#superoffbatter

[txttletale]

What makes you rate Old Kamigawa and Zendikar so low? I did enjoy the worldbuilding on the Kamigawa novels a lot.

i haven't read any of the old kamigawa novels so maybe if i read them my opinion would improve a lot -- but altough i think there's some really awesome off the wall shit there (i love moonfolk, i love the patron of the nezumi being some weird fucking thing), i have an instincitnve flinch reaction to being asked to take a story about the Honor of Wise Noble Samurai seriously

[lu-is-not-ok]

Any particular thoughts on Fanghunt Hong Lu?

Yes, one very specific thought in fact.

Fanghunt Hong Lu is the most violent Hong Lu ID we have had thus far, being one that not only revels in violence like Tingtang Hong Lu or Hook Hong Lu, but also one that is actively shown torturing his victims in some genuinely stomach churning ways.

He is also the one Hong Lu ID which, while mentioning his Family, is one that doubts the very nature of what a family even is the most clearly.

This, to me, highlights a very noticeable pattern among Hong Lu's IDs.

When a Hong Lu ID is shown to be actively under his Family's control, he's either completely uninterested in violence (such as Liu) or so bored with the role he's forced into that violence is the only way he's able to push back against that boredom (K Corp and W Corp).

On the other hand, a Hong Lu ID that seems to be heavily disconnected from his Family is often one that is actively enjoying the violence he inflicts and is notably kind of fucking unhinged (Tingtang and Hook).

Fanghunt Hong Lu adds another nuance to that spectrum, being an ID that still has contact with his Family, but one who isn't specifically in a position chosen by them and who is led to doubting what a family even is by his experiences.

He shows us a possible outcome of a Hong Lu who has to actually reckon with reality and doubt what he knows about his circumstances, and the results are not pretty. After all, like I said earlier, Fanghunt Hong Lu is the most violent and most hate-filled Hong Lu we've seen up to now. He pulls out a guy's fucking teeth one by one for fuck's sake.

...And this made me think a bit. We actually have quite a few Hong Lu IDs with a Wrath Sin Affinity by now. However, Fanghunt Hong Lu is only the second we have with a Wrath Skill 3. The other one being, of course, Liu Hong Lu.

Both Hong Lu IDs with a Wrath Skill 3 seem to be to some extent aware of something being wrong regarding their Family, in very different ways that lead them into reacting to it very differently.

Liu Hong Lu seems to be aware of the fact he has no real control over what happens when he's under his Family's watchful eye, leading him into being the least violent Hong Lu of them all. He's aware of what his Family is doing to him, but he's unaware of it being abnormal.

On the other hand, Fanghunt Hong Lu seems to be unaware of the specific horrors of his Family. Rather, he's become aware that Family itself is a concept that he can't quite understand. He's seen Bloodfiends who abandon their previous families to be with their new Bloodfiend families, and it's a point of focus for him. What even is a real family?

...This, I think, is where Liu and Fanghunt Hong Lu differ the most. Liu Hong Lu knows he's being hurt, but he doesn't see any way out, that it's just how things are supposed to be, so he simply tries to live through it.

Meanwhile, though Fanghunt Hong Lu doesn't have that piece of the puzzle, he does have a different one - the seed of an idea that he could escape. Proof that one's "Real" Family doesn't have to remain their only family. He just doesn't yet realize what he'd want to escape from, so he channels the feelings he's experiencing because of that information against the immediate source of it. Instead of using that idea to free himself, he directs his anger towards those that actually tried it and succeeded.

I don't mean to keep pushing my "Hong Lu will go apeshit in Canto 8" idea, but like... The more info we get about him, the more likely that possibility becomes. After all, Fanghunt Hong Lu is a clear example of the fact that a Hong Lu aware of an escape route from one's Family could become extremely violent. That added onto the potential of Lorenzo's story told by the Priest being a parallel to Hong Lu, and the fact that the Sapling of Light Hong Lu is likely going to parallel is Chesed... It's all a lot.

[cerastes]

Smash or Pass:

❌

ACTUAL WAR CRIMINAL SHIT

[bizarrebazaar13]

I GUESS YOU WERE RIGHT THIS DID HAVE CONSEQUENCES.

I fucking CALLED IT <- thing who was only a little bit right about how this would turn out but is having an excellent time with it

[thegreatyin]

On heartbreak, homunculi, and the small yet very awkward matter of shooting one's girlfriend in the neck over your ex

OR: How The Doomed Scientist has been coping in the aftermath of his ambition (Badly. The answer is very very badly indeed.)

OR: A loosely abridged summary of an RP between myself and @superoffbatter, posted on Tumblr for OC lore purposes.

OR: Major spoilers for the entirety of the Nemesis ambition, as well as minor spoilers for Bag a Legend and a brief spot of blog-typical spoilers for a certain "powerful" ending of Heart's Desire.

OR: What The Plutonian Shadow's deal actually is.

So.

In order to explain this long and complicated tale, we're going to need to set a good bit of groundwork first. For some, this will effectively be a recap. For others, it will be important new lore that will harm us later.

Let's dive right in, shall we?

The Doomed Scientist- also known by his real name, Caeru- has a long and storied history of obsessing over serving others. He's always had this concept in his head that he needs to help, he needs to give himself up for the good of everyone around him, and if he's not doing that then he barely deserves to live at all.

This is the mindset that drove his quest to kill Mr Cups. He wasn't doing it for himself. He was doing it for everyone Cups has hurt, everyone Cups has murdered, every other victim that died so it could fulfill its need for stories of vengeance and misery. During his ambition, he very much saw himself as nothing more than a tool and a weapon to be pointed and used as the dead saw fit.

His own emotions didn't matter. His own grief, all-consuming as it was, didn't matter. Cups needed to die.

Cups- Cups needed to-

Oh, fuck.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't take it. He had an obligation towards those that died, towards his lover, towards everyone who ever wanted the beast dead. He couldn't take it. He just couldn't.

No matter how much he desperately, desperately wanted to.

For the first few weeks after his ambition concluded, Caeru was inconsolable. He was wracked with guilt over ""failing"" to save his former paramour, even more than he was already- for god's sake, the man could've been revived! He could've lived again! He deserved to live again!

And Caeru failed him. He failed to serve him. To be useful. To be good. To be worthy of living.

He... lost it, just a little bit. He became obsessed with fixing this perceived flaw in himself. This perceived flaw in everything. He couldn't sleep yet, he couldn't die yet, not when his love deserved to live.

Deserved to come back.

And. I mean. Well.

How hard could it be, really?

Cups was a Master, yes, and the Masters are lying conniving tyrants- but this was a promise it staked its life upon. A promise it gave on its deathbed. It clearly knew that Caeru could kill it, will kill it, and thus it had no reason to lie-

Cups could have brought his lover back. The Scientist knew that, intimately.

What he didn't know was how. But... well, that's alright, isn't it? He's created life before.

Lenses are arranged, corpses are arranged in a circle, their skin parted carefully with a knife. When the lenses are aligned correctly, the flesh will coalesce into the correct shape.

There are some venge-rats that dedicate themselves to a vengeance so thoroughly that there is nothing left of them but this one desire. When they die, their corpses are saturated with this emotion- but nothing else. When the Academic's machinery leaps to life (more slowly then the one at Station VIII, of course) it drains this, and leaves only withered shells in its wake. Perfect vessels.

