cuticles. Stubborn. Damn him -
“I’ll tell the Prince that you don’t accept.” Sentences, hewn, meticulous once again. She felt the weight of him, his stare, even when he was behind her, even when she was walking away so quickly. That’s what it was - the peturbing nature of it - of being flayed open so nonchalantly. It wasn’t the meticulous unravelling of a Ventrue Prince, it was the Brujah who could burn you open immediately.
“I’ll see you in a couple of days then.” Nines called after her.
To her utter fury, he sounded like he was smiling.
A grin stitched into the night.
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Drabble: The Kale Chronicles
Title: The Kale Chronicles (2010)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Jonathan James-Michaels, Kaleidoscope Johnson, Zacarias Fawkes
Relationships: Gabe/Johnny, Kale/Zach, Gabe & Kale
Summary: Did he tell you? Did he tell you we were best friends now?
2010
“Is this your first gala?”
The voice surprises Gabe and he almost dumps his glass of champagne all over the man next to him. As far as Gabe can tell he’s ten, maybe fifteen years older than him. He’s caramel skin and deep brown eyes that are dragged down by wrinkles and dark circles. Gabe’s sure that in his heyday he was handsome and had his pick of partners. Now he looked sick and frail, like one wrong breath will knock him over. The wheelchair probably added to that illusion, too. And the fact that he was leaning towards one side, brightly colored pillows keeping him propped up.
“Am I that obvious?” He asked with a chuckle. Being invited to the MET was one thing. Being invited to the MET Gala because you were a finalist for a permanent installation piece? That was a whole different ballgame, and Gabe had been antsy as hell since they got there. His husband had gotten pulled away by someone he knew from school almost right away, which left Gabe to be sucked into the art crowd. It wasn’t that the art crowd was a bad place to be. These were his people, after all, but he felt like an interloper. They hadn’t been in New York for very long; it didn’t feel like his scene quite yet.
The man laughed. “It’s just that no one has sunk their claws into you yet. You’re Gabreel, right?” He offered his hand up for Gabe to shake. “I’m Zach. Zacarias, but don't call me that. Call me Zach. Also, I’m dying. AIDS. Well, HIV, but it’s the same difference in the end, isn’t it?”
And he spoke so quickly that Gabe had a hard time keeping up with him. His accent made Gabe think of New Orleans - maybe Creole? There was a cadence to the way he spoke. The consonants and vowels didn’t line up quite the same as Gabe’s own laidback West Coast pronunciation. “I guess.” He said with a shrug. “You’re one of the other finalists, right? You made the see-through hospital bed.”
Zach nodded. “Scope - that’s my partner - he said it’s a little too on the nose, but he’s bitter right now.” The other man picked at the seam on his armrest. It seemed like this was probably a point of contention between Zach and his partner. “He likes to bury his head in the sand when things get a little too tough. Anyway, he didn’t see the point in coming tonight. Said you were going to win.”
That took Gabe by surprise. “Your partner doesn’t think you’re going to win? Your piece is beautiful.” And he meant it. After seeing the art he was competing against, Gabe had no idea why he was even selected. Everyone was just so talented, and his piece… Well, his piece was different than the others. They had made sculptures. Gorgeous pieces made of metals Gabe wasn’t sure how they were able to afford, and his piece was… Well, it was a prison cell with malleable bars and a painted sky. He didn’t feel like he was on the same level as the others.
He shrugged. “Naw, but that’s Scope. He always tells it like it is.” The look on Zach’s face made it seem like that was his favorite thing about him. “C’mon. Come sit with me until it’s time to find out who won.”
And oversharer or not, Gabe found himself following after him.
A Month Later
“Gabreel,” Zach was bundled under three blankets as Gabe pushed him through the walking path at the hospital. It was only in the high 60s, but Zach was freezing. His nasal cannula was pushed out of his nose. He wanted to breathe fresh air - not bottled air. The doctors hadn’t even wanted Zach out of bed, but the older man had insisted and well, he had a way about always getting his way. “Did you know Scope and I have been together almost twenty years?”
