Writing Something Every Day*, Xantalos Edition

[Xantalos]

Apologies for abruptly vanishing there, I was feeling kinda strung out from balancing a bunch of RL things at once along with writing, so I took a break from creating things for 6 days in order to avoid becoming burnt out. Now, like a shitty reversed version of Christian Genesis, I return to work on the 7th day!

Feb. 25, 2020 - wrote 421 words for Respect Your Elders turn 9.

 

[Xantalos]

Oh right, while I was solidly in bleh-land I went and reread a collective roleplaying game I was involved in back when I was still only just developing my writing skills (I'm talking, like, first forays into moderately lengthy snippets territory), got nostalgic, and decided to write up the opening post of a hypothetical spiritual sequel to it. I probably won't run it right just now, given my previous track record with running multiple projects at the same time (though maybe with this quarantine that could change...) but I figured I'd show off the opener at least.

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The year is 2032, and the world is rotting. It is not a visible sickness; in fact, by many standards, the world has never been better. Business is booming, profits continue to soar, the great cities of the world grow without limit. It is a withering of the soul that afflicts humankind. Gargantuan corporate entities amass more and more power and wealth to themselves, squeezing out any semblance of competition in the markets. The gap between rich and poor grows ever larger, the common masses slaving away for subsistence wages while the ultra-rich elite hoard their treasure like the great dragons of old. The air grows thick with smog, water clouds with particulates, and every day the goodwill of humanity dies just a little further.

There are those who say that there never was any magic in this world, that the gods of old were fictions devised by humanity to explain the unknown. Even among those who believe in the supernatural, the vast consensus is that whatever magic there once was, it left long ago. But there are those who hold out hope still – daughters following pagan traditions laid down by mothers dozens of generations ago, ghost hunters, amateur mages and satanic cultists, all hoping against hope that their dreams are not in vain.

It is only now that those hopes are vindicated, for it is the dawning of a new Age, and magic has come back into the world. Seven individuals, through a cosmic fluke, have awoken to find the fire of the gods running through their veins. Humanity's sole dominance over the world has ended, for now it is the Age of Renewal, where the divine is reborn and myth reenters the world.

You are one of these new gods. What form your power takes is up to you – what matters is that you wield it. You will change the face of the world, reshape it to your liking, and rule over it for an age or more.

Assuming, of course, that you survive.

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Welcome to Age of Renewal, a game where you play as a god! This is a little different from most godhood games - where many focus on the gods shaping and reshaping the world with their power, creating mortals, and fighting over worship and power, this game is not set in an unshaped universe, or even a primitive world where fantasy tropes hold sway. Instead it is set on our own Earth, just a little ways into the future - not far enough that everything's become cyberpunk, but just far enough that the world has effectively turned into a corporatocracy.

The world doesn't believe in gods anymore. It has its own idols, history, and the murky grey hubbub of everyday life that the supernatural just doesn't fit into. Yet here you are, the avatars of a new Age, changing everything you touch with the magic at your fingertips. What kind of god you decide to be is up to you - are you a monster, some great demon sealed away long ago, only to awaken now? Are you a child of this new age, a downtrodden worker with images of impossible technology running through your head? A practitioner of the old ways, perhaps, an amateur witch or wizard whose magic starts to actually work?

Of course, you won't start out a full god, and for the moment you'll have all the troubles a mortal has to deal with - you've got a body, and god or no, you'll have to pay the bills if you want the lights to stay on. What's more, the world will react to your actions. Magic up vast riches out of nowhere and you may just get the taxman on your ass. Attempt to set up a cult devoted to you, and you might find that the criminal underworld doesn't like you poaching their recruits, and has sent a hit squad after you.

That said, let's lay out how this will work.

Turns: Each turn will take place over the course of about six months (for now - timescales are apt to change as the game progresses), starting in January 2032. The choices you make determine what your character does over that time span.

Setting: This game is set in a gigantic, generalized amalgamation of every big city. It has a hundred names, but none that really matter. It's the concrete jungle of the near future, where the skies are perpetually grey, the air is smoggy, everything is run by corporations holding so much power they resemble crime syndicates more than chain stores, and everyone's looking to step on the guy below them for a chance to climb up the societal ladder.

In other words, the perfect sandbox to grow your legend in! It's got pretty much any feature you can think of - sleek financial district, outlying slums, walled-off suburbs, decaying ghettoes, seedy docks and wharfs - if it fits in with the image of a city crumbling from the inside out, it's there.

Actions: These are what you do in a turn, and they're divided into three main categories.

Null Acts: These are when you do something without the assistance of any supernatural abilities, such as talking with other people or robbing a slew of houses. Some will automatically succeed, but more challenging actions (i.e. robbing a bank) may require the roll of a 20-sided die to see if they succeed.

Half Acts: These are when you call upon your powers to aid you in an otherwise-mundane endeavour. They still require a roll - you can pull off an impossibly long shot, but if your target trips over a curb just as you fire, you'll still miss - but you'll recieve a bonus to your roll that depends on your Power (see below).

Full Acts: These are cases where you exercise your abilities to supernatural ends. Summon a subservient spirit to your side, smite your foes with inexplicable bolts of lightning, create a potent artifact with powerful abilities. Full Acts will generally always succeed unless directly opposed by another Full Act - what can't be controlled are the consequences of using your power.

You have 1 Full Act per turn, which you can divide into 2 Half Acts. You can't stockpile Acts, with the exception of 'leftover' Half Acts (if you spend only one Half Act in a turn, leaving the other) which may be used the next turn. I may hand out additional Acts as I feel is appropriate, such as if your character has amassed a large amount of worship or some other such accumulation of power.

There's no limit on the number of Null Acts you can do in a turn, but please just use them to detail important stuff; don't spam a billion of them per turn.

Character Sheets:

Spoiler: Character Sheet + Explanations

Name: Self-explanatory.
Epithets: What title or titles are you known by? Leave this blank for the moment, you'll accrue them as time goes on. Think of these as your godly titles.
Appearance: What do you look like? What's your outfit?
Backstory: What was your life before this? This helps me to create plot hooks for your character and keep things balanced.
Theme: What flavor do your abilities have? Do you wield classic, wizardly magic, or the dark powers of hell, or something else? This helps to keep characters feeling distinct from each other.
Symbol: What symbol represents you? Can be anything really, just make sure it fits your general theme as it's likely to become your calling card.
Skill: What were you good at before you became a god? Grants a +5 to rolls relating to this skill.
Power: See below explanation. This starts at 1.

Spoiler: Power

Power is the measure of how close you are to becoming a full god. It goes from 0 to 5, with 0 being an ordinary mortal and 5 being a full-on god. Your Power is increased by leaving your mark upon the world – gathering worshipers is a method of this, but far from the only one. Vanquishing mighty foes, attaining a long-sought goal, and making the world different in some way are all ways of increasing your Power. Each level increases the scope of your capabilities, allowing you to perform mightier deeds.

0: Mortal – You are ordinary, and have no supernatural abilities.
1: More Than Human - Something has awakened in you that elevates you beyond the norms of humanity. +2 to Half-Act rolls.
2: Heroic - You are a larger-than-life figure, a hero in the classical Greek sense, who may commit great or terrible deeds in equal measure. +4 to Half-Act rolls.
3: Myth - Striding out of the mists of legend, your influence harkens back to the power held in olden days. +6 to Half-Act rolls.
4: Demigod - You stand at the threshold between the mortal world and the divine. +8 to Half-Act rolls.
5: Divine - You are a god incarnate, master of all you survey. The only thing that may oppose you is one of your own kind.

Spoiler: Example Character

Name: Viktor Drachenseele.
Epithets:
Appearance: He seems at first glance to be an older gentleman with hawkish, severe features – his longish hair is silvery, his eyes are steel, and the suit and tie he wears are slate grey. When angered, however, he changes – his hair shines a reddish gold, his eyes go slitted like that of a great predator, and his teeth seem to sharpen, almost becoming fangs.
Backstory: Long ago, a greedy dragon threatened many kingdoms with destruction, having enthralled the minds of many men to his will. Through the efforts of many heroes, he was defeated and sealed away underground. He laid dormant for thousands of years, his body decaying and turning to dust over the years, until his tomb was breached by an earthquake. Now he returns to his old hunting grounds, clad in mortal form, seeking wealth and power as he did in the past.
Theme: Viktor uses his powers in a classically draconic fashion, exercising power over fire, twisting the minds of mortals to his will, displaying unnatural strength, and other such things.
Symbol: A dragon with red eyes coiled in on itself.
Skill: Moneymaking, both legal and illegal.
Power: 1.

Spoiler: Example Act

Hugo Johnson, on the whole, was a rational man. Numbers were his trade, the office cubicle his domain, and in all his forty-seven years he'd never seen anything to shake his placid conviction in the mundanity of everyday existence. Bergensen Inc, the accounting firm he managed, was a very middle-of-the-road company – it had never done all that poorly, but never enjoyed any big successes either. It was able to survive by existing beneath the notice of the gargantuan whales that swam in their particular market, snatching up the jobs that giant conglomerates like Ymir and Arges considered beneath their notice. It was a miniscule, uneventful existence, and Hugo was content with it.

All that said, there was something about the man across from him that made the hairs on the back of his head stand up.

Viktor Drachenseele was tall, unnervingly so, and possessed of strong, angular features. His silvery hair was pulled back tightly from his face, and his body was well-built under his slate grey suit. His steely eyes gleamed from under hawkish eyebrows as he stuck a broad hand out to shake. "I am glad you could meet with me, Mr. Johnson," he rumbled, his German-accented voice deep and resonant. "Our partnership is sure to be a fruitful one."

"Erm," Hugo said, scratching at his bald spot. "It's always nice to have a new client interested in doing business with us, but I'm afraid I haven't been told what you're here fo-"

Viktor raised a finger and Hugo stopped speaking, halted by an irresistable compulsion. "I am not from around here, Mr. Johnson, but where I am from it is customary for he who comes calling to propose what he intends to enter into. Do I have your permission to do so?" His gaze bored into Hugo's brain, the slitted eyes seeming to glow. The accountant nodded numbly, his mediocre willpower not able to fight Viktor's magnetism.

The grey-haired man grinned, a wide smile with large white teeth. "Excellent," he rasped, and began to speak.

His voice seemed to become layered and melodious, resonating deep within Hugo's skull.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

And as he listened to Viktor speak, he gradually lost his train of thought. What had he come here for? He couldn't remember. Drachenseele's eyes were shining like bloody diamonds, sharp light exuding out from within his skull. He could not look away.

He was brought further and further under the man's thrall as his serpentine voice spoke, the thrumming tones reverberating into his soul. Drachenseele was Master. Master was All. His Will Be Done.

"Yes," Drachenseele hissed. "Very good, my thrall. You are the first of my servants, entirely mine in body and soul. Mine to command. You shall serve my every whim as it was in the old times. You'd kill yourself for me if I asked, wouldn't you?"

Hugo nodded. There was no question. Master was All.

"Good. There is no need for that, however. There is much to accomplish before the day is out. I must assemble a proper hoard before I may truly be comfortable in this city."

Full Act: Viktor enthralls Hugo Johnson, the head of Bergensen Inc, a small accounting company. Hugo will obey his every wish and assist him with his goals as well as he is able. For now, he is to continue his regular duties and act as normal, giving Viktor a face to hide his financial dealings behind.

Null Act: Viktor, through Hugo, guides Bergensen Inc through its financial decisions, attempting to increase the company's wealth and/or influence as much as possible.

You can use pretty much any kind of writing technique in your acts - first person, omniscient narrator, SCP-style documentation, whatever pleases your fancy. Just keep the quality high if you can manage it, and remember that I'm looking to make this more of a shared narrative than a play-to-win game. What's interesting is always better than what's optimal.

If you're interested, PM me a character sheet and accompanying example Act - I'll list all the sheets later, but for the duration of the choosing I wanna build a bit of mystery. If you have any questions as to whether an idea you have would work, don't hesitate to message me either. I'll be accepting 6 players (though this number might raise if I get a lot of good entries).

 

[Xantalos]

I was looking through some old projects of mine last night and I found one of the very first writing endeavors I ever did. Well, not very first, those were when I was very very young, but this was still before I was even a teenager. 12, maybe?

