#ttrpg writing

[ghostofcinders]

They Came from the Cyclops's Cave!

The first game I've ever pitched and developed is out!

They Came from the Cyclops's Cave! is a game of fantasy cinematic adventure. Part of the They Came From series by Onyx Path Publishing, Cyclops's Cave is completely standalone, an awesome game covering fantasy in all its shapes.

Each They Came From is a love letter to a given movie/media genre zeitgeist, and I pitched Cyclops's Cave to be unique and do the whole fantasy genre. It allows to play from Harryhausen movies to The Lord of the Rings, passing through Xena, Ladyhawke, He-Man, Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, The Black Cauldron, and Dragonheart.

Seriously, I can't overstate how much range this game has. Like, it *technically* covers TV shows and movies from the 40s to the 90s, but I am who I am, so you'll find nods to Adventure Time, Zelda, She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, and many more in here. Of course you will, this game's my baby, and I wanted it to commit to fantasy at its fullest.

Here you'll find:

- Tools to create your own heroes, be them warriors, gorgons, pixies, slimes, or mimics

- Cinematic powers that replicate movie beats.

- A vast collection of antagonists and creatures.

- Two ready-made scenarios.

...and much more!

Seriously, I love They Came From, how it combines comedy and devotion to media at the table through honest love. This baby of mine is the result of so much hard work, done by a team of awesome people who poured their love for the project into all pages.

Please consider checking it out! That would mean the world to me.

(Also: Cyclops's Cave is the foundation for the upcoming They Came From Witchford Academy!, its very cool upcoming Magical School supplement!)

[pawseds]

I convinced our Delta Green game master to have a play-by-post (basically text roleplay) section in our game's server and uhhhhh maybe I've been having too much fun with it. Writing is faster than drawing comics, what can I say?

(Long ramble about writing stories below hehe oops)

While we're here! A bit about writing: I like writing! I've written for loger than I've drawn for (because school). I think I'm better at writing than drawing for that reason (I'm more confident at least). I've written short stories. I've written short stories about TTRPG things. I've also written a ~100k word novel by hand for 2 years. While writing it, I had 'writing class' (technically AS/A level Ennglish Language classes). It was the only class I had confidence in and high expectations for.

With those 2 combined, I burnt out pretty quick LOL. Specifically, I had a big perfectionism issue because of the high expectations I had from my teacher and especially myself -- it was the one thing I knew excelled at in school, so I better do it well! After I was done with the novel and A levels, I was supposed to edit the novel. It's been years and I haven't done it yet, and I wouldn't write non-assignment stories (except 2) until now. Writing became more nerverwracking than it was fun, so why would I?

To get back to the PBP thing: I've been in a campaign that was fully PBP. With my mindset being the way it is, hey! This is just one big writing exercise, so I ran along with that and had fun with it. I saw how some players would make their own PBP and essentially monologue/have a scene only with their PC. That was cool to see.

And now, my current Delta Green campaign (tagged 'Helvetia'). Hrothgar (guy in drawing) and his kids were ported over from a previous D&D campaign (the fully PBP one!), so the crew had a very well defined background already. Of course I get tons of drawing ideas for them, except I don't have the time to draw them all (compsci hard). But since the server has a PBP section, I had like 2 weeks to kill between session 0 and 1, and I was bursting with ideas... I made a lot of solo PBPs that were essentially short stories.

It didn't quite hit me until some time ago, but the PBPs actually made me enjoy writing again -- enjoy it a lot more, in fact! I think the format of Discord threads and messages removed most perfectionism tendencies I had. I just had to fire the story away, message by message. It didn't have to be amazing, and it was fun! (Also I really don't know how to shut up with them LOL)

I'll definitely be cleaning these PBPs up and posting them here as stories. Some of them are just silly, fun, slice-of-life character sketches. (These were the stories I wrote after my novel... and yes, they were about my other set of Delta Green characters LMAO) (and I've posted them here under pawsedswrite btw!) But some I see as legitamite short stories that I would edit more heavily and present as a short story. They were the kinds I could see myself writing on a document rather than on Discord.

Well, I lied. 'I would edit' is false. I have already edited one, because I spent like 5-6h writing this one PBP (oops) instead of writing the draft for my short story class/elective (oops 2). I joked to my two friends saying that I could just submit it as my assignment. Apparently, they both really liked it and said the dialogued slapped. So I did!

I procrastinated like hell on it though, because I was very nervous to go back into the PBP with an axe to edit it. Being in a writing class where nearly everyone else has been formally studying writing for some years kinda puts some pressure on ya!

Like the last assignment (which I'll post here after editing), I had a lot of worries. But the feedback and grade I got from my last assignment, the peer review I got from the current one, and also the support from those two friends (shoutout @katastrofish <3) made me feel more confident in myself. And also the fact that I had a lot of fun editing the PBP!

Uhhh this ramble was way longer than expected LMFAO if you've made it this far, damn, thanks for reading! If you also write or have similar experiences, feel free to share em. And have a good day!

(bonus POV editing)

[wrenwrabbit]

Pegasus

"It's unsettling. These guns, they…they feel so strange, wrong even. I knew the paracausal stuff was different, but I wasn't ready for this.

The bullets don't exist until they need to…until they hit. If you were on the other end of one you wouldn't see it coming, and you wouldn't hear the report until after you were hit.

Stranger still is a miss. I remember pulling the trigger, sometimes even the sound of the shot, but only for a moment. It's like waking up knowing you had a dream and it slipping away before you can really recall any part of it. At least I'm hoping those are misses, and not something else…"

-Emptor Hues, Pegasus Pilot

(My little headcanon on the smartgun. I was trying to reconcile how a gun that doesn't need line of sight, ignores cover and can curve infinitely within it's range would work.)

[che-bur-ashka]

it would be so silly goofy if you hired me to write ur ttrpg

haha haha haha unless ?

jokes aside hey i am in grad school and uhhhh need to make rent and also seriously i love working with people on their projects more than anything else in the world maybe. not anything but you know what i mean. i've had some really great experiences w/ commissioned work lately and i want to do that more!

if you don't know the kind of games i tend to do, you can check them out here! i like to think i'm pretty good at thinking about community & survival & queerness & magic & the limitations of the possible. thats what they let me into grad school for, anyway.

anyway, yeah! i can write, do feedback, edit -- the whole deal basically. my rates are fair and im glad to negotiate them depending on the size of your project and budget. it would be sooooo funny if you messaged me about them. it would be crazy. it would b

[cupoftrembling]

Lagrange

There is no word for luck in Mariposian.

Now, of course, there is a word for circumstances outside of one’s control that ends in your benefit, ‘veinard’ I believe it was called. A windfall, being in the right place at the right time. In the proto-Mariposian, which had its roots in the celestial language of the gods, these terms had mostly neutral, or often negative, connotations. One can fall into circumstance, allowing them to come out on top through no action or forethought on their behalf. To earn something not yours, not through force of will or strength or through camaraderie. It was the language one used for finding a crown on the ground. That, had it been anyone else the same situation would have occurred. That it was not due to the specifics of who you are or what you have done. 

And yet, veinard was not how many Mariposian figures are described. Queen Mariposa the Kingbreaker, when her predecessor boarded the boat that would sink during the largest storm that the Askaven Continent had ever seen, was not called veinard. Rosalind Tyra was not a veinard when she won what would become Tyra Logistics in that game of jokers wild. No, they were described in each and every instance as ‘lucky.’ 

Luck. 

A loan word lifted from the eastern dialects of the Confederacy of Eastern Kingdoms. An etymological stopgap that filled a niche in the biosphere of the Mariposian language. The word is, itself, some of the only remaining fae-tongue spoken on the continent still used by the so called mortal races of elf. Scholars argue from which kingdom the word luck was gallicized from. I, personally, believe it was Iji, Mariposa’s closest eastern neighbor, but that is corroborated by nothing but a hunch and blind faith in simple answers. Luck is, perhaps, a misnomer. A mistranslation, as its application within the Mariposian language is more closely akin to the word ‘guile.’ To be lucky is to have schemes and redundancies. To be lucky is to earn what is not yours through skill of mind and sleight of hand. It is to have a grin and a knife behind your back. Every Queen Mariposa had luck in spades, from Litigious to Negligent. The ability to make things the way you wish them to be, with such a skill that, to an uninformed outside observer, it might be mistaken as chance. That only through a close examination of the card up your sleeve or the gun in your hand, such guile might be revealed. 