That made Gabe pause for a moment as he processed that. He’d barely been married in comparison. He couldn’t imagine being with someone for 20 years. Especially as a gay man in New York in the 90s. It amazed him they were together for this long. And he wasn’t even factoring in all the stories he’d heard about Scope. “You must have been babies when you got together.” He said finally, continuing their walk.
Zach nodded - or at least Gabe thought it was a nod; it could have been a cough. “Scope was barely 18. I was 29, you know. I was a very bad boy. I was ready to settle down. And Scope? Well, I think he just looked at me and thought: this one is mine now.” This time Zach did cough, and he pulled the cannula back into his nose for a bit before he was able to talk again. “Scope broke up with me last week. Think he thought it would be easier - not to watch me die.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Zach…” And what was he going to say? That he wasn’t dying? He was. That Scope was being a chicken? He probably would have done the same. He couldn’t fault him, but he also couldn’t comprehend breaking up with someone you loved so deeply.
“Don’t try, Gabreel.” Zach murmured out as he fiddled with one of his blankets. “This hasn’t been easy for him. We didn’t know my status until much later into our relationship. We’ve had more scares than you know. I ate clean, did what I could to stay healthy, but our friends? Their luck weren’t so great. They died one after the other. And I… I just didn’t. For a while I think he just thought it was a false positive and then this year…” He gave a dry sounding laugh. “This year it reared its ugly head with a vengeance. I’ll be gone by Christmas - don’t try to argue. We both know it’s true. And I need you to promise me something.”
And he knew - he knew what the promise was going to be. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, and yet he still found himself saying: “Anything.”
A few months later
“Kaleidoscope? It’s Gabriel. We’ve met a couple of times at the hospital? I’m Zach’s friend. I’ve been taking him to his appointments for that study he was participating in.” Gabe wasn’t sure what he would be walking into. From what Zach had told him during their brief friendship, Kaleidoscope had run away to the city at a young age, and their friend group had been… wild. Other than a woman named Katie, Zach and Kaleidoscope were the last ones standing. Drugs and HIV had wiped out the rest. And now? Now it was just Kaleidoscope.
The entire condo was pitch black. As Gabe traversed further inside, he turned on lights and opened windows to air the place out. It smelled like the other man had been in mourning for a lot longer than the week Zach had been gone. Zach had warned Gabe that Kaleidoscope could come off as being… a lot. He had a big personality, but a lot of it was manufactured. It had been created to deal with his many losses, and Zach had begged Gabe to see through him. And Gabe’s plan was to hold true to that promise. When it came to promises to the dead, Gabe was a sucker.
“Scope, I know you’re home.” He called out, walking until he found the kitchen. Once it was aired out, he grabbed a trash bag to conquer the living room. “And I know you know what today is. And we both know you’re going today.” He poked at a congealed mess stuck to some magazines and just tossed the entire thing into the garbage bag. Room accomplished, he set the bag out in the hallway for now before making his way deeper into the condo. “I’m coming in.”
He all but kicked the door open to find Kaleidoscope half-dressed and lying in the middle of the bed. “I finally understand what the point of that stupid Jonathan Larsen musical is now.” He said apropos to nothing. “I am now the only one to survive.”
“On a scale of 1-5, how stoned are you right now?” Gabe asked as he approached the bed and got Kaleidoscope into a sitting position. “Yeah, you’re going to need to shower.”
As he shifted Kaleidoscope to his feet, the other man grabbed Gabe’s wrist. “He said he picked you out for me.” And great. He was drunk and stoned. The perfect combination for a funeral. “He said you were lonely, too. You lost everyone, too. He said we would be best friends. Did he tell you? Did he tell you we were best friends now?”
And he hadn’t, but that made sense. He had been dying and he just wanted to make sure his partner was taken care of. “Yeah, Scope.” He conceded. “We’re best friends now.” And it would be one of the last times he’d call him that. The name would remind both of them too much of Zach. But in that moment Gabe knew it was true - they were going to be best friends whether Gabe liked it or not.