It's not very good. In fact it's rather shitty. It does, however, hold the dubious distinction of being the first story that I fully completed - the rest of my projects up to that point had been incomplete ideas or sets of worldbuilding stuff that I never got around to building an actual world out of. (One of them I legitimately plotted out the history of the entire universe up to present day in the setting, and I never made a single character).

This is also the first story that I ever wrote while under a time constraint, which ... explains some things.

Anyhow, I figured you guys might find it amusing to see the depths of enthusiastic ineptitude I started from, so here it is, transcribed exactly as I wrote it, grammatical mistakes and all. I did do some formatting stuff in places to make it less WALL, however. I'll see if I can't upload the pictures of the story and cover art I made for it to imgur, since I actually drew illustrations and such for it as well.

Behold, A Life Journey!

Spoiler: A Life Journey

A Life Journey
Prologue​

There was a time before this. Before the Horde. It was a time when life flourished, unbound, a happy cheerful time. Then, the Horde came. In spite of it's name, it was only one being, but that was because of the life. It claimed the universe was in great peril, and to save it he had to plant a seed. He did... and then great destruction came.

It was revealed that The Horde was not alive, and dedicated to the destruction of all life. There is no record of what happened next, but it is known that all life in the Universe ended, but not before a speck of life was imbued on a round ball like rock. It was given by Karona, a lowly death spirit in The Horde's army.

The sun went dark. It would be millennia before again life awakened. Later, The Horde vigorously set about some... improvements. The trees were still there, but became brittle and lifeless. The view was a panorama because there were virtually no landmarks. The rock was growing, giving the occasional shudder, and once, a spontaneous bounce, sending it tumbling into a crevasse in the Earth. There it would grow, getting stronger until it opened it's eyes. But that was a long way away...

Part One - The Awakening​

The thing opened it's eyes. Questions immediately rushed into it's mind, whispering, "Where am I?", "Who am I?", and "What am I?". A voice drifted through it's mind, saying over and over again, "Kono-Kal, Kono-Kal." It was not sure, but that fit, somehow. Kono-Kal tried to figure out where he was, but how was he he? How did he understand anything at all? What was he? Again the voice drifted through his mind, this time saying, "Bohrock-Kal, Bohrock-Kal". So, he must be a Bohrock-Kal, even though he had no idea what exactly that was.

By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could see that he was in a huge cavern, and out of the corner of his vision, something trickled down the wall. WATER!!! He did not know what water was, but instinct told him he needed it immediately! He tried to get up on his feet (but what were feet?)But could not. He tried to move his feet every which way, but they would not budge. The he tried to move his arms (Arms? Never heard of them!), and they finally came loose. With the release of his arms, his feet also became free. His foot lifted, and his body shifted forward. Suddenly he realized that his body was off balance. He tipped forward and fell. THUD! He landed on a plateau with a dip at the edge. He walked forward to the dip quickly, paused at the edge, bent his legs, and sprung forward. On instinct he folded his legs upward, pressed his arms against his sides, and landed on a spike, and bounced off with a Tock!!!

He heaved a breath that he somehow knew was a sigh. Circling around the spike, he saw a sort of fountain, with water spouting from a smooth slide and rocketing up into the slightly musty air. Right at that moment, a rock smacked down on the top of his head. Within nano seconds, his head snapped forward with such violent force that it completely shattered the fountain and sent rock and dust spraying all over the cavern.

Five hundred meters above, Karona paused, he thought he had heard a clearly audible RUMBLE. His mind flashed back to the time he had created Kono-Kal (though he did not know his name). He had never really liked the Horde, and wanted really only to irritate him. Was it possible the Kono-Kal had survived? He dismissed this thought from his mind. He had left it on a barren rock, it couldn't have possibly survived, but still he couldn't help feeling it disconcerting, and strode quickly on.

Back down in the cavern, Kono-Kal had discovered something very tragic. Although he had made it almost to the roof of the cavern (he had made steps of sorts using his head to carve the cavern walls into stairs), he had just realized that he was the only thing alive in the universe! And besides that, how would he get any food? (He was voraciously hungry now that his thirst had been quenched from the fountain.) He was at the roof of the cavern and popped out with a BUNK and saw the figure of Karona receding into the distance. Acting on instinct, he ran up top a tree, snapped off a big branch and it became absorbed in his body... he had eaten at last!

Part Two - The Forge​

Kono-Kal rolled into a ball and rolled after Karona at speeds up to 100mph, and quickly caught up with him. He unrolled and touched Karona lightly on the shoulder. It was a critical mistake. The Horde, (who at the time was on a killing massacre in a universe filled with shape shifting robots that transformed into vehicles....) Sensed the touch (even from galaxies away), and began to travel through dimensions to the source. Kono-Kal's instincts took over. His hands started glowing, and (still holding Karona) reached up... and ripped a hole between dimensions.

Not really being troubled by Karona's weight, he leaped through and into another universe. They tumbled onto a platform. A strange being rode up to them and handed over two things saying briskly, "You're at Forge 7A45923314792L.... get to work!". "What?" asked Karona, confused. "Work, isn't that what you came here for? Beings always come here to make more of whatever they trade." Before the bewildered duo could answer, he shoved them into a pod, and they were carried down to another platform with a humongous fire and several long things, like the ones they were holding. The things suddenly took control of their bodies, and they had to start to make things in the forge.

When they got a break, they finally talked. "What are you?" Karona asked suspiciously. "Who and What are YOU?" Kono-Kal growled. Then before Karona could react, Kono-Kal grabbed him, and slammed him against a wall. "Yet I sense you have made life." Confused, he released him. "I am Karona, a death spirit. The life you sense must be the time I created the poor short-lived rock, on the rocky plateau, back in that other universe we came from. I wish the Horde had never created me. I always just wanted to live." Explained Karona. Kono-Kal replied, "I am Kono-Kal, I have no idea who or what I am, but I know that I want to get OUT OF HERE!!"

They formed a partnership, and Kono-Kal learned all that Karona had learned, and Karona was assured of his protection, word of honor. After a while, Karona started "You'll see." wondering why they were not escaping. "You'll see!" Kono-Kal said, always smiling. "You'll see."

So things stayed that way, work work work, day after day, week after week, until finally, 43 years, 7 months, 2 weeks, 5 days, 17 hours, 47 minutes and 12 seconds after their arrival, Kono-Kal acted. He and Karona were on work duty, so the long stick things were controlling their bodies as usual, but this time they had it all planned out.

Kono-Kal ripped his mind free of the tool's constraints. Karona, with Kono-Kal's help, managed to do the same. Normally, they would have ran, jumping from platform to platform, and there would have been a lot of shooting and danger with the attempted escape, and maybe if they were lucky they would get a fast paced theme track. The way they actually traveled was quieter, and a lot more convenient.

"Wow!" Karona said as they landed. "You modified the atoms in the air to make a solid air cushion! Whoo." They had spent all those years testing their abilities. It turned out that Kono-Kal had quite a few! He was quite amazing for such a little creature. Kono-Kal's hands glowed, and ripped an inter-dimensional portal, but before they went through, Kono-Kal unleashed a blast from his body that freed them from their tools' constraints and filled them with the urge to jump through the portal.

One of the other worker beings came to them saying, "Take me with you, PLEASE!!!! I never meant to be here!" Begged the little being. Kono-Kal was sympathetic. "Okay" he said, "but you have to tell us who you are and swear that you will not betray us. "No problem," said the being, "I am Takuan, and I absolutely SWEAR with all my heart that you will not need to worry about me betraying you." "That is good." smiled Karona, "Now come on, let's go!" They all stepped out through the portal.

Part 3 - The Fortress​

It was dark for a moment, then they caught sight of another building, but not any ordinary building. it was a fortress! The trio stared up at the fortress in awe. It would be absolutely impossible to either break in - or out. There was no other real choice, so they walked up to the massive gate and Kono-Kal gave it a pounding, putting a huge dent in it. "We'd better look friendly. With security like that, inside who knows what type of beings they are!" Said Karona.

"Good point, but from what we know, they could never bring ME down," said Kono Kal. (It was true, one of his weakest abilities was to fire extremely corrosive acid fire from his eyes.) The gate swung open. A tall being that was covered in armor plating greeted them, "Hello, are you the new trainees? I am Galia." It had a surprisingly gentle voice. "Please, come inside."

As soon as they were inside, the gate slammed shut, and Kono-Kal instantly whirled, hands trained on a point on the door. A powerful beam began to pulse inside the space where his hands were, then he restrained himself. Takuan said, "Why did you not restrain him? He could have blown the gate right off it's hinges." "I doubt it, those gates are impenetrable.", Galia said cooly. "I doubt that!" muttered Kono-Kal. "I am sorry, but it is security measures," explained Galia, starting along a long corridor, and motioned for them to follow. "You never know when you might be attacked."

Takuan had noticed something, "Aren't you a little paranoid about the attack thing? This place looks like a fortress from the outside!" Galia seemed to ignore this comment, "You must be tired, let me show you to your rooms.." "We thank you for your hospitality, don't we?" Takuan asked rather venomously, as none of the triad had thought of thanking Galia.

Galia led them to a few rooms that were not luxurious, but had accessories that none of them had seen before. After giving quick instructions as to how to work the new things in the rooms, she bid the three good day, and left them alone.

That night, Kono-Kal pondered on himself. As far as he himself knew, he was not supposed to live for more than a few days. Instead, he had defied expectations, and actually survived without food or water for 50,000 years! He did not really know what to do with himself, he just wanted to discover his purpose in life. Perhaps, eventually someone could explain it to him.

In the meantime, maybe he could figure out why there was a light shining over him, and his two sleeping companions, or what the strong smell of burned rope in the air was? Rope.... uh-oh. Rope and something that looked like spikes above them... he dove out to the side and pushed his friends roughly out of the cot they were sleeping on, and at that precise moment, the rope snapped. At the same time, Kono-Kal ripped open space and time to create a portal - the trap was dropped into the portal, and was transported to another universe. Karona, now awake and aware put a shield orb around himself and Takuan, none too soon, as the floor opened up beneath them, and they fell!

Karona stopped them with a quick grab, and a secret compartment opened and began pelting them with rocks... more accurately, their shield orb. Many other things occurred that night, many of which legends are composed on. The predicament they faced in the morning was, unfortunately, far worse. Galia opened the door, and seeing that Kono-Kal was the only one awake, motioned for him to follow, and to bring the others.

He levitated them, which was easier than carrying the two companions. "Today your training begins," said Galia, leading Kono-Kal down a hallway. "I will introduce you to an instructor, but from then on I will only guide you to him." said Galia. For perhaps the first time Kono-Kal noticed that Galia wore blue armor.

She led them to a being with red armor who looked none too friendly. After the red armor being woke the other two, he said "show me your abilities." He was pointing first to Takuan. "Bbb-u-ttt I don't have don't have any really special abilities," stammered Takuan. "Good, you can be on the work force," the being seemed very nasty. All of them hated him instantly.

"Now you," he said pointing to Karona. After Karona had demonstrated everything he could do, (which was quite exhausting) the red being told Kono-Kal to do the same. In the end they were assigned to different categories based on their abilities, Karona to Strike Assassins, and Kono-Kal to Assault Chargers. Well, no thanks, the three agreed they would escape to anywhere else but here! As said before, it was impossible to break out, so there was only one option left for Kono-Kal.

He used his illusion power (which he had not shown the instructor) to make the illusion that there was a huge battle army right at the door of the fortress! Instantly, an alarm sounded. They raced out of their door, grabbing Takuan (Kono-Kal had put a warrior disguise illusion around Takuan) and ran outside, and began to battle" the "army". After that, Kono-Kal transported them to another universe, but not before someone grabbed hold of Karona's hand. The mystery person was still there when they arrived in the next universe, which was dotted all over in giant temples! When they turned to see who it was, Galia smiled upon the three sheepishly.

Part 4 - The Temple​

Galia seemed relieved. "I knew you were leaving," she said, "and I always wanted a change!" Karona smiled, and asked, "Well, where are we now?"

Kono-Kal was already halfway to the nearest temple. "Let's find out, I am getting bored already!"