It makes me wonder; how many Mariposians may be lucky, and I just do not know? Has there been a long string of luck in Mariposa, longer than even history may know about, and perhaps I have just not looked closely enough? Is the veinard who finds the bag of coins dropped simply benefiting from some long laden scheme? What about the cleric who’s rival says the wrong word at the wrong party? What about the winds that brought the Cambion Kings away from the Butterfly Bay, thus saving Queen Mariposa the Kingbreaker from a war in her streets? Was that luck as well? Was the history of Mariposa naught but a long string of wires and webs?

Was it luck that brought Felix Bell Stride to the side of Elias Tvestok?

It is what he wondered as he sat in the Harts of Green that night next to the Vily. The bar was empty, save the two of them and whatever servants manned the establishment. It was a quiet winter's night, with a brutal chill sneaking under the ill fitting door and misaligned window panels. It was a season that Felix had hated. With the whipping winds and it driving men to huddle close to one another next to fire. He was a true Isosian that way, even if he had no faith in the Goddess of Order. The fungal elf looked small in the cool light of the bar, the halogen bulbs reflecting sickly off the birchwood of the walls. Elias was hunched over the countertop, feet dangling from his perch on a too tall stool. 

Next to him, Felix’s bow sat, leaned up against the hardwood counter. It was a massive thing, with quarter-inch copper wire as its bowstring. It dwarfed the Vily it sat next too, thick wychwood ending in burls at either knock. It looked as if it was a young wych elm, cultivated specifically for the purpose of being turned into a bow wholesale. Not hewn, not shaped or carved, but bent in its entirety into a weapon of war. It even still had a few leaves coming from the top, just below the upper nock. The bow looked as if it required a titanic amount of force to draw, too much for any mortal hands and far too much for a man as slender as Felix to draw reliably. 

It was wholly impractical for the modern combat of Mariposa, unwieldy for the streets and corners that his job required him to skulk. But it had been so long by Felix’s side, this weapon of war, that he was loath to let it go. It had been his constant companion, more so than Elias or anyone else in the grand iron cage that was Mariposa. It had its uses too. Hefted over one’s shoulder, the bow could make a formidable weapon. And with a long enough sight-line, with a still enough air, Felix would wrap three fingers around the bowstring. It would whistle as the copper screamed against the still living wood, scraping so hard as to singe and cinder the wych elm. The scent of ozone and soot would fill the air as Felix knocked an arrow. And the wind would sing as his arrow, perfectly straight with no fletching, flown through it.

Felix looked down into his drink sitting in front of him. Something dark green and smelt of wormwood. He glanced over at the copper knife sitting next to it, still sheathed in oryx leather and gold. He had not needed to use his bow today. Somewhere behind the two of them, a spider idly sat on his web. It was the same web it has always made, spun glistening in the flickering halogen lights of the bar. It was night now, and the lights were warm and distracting, making the spider almost invisible to all who might look upon it. 

But not the web

It was so intricate that one would be forgiven for thinking it was weaved entirely from metal and light. Its spirals and fractals covered in a hoarfrost of light, reflecting and refracting throughout its many bends and curves. It was wholly entrancing, threatening to distract or distance anyone who dares to look upon it for just that moment too long. 

Felix smiled and sighed in disappointment, bringing the glass to his lips, his eyes glancing and darting between Elias, the bartender, and Elias. He eventually settled upon his dower companion and continued to smile. “Something on your mind?”

Elias’ face dropped further, like a startled child being scolded by his father. His white eyes darted back between his drink and his drinking companion, the wrists of his suit coat tugged slightly, as if it was not properly tailored for him. A growth spurt during his service to the Rumor Queen. “What are we doing here, Felix?” He finally muttered, running a long nail across the rim of his glass. It was something weaker than what Felix had ordered. Elias always ordered the same drink whenever the two of them went out. Krum’s Rot, an orcish rye whisky  But he would maybe drink two sips of it before they had retired for the night. I think Elias just hated how it tasted, like bile and sweetness.

“You did a good job.” Felix answered, uninterested in whatever game the rich kid wanted to play. “And so you got paid for it. The Rumor Queen might have her schemes, but ours are surprisingly not that complex.”

Elias sighed, putting his hand on his forehead, thumb rubbing the edge of his temple. He avoids eye contact with the barkeep, a young human with short cropped brown hair. Around his neck and pierced in his ears are golden effigies of a stag’s fang. “It was a fucking babysitting job.”

“It was not a babysitting job, Elias.” Felix rolled his eyes, raising his mug of something warm and spiced to his own lips. Elias was hunched over the countertop now, elbows digging harshly into the poplar. Felix’s shoulders were straight, his back arched just slightly against the backrest of the uncomfortable barstool. Behind them, the front door creaks, announcing the arrival of another would-be patron. Felix spots her from the corner of his eye, his head not turning in the slightest. Her horns poke out from beneath her hat. A cambion, perhaps. Certainly bestial.

He wonders if Elias sees her.

“That’s what Alace called it!” The lawyer blubbers, as if he was already drunk. 

“I don’t think-” Felix begins.

“Witch-boss wants ya.” Elias interrupts with perhaps his most unflattering impression of the halfling. He looks up at Felix, his face contorted into a gross sneer. For a moment, Felix almost found it charming. Instead, he smiled into his still warm mug. Elias continues, nose scrunching in mock disgust. “Gotta have the lady’s best babysitter on it.”

“I was there, Elias.” The archer brings his drink back down against the countertop. “And he didn’t say exactly that it was babysitting. And you did do a good job.”

“I sat on a rooftop all night and watched over a warehouse for six hours.”

There is some commotion behind the two of them as another patron, one who must have just entered, pulls a stool out next to the cambion woman. She still was not within proper sightline of Felix, hiding in that spot right between his skull and his eyes. Her presence was still felt, however. Like a hand ghosting over his shoulder, he could feel her there burning like an absent flame. He could see the man, a gray orc from the looks of it, sitting next to her however. He was tall and uncomfortably sitting on one of the stools. Felix motions the bartender for another drink.

“You truly do think so highly of yourself, Elias.” Felix leaned forward on the counter, the rough and unsanded wood digging into his forearms. “Where are we going with this?”

Elias sighed and rubbed his temples. He took, for the first time that night, a sip of his whisky. He made a face, almost instinctively and certainly absentmindedly. “When did Mab hire you?”

Felix’s face did not move, although he did lean closer. “Where are we going with this?” He repeats himself, albeit quieter. He did not want to ask the question again.

“When she hired me, she sought me out.” Elias looked down into his orcish whisky. His reflection seemed to pale in comparison to what he thought he might look like. Maybe a bit longer hair, maybe a bit less pathetic. He wondered if that is how Felix saw him and, for a moment, fought the urge to smile. He ran a hand through his hyphae and looked back up at his companion. “She looked for me, sent me a missive. I was sitting in a cafe, late at night, when a courier brought me one of her letters. Red stamp, fine stationery, the whole deal. She summoned me, called for me. I must have been special enough for that.”

Felix sighed again and straightened up from his position. The bartender placed the drink in front of him with a loud clatter, startling the lawyer beside him. Felix looked up at the bartender’s face. He wasn’t looking at his customer in front of him, he wasn’t looking at Elias or Felix. He was looking at the woman behind the two of them, Felix could see her in the reflection of the bartender’s eyes. Her hat was off now, although through the glassy cornea all other descriptions were obscured. The man in front of them had not gone to serve them at any point since the two lawyers had entered the Hart of Green. And, as such, there were seemingly no drinks in front of them.

The bartender’s eyes shot down towards Felix. An instinct, to watch what was watching you. I am not even sure he knew that he was being observed. They were bloodshot, the bartender’s eyes. Like they had not rested in days. Felix raised the glass to his lips again and, absentmindedly, grabbed the knife on the counter. He was sure no one in the bar had seen him do it, not even Elias. He fought the urge to even look at the Vily besides him. ‘This must be why.’ Felix thought to himself, ‘Our lady didn’t seem to trust you with better jobs.’

Felix did not break eye contact with the bartender. Behind him, the spider wound a strung so taught I was scared it might break.