Towards the end of the year
When Gabe got the invitation to attend the dinner party at Kaledescope’s place, he had a moment where he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. First, it was his first party since his partner passed away, and second, it was Jay’s first social event with the Collective. It wasn’t like he was hiding his husband from them. It was more like… he knew how his friends were, and he knew how his husband was. They were completely different personalities and he didn’t know how well they were going to mesh, but he figured he could only put it off for so long.
They had barely walked into the condo when Katie grabbed him. “You need to talk to your friend.” Katie had known Kaleidoscope longer, but she never actually considered them friends. He was her big brother’s friend - that was how she told it. “He’s lost his mind.”
All he can do is shoot Jay an apologetic look before he’s pulled deeper into the condo. Although condo is a loose term. One of four units on the floor of a luxury building is a better word. And she’s not wrong. The condo was huge, and yet there seemed to be people everywhere. This was definitely not the quiet dinner party he had been promised. It was like the other man had switched from being in mourning to being a party animal overnight.
He honestly didn’t know how he had turned into Kaleidoscope’s keeper. He’d barely known the man when he had decided they were best friends, and word had spread to everyone else they knew. Apparently Gabe was the only person remotely capable of dealing with Kaleidoscope’s mood swings.
Or maybe it was because everyone else they knew had only known Kaleidoscope when it was Zach + Scope. They didn’t know how to deal with a man who was spiraling out of control now that he was alone. Gabe had only known Zach for a brief period of time, but the version of Scope that Gabe had met was the one who was slowly going crazy from loss.
And that was how Gabe found himself walking into Kaleidoscope's bedroom - where he was in the middle of a threesome with two blonde tan men. He’s not sure where it comes from, but he slammed the door shut and closed his eyes. “Ken Doll 1 and Ken Doll 2 - beat it.”
It must be the tone of his voice - or maybe they were startled by the slamming of the door. Either way the two men all but scrambled out of the bed and into their clothes. Neither of them looked at Gabe before leaving him alone with Kaleidoscope.
“I didn’t think you would be a spoil sport.” Kaleidoscope grumbled out - and there was the sound of him putting his clothes back on. “Weren’t you the one who said I shouldn’t be holing myself up in here? That it’s been six months since Zach died and I needed to get out and re-embrace the world?”
It was physically taking everything in him to not open his eyes. “I didn’t mean to throw keggers and have orgies.” He defended before deciding to finally open his eyes. “I meant taking walks or opening your art software and painting again. Scope.”
“Don’t call me that.” And it was a growl more than anything else. “I’m rebranding. I’m now just Kaleidoscope. You can call me Kale.” And it sounded like he had just decided that part. “My friends can call me Kale. Where’s your wife?”
Gabe couldn’t help but to stare at him. “My ex-wife?” He tried to clarify - not fully able to keep up with the sudden change in conversation. “She’s in Roswell with my kids?”
Kale sighed dramatically. “No. Your new wife.” He waved an impatient hand at Gabe. “You said you were married.”
It took him a moment to realize where the confusion was coming from. Same-sex partnerships were legal in New York, but marriage licenses weren’t being issued yet. Same-sex marriages from other states, however, were still being recognized in New York. “Yes.” He said slowly, mostly because he didn’t know what Kale’s reaction was going to be. “I am married, but I don’t have a wife. I have a husband, and he’s with Katie I think.”
And all that fake bravado and the new personality fell off his face for a moment. “You married your partner.” And he sounded small. He’d been with the same man for 20 years, but marriage… that had been off the table for them. “What’s his name?”
The question was strange, but he found himself answering anyway. “Johnny. Well, Jonathan.” And he didn’t know why Kale needed to know, but he felt like it was part of his coping process.
Kale nodded and then as suddenly as it had left, the fake persona was back. “Let’s go meet your Jonathan.”
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Who's Who (And: how do you spell that?)
This is the first of what will (hopefully) be fortnightly updates on one of the D&D games I”m running. Because session logging turned out so well last time, and I really should get around to doing it again now. This first post got really long by the time I was done introductions, so I'm separating it out and posting the first actual account later.