By the time the others had caught up with Kono-Kal, he had already gained admission to the main temple, and many short, and wise looking beings were hobbling around him. From Kono-Kal's point of view, they were Turaga, wise beings that had enormous knowledge of many things, and could help him find his destiny. When the others arrives, he told them what he knew, and the Turaga saw the fatigue in the group. They invited them to retire to some modest quarters to rest. They gratefully accepted.

Kono-Kal decided to ask about his destiny. He really wanted to know what it was he was meant to do!! When he asked, almost everybody said, "Go to Dorana. Dorana will tell you." So after asking around a bit more, he went to Dorana. Dorana, after taking several hours to get into a trance, mumbled, "Battle The Horde, soon you must; in Karona place your trust."

"But what of Takuan?"asked Kono-Kal. His answer was "Takuan, oh now, smart is he, but just how brave, you will see."

"And Galia?"

"Galia risk her life will she, be her conscious* you must be."

Kono-Kal pondered this, and then said, "Very well, I will do as you say." Three days later, Kono-Kal called his friends to a meeting and said, "We have to leave." The decision was unanimous. There was nothing to do here. They were astonished when a Turaga walking past, Moroda, agreed! Even more so when he asked if he might join them!**

So two days later, they all met a short distance outside one of the temples. Kono-Kal opened another portal, and they traveled to the universe where he had originated. It was here that the showdown with the Horde would take place, for now, nothing much would be damaged.

Part 5 - The Horde​

Kono-Kal suddenly felt woozy. Darkness started eating away at his vision and he fell. Karona, seeing Kono-Kal fall, rushed to his side. "He's collapsed. Demonstrating his abilities to the instructor must have drained his energy - more than he thought." Inside Takuan's head the spark of an idea was bouncing around, ricocheting around his skull. "Why don't we transfer our energy to him so he will be able to battle The Horde?"

"It could work," said Karona nervously. "But if we start, and he is still unconscious, we will eventually die!!!"

Kono-Kal stirred. "Give me a thimbleful of energy........I'll generate the rest myself."

So they poured their energies (only a thimbleful!) into his body. He started glowing, and rose into the air, whole body pulsing with light. There was a flash, and Kono-Kal was on his feet, limber as ever. He notices that the other four were exhausted from their efforts, so he gave them a blast of light that revitalized their bodies.

Kono-Kal was the first to turn to the main matter of trying to defeat The Horde. "How are we going to attract The Horde to this place?" he said, gesturing at the completely flat and barren landscape. "Well, the last time we attracted him, you touched me on the shoulder when I didn't expect it." "Well, might as well get it over with," said Kono-Kal, and touched Karona on the shoulder.

The Horde was split with outrage. There was still life in a Razed Universe!!! He would take care of this. The Dark Spirit army that he commanded would crush the life somehow still surviving there.

From Kono-Kal's point of view, things were getting nasty. A second Takuan had appeared!!! Yet this one had an evil aura about him. Had to be the Horde. This was confirmed when 'Takuan' split into a massive horde of insects and, out of an interdimensional portal, a million creatures that looked like Karona came through.

"You take care of the army," Kono-Kal whispered to Karona and Takuan. "I'll take on their leader." Before any of them could react, however, Galia could not restrain her rage any longer, and threw herself at The Horde. Kono-Kal sent out a hand of heat energy and caught her just before she was within The Horde's range. He put her in a cage made of light. "Sorry, Galia, I'll have to take him. Remember your conscience."

Karona was already at the Death Spirit's front. Kono-Kal marched to The Horde's face. Karona started talking to the Death Spirits. "Haven't you ever just wanted to stop destroying things? What did The Horde promise you in return for your services?"

"Life," one of them called out.

"But The Horde is DESTROYING life, all life," Karona shouted. "And besides, you have all seen The Horde's abilities over the years," he roared in outrage. Takuan hurried to Kono-Kal's side. "Give them a vision of what it is like to be alive and they will probably lose confidence - a lot of it." Karona was still talking. "Have you EVER seen The Horde give life to ANYTHING?!"

Takuan hurried over to Karona and was telling him about his plan with the vision when a particularly nasty Death Spirit unleashed a blast of shadow energy right at Karona. Takuan trusted these three beings more than any he had ever met. All his life he had been conned and cheated by other beings trying to climb the ladder of power, and as a result he would do anything for the four in his company.

He threw himself in front of Karona and was struck by the bolt of writhing, dark energy that hungrily absorbed his life force and left him an empty shell on the ground.

"NO!!!!!" screamed the loudest voice anyone had ever heard. It came from Kono-Kal. He sent a wave of shifting energy towards the army and they were treated to a rendering of an invasion of the universe by the army - with them as the inhabitants.

On a grassy plain, a portal opened, and what looked like a small, mole-like creature stumbled out. It looked around for a bit, then went to the place where the ruler of that universe resided. It quickly threw the universe into a panic by claiming that the universe was in danger from dark energy that wanted to consume it, then the entire universe was bowing down to it when it pulled out a seed and claimed that it could destroy those dark forces.

It planted it and instantly, everything froze. The thing chuckled, then a massive portal opened and an army of Death Spirits came flooding out. A black cloud with evil red eyes was in place of the mole-like creature. Everything was still frozen, but the frozen inhabitants could still see their plight. Every one of the Death Spirits came to a victim, and all went dark.

The Death Spirits were very disconcerted, and then, they realized that just before everything froze, The Horde had shouted, "Life shall not exist anywhere!!!" So as one, they vanished, gone to try to right their wrongs. The Horde seemed fairly angry, but that was nothing compared to Kono-Kal's rage. He knew that The Horde had created the Death Spirits, and now one of them had killed his friend and one of the few beings anywhere that he trusted. It was only a matter of time until his fury was unable to be contained and he burst with uncontrollable power.

Galia, inside her cage, shed a single tear. It was this that drove Kono-Kal over the brink of mindless rage.

"BROAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHTAAAAARRR!!!!" he screamed, charging forward. His hands began glowing, with one he (with his telekinesis powers) squeezed all the insects that comprised The Horde's form into a tightly packed sphere. With the other (which had become coated in pure explosive napalm) he drew back... and let fly with an enormous punch.

The explosion was legendary. A fireball nine hundred million leagues wide and tall was created within 0.1/900,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 of a nano-second of a nano-second and yet did not touch the four beings and one dead body there. The full force of the blast his the cloud of insects that was The Horde. In logic, it should have been incinerated. Yet when the smoke cleared, it was there, seemingly unscathed, but very badly shaken. Kono-Kal followed that up with a gigantic poison gas cloud which he summoned from midair.

Now The Horde realized the weaknesses of his 'swarm of insects' form. They dispersed and formed a cloud of darkness with evil red eyes at its center. Kono-Kal took care of that with a well-placed beam of laser light. With a scream of agony, it assumed the form of a being in a full cape that covered its entire body. It held a menacing staff in its hand. It unleashed a massive winter storm at Kono-Kal, whose three companions (and one dead body) were frozen solid where they were. Kono-Kal engulfed himself in a fireball of electricity and and sent a shock through the winter tempest that was The Horde. It decided (in pain) to get into its worst form of all. A black hole appeared, attempting to absorb Kono-Kal and his companions (and dead body) into it's maw.

Kono-Kal realized that it was no use trying to destroy it, so acting on instinct once again, he grabbed Karona, walked to the very brink of the black hole's gullet... and they became one. The Horde (because of course he was the black hole) was amazed at simply how powerful the little creature with the big head was. Even when he actually fought against beings, they usually crumbled before his might. And now the two of them (one of them a traitorous Death Spirit no less) were merging into a single, giant being!

Karia (for that is the being's name) simply lifted it's hand... and the black hole began consuming itself. With a horrible, screeching wail, it collapsed into the form of a small, mole-like creature. Karia split back into Kono-Kal and Korona.

"Help me," whispered the thing. "Help me." It looked up at Kono-Kal, and he saw a flash of pure hatred in it's eyes. His head whipped forward, and the little thing was driven several meters down through solid rick, where it lay unnaturally quiet and still. "So it is done," Kono-Kal murmured. "The Horde is dead."***

Yet there was still one thing to be taken care of. Possibly two. He walked over to Takuan, lying dead on the ground. He cast his mind about and grabbed the last remaining tendril of life in that universe that was not theirs - the branch he had eaten! He reached out and pulled the life out of it and cast it into Takuan's body. Takuan shuddered violently, then stood up as if nothing had happened!

Kono-Kal was very happy about this, but he would rejoice later; he called for his friends to gather (for he had melted all of them free) and said, "I need you to combine your energy with mine." They did not question him, but did so, and Kono-Kal whipped his head forward to strike the ground, and from that point of impact, life sprouted in a rush. Everything came back to life again, and all the beings were freed too.

This happened in all the Razed Universes, until all of existence was back to where it was supposed to be, except The Horde, who was nonexistent.

The five of them stayed in that universe for a while, but then one day Karona asked, "Can we go to a someplace where we can live?"

"That reminds me," Kono-Kal said, and gave Karona the gift of life. He was happy beyond words. Then Kono-Kal opened a portal, and they all stepped through into a place where they could reside happily and keep watch over all life.

fin

*AN - I'd forgotten how to spell conscience, something I remember later on in the story.
** - True to his profession as a supremely wise monk who does nothing, Moroda is for some reason never mentioned by name in the story again.
*** - The fact that the Horde, being in opposition to life itself, would've logically been immune to being killed in the first place apparently never occurred to me.

tl;dr - Local rock wakes up, becomes more powerful than god via the power of being a vaguely disguised Bionicle OC, makes friends with the spirit of COVID-19, blows up Unicron Frieza Zerg Overmind (who happens to enjoy cosplaying as a mole) along with most of the local universe after being confronted with one (1) sad thing. He then reverses entropy without any regard for the consequences and ends the story before the author had to think about that.

The cringe from having to reread and type this out nearly killed me. Be grateful. Everything in Part 5 was a single paragraph. Line breaks? Fuck outta here, eye health is for the week. In this house we carry all the groceries in a single trip and write the story without ever touching the god damn enter key

If any of you ever invent a time machine, please let me know, I need to travel to the past and kick the ass of my younger self. Prescient little shit was expecting it to happen, but they didn't account for the fact that I would account for that fact and remember all their plans to kick my ass!

 

[Xantalos]

I got roped into DMing for a bit for my local D&D group, and the players decided to let me determine a semi-significant portion of their backstory.
The fools
So me being me, I wrote up a short blurb that turned into a longer blurb for the currently unnamed human Kensei monk. I might or might not be able to finish the corresponding blurb for the other player's outlander elf rogue/monk multiclass tonight - if so, I'll edit it in here.

----

You were always told as a child that you came from nothing.

You do not recall if your parents gave you to the Covenant of the Cerulean Sword, or if you were taken as some form of tribute. Your first memories are of the azure marble halls in their mountainside temple, and the deceptively slim forms of your teachers are the most familiar figures in your mind. It is all you have ever known.

The monks saw talent in you, or so you were told, the potential to become something great, to reach for the peak of spiritual and martial perfection that the Covenant's teachings strive towards. From the moment you could walk you were trained on how to move, how to stand and dash and leap. The instruction of the senior monks was gentle but inescapably firm, and many were the nights when you staggered to bed, hardly able to move your limbs through the pain of exertion.

Their teachings were not wholly focused on your body, however - as soon as you were able to hold a quill, you were tasked with perfecting the form of your calligraphy, and made to copy the sillhouettes of birds and buildings and people until their sketching became an instinctive process for you - the tenets of the Cerulean Sword held that killing power was but one half of true mastery over oneself - the other was in the ability to create perfect things, to reflect reality through the lens of your mind and leave it better than you found it. You found yourself gravitating more towards [calligraphy/painting] as you grew, and refined your skill to a great degree.

As the name suggests, the Covenant focuses their efforts on training with weapons, honing their skill to such a degree that their limbs and blades were nigh indistinguishable. You showed particular skill with [starting weapons], besting many of your age-mates in the training halls, and once - just once - landing a glancing hit on the sister overseeing your training. The subsequent thrashing you endured once they took you seriously was entirely worth it.