Soon, the Knot of Tails reappears in the mirror. In its little coils of many paws, shimmering lights rest- memories. Reflections of rays of light long forgotten by the waking world.

And the false-Noman twists.

It turns.

Second by second, it looks more and more like a person.

When it looks up and smiles a shaky smile, its face is human- and two delicate flowers adorn its hair. The snow lacing its body curls like silk, the nails on its hands delicate and precise and perfect

It doesn't move, for a second. Two. Three.

And then the Rosette Yearner opens her eyes.

All he has to do is perfect the process.

The Yearner reaches a trembling hand up to her head, pursuing her lips in thoughtful silence. She blinks, slowly- once, twice. The silence is finally broken when she speaks, a trembling lilt, her words falling like petals from their stem.

"I'm alive.”

It's cold, unfeeling, distant. Like she's only talking about the weather.

Caeru's first attempt at artificial life, The False Yearner- she who would later be dubbed The Vake Yearner- is a complicated figure. Born out of an insanely long RP exchange with @superoffbatter, she is a ghost in all but name. A failed attempt to replicate a certain Scoundrel's past self, all while her makers were unaware that her and the Scoundrel were one in the same.

Except while the Scoundrel pursued ambitions of power, glory, and transformation, the Yearner ultimately took a different path. A darker path.

The Yearner stumbles over the mirror as they both exit through the window of the Royal Bethlehem. She sighs. "Where to go, now?" she whispers. "I can't stay here. I don't want to stay like this. I want to... do something."

The Silverer shrugs. "It's up to you. I suppose you could hunt the Vake if all else fails?" It's an offhandedly thrown joke, but the Yearner stops moving.

She considers it in her head. She takes a deep breath.

The Vake, huh. The Vake.

She became an avid hunter of the Neath's most infamous monster.

Her relationship with her creator is strained at best. For the most part, they've refused to acknowledge each other- they've hardly even spoken since the incident of her creation, save for a brief yet notable encounter at the Captivating Princess' last masquerade ball.

Someone steps closer to the Scientist, staring him in the eyes. The atmosphere grows colder.

It's a woman in a large fur-trimmed overcoat, with thick gloves and a staggeringly realistically furred marsh-wolf mask. The cosmogone shade of her eyes reveals her identity- the False Yearner- or, as some have taken to call her, the Vake-Yearner. The mask, now that the Scientist gives it a better look, is very obviously made from a real marsh-wolf, but the expert skill behind it... it's Snuffer-made.

The Yearner got a Snuffer to pull off a wolf's face for her. How curious.

"My other self's fiancé." she says, in a monotone. "And their pet Drownie. How curious. How droll."

The Scientist's face may be hidden behind a mask, but nothing could ever hope to conceal his alarmed blanch, the widening of his eyes, the shift of his stance- distinctly defensive, like a prey animal ready to flee at any moment.

"Yearner." his tone is one of forced detachment. "I never took you as someone who'd.. enjoy this sort of thing."

A glance to the side, where violant eyes (albeit from a distance) still gleam amidst the other invitees. Their mask is smiling, even if their lips are pulled into a wickedly fanged frown.

His mask tips downward. He doesn't retract this statement.

It ended... well. Shall we say. Poorly.

He is allowed in the scene- and witnesses the frozen corpses.

Dead, for sure, though how permanent it will be is yet to be tested. A thin layer of frost clings to their skin, and the scene is obviously filled with signs of struggle. Eight bodies, all trying to leave the room as they were cut down- all trying to escape.

Signs of a blunt instrument. Some of them were smashed against the walls, against the ground- one had both arms torn off. Frozen splatters of blood cover the walls.

The Yearner is nowhere to be seen.

The Yearner, after all, is what can best be described as an immortal and unmelting Noman, sustaining herself off of nothing but sorrow and human hearts. Her very existence is built upon blood and misery. She thrives off it. Needs it to survive, to live, to flourish.

Nobody deserves that kind of existence. Not even the Scoundrel's very own doppelganger.

But she's alive. And she did come back from some sort of death, hellish and ironic and false as it may be. It can be done.

The Scientist has done it before.

He can do it again.

He will do it again.

And so Caeru works. And works. And works.

To serve. To fix. To help. Finally, he's going to rectify his mistake, going to make everything better, going to give his lover the life he knows they deserve. This is a noble service. A noble obligation. The last attempt may have failed, but this- this cannot fail- he will not let himself fail, not again, not ever.

And nothing can stand in his way. Nothing except-

"Caeru?" a voice can be heard, knocking on the door to the Scientist's laboratory. "Are you there?"

Were one to look through the one-way glass window, they would see the Silverer, looking worried. "Where were you?" she says. "I haven't seen you all week. What has got you locked in there?" she taps again, more hurried-

-His current paramour, The Snowswept Silverer.

A loud crash echoes at the Silverer's sixth knock. Someone curses. The door slams open harsh enough to send her flinching back, the Scientist standing in the doorway with a look of pure vitriol- then, far slower than his typical reaction speed, his fury ebbs.

"Louise." his voice is gratingly hoarse, his hair tied in a half-hazard bun via a thoroughly exhausted ribbon struggling to keep the strands together (it would be a cute look, if not for the blue hue in his cheeks and the blood and dirt caking his arms). His laboratory is- cold. Blisteringly cold. He's barely even shivering, but- surely it can't be healthy, staying in there for so long-?

"I'm... working." he stresses the word as though it's an obvious and irrefutable explanation. "Can we talk in-" he looks back, "A month?" he has the audacity to pause thoughtfully. "Two?"

And thus the preamble concludes, and the pieces and players of our play all finally fall into place.

"...Caeru, I’m not stupid." Louise replies, giving him a throughly unimpressed look. "Is this yet another Yearner situation?"

The accompanying dumbfounded expression that her paramour produces would cause her some amount of delight, were this any other situation. As it is, she is simply more worried- and a fair bit annoyed, as well. "Yes, I know you were involved with her creation, somehow. You and the Academic were rather obvious about it. Whatever you've been doing inside this laboratory, Caeru, it's not nearly as discreet as you think it is. You have a budget, and whenever you ask for it to be extended or spend carelessly on a new batch of supplies, people see it happen-”

Her paramour squirms uncomfortably. She continues her rant unabated.

“-The GHR is in fact a major supplier of experimental materials for the University. As long as it's an import from the Hinterlands, I know what comes in here and what comes out. And I know for sure a certain Yearner has also been looking around your laboratory. I would have left you to your devices, but this will lead to a disaster if I don't interfere."

Her hand- which he notices is clawed- is putting quite a lot of pressure on his shoulder. "Tell me, Caeru. What have you been doing?"

He gulps. The look in her eyes is... serpentine in its wrath, even. Like a Knot who's just caught a scout from the Court of Cats intruding into its home. It's a look that demands an account.

His expression twists- regret, guilt, frustration, desperation. "Louise," he says softly, "Please, just- just give me more time. A week or two more, and- and this will all be done and over with. You'll never have to hear about it again. Please."