“She found me, half drunk on vengeance in a glen somewhere off the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms.” He finally responded after a second too long. The bartender looked away, to be busy somewhere else. Felix’s lips curled into a smile. The boy may not understand what the archer is doing, but the bartender did. “Offered me a place within her organization. I guess I was hungry.”

Elias looked up at him, eyebrows raised in an unreadable mixture of emotions. “Half drunk on vengeance?” 

“I made a promise a long time ago.” Felix looked over to his bow, its nock curving like a lyre. The man whose hand had hewn it rested on Felix’s chin. His fingers, supple and spindly, lay against his neck, at the vulnerable point where his jaw met his throat. An arrow knocked, whistling like music as it flew through the air. His arm brought back in recurve as his fingers, three of them, ran along the bow’s one, beautiful string. A weapon of war, beat from some beautiful music. Felix looked back from his memory, now towards the Vily, who was studying the archer’s face with grand consideration. Elias noticed that Felix was now back in the room with him and, quickly, returned to his glass. From behind the two of them, the woman rose from her stool but did not move. “I wasn’t quite done when Mab found me.” Felix continued. “But, ah, such are the follies of younger men.”

“I’m… not sure I’ve ever been there.” Elias muttered to himself in a moment of pure empathy. “So deep in vengeance, I mean. What was it like?”

Felix took a deep breath and did not close his eyes. “You’re good at getting beneath the armor, aren’t you Elias?”

Elias smiled weakly. The door behind them opened again. Felix looked over at the countertop across the bartender and saw the bell that hung above it, broken off. The door shut. Three and four. Another cambion and human. One, the human I believe, had a shotgun with a little charm on the end of it. Another stag’s tooth. Felix fights the urge to turn around. He believes they have come for him, and he would not give them the satisfaction of looking their prey in the eyes. 

“I am good at my job, Felix.” Elias sat up straight for the first time since entering the bar. Did he not see the men behind him? “It’s why Mab hired me.”

Felix looked back at the bartender, their eyes met. After a long pause, Felix answered the Vily’s question. “It poured from the mouth like wine, like a cup overfilled and trembling.” He looked back at Elias. “It was all you could taste, like ash. It was like drowning in ash. Keened your senses into razors and sharpened you into something beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” The bartender interrupted. In his hand was an already clean glass. He glanced back behind Felix, as if the outburst startled someone.

“Beautiful.” Felix continued, furrowing his brow. “I chose the right word.”

Elias quirked an eyebrow. “Then why only half drunk?”

“Because I didn’t give myself to it, not fully.” Felix turned his head, just slightly, to the woman behind him. She took a step forward in acknowledgement. Elias did not follow his eyeline. “That was my mistake. Either do not start or finish it, Elias. Half of a transformation is misery.”

“Sounds lucky that she found you then.” Elias ran his hand along the rim of the glass. 

Felix sneered, disgusted. “I abhor luck, Schemes and warding winter winds. It’s the one thing I hate about your employer, the one thing unbecoming of her station.”

“My employer?” Elias put his hand on his chest in mock aghast.

“Marabell Dayshaper may be your employer, she is my Lady.” Felix rejoins

Behind the two of them is another step. Trepidacous, heavy, and not joined by her companions Felix notices. If the cambion wasn’t so duplicitous, so lucky herself, he would admire her gall.

Elias smiled and turned away from Felix, now facing the bartender. “You sound like the old man.”

Felix also turned towards the human in front of them. Felix is staring at the bartender’s hands. They are worn red, as if they have been scrubbed repeatedly and obsessively. His fingernails were bit back to the stub. “You have a lot to learn from Bernard.”

“Not you?”

“I’m sure I do.” Felix leans back somewhat. He can feel the gun against the nape of his neck, it's cold iron burning against his sinewy skin. Who were they? What grand scheme had Felix Bell Stride fallen for this time. And the kid, Felix glared at him. Would he run? Hide? He oversaw him, Lady’s orders. Several missions, he was clumsy and aimless. Felix was sure the boy was a coward. Even now, he didn’t notice how in much danger they actually were. “But I’ve lived a bit longer than you, Elias Tvestok. And I worry my learning days are far beyond me.”

Elias sat up in a way that Felix saw as mimicry. “Do you regret this?” Behind them, the strand snapped, an errant and cruel wind unmoored the spider.

Another step. She would be on him in a moment. There was a door towards the back of the establishment. Perhaps it went to the kitchen, perhaps it went to some sort of back alley. But it was an escape. He could make it, but Felix would be unable to take both the boy and his bow that sat besides him. He, for a moment he did not have, debated which one to leave behind, stuck between two decisions. 

If Felix could sweat, if the salt could stain his clothing, I don’t think he would have in this moment. It makes him proud to think that. His composure. That came with his position in Mab’s organization. He would have been disgusted in himself if he had broken now. He was unsure of what the boy meant, which part would have he regretted? The vengeance? The schemes, the wires? For the first time in Felix’s life, he felt the desire to lie, to twist some cruel words together in untruth. Although why, I am not sure. 

It is anathema to him. He is a creature of truth, only as good as his word. Another step behind him. He can feel her now, he doesn’t even have to turn around to face his killer. 

“How could I ever?” Felix responds, turning his head towards Elias with a smile. A hammer clicks behind the two of them. Felix’s eyes dilate. The gun is placed to the back of Elias’ neck.

A green hand wrapped around the pistol’s grip. Her hold. Tight enough to draw blood. It smells like niter. Like soot. From its pommel, a small golden stag’s tooth hangs. His heart pounds. A glint of smile from the assailant. Rage drips from between the gaps of her teeth. He can see it. In her eyes. He wasn’t the target.

Felix reaches for the knife.

He is not fast enough.

The room fills with a green flash. Sparks fly, searing phosphorus onto Felix’s eyes. There are stars, bright white spots where the absent flame burns. The ash he smelt the moments before burn his nose. His knife swings around, drawn from its sheath. The boy is thrown forward by the force. His chest hits the countertop. White, fleshy hyphae and cerebral fluid splatter across the poplar wood. Elias slumps over, head hitting the countertop. His body hits the ground like a dead dog. His foot kicks, twitches, trying to find purchase. The projectile went clean through him. Tearing white blood and flesh apart with grand force. The wood beneath him splintered. Singed. Elias’ white blood makes it look like a smoldering fire. 

Felix dares not look down. His knife is braced in front of him. The blade catches the light like an absent flame. There are four of them. Five now, with the bartender. The orc has stepped in front of the door. Behind Felix there is the man with the shotgun, next to the other cambion who appears unarmed. The bartender has drawn a gun.

And the woman in front of him stands there. Her barrel is still smoking. The front of the weapon is completely caked in Elias, dripping white blood onto the floor. Onto her boots. He can see her now. She is still turned towards the corpse, not paying any attention to Felix or his drawn weapon. Her skin is verdant and green, starkly contrasting with the white blood on her hands, like she had washed her hands in him.

The woman did not strike an imposing figure. She was shorter than Felix by a couple heads. Her cheeks were gaunt like she had been starved for some time. Her eyes were red and tears were streaming down her cheek. The gun sat trembling in her hands. She lowered the gun, leveling it with Elias’ corpse.

“Who are-” Felix is interrupted by another white flash. She fires again into his still body. His body crumples around the force of the weapon. It smells like burning. And then another, the woman’s shoulder barely recoiling with each round fired, as if she had become a part of that baleful weapon. Felix flinches with each shot, four in total, and drops lower in his stance, pulling the knife in front of him.

“I’m the one holding the gun.” The woman responds, her eyes still locked on Elias’ body. She waits for him to stop twitching, to stop moving. She closes her eyes for a moment and, then, turns towards Felix. “I think that means I get to ask the questions.” Her voice is colder, more distant. Like speaking through a phone.

Felix fights the urge to look at Elias again. Instead, he glances again at the bartender. “Do you know who he worked for?”

The woman nods and speaks for him. “I do.”

“So, you know the trouble you’ve placed yourself in.”

The woman smiles, cheeks still stained with her sublimating tears. “I do.”

“Even if you kill me, you won’t get very far.”

“He was personal.” The woman lowers her gun now, finger still poised over the trigger. He knows, somewhere on the nape of his neck, that if he were to make a move, she could move faster than he could. It is in her eyes. Half drunk on vengeance. An absent flame. “An itch that needed to be scratched. You’re of use to me.”