Nothing lasts forever, however, and soon enough you came of age, learning more about the history of the Cerulean Monks as you did - how they had interfered in wars and politics throughout the known world for centuries, acting in a way that both kept them a secret from the masses and gained them influence with kings and senators alike. Even now the Covenant sends its agents on a myriad array of missions, both serving and undermining nations in the service of a mysterious agenda only the most senior monks are privy to. And as you learned of your history, you learned what your next role in life was to be.

Upon the morning of your [age] birthday, you were roused by your master, the man who raised you and all your brothers and sisters in the Covenant from infancy, whose face has not aged a day in all the time you have known him. You were armed with weapons of your own, to keep - the first time in your life you had known individual possessions. You were given supplies and directions enough to reach the nearest settlement, and told to make your way in the world. This is your Trial of Honing, where young prospects are sent out to hone their skills in the world, mastering the skills beaten into them throughout their childhood, returning only when they are worthy to be known as an ordained monk of the Cerulean Sword Covenant.

Your master informs you that you will be unable to draw upon any resources the Covenant would otherwise offer you in your journey, nor are you permitted to recieve meaningful assistance from any other member of your order. Upon your return, you will have to face him in a duel, and he gently advises you not to do so until you have attained some measure of strength, lest he be forced to judge you unworthy and cast you to your doom. So prepared (and somewhat shaken, though you do not show it), you set off on your journey, eager to test your strength and hone your skills.

Some weeks later, bereft of much in the way of coin but sure that your skills will be able to compensate, you find yourself in the port town of Lathingsdale, where you hope to charter passage across the Goldspiral Sea to the kingdom of Tural, a land on the borders of the civilized world, where there is said to be much in the way of challenging - and lucrative - work for wandering adventurers.

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

Life in the Kulayan Wastes was harsh, but it taught one many things of value if they could survive the lesson.

You were born to a small nomadic tribe that wandered the plains and broken hills as your people had done ever since the fall of the Great Land so long ago. You were born on the move, with some even saying that you started walking as soon as you came out of the womb. You were taught to forage for game and how to sniff out the signs of mana corruption in what you scavenged, how to track game and conceal prints, which prey to stalk and which to avoid. Above all you were taught how to hide, to place your steps and hold your body still to avoid notice, for many of the creatures of the Wastes could pose great danger to a young elf caught on their own.

Your nights were filled with fireside tales, the flames seeming to twist and writhe into unnatural shapes as your elders told horror stories of the mutated beasts that gibbered in the interior of the Wastes, close to cursed Ystrath, city of your ancestors. You always found it hard to sleep after hearing these tales, but your parents would tut and chide the ancient soothsayers for their willingness to scare children. None of the Twisted Flesh had been seen by any of your tribe for generations.

Fate, as it turned out, deemed that streak to end with you. Even now, years after, the memories are blurry, jagged things, scars on your mind that ache to look upon. While returning from a hunting excursion, the first you had been entrusted with completing on your own, a deceptively loose patch of ground saw you falling into a crevasse, trapped in a maze of rock with no obvious path out. Left with no choice but to continue onward, you explored the maze of passageways until you found yourself in a network of caverns that stank of radiated magic. With night closing in, you ventured forth, making your way through the cave until you found yourself face to face with a great mutated beast, the legacy of your people's ancient folly. The creature - to remember it makes your head ache - laid in slumber between you and an exit, forcing you to employ all you knew of stealth to attempt to get around it.

You were almost free of the thing's lair when the slightest misstep sent a stone skittering to the ground, awakening the creature. Forsaking stealth and running for your life, you were barely able to keep ahead of the monster - it was likely only your lack of magic that saved your life, for the beasts from Ystrath could sense the arcane with sight beyond sight, and held a fierce hunger for the flesh of its channelers.

Terrified out of your wits, you ran back to your tribe's encampment - a mistake, as it turned out, for you brought the beast to them. The warriors of the tribe engaged the monster, and drew enough of its attention that you were able to escape its notice, but in return you were forced to watch as the creature singlehandedly slaughtered everyone you had ever known. It was only after it had sated itself on the faint dregs of mana present in all elven flesh that it wandered off to parts unknown, leaving only you in its wake.

The following years were ones of harsh lessons for you. You were able to sustain yourself off of the cruel life of the Wastes, but the thought of eternally wandering its horizons no longer held any appeal for you. You made your way eastward year by year, following half-remembered anecdotes of civilization told by some of your uncles that had ventured that way in their youth. It was some time before you were able to escape from the time and space-distorting effects of Ystrath, but with sheer bloodymindedness you were able to manage.

Unfortunately, your years of solitude had left you ignorant of the ways in which people can be cruel to each other, and when you happened upon a fire in the night, you approached unaware that you were walking into a camp of hard-bitten bandits. Distrustful of elves this close to Kulaya, they had you at swordpoint in the blink of an eye, and you might have died there if not for the shadows.

The fire of the bandits was extinguished in an instant, and it was only thanks to your keen vision that you saw a glimpse of what happened next. A cloaked figure appeared from the shadows, wrapped head to toe in black cloth. He was everywhere and nowhere, leaping from shadow to shadow to break necks and shatter skulls. He was wreathed in misdirection; the eye slid off of him like a patch of oil, and the bandits hardly knew they were in danger before they lay dead. In the aftermath, the cloaked figure introduced himself to you, removing his hood to reveal an elven head concealed by a mask of smooth ebony. He called himself Knock, and bid you to go with him. Seeing no other course of action, you agreed.

You were unused to conversation, but that which you had with Knock revealed both much and little. He gave you a cursory education of the state of the known world, the various major kingdoms and duchies and petty empires on both sides of the Great Divide. He taught you the common tongue, and enough of civilized life for you to be able to conduct yourself in most places without causing too much offense (should you choose to). Of himself he spoke little, but you were able to glean that he was a member of a group that studied the shadows and conducted subtle business in many places with many peoples. It was chance that he had happened upon you, but he offered you a measure of training in his ways, seeing potential in you.

Even now, much of Knock's instruction makes little sense to you. The principles of movement, how to leap and hold and strike with your body, that came naturally to you, but when he talked of forgetting yourself so that others would forget you, you stared in confusion, and no matter how hard you looked you could never find him in the seeking games he played with you. His words still come to you in times of adversity on occasion, taunting you with their obtuse nature.

The two of you travelled together for a time, which ended as all things do. You found yourself in the port town of Lathingsdale, and Knock departed after recieving a missive, claiming he was needed on sensitive business. Before he left, he gave you the name of a ship and captain he knew, instructing you to travel across the Goldspiral Sea to the kingdom of Tural, where others of his order resided and could properly instruct you. He gave you a token of smooth black stone to show them before departing, claiming you'd know what to do with it.

With naught but the things you carry on your person, you are once again left on your own, your destination uncertain but purpose clear in your mind.

 

[Xantalos]

Had the first session of my campaign tonight, and everything went decently well! They managed to keep their ship from wrecking, which was more than I expected, and now they've made it onto the Mysterious Island of Side Plot. So I wrote up a short thing of what happened in the session so I could remember. Tenses are a little weird, but eh whatever.

---

Saiell, human monk of the Covenant of the Cerulean Sword and Knack Tabbar, hard-bitten wood elf survivalist and pupil of a nameless man find themselves needing passage on the Violet Goose, and manage to barter passage on, with Knack impressing the swarthy orc captain with a stunning feat of dexterity involving throwing daggers. Passage secured, they spend the night in town preparing for the journey - Knack scrounges for coin to steal, and only manages to get 5 gold, while Saiell searches for any rumors or hints of why ships heading to and from the kingdom of Tural have been going missing recently. While she does hear quite a lot about the disappearances, none of it is of any substance.

They set off aboard the Violet Goose at dawn, the open ocean proving to be a new experience for both of them. Saiell manages to get herself a spot in the crows nest, ostensibly navigating but more using it as an excuse to sketch her maps in isolation. Knack takes the chance to get out of harder work by guarding the cargo of the ship, which is replete with spices, salts, and a few more magical components, including an arcane chest that he can feel the mana oozing off of.

They happen to meet up in the galley while on a break and get to talking, sharing parts of their story - Saiell is on a sort of coming of age trial, sent to wander the world and gain experience outside of the temple she was raised in. If she succeeds, she will become a fully ordained monk of the Cerulean Sword. Knack is the last survivor of a tribe of nomadic elves that wandered the mana-blasted wastes of Kulaya, whose entire family was killed when they encountered a great mutated beast that had been twisted by magic long ago. He was aided in escaping Kulaya by a mysterious elf calling himself Knock, who could leap from shadow to shadow and snap a man's neck in his hand. Knack first happened upon the cloaked figure when he was being threatened by a group of bandits. Killing the bandits, the black-masked elf took Knack under his wing for a time, and eventually directed him to Tural to find more of his order. This is not the entire truth, but it serves for the moment.

Just as night is falling, the ship is beset by a storm, the rain falling in sheets and the waves riding high enough that they threaten to tip the boat over. Both Saiell and Knack are pushed to their limits helping keep the ship from sinking - Knack utilizes an improbable amoint of rope to jury-rig harnesses that keep the cargo stable, and Saiell perilously clambers down the mast to help the crew furl the main sails. Lightning strikes the deck, lighting strange fires that persist against the rain, forcing both adventurers to race here and there, using masses of blankets to smother the flames. As if that was not enough, a swarm of octopi wash aboard, lashing out at the crew and forcing the duo to engage. Saiell is slammed and grabbed by a multitude of tentacles extending from the largest of the bunch, and nearly has her foot bitten off, through she manages to cut several strips out of its blubbery hide. Knack, using the distraction this compromising situation entails, ambushes the giant cephalopod and rams his quarterstaff straight through its skull with a series of strikes, killing the beast.

They find themselves not quite out of the proverbial woods, as the ship's captain has spotted land and steered them towards it, but the approach is complicated by a devlish set of jagged rocks and shallow reefs. Saiell returns to the crow's nest and navigates as best she can, using her earlier experience to her advantage, managing to relay enough warning to the captain that the worst of the rocks are avoided. Though the ship stays afloat, many small holes are punched in the hull, and Knack is kept running back and forth nigh-constantly with the task of plugging the holes as they appear.

Eventually, with much effort, they manage to beach the Violet Goose aboard the sandy beach of a mysterious island, the storm still raging, albiet less fiercely than on the open ocean. It's swiftly determined that shelter will have to be found on the island, for the ship has sustained enough damage that staying in it overnight wouldn't be safe, and the adventurers venture out with some of the crew to see if they can find any holes in the hillsides of black stone that ring the beaches. Knack's group has no luck, finding only a strange jungle made up of oddly fleshy vine-like trees a short distance inland. Saiell and her assigned crew are more fortunate, finding an opening in the hillside that leads to a box canyon-like clearing. They relay this news to the captain, and the crew begins to disembark, having successfully anchored the ship to the shoreline in the meantime.

Tarps are stretched across portions of the hill, lending some measure of shelter, and a few of the vine-trees are felled, a task that involves being covered with sticky goop on the inside of their stringy flesh, and burned with the aid of lamp-oil. Only a few meagre, greasy fires result, but better discomfort than hypothermia. The captain consults with Saiell and Knack a final time before the crew and adventurers settle down to get as good of a rest as they can manage - the ship is revealed to have sustained a significant amount of damage in the storm, enough that more lumber will be needed to make repairs. Resolving to explore more of the island on the morrow in hopes of finding more wood, as well as a source of water and food, the adventurers lay out their bedrolls and sleep, utterly drained. End Session 1.

 

[Xantalos]

I, uh.

I don't know where this came from. I just saw the name somewhere and the next thing I know, this is popping out of my head. I couldn't stop myself.

Spoiler: Deepest apologies to anyone named Jackson

Jackson, you whack, son
Why you out here talking smack, son
Looking like you smoking crack, son
I'm out here making fat stacks, son
You making pennies putting wax on
My very own brand-new Nissan
You're a fool for attacking me, son
Call me rapping Liam Neeson
'Cause I've got a very particular set of rhymes for making you bleed, son
Make your hair red, looking like Weasley's (Ron)
So shut your yabbering yap, son
Before I blast you with my gat, son
Pull out my knife and cut you up to the sound of a clock
Tick, tack, snickety snack, break you in half and eat you like a Kit Kat
Neck pinch you like I'm Spock and pump you full with a load from my long hard Glock
Gonna beat you blue and black, son
Think I won't? I've got that knack, son
I'll cut the slack and whip a belt upon your ass, son
So you best not gimme back-sass, son
Cuz yo mama looking like a snack, hun
Might pull up to your house while no one's around
Have both of you calling me dad, son
So sit down at the kitchen table and acknowledge that I'm the winner
Before I go ahead and send you to bed with no tasty chicken dinner, son

 

[Xantalos]

I didn't really write this with the intention that anyone but myself would ever read it - hell, even I've only read it twice, once as I wrote it and once just now to see if I'd care if people saw it - so it doesn't have any real structure, breaks my self-imposed rule of no roided paragraphs, and is overall rather rambly and janky and not really a treat for the eyes.