He tries to shy away from her hand and take a step back- it's not exactly successful, given his strength relative to hers. His hands tremble. His arms are slick and ruby red- weeping scars, never bandaged-

"I don't want to fight you." a rustle, as one hand drifts down to his pocket, so quiet as to be barely noticeable. "Please." he begs again. "Please don't make me fight you. It's not like the Yearner, it's- it's important, I can't just- please don't make me. Please."

Needless to say, things quickly go from bad to worse.

"Go ahead. Fight her." another voice, intensely recognizable, echoes through the corridor. The Scoundrel's voice- but colder. Less shrill. Less amused. "She won't leave you alone, and neither will I."

The Yearner stands there. Her feathery black dress is covered in blood- fresh. Going by the faint gurgling sounds, someone tried to block her way- and she reacted as she often does.

"I could feel something happening down here. I didn't know what it was, but it felt... important. Thank you for the confirmation that it was very important indeed." she steps forward. In her hand is a large spike of ice, the size of a sword. "Will you let me see it, Caeru? Or shall I tell your husband of what you’ve done? Of how I came to be? I still have that to hold over you, at least. I wonder if they would like to know what happened to that cufflink." the word is hissed, and she smiles in delight at the way he flinches.

(It's... so recognizable, Caeru realizes, and yet so twisted. They sound completely identical. If one were to ignore the face made of ice, they would even be able to identify the similarities- and the sharp differences. It's a little bit disquieting, to see her face. The Scoundrel does... does not make this kind of expression, even at their worst. The only kind of person who does is a certain Mr Veils. It's the sort of look only someone who delights in misery shows.)

He has no other options. No other way out.

He will not fail again. He will never let himself fail again.

A thousand possibilities run through his mind, all at once, before he can even so much as blink. The window- no. The door- terrifyingly fragile. The mirrors- if they weren't already swarming with serpents, he'd be shocked. No solution comes without violence, without- he can't lose again, he can't leave again, he-

The Scientist draws fast as a lightning bolt and shoots his paramour square in the chest, flipping the pistol and shooting a second time for good measure. The desperate scream of his apology can barely be heard over the slam of the door, the clicking of several dozen locks, the mad dash to retrieve something before what little safety he has inevitably gives way.

His prize is bundled in rags, apocyan soaking through the white cloth, pieces of shattered diamond and wood clippings scattered half-hazardly all over the floor-

Run. Run.

Thus the infamous girlfriend shooting incident. Don't worry, she gets better. For the most part.

Everyone else, well... they get substantially worse.

The Scientist acts on instinct, cradling his experiment against his chest. Not again. Never again. He turns when the door inevitably gives way and fires again, futile as it may be.

The bullet does not do much- not when the door is promptly kicked off its hinges, the locks snapping and shattering as the sheer force of the Yearner's kick propels it forward. In that moment, Caeru realizes that while the door was very secure, the frame is nothing but a few planks of wood. It wouldn't hold.

On the floor, bleeding profusely through the wound in her neck (though the ambery growths around it show it will be closing soon, whether it wants to or not), is the Silverer- who stares at the Yearner in horror. "This was not our deal." she hisses.

The Yearner shrugs. "I don't care."

And then she lunges for her prize like a woman possessed. Her eyes gleam, staring fixedly at the bundle in the Scientist's arms. "Either you tell me what that bundle is and why I feel so intensely that I need to see it, or I'll make you tell me." she purrs. "Make the choice, my dear creator.”

He desperately curls around the bundle, hugging it close enough for it to nearly bend under his grip- nearly. Whatever it is, it's sturdier than it looks.

"You can't take him." he gasps without thinking. "You can't- you can't take him, you can't hurt him, you can't-" he backs up against the wall and trembles. The weight makes him stagger with every step. When the Yearner approaches, he flinches. "You can't hurt him."

A delirious sob. The room is freezing. His skin is tinted such a vibrant shade of blue. It's a miracle he isn't already dead from hypothermia. Slowly, carefully, still keeping his gun aimed at the Yearner, his other hand pulls back part of the cloth- and the hand that dangles free is clawed and formed almost entirely from lacre.

Just like her.

"He's mine." Caeru whispers, pressing his head to the apocyan stains with equal parts guilt and adoration. "He's mine. And nobody will ever take him again."

The Silverer stumbles into the room, a gun in hand. The Yearner waves dismissively- and fractal spikes of ice erupt from the ground to block her advance. From the mirrors in the room, Fingerkings hiss and spit in fury- the Yearner should probably stay away from Parabola for a few weeks. She turns to look at the Scientist in disdain.

"Bringing back the dead." she spits. "Once again. You should know it gets you nowhere. Look at what you did before. You tried to return me to the world, when I wasn't ever real at all!" she yells. "An illusion. A dream! Delusions of high society and bohemian dreams of a waif that was never anything but a facade!" she roars, coming closer. "Who was it this time?! Tell me! Who was-”

She pauses, before smiling. It is not a nice smile. "Your lover, wasn't it? The seventh victim. Did you realize that killing Mr Cups would never return what you lost!?"

The words sting. They sting, because she doesn't know, how could she know. Her eyes are wild and mad. "Drop it. Let it go. You don't deserve to have them back.”

The Scientist chokes on a sob. He doesn't deny a word. His knees buckle- he slides down to the floor, holding the bundle like a lifeline and a precious piece of treasure, all rolled into one. "I know." his voice is calm, even with the tears sliding down his cheeks. "I don't deserve him."

He's- the Silverer recognizes the look in his eyes. He's never been more confident about anything else in the world.

"I'm not doing this for myself," the words ring slightly hollow when he's clinging to his creation on the floor, "I'm doing it for him. When Cups died, it-" his tone wavers. Caeru swallows. The despair and guilt in his voice is intoxicating, especially to a Noman standing so very close indeed.

"It begged for its life. It gave me an offer. It could bring him back, if I spared it." he looks beyond the Yearner- staring intently at a shadow on the wall, as though somehow it could stare back. "I couldn't- I couldn't, for everyone else it murdered, I couldn't-" he chokes. "I failed him. I failed him. He deserved to live, he deserved to come back- and I failed, and-"

He kicks at a spare diamond on the floor, watching it twist and freeze into place within moments of making contact with the Yearner. "I'm fixing it. I'm fixing him."

A kiss to his prize. To his magnum opus. His eyes stay fixed on it- nothing matters so long as it is in his arms. "I'm serving him. I'm fixing him."

🐈💙🐺

"No." the Yearner snarls. "No, you're not fixing him. I'll be the one doing that. Give him to me!"

She moves before he can say a word. Only a Licenciate's instincts save his head from being separated from its shoulders by a sharpened spike of ice. He dives out of the way of a furious flurry of stabs, and stumbles to keep hold of his prize- only to see the Yearner tear off her dress in front of him.

He blinks in disbelief before seeing it- connected to her body are numerous pulsating hearts. The blood vessels tear holes in the thin shirt she wore underneath, and wet the fabric in frozen blood. Nourishing her as they draw ever closer to death. How many people have been killed- perhaps permanently- to sustain her existence?

She grins wickedly, cosmogone eyes shining with Parabolan light. "You won't bring him back. Cups wouldn't have done it either, I'm sure. The Masters have experience with bringing the dead back- done it five times now. But it never works, not really, does it?" she spits out the words. "You don't know what it's like. To live knowing you are a failure. A failed attempt to bring someone ELSE back!? Do you want him to live like this, you bastard?! Give him to me. I'll give him life- his own life! He doesn't deserve to be the monument to your vanity!”