Felix raised an eyebrow and his voice. “The boy?” He glanced back at the bartender behind him. “What, did he take your candy too? Knock you over on the swings? All of you?” None of the other conspirators looked at Felix. Nor at the corpse laying on the floor, at the exhibition of hatred before them.

“I guess I just have my vices, Felix.” The woman turned towards him, motioning with the pistol. It was alluring, it was more real than the woman holding it, caught the light more convincingly than her. “Should I make one of you?”

“I didn’t think vengeance was a vice of Isosa.” Felix motioned to the chain hanging from the pommel of her gun.

“Neither is indulgence.” She took a step forward, still limply carrying the gun in her hands. “But putting either above duty? But un-vigilance? A vice so low that we don’t even have a word for it.” She smiles in a way she thinks is meek. It was a mouth full of razors. “But I am no paladin, no priest.”

“How low they would think of you.”

The cambion continues to smile. A single bead of sweat rolls down the forehead of the bartender to the side of her. He eyes her wildly. The orc between Felix and the door has his finger over the trigger, shotgun leveled at the space between the two of them. “I am Sorrow Brightwind, and this is my Order of Broken Fang.”

A look was shared between her companions, one that neither Felix, nor by extension me, could decipher. A mix of rage, a tinge of obedience. Felix scoffed. “I have no interest in your sectarian violence. Nor did my companion.”

“Your employer certainly has an affinity for it.”

Felix bared his teeth. Sorrow's hands tightened around her gun. “This doesn’t seem like the crowd for you, miss.”

Sorrow places a hand on the bar counter. “Should I be in some cloister somewhere?”

“You are the one who said it.”

“I chose another path.” Sorrow gripped the countertop, teeth clenching together. Next to her, Felix’s bow, hewn from vengeance much like her. “No more no less.”

“It takes a stronger person than you to choose vengeance, to choose rage.” Felix looked at his bow as well and closed his eyes. He could hear its whistling, its purpose as a tool for violence. It, itself, was not violent in nature. It was a thing of beauty, of no will of its own. “For people like you, it is a gift, something given to you by someone stronger. Something you take in your hands, not something you make.”

Sorrow looked towards Felix’s bow. “People like us, Felix.”

“People like us.” Felix’s eyes shot away from the two of them, the bow and Sorrow, now eying a bottle of Krum’s Rot. There is a moment, and only a moment, dear reader, he could not hear his bow’s constant, droning whistle. For a moment, he feels as if he could walk out of this city. For a moment, he could walk into the sunset. 

And then the whistling creeps back in. 

It crawls in up his shoulder, wraps and weaves its way around his neck and the thought, the word of freedom, dies in his throat. It died right behind his teeth, its corpse now nestled where his tongue should have been. Where he should have had the words to bite Sorrow with. Where he could have had the courage to look down at his feet, at the blood pooling against his shoes. Ah, how distant that corpse had seemed. Elias’ blood ran cold against the leather of Felix’s boots. How he tried to ignore it. How indeed, dear reader.

Felix looked down, for just a moment, and all he saw was meat. 

Felix looked back up at Sorrow, at her white spattered hands, still dripping just slightly. “What do you want from me? What peace do you think I can give you?”

Sorrow looked down at her shoes, methodically thumbing the trigger of her gun. She, too, averted her gaze from the corpse below her for reasons that still escape me. Was it shame? Discomfort? Sorrow had killed once before, three nights before this one. In the dark alleyways of the ruins of the Economic District where the transient and wolfkin lay. Even before then, Isosian thought predicates violence. It is, itself, a cutting knife, carving away pieces of reality to best fit the Grand Weft of their patron god. Sorrow holds it in her hand, cut away the parts of her that made her un-vigilant.

Had she failed by refusing to look at her kill? 

“I have not cut away enough.”

Her finger finds the trigger of her gun, but she does not pull it yet. Felix grips his blade just that little bit tighter. “And you would see me the knife.”

“Your friend here, he has- had- taken something from me. Something on behalf of your employer.” Sorrow walked towards the door, not to exit but to give space for her words. Let them sit in the room between the two of them.

“I’m sure you’ve been following other members, other people who could give you the information you need.” Felix took a step forward, still brandishing that bronze knife in his hands. Beneath him, Elias’ foot trembled. Sorrow reached for his hand, not in malice, not in compassion, but out of pure and fitful instinct. And Felix lets her. He lets her put her palm against his blade. The room fills with the smell of blood. There is a moment that passes, where Sorrow’s companions are unsure of who to shoot, where they just stand there. Sorrow smiles what she thinks is a meek smile, a passive smile. 

It was full of teeth.

“None of them were as hungry as you are.”

And that is when the room ignites with absent flame.

The door behind them explodes into splinters, knocking one of Sorrow’s men to his knees. Wooden shards flitter and fly throughout the room, with one large one striking Felix against his brow, splattering green ichor against the bar. Felix barely has a moment to turn and look at the door breaking apart, barely a second to register who was standing amongst the smoldering ruin that was the door. She was tall, at least as tall as Felix was. With gray, almost ashen hair tied close in some sort of braid behind her head. Her pointed ears and equally gray skin stood out against her imperial garb, with its black fabric and green tint. Her epaulettes demarcated her as some sort of officer. In her hand, a wrought iron rapier, with a pappenheim hilt. It was black and hummed slightly with the song on the elf’s lips.

It was someone who Felix recognized immediately. Anyone in Mariposa knew of the Butcher of Blackvien and Conqueror of Karnata. The woman who stood head to head with the might of the Grand Butterfly and came out victorious. In her hand, a feykiller, this Felix was certain of. A iron weapon, cold steel that was anathema to those from the wyld. She was the only elven officer among the Empire of Night forces in Mariposa. She was tall, and razor thin, with one hand behind her back and her sword was held just before her nose. 

She was Brigadier Delilah Nirdeh. 

Did she know who was supposed to be here? Behind her, shouting instructions and curses, soldiers. It could have been the entire Empire for all Felix might have known. They came from the night, pushing past their brigadier as if she was as razor thin as her song. They began to flood the Harts of Green, with weapons of war keened. Felix was not able to see their faces behind their masks, frozen as he was. But he could see the steam escape from where their mouths would be, see their eyes dart from the slits in their helmets. He could see the cold iron rifles they held between their plump fingers. 

Felix began to raise his knife but he found he couldn’t. For a moment, he blamed his nerves, that his old age and sentimentality has slowed him, gut him somehow. Sorrow seemingly did not notice his hesitation, merely keeping an eye on Felix himself. The archer broke the gaze first, glancing down at his knife to only see a third hand grasping around the blade. The grip was weak, but it is still there. Its fingers wrap themselves around the cross hilt, with half of them on the blade and half of them on the grip. Felix looks down in shock as Sorrow’s companions begin to open fire on the imperial intruders to see that the fingers were blue. Elias looked up at the blade between Sorrow and Felix, now half grasped in his hands. His head split open by the shot, fleshy hyphae singed by the absolute terror of Sorrow’s violence. Felix could see clear through his head to the gore stained bar floor beneath them. Already, the strands of Elias were reforming, attempting to close the wound that was once his eye. But it was a careful process, a laborious process. And on Elias’s face, plastered just below where his skin split and splattered with viscera and gore, there was a knowing and hungry smile. His hand gripped the blade tighter, so hard that, for but a moment, Felix thought the boy was about to break the blade.

There was none of the bumbling, none of the whimpering and sobbing that he acquainted with Elias. Only a sharpness, it was behind his one good eye. It was hidden behind his flashing bioluminescence, which was now dulled and empty. His eye lacked focus. Or perhaps, it was focused on simply everything, taking in every single stimuli at once.  Felix wondered in the moment between moments, how this coward got so lucky?

And then, behind them, sat the spider. 

It lay in yet another web, caught in its own contingency. The glisten of this secondary web was even fainter, even daintier. It was a more advantageous, more strategic position than its original webbing ever had been, shadowed by the vast and obvious net it weaved just above it, obscured in shadow. And among its gossamer thin strands, were just so many flies, each unaware of the threads they were stranded in, tugging and pulling against forces they, themselves, could not understand. They had thought they had avoided the web by flying below the first one. They wound themselves tighter with each struggle against the web. Felix could feel it now, even though the whole night he sat unaware of its prying eyes. 

He swears he could feel the thing smile.

And Felix finally understood. He hated how much it made him want to smile back.