Before I begin telling our story, I’d like to introduce the player characters (And some pertinent setting details). Before I can do that, though, I need to discuss spelling – transcription, rather – conventions. Largely at my players’ urging, (Though they might be regretting that now) I did some rudimentary conlanging for the setting. While I have not yet developed any scripts for these languages, when I asked VulgarLang to give me vocabulary, it was kind enough to also give me phonological rules for each language. Sometimes rather a lot of them. This means that some of the spelling is, if not irregular, somewhat unintuitive. Add to that the fact that there are some sounds simply not heard in English, and you have a few difficulties. So, what I intend to do is this: Whenever a name is introduced for the first time, I will include a phonetic transcription if the pronunciation is not obvious. After that, I will simply write the name as it is spelled in the Vulgar output and my notes. If you don’t care about pronouncing names right in your head, skip the next paragraph.
While I will give the phonetic transcriptions in proper IPA, I do not want to go through the hassle of installing and learning an IPA keyboard, nor do I particularly wish to copy-paste IPA characters more than ~once per name. So, outside of the phonetic transcriptions I will be using the following spelling conventions: Nasalized vowels – which are fairly common in Ohi – will be marked with a tilde, long vowels will be denoted by repeating the vowel character, â will be used for [æ]. “gg” will be used for the glottal trill, [ʀ] “rr” for the alveolar trill [r], and “r” for both the alveolar approximant [ɹ] and the alveolar tap [ɾ] because in-universe the only people who bother to distinguish them are extremely pedantic elves; Both are used in older dialects of Raxak [ɾaxak] (elvish), but nowadays most people treat the sounds as if equivalent. The combination “th” will be used for the voiceless dental fricative, even though in Ohi “th” (pronounced as separate consonants) is a valid cluster; in a probably fruitless attempt to minimize confusion I will write the latter as “t’h”. “sh” will denote the postalveolar fricative, and “x” the velar fricative. Also, Raxak names are whispered when spoken by elves or people sufficiently enamored with elves (*cough* @theunitofcaring *cough*) to be stubborn about precisely correct pronunciation. A generally safe assumption is that the names of elves are correctly pronounced whispered, and that all other names are generally voiced.
To understand the characters, you will need to know a few things about the world. Orcs and Elves are variants on humans, descended from tribes that were taken from the world at a time when the boundaries between the planes were thin. When they returned to the world, centuries later, they found themselves physically transformed by their experiences; the gross physical changes are of little consequence for the moment, apart from the effects on their fertility: though each kind remains fertile, they are no longer interfertile with each other, and their children with unaltered humans are themselves sterile. The inability for a cross-race union to produce a fertile heir has shaped the customs of all three races, especially among the nobility of each. A married noble couple generally has a shared set of concubines of different races – sometimes infertile halfbreeds who will produce no children at all, but more often other-race purebloods. The couple’s children by their concubines are valuable, trusted family members who, in theory, are unlikely to scheme against their parents or siblings due to their absolute inability to legally inherit. With that explanation out of the way, on to the PCs themselves:
Thiet of Ishto
Theit is a half-orc who embraced the role his parents had planned for him as a member of the clergy. He eagerly and earnestly devoted himself to the worship of Ggita [ʀita], the god of knowledge and of the Sun, and was rewarded with His blessing and a limited ability to directly call upon His aid. Unfortunately for him, Thiet ran afoul of church politics – specifically, he unknowingly made an enemy of the full-blooded scion of a more influential noble house, and was quietly shuffled off and discouraged from further pursuing a church career. Not knowing the true reasons for his dismissal, he concluded that his faith must have lapsed and set off in search of some sort of righteous task to prove his faith.
Erkad [eɾkad] of Ishto
Thiet’s brother Erkad followed the other traditional path for halfbreed children: Going to special schools to learn to command and lead the family’s personal armsmen. Of course, personal martial skill was valued as highly as an understanding of tactics or inspiring speeches, and so as a crowning accomplishment before graduation, Erkad was tasked with completing some sufficiently heroic deed. When his brother mentioned his own self-imposed quest, Erkad saw a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.