🐈💙🐺 🔫⛄

“You barely know how-" the Scientist curses and ducks around another flurry, flailing in a desperate attempt to keep his 'lover' close. He ducks and weaves around the room with expert precision- but his movements are more than slightly hindered by the weight of a corpse larger than he is tall. That... no, that can't be right-

"He won't be a failure." Caeru spits back, pressed against the spikes still binding the Silverer- can't she hear, some part of his mind wonders? What does she think of him? Of what he's done?

He gasps for air that comes stiff and frozen solid. His pistol is long-since discarded- useless, now, but he can't help looking at it and swallowing down his guilt. All the more reason to throw himself down the nearest well, really. At least it's worth it. At least he's worth it. At least it'll all be over soon.

"He's not finished, he's not fixed yet-" he dives away from yet another attempt to spear him in the head. "Do you really think I'd attempt the same experiment twice without learning from my mistakes?! He'll be better. He'll be- he'll be different. He'll be everything." he sounds utterly delirious. "He'll be everything you were meant to be."

The Yearner hisses- and her blade moves for the Scientist's neck with unbelievable speed. There will be no dodging this one. Encumbered as he is, he has to drop the bundle if he wants to dodge- and that he will never do. He closes his eyes-

And only opens them a second later, after the sound of flesh being cleaved resounds. He is- he is not on the slow boat. He sees the Silverer before him, blocking the Yearner's blade with her own arm. A steady trickle of blood is falling from the grievous-looking wound- the cut was such that it exposed the bone.

"Oh, hello. Does it hurt?" the Yearner remarks.

"Not... at all." the Silverer scoffs.

"What if I do this?"

The Noman wriggles her arm and the blade twitches on the spot it's stuck on. The Silverer yelps and wrenches herself free, before falling. There are holes torn all over her legs- even the Shapeling Arts couldn't hold back the blood loss indefinitely. She collapses, overwhelmed by pain. The sound that emerges from the Scientist's throat is one of near-inhuman agony.

For no reason in particular: Did you know Caeru's biggest fear is watching his loved ones die in front of him (especially while he's unable to save them?)

The Yearner laughs. "Guess it's just the two of us again. Now, hand it over. Or I'll tear your arms off.”

Caeru drops the bundle without thinking, kneeling over the Silverer and cradling her in his arms, barely acknowledging the Yearner's presence. Louise's name is all but chanted under his breath- he struggles to breathe. Blood soaks through his coat. Her head is held close against his heart. His hands scramble to stop the bleeding, to fix her, to save her, to- to-

His head darts up as the Yearner takes a step towards the bundle. His eyes are wide. An utterly distraught sob. He doesn't stop her. He only turns back to his (still living) paramour and desperately tries to keep her that way.

"Idiot." he mumbles into the Silverer's hair, still on the verge of delirium. "You didn't need to- you didn't-"

And thus, the Yearner wins this round. But the story isn't over quite yet.

He looks back just long enough to glare up at the Yearner. He spits. "I should've fed you to the Knot of Tails when I had the chance."

"You should have." the Yearner nods. "I agree on that, now."

She kicks the Scientist square in the jaw. Her delicate shoe goes flying off into the distance, and she leaps for the bundle. Before the Scientist can recover from his daze, she rips the cloth around it, and then her arm moves for one of the hearts in her chest- tearing it off in one clean motion. Blood- deathly cold- sprays everywhere. She shoves the heart into the chest of the Scientist's project, and it- horror of horrors- twitches. It opens its eyes, and gasps- before once again falling into utter silence.

"It worked." she grins. "That's what it needs, right? Life. You've been working with mountain-sherds, trying to breathe life into it- but you don't know anything. You don't know what you are doing, you've been getting nowhere. Your love needs life to come back. Life has to come from somewhere."

The many hearts on her body twitch and wriggle as she turns to leave, the body still in her hands, bathing her in apocyan light. "Don't worry. I have a lot of life to give."

She runs off, and Caeru can see-

The body is half-lacre, half-skeletal, and all mannequin. A horror of sable wood casings enveloping the lacre beneath like a shield, virtually impossible to separate without ripping it all apart. His chest is exposed just enough to betray the underlying array of cracked ribs, and inside lays a diamond shining brilliant apocyan. The light floods his body and leaks freely out of an exposed, half-finished eyesocket.

He's sturdier than the Yearner, clearly. Built to last. Built to survive. Not an accident, like she was, but something else entirely. He shudders, white hair flowing in waves down to her feet- his hands dig into her shoulders on instinct.

He meets Caeru’s eyes. He doesn't say a word.

Caeru watches them go, and tries not to scream. He fails spectacularly.

He stumbles to his feet, still cradling his paramour- he takes one step after them, then sobs. The Silverer twitches in his arms. His mind races.

If he leaves her, if he fails again, if he-

He turns tail and shoves coils of hissing Fingerkings aside, ducking into Parabola as the Yearner escapes. He'll regroup, he swears, he'll come back, he'll fix this, he'll fix everything, he'll-

He sets his paramour down and frantically sets about bandaging her wounds. The past can wait. He only has one Louise.

"I love you." he whispers uselessly. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry-"

The Scientist's involvement in this tale ends here- left with many regrets, many things to answer for, and many wounds to try and heal.

Some, he succeeds at. Others, he does not.

But this was never about him in particular.

Far away is the Yearner, retreating to a lair in the swamps. A knock on the door, two knocks- and the Scarred Naturalist looks at her in disbelief. "What on earth is that?"

She enters, and places the body on the dining table without a word, knocking wooden plates and silverware (a strange contrast, indeed) aside. The body twitches, the sole heart connected to its chest pulsating madly as it slowly but surely withers into nothing. Her hand hovers over a cracked rib.

"We'll have to find replacements." she whispers.

The Naturalist shrugs. He doesn't know what this is all about, but he supports her interests, as always. He finds the Yearner is a surprisingly good influence on his master. Why, the master of silks has been startingly cheery since they've started their rivalry. "The swamp will provide," he notes. "Plenty of bodies around.

The Yearner nods. "Tell Veils I'm calling in that favour, too. It can provide far better materials than that fool of a scientist could. Ask it for wood- sturdy. Elder Continent- something that soaks in the light of the Mountain." she pauses. "Keep him safe. The box of hearts is under my bed- feed one to him every hour. I'll be leaving. I believe Fires had a shipment of apocyan lanterns sent over to Varchas? Surely nobody will notice if I take one..”

She takes a heavy coat, and steps out of the shack. She has a mission.

-

The body does not move for... quite some time. It merely stares up at the ceiling in idle bafflement, digging its claws into the table. It opens its mouth. All that emerges is a sickening click-

He closes his mouth. The heart shudders, and he goes with it. He rolls to his left and spends minutes on end staring at his hands in open fascination- another click.

He twists the joints on his fingers. He lifts his head, and while he may not have proper eyes- the empty stare of his eyesocket and the sickening glow of the apocyan leaking from his face is nothing short of disturbing.

He watches at the Naturalist for a long moment. Another click, as he opens his mouth, and then closes it. A claw unwisely pokes around the heart on his chest, another hand gesturing vaguely to the house around it. Finally, it manages to croak in a low rumble, like an oncoming storm- "Where?"