Elias grabbed the handle of the knife with a strength not yet seen by his companion, sliding its blade along Sorrow’s hand and driving it deep into her tender and soft thigh. That smell of blood, acrid and metallic, was gone with Sorrow’s separation from the knife, mooring Felix back to the real, back to his understanding of the world. The glimpse of the spider was gone, even if he still knew, somewhere, that he was still there. 

She did not scream when the blade pierced her thigh, did not react in any way typical of a scared housewife or mother. A bullet whizzed past her ear, cutting a strand of her hair that had dared move out of place. It was as if the bullets were haloed around her, as if the guns could fire at anything but her, and that hair had simply forgotten its place in this. The bartender, still fumbling with his shotgun, takes a round to the chin, sending him limp and reeling against the shelf behind him. The clattering of bottles, the dripping ichor of them, spill against the floor. He had no such assurity as Sorrow, no such confidence in her well being. 

Sorrow reeled back, fist clenching in absent flame, her blood dripping from between her clenched fingers. Her body twists, contorts in ugly shape. Her shoulder looks as if it might break, her muscles are pulled taught against her skin, her skin flay at the edges of her. It comes away just where her fingernails, grime covered and soaked in now drying and sublimating blood, meet her skin in strips. In that very moment, Elias reaches for the gun in his breast pocket with a precision that Felix has never seen. There is no fumbling for the handle, no fingers getting caught on latches or cloth. Felix could almost see them micrometers of adjustment that was happening in the errant twitch of the boy’s fingers. It was as if he was made for this, it was as if all the cowardice faded away, washed away in gore and violence. 

It was at that moment, when Elias reached for his gun and Sorrow was mere inches away from behind upon him, that is when Felix began to run. Nirdeh would be on them in a moment, Felix knew that. He did not know how, or why, he knew that. Maybe it was in how she let the others flow around her, like she could give them the first taste of whatever was happening here. Felix grabbed his bow from beside the counter, still desperate for some kind of violence. As he rounded the bar, as his hand graced the wood of the counter, he turned his head to look back at Sorrow and Elias. His bow drawn, arrow knocked in a moment of pure motion and instinct.

She had her thumbs wrapped around the hole she had made in his skull and at the corner of his eyes. Her teeth were barred, her mouth exhaled vengeance. Her brow was contorted and twisted into a mix of cruel glee and drunken fervor. White viscera pooled from the re-opening wound. Her fingers, adorned with talons and claws, cut at his skin. 

Elias had drawn his revolver. It was a cold black thing that always made Felix shudder to think of. His hand was perfectly, calculatingly exact. He could still see the movements, subtle adjustments that Felix only now realized what they were. They were not tremors, they were decisions. He was flitting between which part of her to shoot.

Nirdeh was behind them. Her sword was drawn and swept back. Her gloved hand reached towards Sorrow. Flecks of white blood splatter against the dark gray leather of her uniform. She grips her rapier even tighter. Flecks of song fall from it like rime ice.

All three of them were smiling.

Felix did not know which one to shoot.

He turned around just as a gun’s hammer found its place, as the round fired off. He flies through the door and into the cold, raining night. Elias had just pulled the trigger on his pistol, just squeezed his hand as its barrel was over her kidney. Sorrow’s hand withdrew during its ego pause, in between the moments between action and reaction. The hammer clicked, Elias wished to kill, and then the room was filled with smoke. The E-99 Oscillating Revolver, even this model that Elias had designed himself, had just as much recoil as his workhorse rifle. Elias’ elbow was braced against his stomach and was kicked into it, knocking the wind from the young Vily. His eyes still snapped shut. He had expected a yell, had expected to feel the dripping viscera onto him, he had expected Sorrow to crumble. 

As his vision sharpened, as Elias blinked away the blood, he did not expect to only see Brigadier Delilah Nirdeh. Her long coat blew from the shattered door behind her, with subtle rain plittering down against the old hardwood floor. Her cloak was tattered and torn, singed slightly by the round that Elias let loose. The barrel of his revolver was still smoking. His other elbow was dug into the hardwood as he propped himself up. He turned around, twisting at the waist. Behind him, another open door, this time slamming against the door frame in the whipping wind. Beyond that door, Sorrow was running. A verdant green spot mixing in with the steel, industrial gray of Mariposa in the rain. She was gone, Elias knew this. There would never be a moment where she would so fittingly fall for his trap.

“A keener woman would think you shot at me.” Delilah Nirdeh stood above Elias, her backswept hilt turned towards him, point of her singing sword straight down.

Elias raised his wrist holding his gun up to his nose, wiping away some of his mycelial fluid. It was not blood, as most who were not Vily thought it was, but latex. The Vily form had no need for coagulants, and each cell of their body acted as an ersatz synapse, an isolated and specialized organism that made up the hive-mind that was the sprouting Vily. The mycelial fluid was a deterrent for predation. It made Brigadier Nideh’s nose crinkle in irritation. It flowed from his wounds with no sign of stopping, pooling over her boots and stained her leather so deep that she would never, truly, get it out. 

“How keened are you?” Elias spat out between teeth in a venom that was neither intended nor necessary for the situation. Delilah scowled and extended an arm out.

“You aren’t the prickliest Fleur agent that I’ve met.” She shook her own hand, as if he were a dog and it was an enticing bone that Elias had yet to pick up the scent. “Suppose that counts for something.”

“I suppose I should thank you.” Elias responded, grabbing her forearm in a sort of greeting. “You did save my life.”

Delilah smiled, hoisting the Vily off of the floor. Her forearm was toned, her muscles almost seemed to writhe under his touch, as if she was bristling under his touch. Perhaps it wasn’t something the young brigadier felt all that often. “You seemed to have it handled, sir.” 

Elias stood up, with the brigadier’s help of course, and shook the dust and grime from off his lapel. “I am never going to get this out of my coat.” He looked at the hem of his sleeve, the one that once held the knife. It was splattered with blood, true blood, real blood. Green, verdant blood. He stared at the ichor for a moment that was just too long. Below his hand, the knife sat on the floor, reverberating, harmonizing even, with the song that was still coming from Nirdeh’s lips. 

Delilah looked back towards the flapping door and gripped her sword a hair tighter. “They your friends?”

“Tall one is.” Elias glances to his side. He knew that she would chase someone, could see it in her eyes. That same, starved look that Sorrow had. She needed a hunt. “I’d prefer to keep him intact if it's all the same to you.”

The brigadier nodded and turned around towards her men. “We’re looking for a green Cambion, woman. Ran away from an active crime scene.” As if the soldiers were a part of her, some fruiting body, they filtered out of the bar, leaving only Elias, Nirdeh, and the corpses.

Elias survailed the scene. Not his best work, he thought. A bit sloppy. He glanced down at the bronze knife, Felix’s prized possession. He knelt down and grabbed it. He had gotten what he wanted. “I take it you’re stuck behind a desk too much.”

Nirdeh sighed. “That is evidence, you know. In your assault.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Elias smiled, pocketing the sticky blade in his coat.

“The 81st doesn’t stay in one place for too long. We often leave the actual governing to the auxiliary forces.” She scowled. When the 81st Legion took Karnata, Nirdeh did not stay long enough to see what she had left behind. Nine different legal, judicial, and political legions filtered in to replace the bureaucracy that she slaughtered invading the nation, three times as many as was normal or necessary.

“Bang up job you’re doing here.”

“I’m a soldier.” Nirdeh glanced over to the Vily. “I usually don’t work in law enforcement.”

“What do they have you out here for then?” Elias continued, rummaging around his own gore on the floor for something. Hidden behind the viscera, his torn ear. Inside it, a crystalline bullet. Cracked, leaking entropy, but still working.

“It was my round.”

Elias looked up at her incredulously. “Officers have to take the beat?”

“We were responding to a concerned citizen, Mr. Tvestok.” Nirdeh responded. “Someone said his brother was in here.”

Elias sighed, standing up from his crouched position. His head and ribs should hurt more than they do, should be sharp and warm. He held the bullet in his hand as it began to ring. He did not pick it up. “How patriotic.”

Nirdeh grabbed his shoulder, tight glove digging into the fabric of his suit. They were alone now, even the patter of rain outside seemed to cease. “Should I be worried about a Fleur agent operating so boldly in my city?”

Elias looked over his shoulder with his good eye, head lolling to one side. “Maximillian signed the armistice with us, made us the governing body.” Elias smiled. “If anything, it's our city.”