Ksea of Shuu
Ksea grew up loving children. She would never have any of her own, being half-elf, but she helped raise her younger siblings. When her younger sister came of age, her parents arranged a marital alliance between house Shuu and house Ishto. To sweeten the deal for the higher-ranked and more prestigious Ishto, Ksea was included as a part of her sister’s dowry, to act as a nanny and caretaker to her sister’s children. She did this gladly, growing quite fond of the kids and picking up a bit of magical talent in the meantime. When her nephews Erkad and Thiet, now fully-grown, asked for her help on some damn fool hormone-driven quest for holy relics or something, she agreed to come along, if only to keep an eye on them.
Ero [eɾo]
Ero is an example of a rather rare phenomenon in this nation: an actual bastard. To be precise, she is the bastard daughter of the king-consort. Now, the king is obviously not a bright man – he cheated on the queen, and, what’s more, he did it with another human – and he was compassionate enough not to have the evidence of his poor life choices killed or abandoned, so he hatched a… cunning… plan to hide the evidence of his folly. He claimed that the child was the bastard of one of the orc men in the royal harem, then contacted an alchemist to make this story more plausible. The alchemist devised a potion, which Ero was raised to believe was essential medicine for a life-threatening medical condition. The potion drained her of color, giving her the superficial characteristics of a half-orc, which served to prop up the lie for a decade or so before it was bowled over by pubescent hormones. Specifically, Ero found herself pregnant, which should have been quite impossible for a half-orc. After suffering a miscarriage, Ero fled the capital, seeking to meet up with her academy friend Erkad and get away from the city long enough to resolve her identity crisis.
Sothet [hoθet] of Thâthikis [θæθikit] (Raxak name)
Sothet’s human parent was given away in an attempt by their family in to solidify an alliance with the more prestigious elven House Thâthikis. For all her life, Sothet has been aware that she exists only because of that now deteriorating alliance. With her parent’s status in the family perilously unstable, Sothet was never trusted with real responsibility in the way that halfbreeds usually are. This left her relatively free to pursue her own path in life, while still being able to draw on family connections. Sothet chose to express that freedom by studying various magical arts, primarily taking up wizardly magic but also for a time attending seminary alongside Thiet to learn as much as possible about miracles. Growing increasingly displeased with both her parents, as well as the system that put them together, she focused her studies on one goal: Having a child, and in doing so turning the political system grounded in halfbreed infertility on its head. When she heard about the half-orc Ero’s miscarriage, she thought she had found the key – or at least part of them – to the puzzle, and so arranged to join her friend Thiet’s expedition in order to get close to Ero and learn her secret.
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K-12 Words
K
dry
wet
shoe
ten
long
stay
yellow
watch
inch
cup
time
words
same
six
bones
black
child
ear
most
page
work
white
five
arms
snow
main
nine
water
head
eggs
rain
test
seven
root
law
fall
cow
red
doctor
baby
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8.2
exclude
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%
K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite
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On the strange promise of a board game with a few missing pieces • Eurogamer.net
It was never Professor Plum in our house. The professor was entirely innocent. He was in the clear. Perfect alibi. Water tight. He was doomed for eternity to be one of the good guys.
I don’t know when we lost the card for Professor Plum, but it changed the way we all thought about him. With no Plum card in the deck to start with, he simply couldn’t end up in the murder envelope. He couldn’t have done the crime! But we still had the counter, so Plum was still physically there in the house when it was time to investigate. This situation gave him a kind of purity. Everyone else was under suspicion, but Plum? Plum was always on the side of the angels.
When I bought my own Cluedo set a few years back, I immediately ditched the Professor Plum card it came with so that the experience would mirror my experience of playing the game as a kid. Five children in my house growing up, and all of us clumsy and careless. As a result, we played Scrabble with missing vowels, we played Monopoly with limited liquidity. We played a version of Cluedo in which it was never Professor Plum – in which it would never be Professor Plum.