The Naturalist raises an eyebrow. "Bugsby's Marshes." at the confused look he gets back, he raises it further. "Watchmaker's Hill?" a pause. "The Fifth City, Fallen London? The Neath?" he chuckles. "My my. You're quite uninformed. I suppose it's just fair..."

He walks over to a cabinet, and takes out- is that skin? Human skin. A face. "You've just been born, haven't you?" He offers the face. It's fair-skinned and pudgy. He grins devilishly. "Perhaps a trip to the city would alert your senses."

(The Yearner didn't say he had to stay in the cabin. Just that he had to be kept safe- and that he needed the hearts.)

The Naturalist looks at the homunculus in front of him expectantly, and smiles again. It's not a nice smile.

The body's own face is carved from wood, and thus, cannot blanch- but its face certainly does scrunch up in noticeable revulsion. "No thank you." he says quickly, practically shoving it away. "I'm," he pauses, "Not, hungry?"

He reaches up- the heart beats faster. His finger dips into his eye. He could swallow, if he knew how. He sits up and stares down at his own body in obvious bafflement.

London. He's in London. In... what was it? Bugsby's Hill? This must be a dream.

He slides off the table, trips over his own hair, and falls facefirst onto the ground with a loud thud. A very strange dream indeed.

"...a trip would be appreciated, thank you..." oddly polite, for a newborn homunculus. If a bit laughable.

"My, you're clearly not fine." the Naturalist says. "And you can't go out like this, either way. I'll find you a suit. I have... one." the fact it belonged to someone the Yearner had hunted and killed probably doesn't matter. "Hm. But it's not your size. Maybe..."

He leaves the room to fetch something while the homunculus twitches on the ground. The body practically claws his way up to the wall as he tries once more to get his footing. 'Practically', of course, meaning 'leaves stark grooves in the wallpaper as though he was a particularly rambunctious kitten'.

Finally, the Naturalist returns with a cloak- torn in several places and repaired with careful carelessness. A trophy of war, a legendarily expensive article of clothing torn from the body of a Master and carefully, extensively defaced. Reworked and remade. He offers it.

"Thank you." a stiff sigh as he wraps the cloak around himself, tugging the hood over his head without a second thought. The illusion of anonymity is only slightly marred by the apocyan glow and uncomfortable resemblance to a Master of the Bazaar.

One hesitant step, then another. One more, for good measure. The homunculus looms above the Naturalist, voice rattling like gravel. "Who did you say you were..?" he looks at the door. "You and that- ah. Ice...? Ice. Woman. With the. Eyes." his tone reeks of disbelief.

"Quite tall..." the Scarred Naturalist mutters. "Ah, well. I am a Scarred Naturalist, just a humble scholar living here after my... let us call it an involuntary exile from academia. Unfortunately, prejudice tends to get in the way of scientific advancement... no matter." he coughs. "My associate is the Yearner, a hunter living on the marshes in search of a particularly elusive beast. She brought you here. Given by your state you must have been in quite a situation! Do you remember anything in particular? Have you an address to return to, perhaps?"

The body tilts his head roughly 45 degrees and ponders for a moment. "I run an inn," he looks up, vain as it may be, "Quite far from here. My, ahem, business partner- last I recall, I was bidding him farewell for the morning..."

He trails off and stares into space, not lost in any specific memory, but simply caught in a wave of utter bafflement at the holes in his own mind. "Next I remember, I was carried here by the Yearner. And now I look like-"

He stops, and raises a hand once again. The lacre coats his palms- fresh, vulnerable spots where his mannequin-like casing has not yet been applied. The apocyan dims. "-Like, this." he stands in silence for a long minute. His gaze, though unreadable, is inevitably drawn back to the face- the. Face.

He takes a step back. "Well! Now that I think about it! I really must be going!" he spins on his feet and twists the doorknob with forced cheer, barely able to keep the tremors out of his voice. "It was lovely meeting you, I'm quite grateful for your assistance, tell your associate she's a delight, but if you can just direct me to the nearest path back upwards-?"

He smiles. His mouth is full of uneven, half-formed teeth. "I'd hate to take up too much of your time. I'm sure you're busy doing... busy marsh things."

"Upwards...?" the Naturalist mutters. There's a grudge here. "Never been upwards." he says, too low for the homunculus to hear at all. "Not like they'd take us. The sun hates us more then Stone does. No, no path upwards for me…”

He composes himself, and gives his conversation partner an amused look. "I am loath to inform you, but there is no path upwards. Have you seen yourself, young man? The sun would scour you utterly. To ashes. It does not take kindly to Neathy things- and perhaps you should take a look at yourself? Thoroughly Neathy, that body of yours."

He reveals a mirror, and on it, the cloaked shadow can finally see his face. He tugs down his hood and stares. He's quiet for a time. A trembling hand caresses his cheek (hollow and wooden and false), then scratches at his beard (snow-white and soft as silk), then traces along his scars (carved deliberately and carefully into his face, as though replicating something that was already there).

The Naturalist continues, regardless of his guest's confusion. He sounds quite amused by the whole affair. "Do not worry. I am sure my roommate could not let you go without a shelter for the night- and when you wake up, Penstock's Land Agency will be ready and waiting. We could find you a home here- and perhaps arrange for mail to the Cumaean Canal? I'm sure that ‘business partner’ of yours might have explanations for what happened- and for these apparent gaps in your memory."

A soft sound escapes the body's mouth, indecipherable. He brings a hand up to the apocyan-lit hole in his left eye- and flinches on instinct when his claws dip into it with ease. "Thoroughly..."

There's awe, yes. Horror, most certainly. A hint of amazement. Most of all, complete and utter bafflement.

"But- I have people to get back to, I can't just-" he blinks. "Mail... that. Would be appreciated, yes. Thank you kindly." he looks back at the door. Without speaking, he steps outside- and stops, staring up at the false stars in open awe.

One tentative step, then another. He marvels at the world like a newborn babe.

"What is this?" he doesn't particularly expect an answer. "What... am I?"

The city is alive. Even at this hour, Watchmaker's Hill bustles with activity.

The Starved Embassy's ambered glow and the visitors from the Roof who walk the streets, the Clay Men who pass in stoic silence- the hawkers, the conmen offering rostygold for whoever beats them at arm-wrestling (hiding brass tacks between their fingers as they brag about their prowess), the marksmanship competitions for prizes of jade! The scholars debating the nature of the stars, taking blind steps towards the observatories. The criers announce Feducci's fighting rings, the chittering of surprisingly articulate insects and the growling of the marsh-beasts.

Fallen London stands before the Shadow in all its glory, this strange and wild city of a thousand stories. It gazes at him with mirth.

The Shadow gazes back.

He tugs up his hood and strolls along in absolute wonder- his hand dwarfs a wrestler's own as he pins their arm with ease, barely noticing tacks against wooden 'skin'. His voice is eager and enthralled as astronomers entertain each and every one of his questions about the 'stars' in the 'sky'. A sorrow spider creeps up his elbow- he plucks it by the leg and dangles it in front of his eyes. A half-hearted smile. It disappears into his cloak, and does not return.

Everyone gives him a wide berth, but if this bothers him, he doesn't voice it. This must be a dream- it is a dream, surely, but even so, there's no harm in enjoying it while it lasts.