“The General bought out your contracts from the Corporate Lords so that you may serve in our best interest.” Nirdeh rejoined with a bit more venom than I think she intended.

“Ipso facto anything I do is in your best interest.” Elias continued to smile, his teeth as white as spider webs. “There’s no need for him to sick his hunting dog on me.”

Nirdeh let go of his shoulder and sighed. “I trust you, Mr. Tvestok. I’d simply be remiss if I didn’t ask.”

The Vily raised an eyebrow in shock, unsure of what truly to say. “I.” He paused, the words dying in his throat. He turned around to face her, she stood a good head taller than Elias. Her face was all sharp angles, much like his. “Thank you, Delilah.”

Nirdeh turned around, towards the door her prey absconded from. “Do not make me regret that.” And, into the night, she was gone, the bullet in his hand still ringing, echoing throughout the now empty bar.. Elias turned away, turned towards the shattered door. He saw, in the rain, a single, purple Vily underneath a street light. He held up a black umbrella and was adorned in a black, tight suit, much like Elias’. He held his hand up to his ear. The bullet in Elias’ hand rings again, this time a bit louder.

He affixed the bullet into his one good ear and tuned it into his brother’s frequency.

“Was it a good sortie?” The smug voice asked him, words cutting and cruel.

“A good evening to you as well, Quincy.” Elias sighed, pinching the bridge of what remained of his nose.

“What have I, what has Dad, told you about going in half cocked?” The figure gesticulates from across the way. This was the only way they could talk, with the distance between them.

“I got results.”

“Oh?” Quincy responds flippantly. “And what result is that? You getting your face blown off?”

“Consider it setting tolerances.” Elias rejoined. “Or, maybe it's better saying that I was setting operational boundaries, if you wanted something that would sound like it came from you.” He turned towards the bar, towards the corpses. Each stamped with an Imperial Mark, a bullet hole in their backs and in their heads. All kill shots. The Empire had no need for the rank in file, so they took none in. “Now I know what these people think of me.”

“You organized your own hit.” Quincy talks with a deliberate cadence, words each implying their own malice. “So you could find out if that boy likes you?”

“You make it sound so juvenile.”

“Is that not what you did?”

“I had to know what he knew of me. Had to know why she was following me.”

There was a break, a pause in conversation. Short as a breath. “You knew Sorrow was following you?”

Elias’ shot a look back at the figure across the street. Above him, the street light flickered. “A friend of yours?”

“I ran into her on another operation.” Quincy mumbled out, shifting in place somewhat. Elias narrowed his eyes. “At Rae Courtyard.”

“She’s that little devil?”

“The very same.”

“So you got me shot.” Elias began to laugh, a choked chuckle cut off by the pain of his mangled face. “I don’t know why you hide such things from me if I’m just going to find them out anyway.”

“Did not.”

“Good thing she didn’t know how resilient us Vily are. Otherwise I might not be walking right now.”

A sigh broke over the radio wave. “I won’t always be around to scrape you off of the floor, Elias.”

Elias looked back down at the corpses and their Imperial marks. He almost muttered out some sort of prayer, some sort of guiding word for their soul. He fought the urge. “You were here rather fast, weren’t you, Quincy.”

Another beat. “I was in the area.”

Elias smiled. Behind him, the spider sat in its hidden web. It's belly full and brimming with squirming flies. A smile, content and proud, plastered across its mandibles. Elias shot Quincy that same smile from across the street, so wide now it might as well have been continents away. Quincy did not know what he saw, or what Elias was thinking, but it made him squirm in his boots all the same. Like a predator late for a hunt.

“I am sure you were.”

[deafmangoes]

Currencies in fantasy settings and particularly TTRPGs (and the genre of vidya games they spawned) is a personal interest of mine.

Because they're often really boring and plain. I shall now vent about this.

Now, there's one very good reason for it: players can't be arsed with exchange rates and complexity in this area. Gold is just how much wealth-per-stab your murderhobo is currently making.

The less good reason is designer laziness. Even on the rare occasions they decide not to just name them "gold, silver, copper" it's nearly always just a fancy fantasy name slapped on top of a decimal system.

For us that makes sense. Pretty much everyone uses decimal coinage these days.

You may be aware, however, that in the past most coinage was bonkers complicated - at least, to the modern person. Before decimalisation in the 1970s, the UK had a currency loosely based on a Base 12 system.

That is, you had 12 pence (d) to 1 shilling (s) and 20s to £1 (originally, pounds were only of real use to bankers and nobles, hence the shift in number). 1s could be subdivided into sixpence, threepence and tuppence, while 1d could be divided into hapennies (1/2d) and farthings (1/4d). You also had crowns (5s) and half-crowns, groats (4d, sometimes) sovereigns (£1, different name, don't ask) and guineas (eventually fixed to £1, 1s). Plus a whole bunch of short-lived coins, which happens when your system has never been properly reformed for 800 years.

When I, a decimal child, first learned about this I thought it was insane. How could shopkeepers do anything with that mess? But what I missed was that Base 12 is the easiest for the human brain to calculate.

Yes, without computerised registers (for which Base 10 was already standardised), a human merchant, shopkeeper or customer could do more with Base 12 because 12 has so many factors: it's divisible by 2, 3, 4 and 6. 10 is only divisible by 2 and 5. Despite all the weird extra coins tacked in, the basic units of pounds, shillings, pence (£sd) was easy to use. We changed it because everyone else was.

So on a setting without computers or even mechanised calculators, why do they have a decimal system?

Be brave! Confuse your readers and players! Make the currency Base 30 except for some foreign coins used as bullion that are treated as Base 7 for religious reasons.

This also lets you play around a bit with rewards - instead of a sack of coin worth 30 gold, why not present your party with some old gold coins that might be worth 30g to a lord's personal bank, or up to 200g to the right collector.

Escape from gold, too - explore your dwarves using palladium or various alloys, mithril fractions set in "less precious" metals, etc. Elves might eschew coinage altogether and use other tokens that represent a value of age or crop yield. Pre-Meiji Japan based their economic system on rice yields, with 1 ryō (the basic gold coin) being equivalent to the amount of rice one person could eat in a year (a koku).

Of course for the sake of ease you should always have a conversion chart handy, but I find that toying with currency is a simple but very effective way to worldbuild and create immersion. Plus, it's just kinda fun.

[bonkposting]

Analog horror in a haunted bowling alley

I've been kicking around the idea of creating a module for Liminal Horror or FIST ULTRA loosely based on an abandoned bowling alley I spent a few weekends in as a preteen.

Background:

My dad and grandfather were hired to tear up the lanes in a long-abandoned bowling alley that my father frequented as a child. In the dead of winter, it wasn't uncommon for us to hear someone rushing out the rear entrance as we shook snow off our boots in the lobby. I got terribly sick out there, spending most days bundled up next to a generator and some work lights while the lanes were pulled up with crowbars. My dad insisted I was totally fine. Other times, I wandered behind the lanes and into rows of shelves packed with dusty prizes and trophies rearranged in new, fever-dream-esque configurations each time we checked in. It sat alone on an otherwise vacant lot and in all honesty looked pretty similar to the building depicted in the FNAF movie.

Key features:

A doomsday cult infiltrating a bowling league; a newly promoted supervisor in over his head.

A forgotten network of tunnels connecting the complex; a security system in permanent lockdown.

A dormant horror planning its escape.

[tentakrool]

Introduction to From Whence Came She: An Exploration of Pharasma and the Windsong Testaments

Edelgarde Midwyck, professor of theology and cosmology Lepistadt University, Lepistadt, Ustalav

Before the birth of everything, there came an ending, to which only one survivor bore witness.

In an ancient time inscrutable to us who now live, a universe unknown met its end. Whether this realm exploded in an unquenchable fire, or found itself snuffed quietly out like a candle, none can say. All that remained scattered amidst the blackness of space, speckling the void with the dying embers. Nothing remained but she: The Survivor, the Lady of Graves, the Mother of Souls. She, who threads the weft and warp of fate across the centuries; who holds life and death in her hands, gathered the remnants of existence and began anew. 

Her name is Pharasma, the First and the Last. 