It also covers topics some might find uncomfortable - low self-worth, obsessive thoughts, self-hatred, pretty sure I hint at suicidal ideation at one point in it - point being it's not really a thing you should read if you want to retain a good mood, though it ends positively, I think. I'm fine, I should clarify, this is all stuff from way back that I've processed and moved on from, for the most part. Just wanted to give a disclaimer. Consider this a mild content warning thingy.

Spoiler: On Love

Much of what I've observed of love is possessive. Little enunciations, idle gestures that beg reciprocation with unsaid refrains. I love you - say it back. I miss you - you miss me, right? It's an exchange - you are given affection, you are expected to give back. That's just how it works, it's only fair after all, and if you fail to reply you're left either with confused silence, disappointment, or consternation - you've broken the rules. You didn't say it back and that means you don't love them. How could you? They gave themselves to you like an egg, and you let it slip from your fingers and splatter all over the floor. It's tile, but still, c'mon.

It's never with a sense of malice or falsitude, never with a sense that you're being lied to or anything. With love like this, you are prized - but maybe that's the problem. Prizes are something you hold, something that's yours and no one else's. Their value to a person is derived not just from their inherent worth, but the connection they feel with it, the fact that it's their prize. A trophy that belongs to someone else is something that can be admired, coveted, lusted after and obsessed over, but only ever in relation to yourself. It's not yours, so it should be. You want it and its absence pains you. You have to figure out how to get it, how to take it, how to make it exclusive to you.

I've never told anyone I love them in those exact words in my entire life, and I've never really been able to figure out why. It's not apprehensiveness, or fear of being rejected that stops them from being said. They just don't seem real when I try to drag them up my throat and twist my tongue to accommodate them. They feel false on a level I can't articulate. I use wordplay to get around it, some more elegant than others. Love you. "Me too." "Okay." "Makes sense." Can't ever direct the word love towards anyone or it's not real.

I love you. What does that mean? I'm not sure if I've ever really felt it, and I'm not sure if it's due to some personal quirk or lack of proper examples. Mayhaps I have loved all my life and just never realized it, though I rather doubt it. What are you supposed to feel when the people you spend life with are far away for an extended time period? I've heard it described as a visible absence, a space the other person fills that you unconsciously move around even when they're not there. A sense of uncomfortable emptiness, of silence that longs to be filled with words. That's what "I miss you" means, or so I've been told. To be honest, though, I've never felt anything like that. Nor do I want to, really. It sounds kinda shitty. I'm comfortable enough around people, but I don't miss them like I'm addicted to their presence or something.

I dunno, it just doesn't feel right to say I love anyone. Never really has. Anytime I get it described to me, or see an example in written fiction or movies or hear a song about it, it always sounds … pre-arranged. Like something that has to happen for the script to move forwards, but no one ever says why it happens, it just does. A mother has to love her child, because otherwise how could Voldemort ever have been defeated? Siblings have to share that ineffable bond, otherwise it wouldn't be a tragedy when fuckin uuhhh Murtagh betrays Eragon. Inheritance Cycle spoilers, sorry. The predominant majority of all main characters have to find a love interest, because that's just how stories work. They reflect the human condition, people find life partners, so stories have to as well. But it's never questioned, never explained, there's never a why, always a how.

It's worse in music, from what I can see, at least the popular stuff. People with actual taste can scoff at how generic and samey pop music (or modern hip-hop or whatever other genre, I don't know music - the shit that plays on the mainstream radio stations) is all they want, it wouldn't be popular if people didn't like it. The lyrics are different, the music changes, but what the songs say is always the same. I crave you. The experiences you bring. Your textures. Your shapes. Your colors. I want to possess your laughter and swallow it whole so it can't be heard. I want you. I will carve a space shaped like you out of my flesh, and the only thing that will salve my pain is if I can envelop you and fit you into this empty wound. Tell me what I must do to acquire you. The others who pursue you are not worthy - I will prove myself better or expose them for a pack of scavengers, lusting after the feast you represent. I don't want to let you go. Give me moments that no one else has experienced. Promise me you will never share yourself. You are precious to me. You are mine, and I want to ensure you stay that way.

It all seems so driven by unexpressed pain. How can you look at someone once, know that you'll never be content again unless you know them body and soul, and ever, in a thousand lifetimes, consider that a good thing, something to be desired and encouraged? It's … Slaanesh from the various Warhammer franchises is the god of obsession and inner emptiness at its core. It's a being that grants its followers the capacity to experience heights of agony and ecstasy more intense than anything a mortal could ever imagine, and it does so for the purpose of rendering those experiences dull and worthless. Once you've tasted a Slaaneshi fruit, you can never again be satisfied by anything normal, and even the excesses you're introduced to grow stale and unfulfilling with time. You are driven ever onwards, in search of new experiences, stretching your mouth and stomach wider and wider to accommodate them, and the gnawing emptiness inside you grows bigger each time. You drink an entire ocean's worth of joy and the only thing you feel is more thirst.

I don't think it's an unrelated coincidence that people who pursue affection too recklessly are called 'thirsty'. Not because they risk summoning daemonettes with sheer power of simping, but the same principles that Slaanesh wields apply to those in the grips of the possessive addiction that people seem adamant on calling love. You can't ever stay happy when you experience it. Each gesture of affection sears through your veins like fire, your flesh is filled with jitters and you feel a sickly sweet tearing sensation in your chest. It's never enough, because even as it happens, it fades. It's like trying to hold onto sand - the super dry, wispy, powdery kind, not wet beach sand. It slips through your fingers and all you're left with is the memory of what it felt like while it was there - and how can you rest when you have a memory so damningly alluring? How can you sit still, think of the present, acknowledge what you have, when you're so fucking achingly aware of what you are lacking? Of course you'll try to get closer to them through whatever means you can manage. It's not even really a conscious thing at a certain point, no more than snatching your hand away from a hot stove is. Give them a gift, they'll give you attention. Follow them around, it aches to be apart. Learn to write poetry, learn to make paper flowers and spend hours coloring them, meticulously, exactingly. Memorize jokes, memorize their schedule, do whatever you can to manufacture the experiences you crave. It's an itch that's impossible to scratch, but you have to try or else it'll eat you alive. You drive yourself onwards with the same stubborn, involuntary determination as a person reaching the 84th page of Pornhub search results because goddamnit you haven't found what'll make it stop yet. It's tunnel vision of the worst kind, and no matter how rational or self-aware you are, you can't stop yourself from getting swept up in it. You can scream and struggle inside your own mind, spend every waking minute monitoring your thoughts for anomalous patterns, traitorous thoughts that scream for satisfaction, and ruthlessly squishing every one you find, but the truth is that you were never in control of yourself, and you only ever realize it when you wake up and a you that feels false is piloting your mind and body and the empty agony within you is growing ever larger and you can't make yourself do anything to stop it. All you do is choke on the sickly sweet sea of yearning and feel your identity drown, inch by inch.

And of course when you're pursuing someone you don't tell them about it, what, are you fucking stupid? That goes against the essence of the word. A pursuit implies … it's a chase, it's a hunt, it's having your eye on another and proceeding towards them for your own sake. Humans evolved to be persistence predators, for crying out loud - our gigabrain evolutionary strat was to power walk menacingly at whatever we wanted to eat until it got too tired to run away. Pursuit implies predation, it means opportunism. Outright telling the person you're pursuing that you're pursuing them is like walking up to a cow and co-moo-nicating (bazinga) to them that you'd like to eat them, please and thank you[1]​. When you've been consumed by inner thirst to such an extent that your sense of self-worth is nonexistent, the only outcome your predictive capacity can see from openly communicating is that they might refuse - and if they might, they will. So you've got to adopt a different strategy, be the spider to their fly, and manipulate them with great care over an exceedingly long period of time into giving themselves to you. For their sake. Or that might be how you justify it, anyway, that you're doing something good. Anything to distract yourself from the unpleasant truth that you don't really care for them so much as what you feel from them. You thirst for what you don't have because it isn't yours, crawling over scorching dunes after beautiful mirages, looking over patches of real water because it doesn't sparkle and shine like they do. It's not about having it, it's about getting it.

…apologies, I was a worse person before and the memories can still be rather intense. I've broken out of those toxic thought patterns in the intervening time, learned how to preempt their taking root and how to get rid of them while they're still small. An unpleasant process but it had to be done, I wouldn't be alive right now if I hadn't. What was I talking about?

Ah yes, love. What I described above obviously isn't it - or if it is, a staggeringly large number of people are flirting with oblivion and desperately need help - but if unrestrained longing and affection isn't love, what is? Intimate familiarity could be presented as one example, but I'm honestly not convinced by it, though I can't fully articulate why. The above example of not knowing how to miss people are a start of an explanation, I suppose. Maybe this is more of a thing relating to my circumstances more than familiarity not being a part of love. I don't really know who I am, so the faces I present to people are incomplete, in a sense. Some are better constructed than others - in some personas I'm knowledgeable and articulate, in some I'm eager and attentive, yet others quiet and withdrawn, but none of them are really my own face, so to speak. There's probably a japanese saying about this kind of thing.

Anyway, because the faces I present to people aren't real, the connections I forge with them aren't quite real to me either. They're something I can shed as easily as changing clothes, there's no sense of their actions or feelings mattering to me in a sense of innate value. It's more related to convenience - if I piss this person off, I can't use their facility to train. If I don't make an effort to initiate contact with that person, they'll drop off my radar. If I don't make the right words and gestures form in my mouth and hands, this person will think I don't love them, and will express resentment towards me, unconsciously or not. They're relationships of exchange, but not ones I feel any attachment to aside from the potential benefits or detriments they might give me.

So being familiar with someone, even if they trust you completely and tell you things no one besides them has ever heard, isn't love. At least in my opinion. It's not something that you're given, or that you can take. This is probably an incredibly selfish view of things to take, now that I consider it - or rather, now that it seems like an appropriate time to point out to you, dear reader, that I have considered it, in order to make this walk through my thought processes seem less artificially constructed than it is. Even if no one else ever reads these words, the intent behind them is still fundamentally false, because the intent behind them is to provoke a reaction that has been carefully considered in the back of my mind, probably without my conscious realization.

Anyway.

Love can't be taken, and it can't be given to you. So what is it? Why is it so important (allegedly)? Is this entire rant being written solely because it's very late and I'm tired and my pessimism filters are slipping too heavily over my eyes and/or brain? Why am I slamming out so many words for this bullshit when I can barely get myself to string a sentence together for the shit I actually enjoy writing?

This isn't really a complete answer, for the reasons of I'm not ready to let myself go through this sort of change yet, I only vaguely remember the train of thought I had from when I was less tired, and I don't really trust this anyway. Call it reflex. But love isn't taken, nor is it received, it's given. Hoarding it, possessing it, is the antithesis to what I think love is. It's not a thing that can be held or had, only shared. It only exists in the moment that it's directed. Like a sunbeam or some other pretty simile. Can only be seen in relation to other things and whatnot. I should give examples.

Love for another person is wanting them to be happy, without wanting to be happy because they're happy. Does that make sense? It's not something that you can benefit from, at least not directly. It has to be given without expectation of, or even desire for, reward. Whatever form it takes, it has to have this sentiment driving it. It can be towards others, sure, but also towards yourself. Plenty of people don't love themselves, I sure as fuck didn't until a while ago. Still kinda don't. Point being, I reckon love is like the buddhist ideal of compassion - don't quote me on this, I read a book by the Dalai Lama like 7 years ago, that's all I know about the thing - more than a sense of attachment. It's not something that can lead to anything bad. It can't be refused, because it's not given with the expectation that it will be received, so there can't be any sense of pain from rejection. It can't come from emptiness, a sense of wanting, or incompleteness - if you don't have compassion for yourself, you can't realistically give it to anyone else. It's a light that doesn't cast a shadow. It's … it's seeing a cool rock that you know someone you think of will like, picking it up for their sake, and only remembering it's there when you meet them.