He'll wake up eventually. He'll see his partner eventually.

Anxiety dies as he stops on the edge of a hill and gazes up at the firmament. London's invitation is easy to accept- after all, in a city of a thousand stories, surely an explanation lies within one.

Barely glancing at the Naturalist behind him, he wanders off into London's heart. Lacre trails in his wake.

It's a beautiful day to be alive.

[e-jewel]

"Bishop to G7" and "A Sermon for Everyone Else"

My submissions for the @fallenlondonficswap secret swap for @superoffbatter

So, funny story. Originally I was struggling a little bit to figure out what to write because Mr. Veils, Fingerkings, Fiacre's, and the Church in the Wild all fall outside my area of expertise when it comes to this game. I was familiar with them, just not quite familiar enough to be confident in writing about any of them. So I did some research and some brainstorming, and eventually came up with something I thought was pretty fun. Aaand I got about halfway through writing that story when this month's ES came out. And Fiacre's was in it. And I was immediately struck with inspiration for something entirely unrelated to my first idea to write about the Bishop. But I also didn't want to completely abandon my other story. So I ended up writing both! Here they are, hopefully at least one'll be to your liking

Bishop to G7

Word Count: 1890

Spoilers: Bag a Legend, Railway

Summary: On his weekly train ride to Burrow-Infra-Mump, the Bishop of Saint Fiacre's receives advice from an unexpected source

The Bishop of Saint Fiacre’s gazed drearily out the window as the train sped along to his destination. It was not that he wasn’t looking forward to giving his weekly sermon at the newly established Church in the Wild, in fact he quite enjoyed the variety that the difference in doctrine added to his otherwise familiar routine. Rather, it was the location of this new chapel that he found somewhat… drab. The “Hinterlands” as Londoners had taken to calling them were composed entirely of barren wastelands followed by small villages of esoteric outcasts followed by more wasteland. While the Bishop was himself a city man, and had been nearly as long as the Bazaar had been dragging them down to the Neath, he did at least feel some kinship with the outsider civilizations scattered across the Hinterlands. He himself had had millenia to work on and refine his identity, and yet still he faced hardships almost on the daily in London on account of what he was. So, perhaps visiting one of those enclaves wouldn’t be so bad, except, The Bishop wasn’t visiting an enclave. Or a town, or a village, or anything of the sort. No, for some reason when faced with the two parts of the Hinterland, rather than found their new Church in the “civilization” half, they chose to found it in the “barren wasteland” half. A baffling decision if you were to ask The Bishop, but then again they knew the Director well and knew that they could often be a baffling person, and not always in a bad way. For example, the recent outcome of the ordeal with The Youthful Naturalist and his studies had initially shocked him, but upon reflection the outcome that was reached certainly has the potential to be wondrous. If the Naturalist and Director continue to play their cards right, that is. 

The Bishop’s thought process was interrupted as the train horn blared loudly and the vehicle rolled to a stop. Soon after he heard the conductor shouting 

“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to Station VIII, where Masters and Mysteries await! If you’re getting off here I hope you have a lovely rest of your day, and for everyone else we’ll be departing for Burrow-Infra-Mump here in just 15 minutes!”

The Bishop sighed and laid his head down on the table in front of him. Just one more stop, he thought to himself. One more stop and he can finally actually do the thing that makes this whole trip worth it. Perhaps rehearsing his sermon one more time would pass the remaining few hours till he arrived at Burrow. But, just as the Bishop was retrieving his notes from his coat, a large burly figure obscured in a flowing and silky robe appeared outside his booth.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

The Bishop immediately recognized that it was a Master. Specifically, the fine material the robe was made of would suggest this was the greatly feared Mr. Veils. And it was… asking to sit with him? Intrigued, The Bishop maintained his cool and responded with a simple

“No. It’s all yours.”

The hulking figure made its way into the seat across from the Bishop, lowering itself slowly onto the bench so as not to snap it in half with the force of its weight. Then, for a long while, the two sat in silence. The Bishop calmly reviewed his notes, trying to ignore the imposing presence of his seatmate, while Veils only stared directly ahead of itself, watching the Bishop intently. Eventually though, after the train was over halfway to Burrow, the silence was broken by Veils’ shrill voice. 

“You are giving a sermon today, Yes?” 

The Bishop looked up, startled, as he’d just nearly managed to succeed in forgetting Veils was there. But still he did not show this fright to Veils yet, he was not a fool after all.

“Yes I am. Why? Will you be attending?”

Veils let out what the Bishop could only assume was a laugh, but really more resembled a scream. He frowned, uncertain why Veils found his simple question so uproarious. The Bishop was not one to assume that anyone’s relative interest in attending Church, be they human or otherwise, and Veils was no exception to that. So the Bishop simply sat stoic and impatient, waiting for Veils to finish with its laughing fit and answer his question. Eventually, Veils recovered from whatever it found so humorous and replied

“No no my dear Bishop. I’m terribly sorry but I am rather busy and have no time to engage in such petty mortal things as religion, truly it is commendable that you yourself make time to do so. But that is precisely why I’ve sought you out. As I said, as skilled as I am in the art of persuasion, religion is not my forte, but it is yours. And today, there will be a number of… people of importance in attendance at your sermon, so I’ve simply come to ask what it is you’ll be speaking about.”

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed. This was clearly Veils the Intriguer, as some had taken to calling it, and was not someone to be dealt with lightly. Where other times Veils might tear you to shreds physically, when it got like this it was known to rend you in a psychological and political manner, moving the chessboard’s pieces with skill and ruthlessness not seen in some of the greatest agents of the Game. Luckily though, The Bishop did not seem to be the target of its current hunt, rather it was these “people of importance” that would be attending his sermon that Veils was after. Knowing this, and hearing the question implied by the end of Veils’ statement of “and what will they be hearing?”, the Bishop responded by saying

“It is funny you should ask that, as I myself have been struggling with finding the answer. I am not used to preaching with this doctrine, or to these people. It is beginning to feel like I’m trying to navigate through a maze without my eyes. Since you bring it up, and you seem to know the people who will be there, would you perhaps be able to assist me with some guidance?”

This was largely true. Despite having worked with it for some time now the Bishop was less familiar with the ideals and practices of the Church in the Wild and did often struggle to create sermons that felt as impactful as his usual ones. That being said though, on this particular week he had had a sermon planned which he was rather proud of and felt would truly connect with the congregation, but considering the circumstances he figured he could simply use that one next week and for now he should attempt to play to the desires of great power sitting before him. That great power was currently chuckling, pleased that the Bishop was so quick to play into its hand.

“Well my good sir, I am in fact intimately familiar with your guests this week, yes, so I suppose I could make a few speculations as to what they’d want to hear, if that would be to your pleasure.”

The BIshop turned his notes around and removed a pen from his pocket before looking to Veils, imploring it to continue. Veils grinned with a disgustingly human grin and said.

“There is a concept of which the two of us are intimately aware, dear Bishop: the many sides of a singular coin. In any given individual, countless personas and continuities can be found, coming together to form a singular ‘person’. I wonder then, if you wouldn’t be particularly well suited to bring that perspective to the Burrow Church? If I understand correctly it is quite relevant to the doctrine, to teach that a person needn’t be so rigid as to align oneself with a particular faith and cast out all others and, indeed, that same logic can be applied to a great multitude of things? That is to say, if you ask me, I’d wager a lesson in fluidity and flexibility could prove most fortuitous for you and the members of your congregation.” 