Pharasma’s role as mother to our universe may seem strange to those who do not know her. After all, is she not the goddess of death? Does she not author the final pages of our soul’s journey? Those more familiar with her worship know better; after all, she also safeguards the passage into life. Midwives invoke her name and bless their knives with water drawn from her holy fonts. A goddess of cycles, she sharpened her skills on the greatest birthing of all: that of reality itself.

What her role might have been in those days before, none can guess. After all, we have nothing to draw from, save the groundless assumption that this previous incarnation must have resembled the current. I have my own suspicions, as do dozens of my contemporaries, the scholars and ascetics who dedicate their intellects to untangling the riddle of what could have been. Personally, I wonder if the Pharasma we know and the one that traversed an all-consuming apocalypse eons ago were much alike at all.

Consider Nocticula: once a demon lord, she murdered her contemporaries and assumed their roles, stole their devotees and quite literally built her kingdom upon their backs. Now, she has transformed herself into something new – a goddess of freedom and redemption. Perhaps, like Nocticula, Pharasma transformed herself upon the death of what came before, changed into a deity to suit the season of creation and destruction. Perhaps, Pharasma once knew a time when life and death did not hang in the balance of her every word and gesture.

Of course, if we further explore my theory, one must then wonder what sort of deity Pharasma could have been, back in those unfathomable days. I can envision her as a young deity bursting with vigor and life, ushering the fragile souls of the unborn into the light, guiding the hands of those wise, skilled women without whose ministry so many would meet an untimely end. Perhaps she walked among the people, with bare feet and ruddy cheeks warmed by the sun of an ancient world. Perhaps then, her face was not haunted by millennia of shadows.

Regardless of what form she took then, I cannot help but imagine how devastating that moment must have been – the moment when Pharasma looked around herself and saw that she truly existed alone, swaddled in void, with no one but the vast, unknowable Outer Gods watching from beyond with hungry eyes trained on our little empty scrap. How brave of her to take that solitude and wrap it around herself like a mantle, mold it into a shape that we could call home, breathing life into the ash and embers of the things she’d loved and lost. As a mortal, it may not be my place to do so, but I cannot help but pity her.

Some of my contemporaries take it upon themselves to criticize my work. They feel that speculation of this sort leads to nothing but confoundment and consternation; I cannot help but disagree. What are they gods, if not reflections of ourselves? What does it hurt for us to imagine Pharasma not as an impersonal arbiter of our fates, but as a servant to our souls, and as keeper of the loneliest duties of all? How can we not grow closer to her, knowing that our penitent souls are the only brief company she keeps? 

[okedokemoose]

I am Cass a tabletop game writer! My current projects are:

Summer Chrysalis: an adventure oriented game primarily inspired by Pokémon, Digimon, and Zatch Bell!

Untitled Combat Game: a combat system inspired by Kingdom Hearts and Demon Slayer.

Untitled Tactical Game: a game inspired by Apex Legends and X-Com.

[chromaglitchgaming]

Question for game devs who produce a lot of small/short games (specifically TTRPG and physical games) at once.

How long do you wait to post your next project after your most recent project has gone live?

[ghostofcinders]

I've tons of reasons to be proud about my work on Onyx Path's The World Below, but today watching videos about RPGs horror stories I'm reminded of the Zenshu.

See, the Zenshu are a species of large flesh-weaving spider people. Think D&D driders with Tzimisce powers and the "human" part of their body being inspired by the mask crafting bug in Hollow Knight (mask included, because they're aware of how monstrous they look to others)

The Zenshu are rare. They're also nice? There are some implications about them crafting some monsters too because The World Below is dark fantasy, but those are for the Storyguide to decide. Could be true? Or not.

As far as facts go, the Zenshu travel across the world alone, offering services to people. The services? They allow people to change their body and - if asked - their memories, allowing people to take any look.

The Zenshu only ask very minor payments (a memory, a piece of flesh cut from the canvas, symbolic amount of goods/money...). Downsides? Only some maluses until characters get accustomed to the changes that vary depending on the degree of the "surgery." Afterwards, it's nothing.

And while the Zenshu are spooky-looking, they never harm anyone unless for self-defense. People are *happy* to have a rare one visit.

Now, the Zenshu enable tons of stories. People changing face to escape from somewhere, healing from terrible injuries... they're a cool addition with story potential around.

But one of the reasons I put them there is to add to the setting a way for characters to transition, just like that. No nonsense about "huh, it's fantasy, it can't happen" or "it's a grim setting".

Yeah, The World Below is a dark fantasy setting. And it has magical surgeon spiders in it people can seek out to change their bodies to their heart's content, no strings attached.

[pawseds]

Simply Be

Finan stepped out of the warmly-lit base and strode into the still night. The boisterous laughter of his mercenary company faded away as he narrowed his eyes, searching for her in the dark. And there she was —  a small silhouette pricking out of the vast expanse of the cliff, so far away she seeped into the cloudless sky. 

A sudden thump in his chest made him hesitate. What was he going to do, stroll up to Claretta and strike a conversation just like that? He wasn’t able to treat her wounds without her bristling at him, let alone be in the same room without her exceedingly uncomfortable silence weighing down on him like judgement. She even treated David — the one who had worked with her the most — with words so pointed, they’d put a knife to shame. Then there was the look she gave him — the purse of her lips, the slant of her brows. What thoughts swam behind those brown eyes she shielded behind her aviators..?

Finan felt his ears grow warm. Damn it! He threw his gaze to the ground and tightened his shoulders. That only made the warmth spread to his cheeks. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He paced around, clenching at his heart to stop it from beating so fast. He was just intrigued by her, that was all. Who wouldn’t be? She was savage on the battlefield, but never a beast — ruthlessly precise, never wasting a bullet on someone who didn’t need it, even if it meant extra cash. But yet, after a day of fighting when the company licked their wounds or stroked their egos, she wore a different skin. Her coy smiles, muted chuckles, and preening eyes — they all catered to whatever the men wanted to see or hear. 

Finan shook his head. That wasn’t it. She’d still perform the same show in the battlefield — just a different act of it. But who was he to blame her? That was how he blended in when he arrived in the country that would be his new home  — no, that wasn’t right either. He was sure she had her own reasons he could never understand. 

But for now, here she was, alone in the dark where no eyes reached her. Who would Claretta be this time?

Biting his lip, Finan walked towards her, remaining quiet but still letting his boots crunch over gravel and kick loose pebbles about. As he came closer, he saw a pair of earphones in her ears. A grin sprung onto his face, and he quickly pulled the corners of his lips down as his cheeks turned hot. So she was a music enthusiast like him. Big deal — a lot of people were. 

Finan managed to get right behind her — that was a surprise. He shifted his foot in the dirt. Only then did Claretta snap out of her thousand-yard stare across the plain.

She quickly killed the surprise in her eyes and removed an earphone. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Oh, I’m just, well, you know…’ Finan’s hands flailed about, then quickly wrapped around himself when he realised his mind was completely blank. 

‘No, I don’t know,’ Claretta said. 

‘Uh, man. Just… getting away from the crowd and all. Maybe have a quick smoke. Like what you’re doing!’

‘You like crowds and I don’t smoke. What do you want?’

‘Wha-no, that’s not what I—’ Finan sighed and looked away. Why did he have to say that? The cliff’s edge looked very tempting right now. ‘Alright, alright… I was just wondering where you went. What you’re doing and all that, since usually you’d be chatting with the guys.’ 

Claretta nodded towards her CD player. ‘And now you know the answer to those two questions. Go away.’ 

‘Oh, okay. But, um-but what are you listening to?’ Finan stumbled over his words. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, of course.’

She furrowed her brows. ‘Why do you want to know?’ 

‘Hey, it’s alright if you don’t want to, man,’ Finan raised his hands and offered a weak chuckle. ‘No pressure or anything. I was just curious, that’s all, since—’

‘You brought your CD player too?’

Finan gulped. There was no malice in her voice. ‘Uh, yeah.’

Claretta faced away from him. ‘I doubt this will interest you.’

‘I mean, you never know until you try! But, uh…’ Finan pinched his nose bridge. ‘Sorry for bothering you and all. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just head back to the base and…’

He was about to turn back when he heard her sigh. ‘What do you listen to?’

‘Me? Ah…’ Finan failed to curb the enthusiasm in his voice, ‘mostly rock and hip-hop. Like, I don’t know, Linkin Park—’

Claretta spluttered. Finan flushed. ‘Did-did I say something wrong?’