I thought of Plum this Christmas. Not because Cluedo was on the cards, but because I was doing a spot of tidying up and I found a box in which, in amongst loose pens and bits of wool, the tin for Forbidden Island had upended itself. Forbidden Island is a really beautiful board game – a co-operative affair in which you hunt for various treasures on an island that’s steadily sinking. It’s clever and spiteful and filled with opportunities for your own behaviour to unsettle things for you. But what I love most about it is that tin it comes in – I simply love the chummy rattle of cherished things inside a tin – and I love the four treasures you’re after in the game, each of which are delivered as little chunks of plastic sculpture. Speak their names with me! The Earth Stone, the Crystal of Fire, the Statue of the Wind, and the Ocean Chalice.
Oh, the Chalice. Long story short, as I got the island back into the tin, I tracked down all the cards and counters and various bits of business, all of it except for one thing. The Ocean Chalice was missing. The Chalice! A lovely piece – a cool blue, a long stem, the whole thing perfectly proportioned. There’s a little resting spot for it in the tin, and it felt rather sad looking in there and seeing four treasures spaces, one of them empty. My count of enchanted objects was literally diminished by one.
As this was Christmas – and as every Christmas I end up doing something like this – I raced through the house for hours looking for that chalice. Inevitably, it was under a sofa. As soon as I found it, though, I sort of wished I hadn’t. The appeal of a game like Forbidden Island is ancient mystery, right? A wind through the chimes, a shudder disturbing matted veils of spider-webbing. The sense of dark absences down there in the murk. Maybe a box containing three of the four great treasures would be kind of perfect in its imperfection? Maybe there would be fun to be had from the Chalice’s storied absence, just as Cluedo was always more fun when there was a single definite goody doing the rounds of the stricken manor house. I feared for Plum, locked in that house with a murderer.
What I’m getting at, I guess, is that I am starting to see unique opportunity in the fact that you can lose bits of board games. This opportunity is unique to board games, because it is unique to the physical world where board games live. I could play some digital version of Cluedo until the sun explodes and I would never be able to lose Professor Plum. I could play the iOS Forbidden Island and the Chalice would always be there for the taking each time.
I’ve always understood the idea of house rules with board games – this special kind of flexibility that games have when you’re all sitting around, when there’s no code acting as gatekeeper to the fun, and you can all, together, decide to store any forfeited money in the middle of the Monopoly board and give it to the first person to land on Free Parking. But it took me a lot longer to discover that lots of limitations in board games are there for a reason. It took until Pandemic, in fact, which was the first game where I realised – oh, I can just look at the remaining cards or cubes and literally see how much of a chance we have of winning. And then I went back to Monopoly and discovered that there are 32 houses and 12 hotels for a reason, and the reason is balance. The reason is that the designer wanted you to have to race to build, and wanted you to run out of chances to build if you weren’t quick enough.
So what happens to games where the physical amounts of things take a beating? Where fate intervenes and things go missing? When nobody can buy Fenchurch Street, because Fenchurch Street the card went up the vacuum twelve years ago, although the spot on the board remains? What happens when one of the Risk objectives is lost for good but lingers on in the memory as a sort of phantom limb?
Legacy games do this to some degree. You play a game and follow the instruction and rip up a card or wipe something off the board for good when you’re told to. The game ages over time in a way that has been entirely planned out. But I love the idea of letting entropy be the guide, too. Are there other versions of Cluedo waiting in there, waiting to be unlocked by certain pieces going under the sofa? Is there a best version of Scrabble where time has eaten away all but a handful of consonants?
And it makes me think. Every now and then I head to eBay and linger over HeroQuest, a game I loved as an eleven-year-old but never owned. For years I’ve assumed that I wanted a complete set, all the pieces and bits and bobs. But a complete set costs money. Maybe what I’m after is one of the incompletes. A unique HeroQuest! Maybe there is fun to be had in the restrictions that missing pieces bring. Maybe there is fun to be had in the empty spaces.
from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/01/on-the-strange-promise-of-a-board-game-with-a-few-missing-pieces-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=on-the-strange-promise-of-a-board-game-with-a-few-missing-pieces-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net
0 notes