The Bishop finished jotting down what Veils had said and then sat there, stunned. That was all… remarkably good. He did know what it was like to wear many faces and still be one person, and that was very relevant to the beliefs of the Church in the Wild. He had expected some thinly veiled (no pun intended) political scheme that he’d have to bend over backward trying to work into a sermon, but he found himself quite liking what Veils had suggested.

Just then, the train slowed to a stop and the conductor could be heard once again.

“Ladies and Gentleman we’ve now arrived at Burrow-Infra-Mump! All those seeking saintly salvation, this is your time to get off! Everyone else, our next stop is Moulin and we’ll be leaving in 15 minutes. That's all for now; enjoy your day folks!”

The Bishop’s head snapped towards the window, surprised to see the large hill that the Burrow Church resided on directly outside it. Were they really there already? He could have sworn there was at least an hour left in their trip when Veils started their conversation. Unfortunately, before the Bishop could further ponder this apparent time skip, Veils spoke once more

“This is your stop, yes? I do hope your sermon goes well, and that you take my advice into consideration. While I won’t be attending nor getting off here, I have business further down the line, I am… truly glad that I could help you in your time of need.”

Its last sentence was punctuated with that same inhumanely human smile it had before, and for a moment the Bishop flinched ever so slightly, expecting an attack, but none came. The Bishop then gave his own small smile to Veils in return as a farewell, before quickly gathering his notes and making his way off the train. As he began his long walk up the hill towards the Church, he wondered if what he was about to do was really a good idea. Often the goals of the Masters were not aligned with the goals of the denizens of the Neath, and Veils in particular had a reputation of something of a sadist. On the other hand, by that same reasoning it likely wouldn’t be wise for the Bishop to directly contradict its desires lest he find that bloodlust taken out on him instead of its original target. And anyways, the more he thought on it the more he genuinely came to quite like the topic Veils had suggested he use. Something about it just… spoke to his very soul.

Meanwhile, as the train pulled away from the bottom of the hill, one of its passengers sat wearing a horrific smile which was growing ever wider. It wondered who would actually be in the Church with the Bishop; if there would actually be anyone of note or if it would be the same dirty nomads of the hinterland it always was? It didn’t trouble itself with that thought too much though, as really it couldn’t matter less. It had done what it came to do. The Bishop was now in place, and as Burrow-Infra-Mump became nothing but a speck on the horizon Mr. Veils whispered to itself “Checkmate.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Sermon for Everyone Else

Word Count: 668

Spoilers: Death and Tax Evasion

Summary: After the death of the Scabby Layrat at the Hands of the Oft-Offed Revenuer, the Bishop of Saint Fiacre's delivers a sermon at the rodent's funeral

“Hello, everyone. I would like to thank you all for gathering here today for someone whom many of you likely wouldn’t usually gather for. But this is a day to question that fact. A day to ask ourselves, why do we not mourn our fallen rat brethren just as we mourn our fallen man? Why has it taken the death of this poor Layrat, who wished nothing more than for us to accept him the very same way our loving God would and then died for that wish, for us to see the truth that we were blinded to? The fact is, my friends, we live in a time that is not the age of man. It is a time far different, stranger, and more diverse than the ones depicted in any holy text we read. And for too long now we have clung to these texts as tight as we could, making only the most undeniable of adjustments and remaining willfully ignorant of all else. But no more I say. No more do we choose to exclude the intelligent and compassionate beings around us from holding the same holy love that we do. No more do we insist that people are the only true children of God which all others should serve. We need to accept that these new beings are just as loved by God as we are, and I truly hope that this sermon can begin to make that change. As stated, it is a tragedy that it was not until an innocent had died that I came to help fight this issue, but it is a tragedy I will not allow again. Truthfully, on the very same day this rodent’s shining eyes sparkled for the last time, I was approached by the Archbishop of St. Algernon’s. He pleaded with me to request a synod, to begin the process of recognising the rats in the Bible and in the Church. Regrettably, he approached me whilst I was giving a sermon, and I became afraid. I was afraid of what associating with rats would do to my reputation, afraid that my congregation would no longer listen to me, and so I said no. That is something that will now haunt me to my grave. Knowing that a simple yes likely would have saved this young life from being extinguished in so awful a way, well, it is a sin that I can only pray has been forgiven by his now immortal soul, and it is something I will never stop trying to make up for. Starting with this: my sermon for everyone else. This is not a sermon for you who attend my church every Sunday, who attend balls on Saturdays and palaces on Fridays, this is a sermon for the drunkard, for the Rubbery Man, for the Rattus Faber, for the Cousin, for the Master, for the Drownie, and for all others who are intelligent, kind, and curious to know the word of God but have been told for some reason in the past that they cannot. My new friends,  Wish to assure you this: you will not suffer the fate of the Layrat. From this point on, should you ever approach the door of a church, any church at all, you will be welcomed in with open arms. We will sing with our hymns, say with you our prayers, and love with you our God. Perhaps this is merely me assuaging my own guilt, but our faith decrees that everything happens according to God's plan. Thus, I can only assume that this loss was itself an answer to the Layrat’s prayers for unity, a sacrifice he has made for the future of all those like him and all those not like him and all those not like anyone at all. And we cannot let that sacrifice be in vain. So, we will now commence the burial of the good Saint Rodere, the Patron Saint of Everyone Else. May he smile down on us indefinitely.”

[xanofmercia]

true and good information, but @superoffbatter on the unlikely chance you’re also curious about those games independently of how they relate to Fallen London, OP has recommended Masks multiple times for a particular purpose, meaning the game does do its hero kids premise well.

Personally I really loved Bluebeard’s Bride and I think it’s done VERY well. It’s PbtA, and the players play as different aspects of one person, sharing their body with one of them making the choices for them all (this role shifts over time, and the person playing it tends to take the most damage). You’re playing as the most recent peasant girl to marry Bluebeard, so it’s gothic horror with a LOT of exploration of period-typical misogyny, powerlessness, ghostly things, gaslighting, classism, etc. The game also assumes that you’ll be playing with body horror, antagonistic supernatural beings, and bridal themes like marriage and childbirth; you can avoid it in your own play with safety tools, but just so you know that’s what the premise entails; your mileage may vary!

Urban Shadows is good from what I can tell, but I haven’t actually played it yet. Fate is a classic and it’s very fun. It’s also commonly recommended by OP, though, again, that depends on what it is you’re planning to play.

Unfortunately I don’t have firsthand knowledge on any of the other games, but I know someone who enjoyed playing the TTRPG version of ROOT, and I’ve heard good things about Our Last Best Hope.

Magpie Games was recently announced to make a Fallen London TTRPG, so I'd like to ask if you know anything about their previous games and/or track record (Avatar, Masks, Bluebeard's Bride...) and so

Mapgie Games is a publishing company. Games published under their imprint aren't necessarily actually designed by the same people – Avatar Legends and Bluebeard's Bride, for example, have no members of their respective development teams in common. I'm inclined to reserve my expectations regarding the Fallen London adaptation until it's been disclosed who's actually writing the thing!