- - -

Woah damn. Coming back to this a few days later, man was I in a mood. I wrote all that in like an hour, too - that's more in one sitting than I've managed in several months and it's wasted on a whiny diatribe about my semi-resolved mind scars instead of the stuff I actually enjoy writing. Bleh. Apologies to anyone who read through that, if this ever gets posted somewhere any eyes but my own behold it.

Anyway, since I'm an unrepentant nerd, I figure I may as well cap this off by rambling about the Jedi and how both they and everyone who whines about them not being able to hook up and how that totally sucks bro are wrong and can fight me if they wish to disprove it. Before I'm eviscerated by internet debate people and a host of affronted psychic space paladins, allow me to elucidate.

A big plot thread in the Star Wars prequels is how Anakin and Padme's love for each other (leaving aside, for the moment, how goddamn creepily it's contextualized as happening in AOTC) is a forbidden thing - Anakin's a Jedi, he's not allowed to love, or more specifically, get into a romantic relationship with someone. There Is No Emotion, There Is Peace. There Is No Passion, There Is Serenity. There Is No Third Line, I'm Quoting The Code Out Of Order Anyway. A common criticism of this I've seen is that the Jedi being so dogmatic about this point, refusing to acknowledge the role emotion plays in people's decisions, led them to becoming detached and ignorant of the galaxy's affairs. Fear of being expelled from the Order led Anakin to live a double life, keeping the monumental secret of his marriage from all of his peers and friends, never allowing himself to fully trust them, leading to increasing emotional isolation masked by bravado over time as the stress of the Clone Wars pushed on him, which left plenty of room for his ol' trusty pal The Senate Friendpatine to manipulate him into betraying the Jedi. And sure, that did happen. Anakin was an unstable mess even from before AOTC started, and especially after that movie should've been going through mandatory counseling to resolve the trauma he endured in that clusterfuck of … how long was that movie in-universe, a week? Less? Dude went through some heavy shit, and the Jedi did indeed fuck up as a whole by not realizing that he was in need of help, trust, and assurance until it was too late.

And also the whole 'a Sith is manipulating the galaxy in a double-sided civil war shell game in order to establish a fascist space empire and kill all of you' thing, but really, who would believe it was the Sheev?

Anyway, while those criticisms kinda have a base, since it was explicitly Anakin's love for his son that drove him to betray The Senate and destroy the Sith at the end of the saga (there is no sequel trilogy), they also kinda … don't? Even ignoring all the material that isn't direct movie canon that both disproves that allowing relationships cures dark side blue balls and that the Republic Jedi didn't allow relationships, which there is a lot of*, the whole point of the Jedi not allowing relationships is a misinterpreted one. They didn't disallow that stuff because they're stuffy space monks who don't remember how real people live, they discourage it because they're space paladins with a universal mandate to protect innocents, root out corruption, and fight evil wherever they go, and quite often end up making decisions that impact thousands of lives, at minimum, in drastic and far-reaching ways. For that kind of thing you need to be as objective as possible if you want to do the most good (even if you don't subscribe to utilitarian ethics this applies), and having the inevitable situation pop up where a Jedi's subject to a conflict of interest between saving a loved one and saving a bunch of innocent people (see: around 60% of the plots found in any Star Wars novel) will lead to suboptimal decisions being made, and overall trust in the Order reduced.

Side note, another major reason passionate entanglements aren't a thing the Jedi look lightly on is because the Force seems to function as a sort of psychic feedback loop - this is consistent in pretty much any SW material, what you give to the Force it'll give back to you. This is how the dark side works, it amplifies your fear, anger, and general mental instability and feeds it back to you, the strength and volatility of your emotions means you're more apt to turn to dark side powers to solve a scenario, that feeds back more anger and whatnot into your mind, and before you know it you're a pale-skinned, yellow eyed raving lunatic faster than someone spiraling into a meth addiction and a blackpill mentality simultaneously. Obviously this is reversible if it's caught before you cross any moral event horizons, but given the depths of despondency that romantic troubles can cast a well-meaning person into, is it any wonder that the Jedi would want to minimize the instance of traumatic events within their super-empath population? And hell, this isn't even including the fact that the 'ban' was really just a strong suggestion - see the examples I'll probably list at the bottom.

Point being, the Jedi as an institution didn't forbid romantic interaction because they don't understand the emotions of normal people, it's just that their mandate was to hold to a type of universal compassion, unconditional love for all things. Anakin even says so in AOTC, albeit in such a way that makes it clear that he's using the words as a justification for his infatuation. They discourage romantic attachment because valuing one person more than you value anything else can result in moral dilemmas if, say, you have to sacrifice yourself to save an exploding building full of people or whatever. Jedi were always kinda space buddhist with their non-attachment stuff, which I suppose makes Qui-Gon and those Jedi who followed the philosophy of the Living Force … space Taoist? Anakin's fuckups aside, I don't really think the Jedi were guilty of having the wrong dogma or mission so much as … really, it was their insistence on being involved in political situations but avoiding playing the game of politics that fucked them over. I just plain don't see any evidence for their policy on romance being the one thing that would've saved them if it had been changed.

*Just off the top of my head:

• All the shit in the Legends expanded lore, where Luke sets up a new Jedi order (multiple times, mind you) with relationships allowed only for it to promptly generate a Sith for him to fight in almost every incarnation, Luke turning to the dark side in order to, uh … I forget, but he became Palpatine's apprentice after the guy had been resurrected for the second time or some shit and became evil and then Mara Jade decided to turn good so he did too or some shit, I dunno, Legends was a fuckin mess. Point being there were a lot of instances where a Jedi being allowed romantic connections not only didn't prevent their falling to the dark side, it actively enabled it.
• Obi-Wan was a goddamn manwhore. Can't recall the exact details, but I remember at least 2 or 3 serious romantic relationships he got himself involved in during his time as a Jedi, both before and after training Anakin. He was involved with another Padawan at one point, who died, and then Satine Kryze, who also died, and I think at least one more person, also dead. Dude had bad luck with that kind of thing, but point being, Obi-Wan fucked unrepentantly and no one seemed to give a damn. Hell, even his mentor Qui-Gon was basically in a relationship with another whole-ass Jedi (who also died tragically, the SW universe hates non-traumatized protagonists). No expulsions there.
• Ki-Adi Mundi had a goddamn harem because his species had a low birthrate and it was a mandatory thing for males of his kind. Sure, it was specifically labeled as an exception, and he apparently didn't have much if any interaction with his wives on a personal level, but still.
• A somewhat older (in-universe chronologically) example, but The Old Republic was made by Bioware and you can play as a Jedi in it. I know for a fact from those two things that you can thus play a Jedi and romance one of your followers and probably no one will give a damn. Yes, several thousand years before movie canon, but Star Wars is basically locked in Generic Space Future Stasis as far as culture goes, so it's effectively the same environment.
• Aayla Secura and Kit Fisto. You can't convince me that didn't happen.
• Lastly (though I'm certain there are other examples I'm just overlooking due to not wanting to spend all day sifting through material) do you really believe that Yoda of all people didn't have a fling or two throughout his 900 years? That happened, and now you have to think about it.

[1]​ Reading this back later, another note can be taken of this sort of toxic mindset from the language used here - the fact that one's own affections are referred to as a predatory action implies that on some level, they know they're engaging in behavior that's unhealthy, be that for themselves or for others. Additionally, the self-worth of the person who thinks like this is in such a deteriorated, negative state that it's seemingly hard for them to believe that anything they do could ever be positively received, or turn out well - they hate themselves, and that colors their perception of how everyone else views them. It's a uniquely interesting cycle of self-defeat, as you beat yourself down for being a bad person, and then seek out comfort in whatever form you can perceive to relieve the mental strain you're experiencing, and then punish yourself more for attempting to relieve said pain because you think you'll spread it to other people.

Truth be told I've no recollection of how I managed to break out of that particular cycle. I do remember it being very anticlimactic, though.

 

[Xantalos]

For reasons that are too complicated to get into, I wrote this a while (a month or so) ago and am posting it now. It's not super great in my opinion, but I have been repeatedly told that I'm too self-effacing, so I'll leave y'all to judge. It's two alternate ending scenes for the novel American Gods, and though one follows from the other, I'd hesitate to really consider them outright connected since I'm not particularly satisfied with how the first one sits. The second one fits the feel of the book a little better. Anyway.

Implied spoilers for American Gods ahead, so go read that first if you haven't already. It's good.

-----

'Shadow shook his head. "You know," he said. "I think I would rather be a man than a god. We don't need anyone to believe in us. We just keep going anyhow. It's what we do."' - American Gods: Tenth Anniversary Edition, page 480

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

The storm had passed, and the gods left in their hundreds. Some remained, and as the world darkened, they stared at each other, old myths matching eyes with new idols.

Into the silence, another voice spoke. "Why, Shadow," it said, sounding like every news broadcast he had ever heard. Media's voice, coming from the body of an indistinct figure with an unreadable but urgent headline displayed underneath them. Everything about it demanded attention. "You certainly made a worthy point! But how is it that you are here to make it? Not just anyone can come Backstage, you know."

Other eyes turned to Shadow, gods old and new staring with uncomfortable focus at him. One of them stepped forward, a tall god with blind, vacant eyes who held a bow in one hand. "You are Odin's son," he said. "This I know. I cannot see, but kin cannot deny kin, and you are his as sure as the night is dark." The god peered at Shadow, and for a moment his face looked uncomfortably like that of Robbie Burton. "Mortals cannot walk here. What is your name?"

Shadow thought for a moment, and realized with a start that he did not know. Whatever his real name had been still rested in the underworld with Zorya Polunochnaya, and had left an empty space inside his head. "I don't know," he opened his mouth to say. "I gave it away when I died." Those were not the words he spoke, however.

"I was born to the sunrise on the first day of winter. I was the most beloved son and brought light with my presence. I have never shrunk from a challenge, and am beloved by all things of the world, save for one. No weapon can touch me, yet I died all the same. We are kin, stranger, and I know your face."

Shadow blinked. The world seemed to have brightened, and the blind god was now weeping. Tears were creeping down his cheeks as well, though he couldn't say why. "I see you, brother," the blind god sniffled. "You are only a man, but I still see you." He turned away, and the old gods around him followed. They recognized the end of a story when they saw it. It was not long before the new gods left too, their remaining curiosity resolved. Shadow found himself alone in short order, with more questions than he had answers.

"Some things never change," he grumbled.

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

"You know, I never understand why they call this a Bean. Is a stone. Anyone can see this."

Millennium Park was cold, and the trees were bare of leaves, with buds only beginning to sprout. Spring was coming. Tourists crowded around the reflective chrome shape in the middle of the plaza, taking pictures or staring into their reflections. Shadow turned to the man on the bench next to him. "You think so?"

Czernobog nodded. "Like the stones Zorya Utrennyaya tell her fortunes in. Shows you nothing, you see anything." He spit on the ground. "For fools. Why you wanted to meet here?"

"It's supposed to look better in person, and I wanted to see it," Shadow said. "And maybe we need a bit of imagination. You've been here for decades, you never went sightseeing?"

"No."

"Shame. You come to parks like this, you'd get more people willing to play checkers with you."

"And how many let me knock their heads in with my hammer after?" Czernobog grinned, his iron tooth flashing in the light. "Not so many, I think."

"Maybe not." Shadow stuck his hands into his pockets and sat back. "But who's really going to wager their life over a game of checkers? Only a dead man."

Czernobog chuckled, then coughed, deep in his chest. "Not just a man anymore, little Shadow."

Without really meaning to, Shadow's mind turned back to the words he'd said Backstage. Not the ones that had stopped the war between the old and new gods, but those that had crawled from his throat afterwards.

"I was born to the sunrise on the first day of winter. I was the most beloved son and brought light with my presence. I have never shrunk from a challenge, and am beloved by all things of the world, save for one. No weapon can touch me, yet I died all the same."