Claretta swallowed a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting a person like you to listen to Linkin Park.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Finan frowned. 

‘It’s nothing, really. I’m not one to talk,’ Claretta waved her hand. ‘It’s just that their music’s heavy and you’re… the most optimistic person I know.  You'd go out of your way to help anyone, even if they didn't ask for it.’ 

Finan grimaced slightly at the jab and prepared for another. Instead, Claretta sighed. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been rude.’ 

Surprised, he stayed silent for a second, then snorted. ‘Ah, it’s fine. We all need our alone time—’

‘Not just for that. For…’ she shook her head. ‘You were just doing your job. You were doing more than your job. You always check up on everyone when you don’t need to. Frankly, you shouldn’t be here. You should be at a proper hospital treating people who actually deserve it.’ 

‘Hey, I signed up for the money like everyone else here. I’m no different,’ Finan made a small smile. ‘I’m just doing my best to keep everyone alive. And they’re not all sadistic warmongers. David’s my best pal and he’s gotta support his parents. You’re alright, too, you know.’ 

He got one decent conversation with Claretta and he called her alright? Real smooth, Finan. 

Claretta’s expression turned sombre once more. She opened her mouth to say something but decided against it. Instead, she offered her earphones to Finan. ‘Tell me when you’re done. You don’t have to listen to it all the way through.’

‘Really?’ Finan smiled. ‘Wow, thanks Claretta. So should I, uh…’

Without looking at him, Claretta patted the ground next to her. As smoothly and gently as his heart hammering against his chest, Finan sat next to Claretta. She handed her earphones over to him and he put them on. 

The slow, long, lull of a violin note took him by surprise. It droned on, then melded with another note, mixing from dissonance until they were pulled right to a sharp, high note — a stepwise motion to a virtuosic display of fiery intensity. 

Claretta stared ahead as Finan listened to the sonata. She didn’t need the CD to play the melody in her head. It would only be a few seconds until he removed her earphones. Then he would say something like, ‘Wow, I didn’t know you listened to this kind of stuff!’ before leaving and never mentioning it again. She sunk into herself. This was a mistake. When was he going to stop listening so she could get this over with—

She stopped her thoughts when she glanced at Finan. Even in the dark, she could see his eyes were wide open — not in shock, but rather… awe? A minute passed, then two, then five. He remained still through the piece, the crook of his finger resting on his chin as he listened. 

When it ended, Finan removed her earphones, his face still fixed in thought. ‘Wow. That was…’

Claretta quickly took her earphones back. ‘I know. Not something you’d expect of me.’

‘Well, that makes the two of us,’ Finan smiled. ‘But really, that was also… man, I don’t know what to say. In a good way! It’s like the… the power and technique and the… volume?’

Claretta raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean the dynamics?’

‘Yeah, that! I’ve never heard anything like it before. It’s like it’s constantly climbing and falling, and there’s the part where it sounds like a fight. Like it’s telling a story of a struggle against something,’ Finan chuckled and scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.. ‘Ah, guess I’m reading too much into it. Didn’t know classical stuff could sound like this! What’s this song called?’

‘You mean piece?’ she said. ‘Ysaÿe Sonata 3. Well, technically Ysaÿe Violin Sonata No. 3, but that’s a mouthful. It’s one of my favourites. And your interpretation of the piece is similar to mine.’ 

‘Ha, then maybe I should give the violin a shot!’ As he laughed, Finan’s heart swelled at hearing the slight lilt of passion in Claretta’s voice. ‘You really know your stuff, huh?’

Claretta nodded.  ‘That was me playing, after all.’

Finan paused for a second. ‘Are you serious? What? When? How?’ 

‘I played a lot when I was younger. Did contests throughout my life growing up. I think I was seventeen there.’ 

‘You were seventeen?’ Finan stared at her in disbelief and laughed. ‘Claretta, then what the hell are you doing here?! You shouldn’t be here! You should be performing in some… hall or something, I don’t know!’ 

Claretta snorted. ‘Thank you, but that wasn’t my best performance. It just… means a lot to me.’ 

Finan nodded. ‘Y’know, I know next to nothing about instruments, but I still think that was amazing. It’s a shame you’re here, having to fight in crappy places for crappy people.’ 

She cast her eyes down at her CD player. ‘Yes, it really is a shame.’ 

Finan realised what he said. ‘Oh — not that I mean it in a bad way or anything. You’re good at being a merc too. And hey, it’s dirty work, but it pays for the bills and more.’ 

‘I guess,’ Claretta’s eyes met his, ‘but it’s not all crappy, anyway.’

Finan smiled and quickly looked away, endearment gushing red into his face. They sat next to each other in comfortable silence until Finan cleared his throat. It was getting too hot for his liking. 

‘Well, thank you for letting me listen to the piece. I really enjoyed it.’

Claretta nodded and smiled — she smiled, and it looked nowhere close to all the other days he had seen her smile. Seeing her eyes light up filled him with fluttery bliss that melted his heart. His eyes couldn’t help but linger on hers as he stood, grateful that she chose to share this side of her. He gave a last smile before he tore himself away, hoping that one day, she would be able to live a life where she could simply be and smile through each day, too. 

---

Timeline: 2004 Written 21 March 2022. An impulsive short story to relearn having fun with writing!

[wrenwrabbit]

something @wobblypython helped me make for my Lancer campaign! We're playing through Suldan and are probably gonna finish it before the year ends! I'm really excited!

[bekandrew]

Persistent Scar: Shared Wavelength

I made a homebrew Scar for Deviant: the Renegades, half-serious, half as a joke following a discussion about how sometimes two particular cohort members get on the same chaotic brainwave and make exponentially worse decisions than they would separately. Enjoy! ------

Shared Wavelength (• to •••••)

Keywords: Mental; Subtle; Persistent

The bond between cohort members can be stronger than most Baseline friendships, as the Remade live each day as a trial by fire. Some cohort friendships grow strong to a detrimental level, with the Remade encouraging each others' maladaptive behaviors and hairbrained (at best) ideas.

Two Remade in the same cohort, at least one of which must be the others' Loyalty Touchstone, take this Scar at the same time. Once acquired, they needn't increase Magnitude at the same rate - one friend can certainly be more detrimental to the pair than the other.

At Magnitude •, the pair have a tendency to get into trouble more often when they go off on their own together without guidance from others. When they work on something together, they may take a Beat to have it end chaotically in a way that causes a complication for them or their cohort.

At Magnitude ••, as Magnitude • and whenever the pair works together without others present to reign them in, they suffer a penalty to all Intelligence-based rolls equal to 4 - (half Scar Resistance, rounded up).

At Magnitude •••, as Magnitude ••, and choose one:

Shared Braincell: The penalty is instead to both Intelligence and Wits.

This is why we can't have nice things: Upon a failure while performing a teamwork action with each other, it is instead a Dramatic Failure and your merry mishaps trigger a free conspiracy action once per Chapter.

At Magnitude ••••, as Magnitude ••• and choose one:

Balanced: Suffer both Magnitude ••• effects.

Dulled Bond: Must have taken "Shared Braincell." Instead all Mental Attribute-based rolls suffer the penalty.

It's Always You Two: Must have taken "This is why we can't have nice things". The free conspiracy action gets a +2 bonus.

At Magnitude •••••, suffer all three Magnitude •••• effects.

[dragon-fly-star]

(warning: illustrated beastman cadaver)

"Once my Day comes, I want to be just like you, big sister."

"And why is that, little one?"

"Because you get to keep so many pretty things."

A touching moment between a neonate and its elder sister, a doctrix responsible for dissection and vivisection of all kinds of creatures... even the talking ones.

Neonates spend much of their time observing the work performed by their elder sisters. Both to pry into their little heads for what they want to do, but also what they're good at.

This inkling of interest in the dead is the beginning of a neonate's eventual sorting into the medicinal or inquisitricial covens.

[sirobvious]

“You just wrote your medieval fantasy setting to have medieval gender roles and homophobia and prejudice because you secretly fantasize about being able to be sexist and homophobic in a land with no PoC without any pushback! It’s fantasy, there’s dragons and wizards, it doesn’t have to have prejudice unless you, the writer, want it like that! In *my* D&D setting, there’s no sexism or homophobia, so that gay transgender women of all races can be holy knights fighting to protect the good kingdom from the endless hordes of the evil dark race that has threatened its borders for a thousand years!”