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

Based on the previous primarch-raised-by-harlequins post, would Harlequins (or Cegorach himself) be good parents? They would be miles better then Emps for sure, but that's a low bar to clear.

You’d be looking at similar levels of manipulation, but it would be very upfront. The strength of Cegorach-brand tricksiness is that he always has an obtainable series of goals for you in mind, and your path will result in the furthering of his agenda, and that, when you die, he WILL fight to protect your soul. So... would he be a better parent? I’m unsure. Harlequins seem pretty content to be doing what they’re doing, and unlike with Astartes, there’s no apparent brainwashing required, and there’s definitely a lot of trust between the Harlequins and Cegorach.

I think, if nothing else, Cegorach would be more open about what he wanted from you and why, and there’d be, ironically, less showboating about it all... from the giant clown god.

Harlequins themselves seem to be pretty good with kids, too. It’d be a weird family, but a supportive one, I think. So take that answer as you will.

[txttletale]

reverse unpopular opinion: stellaris

stellaris really showcases the upsides of paradox' business model. even if you never ever touch one of the dlc the base game has been utterly transformed for the better through free updates. the custodian team is a fgantrastic idea that has made the game measurably much better and i wish every paradox game would adopt that model

[cerastes]

Could Mechanist defeat Reserve Team A6?

One of the few entities in Terra capable of doing so.

As discussed previously, Reserve Team A6 works on slapstick rules: They could defeat Patriot simply because it would be funny if they did, and they can only be decisively defeated if it would be humorous or ironic in a humorous way. Mechanist has a rare property, however, that renders him fully immune to any Doctor Slump or Ed Edd and Eddy-class shenanigan. He simply Refuses To Participate.

Essentially, Mechanist is immune to The Bit. It's like his Fate passive ability: The same way Cu has protection from projectiles, Mechanist has protection from The Bit, but to an even more absolute level. He simply is water midst The Bit's oil, passing through untouched and completely distinct from it. If an anvil were to fall on Mechanist as he was crossing the street, courtesy of Catapult, he could dodge it, regardless of whether it's funny for him to do so or not. If Popukar paints a tunnel on a brick wall and then attempts to escape into it, it would work if it were Patriot, who would then splat himself flat against it in pursuit, but she simply could not go into the tunnel if her pursuer were Mechanist, because it's not a tunnel, it's a painting of a tunnel. If Midnight were to leave a huge black circular bomb at Patriot's feet, his eyes would bulge out dramatically before it explodes in a pastel big bang of orange, red and yellow, and he'd be a pile of ash with eyes for the reminder of the scene until he sweeps himself into a tray with a broom and regains his Wendigo form, but Mechanist would simply put the fuse out.

It just wouldn't work, bud. Just like Ho'olheyak is the hard counter to Muelsyse due to her being able to manipulate the air around water molecules, Mechanist is the A6 hard counter due to simply existing outside of The Bit.

[schnozzbun-art]

How do you think Brad's companions tie in to his story? As in, how do their specific stories parallel his own?

Now here's an interesting one. 🤔 That's fascinating: viewing Painful’s party members through the paradigm of how they represent different facets of Brad’s repressed psyche. Very much more of a ✨ Literary™ ✨ death-of-the-author analysis of the game, but it definitely makes me stop and think.

It’s got legs to stand on for sure. Mad Dog, Birdie, and Olan are canonically fathers, and all were neglectful or abusive in various ways (feels like an understatement to call Mad Dog abusive fkjadh yeah, you know what, if you kill your son, hot take but, you’re an abuser. YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS!) and you can draw clear lines between Brad’s own struggles and failure at being a good father to Buddy. Terry I’ve always seen as representing Brad’s humanity (something that’s very difficult to keep in a wasteland where no good deed goes unpunished and being a nice person often means putting yourself in harm’s way). I could see a galaxy brain analysis of Queen Roger representing Brad’s repressed queerness, as that’s also a common hc with Brad.

I think overall DL was going for the party members representing different models/stereotypes of manhood/masculinity through very stereotyped characters, but hey there’s enough of them that if you went through the effort you could probably find some common thread between each one and Brad if you thought hard enough. That’s why analysis is fun, babey! I’d be interesting to hear other people's thoughts on this.

[thegreatyin]

So what's Candlegirl Caeru up to now?

it depends.

hey @superoffbatter, on a scale of one to ten, how likely and how long is louise inclined to keep caeru on a metaphorical leash like a big snakegirl-shaped puppy with abandonment issues that will start chewing the walls if left alone for too long?

[txttletale]

hey do you think Cori-Steel Cutter deserves a ban at this point?

i mean objectively speaking probably yeah every tournament top 8 is now 5 cutter decks and 3 off-meta decks t hat specifically counter cutter. But honestly i like stnadard a lot more now because the cutter decks have completely annihilated domain which i find infinitely less fun to play against so i personally hope it doesn't get one lol

[txttletale]

thoughts on duskmourn so far

i like it :) it's not as good as bloomburrow but also i'm not sure anything is. i think duskmourn suffers from the fact that imo it is quite mechanically unclear and murky -- the problem with leaning so heavily into flavouring abilities and putting such a big focus on their fiction 'e.g. unlocking rooms' is that when something doesn't match it's really noticeable. manifest dread plays okay but the name is really clunky and awkward when 'cloak' was three sets ago, the rooms feel stretched to breaking point--some of their effects just seem so detached from their flavour and speaking of the flavour there's a lot of very dubious rooms. what the fuck is a 'weight room' or a 'mirror room'.

also and this is a comparatively minor thing but it's been driving me crazy: the 'fear of' creatures are really bad because similar to rooms i think they ran out of real fears. some of them are like 'fear of falling' 'fear of isolation' 'fear of the dark' and it's like okay. those are real fears. 'fear of missing out' makes me cringeand is also stupid, despite the word 'fear' being in FOMO it's obviously not a fear in the horror movie sense! what the fuck is a FOMO elemental going to do, go out with your friends on a night you're busy? silly. but the one that gets me the most is 'fear of burning alive'. that's not a fucking fear guys. or like it is but it's not a distinct and personal fear like 'abduction' or 'infinity' or even 'losing teeth' -- everyone's fuckling afraid of burning alive, that's normal! 'fear of fire' would have made sense but 'fear of burning alive' might as well be 'fear of being killed to death horribly'.

that said i do love the aesthetics i love the beasties and overlords especially they are all killer designs. i like introducing modern technology levels and aesthetics to mtg i think it's badass i would take a million more ostentatiously 80s themed sets over seeing one more Fucking elf on a card ever again. i am mixed on the overt references which are sometimes very fun and cute and sometimes just feel too 'rejected player one theme song' but i really love the stupid tropey stuff that plays with the tropes and aesthetics without just being a specific movie, lke 'meathook massacre 2'. i like the level of commitment and the number of cards that feel like cheesy stupid horror movie monsters. i l;ove the card art gimmick where some printings have a Scary Getter. like it just commits hard enough to the dumb genre shit to sell it to me

anyway overall it's a good set and leaps ahead of the fucking awful OTJ and MKM but it's still a step down from bloomburrow. oh bloomburrow my beloved

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do you think Monstrous Rage deserves a ban on Standard

only if beans goes too

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How's magic the gatheringed foundations treating you so far

whips ass