"Not quite a man," he agreed. "Not a god either, though."

"Better that way," Czernobog said. "America has no patience for gods."

"See, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You, Wednesday, all of you came here from your old countries and tried to stay the same. That's not what this place is for. America is for people, and people change. I was a convict. Then I was Wednesday's driver. Then I was dead. Now …" He shrugged. "Not sure what I am. I'll keep going until I find out. Maybe you should try changing too."

Czernobog scowled. "You want me to give up who I am? Stop being a god?"

"I want you to stop having to rely on old memories from people who've moved on from your stories," Shadow said. "Write some of your own again, maybe."

Czernobog's face darkened and his fists clenched, and Shadow thought the god might be about to punch him, but then the anger seemed to leave him, and he slumped back on the bench. "Is nice to talk of the old country," Czernobog sighed. "But you right. Is not coming back." He looked at Shadow with his tired grey eyes. "What now, then?"

Shadow reached into his jacket and pulled out a miniature travel checkerboard. "I'll play white?"

"Mmm." Czernobog cracked a grin, and his face seemed to lighten a little. "No. This time, I play white."

 

[Xantalos]

This is a thing I wrote with @Kaboomatic on my Discord server. I'm planning on doing weekly writing streams where we set a theme and mayhaps the occasional challenge - restrict the number of words, try poetry, etc - and write a thing quickly in the space of about 1-2 hours. Feel free to come join if you want - if you decide to write anything, post it here in the thread and I'll threadmark it. This week's theme was Murder Mystery, and Kaboomatic and I decided to give ourselves a word limit of 1000 each, though neither of us wound up hitting it. His parts are in red. This is Unfinished As Heck, but that's alright, the point is to get practice in!

-----

The rain never stopped. Not for long at least. A bleak grey haze that fell down from a bleak grey sky onto anyone unfortunate enough to scurry out of the safety of the umbrellas and rooftops. It drenched you to your bones, left you cold and shaking and absolutely miserable.

Didn't even have the decency to be the sort of cold that hung about you like a cloak, the sort of cold you pick up when you spend all day choking soot in the factories - the bosses too penny-pinching to cash out for fires. No, this cold stabbed into you and had its merry way with whatever internal organs it damn well pleased, like a spike of cold iron straight to the gut.

Steinbeck - first name Johan, but only his mother remembered that anymore - knew a thing or two about those sorts of spikes. Arrows and spears and stab wounds, some too embedded for the bonesaws to do anything about but leave inside him. Relics from his army days. Well, they were supposed to be.

All too often, Steinbeck got all too acquainted with another one of those spikes. And all too often, it was all because of a dame.

Call him soft, but Steinbeck had always had a hard time refusing a pretty face with an earnest ask. Reminded him a little of why he'd got into this business in the first place, looking for something he'd never been able to find. Innocence? Absolution? Fulfilment?

Whatever it was, it had left him in a mouldering office situated above a linen shop on a rundown cobblestone street, with a cough that never fully went away, even on the good days. Some of the folks that approached him called him out by the name on the door - J. Steinbeck, Purveyor of Lost Packages and Persons. They came to him out of desperation, mostly, and though their cases were mostly duds or dead ends - some bewildered grandparent that had wandered off or a drunkard brother accidentally finding themselves in some pigsty village fifty miles away - it still felt like he was earning some goodwill.

Most folks approached him under a different name, however. To his more illicit clients, he was a hard-bitten, ruthless dog of a man who'd track down the bastard you were looking for and didn't care much what you did with him afterward. They called him Stain, and regardless of the origin of the name, it fit him well. Give him a case and he'd stick to it more tenaciously than mud on a bridal dress.

The dame that walked through his door was one of those he hoped was just searching for a lost puppy, but the look in her eyes told him different long before she opened her lips.

"You're the man they call Stain, aren't you?" Ice blue eyes pierced into him from behind shaded spectacles as she crossed white-gloved hands over each other. "I've got someone I need you to find."

He looked her up and down. Her skin was pale, her blonde hair curled into tight ringlets that framed a heart-shaped face. A white habit that had been cut to be just a bit less shapeless than the norm covered a short stature, not much taller than Steinbeck sitting down. "And where does a sister of Shallya learn that name," he rumbled. "You're about the last person I'd expect to approach me under a front like that."

Her frown curled downwards. "Does it matter?" She unfolded her arms and wiped a single finger across the back of the chair he had for clients, coming away with a patina of grime and dust on the surface of her glove. "I need a man found, and I need him found quietly. You clearly need the money, and have a reputation of sorts to uphold," she drawled, wiping away the grime on her glove with a faint look of disdain. "Or am I mistaken?"

He'd acquiesced, of course. Never could say no to a pretty face, and she had a point - things had been slow, and his debtors were a pack of wild wolves. She'd given him a scant smattering of details - a local archivist who had gotten clipped upside the head in a barfight and brought to the Temple of Shallya to recuperate, only to go missing before the night was up. The head matron wants him found, the dame had said. For his own safety. There was another reason there, Steinbeck could smell it, but whatever it was, it wasn't worth arguing with the payment she'd given him. Let the poor bastard argue his case before the nuns, wasn't his business.

And of course, that'd led him straight here. [bit about going to the tavern in the pouring rain]

It was at the back entrance of the Laughing Bull tavern that he found his first clue that something was amiss. The mark had last been seen there, stumbling in through the door 'like he had a pack of hellhounds on his tail', according to what the barkeep had told him. He'd booked a room for the night, paid upfront, but only stayed half the night. "I only saw him on account of having forgot a bottle of Portnoy I promised I'd bring home to the old ball and chain," the walrus-mustached man had complained. "Old hen made me go back to the bar to get it in case it was gone by my next shift, and what do I see on my way out the door but your man trying to be all sneaky-like on his way out the back? Looked ran through, he did, like he hadn't slept in a fortnight."

When Steinbeck checked behind the tavern there was hardly any evidence left that the rain hadn't washed away. It was only thanks to the damnable stuff that he found anything at all - something had plugged up a nearby sewer drain, leaving the cobblestones filmed in a layer of stagnant, filthy water several inches deep. He'd taken up a length of discarded wood and begun using it to clear the trash that had blocked the grate when he hit something that felt distinctly familiar in the most unpleasant way.

Gritting his teeth, Steinbeck reached into the muddy water and pulled out a severed arm, gnawed halfway to the bone by something that had shredded cloth and meat alike with equal voracity. The flesh was pallid and bloated, its fingers resembling plump maggots. "Too old to be my man," Steinbeck growled. "Where in the hell did you come from?"

His gaze fell on the sewer grate as water began to gurgle downwards into the dank tunnels below. Steinbeck grimaced. This was the part of the job he hated.

As bad as the rain had been, the sewers were worse.

Steinbeck cursed under his breath as the criss-cross lattice of scars on his left shoulder protested his current hunched over position. Violently. And at great length. Still, he sure as hell wasn't standing up - that would mean scraping his head the mess of dripping water and horrid moss that clung to the cracked ceilings, and despite what certain individuals might suggest, he still had some dignity.

Oh, and I also wrote a little over 1300 words towards RYE today. I'm on a roll lately!

 

[Xantalos]

This is an omake for Good Seed, a quest with an excellent omake incentivization system that's currently on hiatus. However, I still wanted to finish some stuff I had for it, so here's this. My apologies in advance if you actually read it, it's, uh ... well.

---

Golden Grizzly 6: Training Montage​

Eighty hundred fifty million years ago, a cataclysmic battle took place between the great sage Seven Tails Scorpion Hermit, who had wandered the whole of the Third Turtle Child and done many great deeds in the process, and an otherwise ordinary monkey, who happened to be in the realm of Spirit Severing and so was about as far from ordinary as a monkey could get. Scorpion Hermit was attempting, for reasons not entirely relevant to this story, to find a suitable target upon which to foist a particularly annoying and nearly indestructible talking egg that had begun following him around some centuries ago, and had determined the monkey to be the most suitable target of the spirit beasts in the region (the unfortunately-named Dastardly Flipper) which he had found himself in.

Scorpion Hermit made his way to the monkey's lair, which was an enormous tree five thousand li high in the middle of a jungle that stretched for a similarly ludicrous expanse, and was filled with all manner of horrible poisonous creatures that attempted to ensnare the great sage in their traps and cripple him with their venoms. Somewhat fortunately, Scorpion Hermit had already been inoculated to the essence of the Lemon Belly Widow Goddess, a scorpion ally of his with venom of far greater potency than anything these measly crawlers could possibly secrete, and so he strode through the jungle unharmed. He stood before the monkey's enormous tree and called for it to come forth in the ancient manner of challenge that all monkeys know, and the ape clambered down from its favorite napping branch.

"Why do you disturb me, oh little shiny man?" Boomed the monkey. "I should floss my ass crack with you to clean out my fleas for interrupting my nap." It was quite serious, too - its fleas were many, and each was in Core Formation, their power great despite their diminutive size.

"Take this egg," replied Seven Tails Scorpion Hermit, and held out the ovum in question, which sprouted a mouth and eyes that caused immense disquiet in the spirit to look upon once it realized that it was being observed. "It is an object of great wisdom, and tells the bearer things that only the wisest under Heaven can truly comprehend. I think it only fitting that it is the most cunning of all creatures in the Dastardly Flipper who bears it, rather than this lowly wanderer."

This was, of course, a blatant lie by Scorpion Hermit - the egg was merely incredibly annoying and nigh incapable of shutting up, a trait which had not only nearly cost Scorpion Hermit his life several times over during situations where stealth was necessary, but also made it near impossible for him to actually cultivate without the egg snapping him out of his trance with some inane observation or other.

So powerful was the egg's force of annoyance, in fact, that even mentioning it is cause enough for some of its rambles to carry through into the speaker's verbiage. I will now succumb to the word vomit I can feel arising within the tendons of my wrist, rather than have it spew out at some inconvenient time later. Please don't feel obligated to read whatever cursed text I write in the subsequent paragraph. In fact, I'd actively encourage that you don't, lest you oh god here it comes

The things that the cursed egg said as Scorpion Hermit held it out to the Spirit Severing monkey were as follows, all relayed within approximately two tenths of a second: "Boy howdy, look at what a big gorilla. I'm going to name you Chester! Chester the monkey. Or maybe you're more of a simian? Definitely an ape. Ooga booga! Hahaha, that's what monkeys say. Or rather apes, my apologies. Definitely apes that say that, not gorillas. I know that because I'm an egg, and eggs know all about marsupials! You're a marsupial, right? That's the one where you have blood come out of your nipples every so often, I think. Look, there's a lot of creatures out there, and I've gotta keep track of all of them, and they get mixed up every so often in my little eggy brain. Sue me, what are you gonna do. Look, point being, I'm an egg, you're a baboon, why don't we be friends? We're natural partners! I sit on that gargantuan forehead of yours and tell you what to do, and you do everything I say and also laugh at my jokes. Ooh, I should tell you a joke, that's a perfect way to warm up to a new friend! My mother (who is also an egg) always told me so, she told me when I was young, she told me, "Now egg, if you ever want to make a friend quick, you've gotta tell them a joke!" That's what she said, all right, and I've taken it to heart ever since. Now then, what joke should I tell ya? I can't use any jokes involving monkeys because you probably know all of those, and also I don't want to be slandered for inappropriate cultural appropriation, nothing worse than that for an egg. Hmm, maybe I should tell you the one about the mouse and the desert gopher. Or maybe the Hundred Gem Zucchini and the Foolish Lava Millipede? Ooh, ooh, no, I know the perfect one! Oh man, this joke is gonna be the most gut-bustiest joke of all time, you're gonna laugh so hard you'll break your own jaw and rip your heart out of your chest so you can feast on your own life's blood and rejoice in the exultant moment of pain! I mean, my jokes are the best jokes, everyone says so, they all tell me 'Egg, you're the best joke teller, please tell us another joke' and I go 'Hey, only if you give me a million spirit stones' and then they start laughing anyway and it turns out it was just another joke to them the whole time! I mean, can you even believe it? I tell jokes without even meaning to! That's like a whole other level of joke-itude! I really am just an over the top genius as far as humor, I really should be in charge of your life, I'm just too funny. Oh right, I never told you the actual joke, did I? Okay, here goes. Be prepared for the rest of your life to be an unending torrent of misery, a flat grey landscape of unceasing boredom and unfulfillment once I tell you this joke. The humor you experience is going to be so transcendental that nothing else you'll ever find could ever possibly compare, and you could taste the sweetest fulfillment of your every desire and find it nothing but bitter ashes in your mouth, heart, and soul compared to the joke I'm about to bestow upon you. Do you even realize how lucky you are? I could be telling this joke to anyone in the entirety of all the realms and yet I'm giving it to you, here, right now! Wow, what a moment. Really makes you think, huh? You'd better be ready to give me the entirety of yourself in eternal servitude once this is done, because honestly I really should remember to charge people for the privilege of my company but I never do, so you've got quite a payment backlog that I'm going to dump onto you to equal out the lacking contributions of all the other shmucks I've donated my heavenly presence to. Anyway, I've probably done enough delaying, time for the joke now! The joke to end all jokes. Prepare to be friended harder than you've ever been friended before! Ahem. Glack. Snort. I gotta say all these onomatopoeic words instead of actually clearing my throat because I don't actually have organs like you flesh bags or anything, but having a routine before you tell a joke is important, dammit, and mine is clearing my throat, no matter whether I actually have one or not. Alright, now that that's out of the way with, time for the joke. Are you ready? Get yourself settled down, sit nice and comfortably, alright? I wouldn't want you to have a stiff lower back or anything when you get up, why don't you fix that posture? A healthy back is a healthy mind, and only the healthiest of minds can fully comprehend what I've got to offer! Alright, now then, time for the joke. One, two, three. Why did the chicken cross the road? … Did you guess the answer? It's okay if you take a few guesses. Just don't tell me. Okay okay okay, I'll tell you. Ready? Okay. Why did the chicken cross the road? By taking one step at a time? Ahahahahaha! Do you get it? It's not even an answer to the question! The person telling the joke has forgotten what joke he's telling in the middle of telling it! Oh man, what a knee-slapper. I'd slap my knees if I had any to slap, that's for sure. Why don't you -"

Scorpion Hermit put the egg back into his pocket.

"Yeah, there's no way under all the heavens that I'm taking that cursed thing," the monkey said. "Whatever misbegotten creature spawned it is a horror of the worst sort, and should be punished excruciatingly for the crime of existing."

"Do you have any idea how much cultivation time I've lost because of this thing," Scorpion Hermit snapped, his facade of calmness falling away. "Anytime I try anything, even so much as a basic cycling of my qi, it pipes up with another inane ramble and breaks my concentration! You're a spirit beast, you don't even need to cultivate. You take it."

"No," replied the monkey, displaying a surprising amount of common sense.

Scorpion Hermit, in response, threw the egg at the monkey, the projectile quickly accelerating to the point that it ignited the very air around it, becoming a burning star that rocketed towards the great ape at speeds faster than even a Nascent Soul could possibly perceive. The monkey, thinking quickly, plucked a nearby Iron Paddle Leaf from its tree and batted the egg back towards Scorpion Hermit, rebounding the projectile in a dazzling arc.

Not to be outdone, Scorpion Hermit summoned up his trusty Threefold Contemplative Diamond Nexus Brigade Dazzling Shimmer Shield, a buckler formed of the coalesced thoughts of an elder he'd encountered earlier. Admittedly he hadn't actually had cause to use the thing for about seven hundred years, having amassed thousands of artifacts over the course of his journeys, but it had always been there for him. It was here for him now, as it deflected the accursed egg's trajectory, sending it screaming back towards the Spirit Severing monkey on a trail of broken air.

The two battled for seven consecutive years, trading one continuous volley the entire time, each coming up with more and more acrobatic maneuvers in their attempts to sling the egg at the other. At last, it was not the monkey's titanic strength or Scorpion Hermit's plethora of tricks that won the day, but simple good fortune. The egg, stressed to the breaking point by being battered back and forth thousands of times per second, finally, blessedly, was smashed into pieces and silenced forever. The ground above which it burst was showered with its essence, and it was immediately scoured to the bare rock, such was the potency of its corrosion.

"Huh," said Scorpion Hermit. "I have to admit, this wasn't how I pictured getting rid of the damn thing, but I won't complain about getting results. Nicely done."

The monkey, who may have been selfish and ornery but could appreciate a good bludgeoner, nodded back. "Your skill at catching all my rebounds was quite exemplary," it complimented Scorpion Hermit. "I had to press myself to come up with ways that I might foil your defense."

"I might say the same," the wandering cultivator replied. "You've got quite a strong serving arm, and to keep up a volley like that against someone as fast as I? Not bad."

"We should make this a thing, you and I," the monkey said. "It could be a new form of tournament, a way for creatures of all levels under the heavens to test their skills and might against each other without resorting to the baseless spilling of blood. All would be benefited by the presence of such a tournament - Monkey and the Scorpion Hermit's Bi-Millennial Paddle Slab Rotunda. What do you say?"

"I don't like that you put your name in front of mine," sneered Scorpion Hermit, and he killed the monkey instantaneously with the Heartsblood Ultimate Divine Venom Jian, a sword that called on powers greater than the heavens themselves, which may have never actually been mentioned before but that he'd had since he was a mortal and found it laying in a ditch on the side of a road.

Scorpion Hermit then went on to singlehandedly invent the game of Paddle Slab, and popularized it throughout all the Seas. He was remembered as the ultimate gamesmaster, and in his honor, tournaments that imitate his clash with the monkey are held to this very day, so that all may remember and be inspired by his shining example.

-<<<000>>>-​

"Really, that's the story you're going with?" Juen scoffed. "As if anyone's ever going to believe that pile of horse shit."

Hua Ming frowned. "Is it really that far-fetched? Everything actually important happened so unbelievably long ago that no one actually knows jack or shit about whether it happened or not, not even Old Gold. I figured if I just go back far enough, I can just make some random series of events up and tweak them to my benefit, y'know?"

Juen smacked him. "Idiot, you can't just make up history to suit your own needs. This is an actual world we live in, Ming - people really live here, things actually happen. You've got to respect what it looks like or you'll be labeled as an untrustworthy braggart, and then we'll have invested all this effort in this idea for nothing."

Ming frowned, rubbing his cheek. "What effort? You and me came up with the idea of paddle ball a few nights ago while we were drunk and bored, and figured we could make some quick stones off of other drunk and bored legionnares if we held a competition with rules that we made up. It's not like we've spent months promoting it or anything, all we did was make an entry on the Contribution Board inviting anyone who wanted to come tonight."

Juen looked around the room they were in - a wide, low-ceiling basement that was housed under the Farting Cloud Horse tavern, made up of little more than bare stone and a leftover table the two of them had been able to scrounge from the innkeep. "Yeah, well, looks like it's a bust. We've been here for an hour and not a peep."

Thoom

Thoom​

Thoom​

Juen and Ming looked upwards uneasily as the room shook. Juen wiped a sudden sheen of sweat away from his bald head. "You put out a general invitation?" The thunderous impacts continued to sound out, growing closer to the door at the top of the stairs out of the basement.

"Y-yeah," Ming replied, glancing around the room for a weapon and finding none at hand. "Why do you ask?"

"This isn't like the time you placed a request for basic cycling advice and accidentally set it to alert the entirety of the Clan whenever they next accessed the Board, is it?"

Thoom

Ming suddenly became reluctant to meet Juen's eyes, and the other cultivator clenched his fists. "Ming, if you did that on purpose I swear I'll - "

"Not the whole clan," Ming said, holding out his hands. "Just all the recruits of Foundation Building and lower! I didn't want to offend any of the Legates."

Thoom​

Juen slapped him across the face and seized him by the lapels. "Ming, that's still over a million cultivators! You stupid bastard! Who knows who you've pissed off! Why under the heavens would you -"

"Look, I thought it'd be fun!"

"Fun?! We've got who knows what up there about to come down here and rip us to shreds because your fucking ping interrupted their contemplation! You wasted months of their time with that, probably! Forget killing us, we'll be in debt for the rest of our lives!"

"I just wanted to -"

Thoom​

The basement door burst open under the force of an arbitrarily high numbered boot, silencing their bickering. Fragments of wood rained down into the room, slowly clearing to reveal a man that looked more like a statue than a human. His energies flooded forth, revealing him to be a cultivator of the Tenth Heavenstage, far above either Juen or Ming. They both immediately knelt, left fist over their breasts. Juen made to speak - to apologize, to explain, anything - but the senior cultivator lifted a hand and both of them immediately clamped their lips shut. Their fate had come, best to meet it with dignity.

The cultivator thumped down the steps, regarding the both of them with steely-eyed intensity. "This was the invitation to paddle balls, yes?"

Ming cleared his throat. "Uh. Paddle ball, senior. It's a game I invented and thought the Clan might find … fun." He winced at how childishly naive that sounded. "I hope I haven't caused any offense."

The golden-skinned man shook his head ponderously. "Fun is my weakness. I must train it. Show me this ball paddling."

Juen and Ming side-eyed each other. They might just live through the night after all, it seemed.

---

Live they did, though a part of Juen ended up wishing that Ming had accidentally messaged a Core Formation elder and gotten them both crushed in an instant. The colossal cultivator's name was Grizzly - at least as far as could be told - and he put the both of them through a grueling circuit of paddleball, relentlessly playing against them for a small eternity without a pause. Food was brought down to them from the tavern at regular intervals, and they would play while they ate, cramming down food with one hand and batting the ball back and forth with the other.

It should be noted that Grizzly never actually gave either of them an order to stay, nor was he a member of their actual legion, so any order he did give wouldn't have been valid to begin with. However, neither of them wished to piss off the taciturn colossus, particularly since he was seven Heavenstages above them, and so they did everything he said without (outward) complaint. The two of them swiftly adapted to a shift-working schedule, one sleeping and cultivating while the other played, switching off every sixteen hours. Grizzly, oddly enough, took no breaks at all, instead serving and rebounding with the implacable tenacity of a machine. He didn't even sleep, though Juen and Ming were at a loss to explain how.

Their play, fumbling and clumsy at first, swiftly improved with the immense amount of practice they were receiving. Soon they were sending volleys dozens of rounds long back and forth at each other, the speed at which they hit the ball increasing until it strained the bounds of Juen and Ming's superhuman perception to react in time. Their breath heaved like bellows, and their muscles ached as though stung by a Million Years Testicle Pain Fire Ant. Grizzly merely nodded and had them eat more when they could no longer stand and their paddles fell from nerveless fingers. "Need to bulk," he commented, and that was that.

Three years from the day he had found them in the basement, Grizzly finally called a halt to their game after the ball had embedded itself too deeply in one of the walls to be readily reached. "Good game," he said. "Fun is good training when done right." He then fell forward onto his face, crushing the table beneath his belly. Juen and Ming rushed towards him, sure his extended period without sleep had done him in, only to hear a faint snore come from underneath the table's wreckage. Grizzly had begun his Post-Workout Recovery Nap technique, and would not wake for six months.

Juen and Ming refused to tell any of their fellow legionnaires where they'd been, letting all sorts of tales of how they'd been lost in a Secret Realm pile up rather than reveal the truth. Despite the monotonous, achy, and thoroughly depleting nature of their ordeal, they had to admit that it had actually yielded them some benefits - their forearm and shoulder muscles had been worked to such a great degree that the Apothekarion said they'd somehow developed a halfway decent variation of the Bullhorn Muscle technique without even meaning to, and their reflexes had sharpened enough that they had little trouble besting the trials their Centurion put forth on them, earning enough contribution points to advance three heavenstages - far more than they would have expected to attain otherwise. They'd also each gained about fifty pounds of weight, though the how of that was somewhat more inexplicable. Some sort of incomplete technique, they were told. You should go back to whoever taught you it and finish their tutelage.

The notion perturbed the both of them greatly, but on the other hand, if they were able to replicate their gains from such a trial … maybe it'd be worth it.

Maybe.

3718 words, including this author note. Good Seed may be dormant for the time being, but god damnit I'm gonna keep the meme going!

This was written as part of a weekly event I'm doing in my Discord server (link in signature) where I livestream myself writing once a week on Fridays at 6PM PST. Feel free to come join me and write alongside if you feel like it!