Partial SHAAAME #1
Writing Something Every Day*, Xantalos Edition
Don't feel too bad, most of us have had to do it at some point. Speaking of procrastination... *is waiting patiently for the Dec. 28th update post*
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Of Elders? That's posted.
RETROSPECTIVE EDIT FROM THE FUTURE: Oh, you meant for this thread, I'm a dumbass. Well, me of the post after this provides the answer you seek.
Last edited:
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Dec. 29, 2019 - jeez I'm falling behind on this. Wrote 450 words in general lizardmen fluff, spoilered here as proof:
Azyr: Skink priests with deep blue scales at spawning, that gradually lighten to a blue so pale it's almost white. Their eyes are a bright, electric blue that eventually become a mosaic of the night sky as they become more suffused with magic. Azyrite skink priests are lighter than they should be physically, and move with a deft grace borne of foresight, weaving around obstacles and blows they see coming before they are even made. The air around them smells of ozone, and in battle the eldest of them can manifest a shell of lightning around themselves.
Ghur: Skink priests with brown scales at spawning, which develops into a color reminiscent of honey as they get older. Their eyes are pure amber with a black slit down the middle, and tend to shift to resemble that of various predators when looked at. Priests of Ghur are brawny things, taller than their brethren and more muscled than the average saurus. They can command most any nonsapient creature they meet with an instinctive ease, and rouse the spirits of their allies to primal savagery, allowing them to perform supernatural physical feats. In battle the eldest of them can even shift their form, becoming taller than a saurus or taking the form of one of the many predators they have met.
Chamon: Golden skinks, Chamon priests do not change color as they age, but the lustre of their scales increases, to the point where things are sometimes set ablaze from their reflected radiance. Their eyes fade to orbs of pure gold as they age, and they are far heavier than their counterparts, their flesh and bones attaining a density similar to that of metal than meat. They move with robotic precision, and are able to manipulate the physical properties of materials. Their precision with this effect increases as they age.
Ghyran: Skink priests with scales that start out the bright green of grass, and develop into the dark emerald of deep lake water as they age. Regardless of their age, their eyes are large, dark things, fixing everything they see with a steady gaze. They commonly have a multitude of plant species growing on and around their person, and the eldest among them passively manifest primitive spirits of biodiversity and growth around their person. With a wave of their hand they can seal wounds, promote growth of a variety of organisms, alter the terrain of any place with sufficient life in it, and mold the flesh of any creature they gaze upon, in ways as minor as causing teeth to fall out to significant changes like inducing those same teeth to grow so rapidly that they pierce through the victim's skull and brain.
Ghur: Skink priests with brown scales at spawning, which develops into a color reminiscent of honey as they get older. Their eyes are pure amber with a black slit down the middle, and tend to shift to resemble that of various predators when looked at. Priests of Ghur are brawny things, taller than their brethren and more muscled than the average saurus. They can command most any nonsapient creature they meet with an instinctive ease, and rouse the spirits of their allies to primal savagery, allowing them to perform supernatural physical feats. In battle the eldest of them can even shift their form, becoming taller than a saurus or taking the form of one of the many predators they have met.
Chamon: Golden skinks, Chamon priests do not change color as they age, but the lustre of their scales increases, to the point where things are sometimes set ablaze from their reflected radiance. Their eyes fade to orbs of pure gold as they age, and they are far heavier than their counterparts, their flesh and bones attaining a density similar to that of metal than meat. They move with robotic precision, and are able to manipulate the physical properties of materials. Their precision with this effect increases as they age.
Ghyran: Skink priests with scales that start out the bright green of grass, and develop into the dark emerald of deep lake water as they age. Regardless of their age, their eyes are large, dark things, fixing everything they see with a steady gaze. They commonly have a multitude of plant species growing on and around their person, and the eldest among them passively manifest primitive spirits of biodiversity and growth around their person. With a wave of their hand they can seal wounds, promote growth of a variety of organisms, alter the terrain of any place with sufficient life in it, and mold the flesh of any creature they gaze upon, in ways as minor as causing teeth to fall out to significant changes like inducing those same teeth to grow so rapidly that they pierce through the victim's skull and brain.
SHAME #1
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Dec. 31, 2019 - I didn't write shit. Well, I did extrapolate some on mechanical effects and such in my lizardmen quest, buuuut I didn't actually pour my soul into any piece of art, which is what I made this thread for. So my laxity that day will live on in perpetuity!
I'm doing something for today as I type this, though.
I'm doing something for today as I type this, though.
Snippet 6 - Night On The Town - Jan. 1, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
I said I was gonna write something for today, and by dammit I did, even if I had to stay up later than usual to do it! Not really sure where the idea for this came from.
-----
It happened deceptively quickly.
Jeremy wasn't paying too much attention to his surroundings, laughing instead at a joke Travis had made - some sick crack on how much an orphan could fit in their stomach, but that was Travis for you, his humor was blacker than ... well, Travis could probably finish that statement appropriately. The four of them - Jeremy, Travis, Piper, and Sam - were cutting through some residential streets in Miramichi, heading back to Sam's house after the fireworks festival at the close of the year. They were all of them full of sweet and spicy food and drink (save for Piper, who didn't drink), and looking forward to resting their feet.
"Hey."
Jeremy blinked and looked around for a moment before finding the source of the unfamiliar voice - an older-looking guy with a salt and pepper goatee and long, greasy hair was walking towards him, followed by two others, a tall heavy-set bald guy and a shorter guy with a buzzcut and a hard look on his face. "Mind if I bum a smoke, sir?" Goatee held out his hand, his skin rough and calloused.
Jeremy paused and began to search through his pockets, the others continuing their conversation as he shuffled through his coat pockets, pants pockets, hadn't Sam given his smokes to him to hold an hour or so ago? Ah, there they were. He pulled one out of the packet and held it out to Goatee Guy, looking up to find that all three of the strangers had knives in their hands.
He froze, liquid ice coursing through his body. Holy fuck those were knives. Holy fuck those were knives. Blood pounded in his temples, the hollow of his throat, the tips of his fingers. He could feel how dry his lips were, and the pleasant ache of too much Polanian food twisted in his suddenly cramping gut. He couldn't move, couldn't stop looking at the knives and how they gleamed in the streetlight.
Goatee reached out and took the cigarette from his hand. "Get your money out, all of you." His voice was now hard and whiplike, projecting ill intent that cut through the haze of shock. "Valuable shit, purses, watches, all that. Move! Take it out now!"
Jeremy couldn't move, didn't even feel connected to his body. It felt like he were his own puppetmaster, cut off from the strings that would move his limbs. He was caught in an odd detached calm, observing the panic in his mind from a distance. He could see the others complying with the men's demands, see wallets, rings, bracelets being handed over, Baldy and Buzzcut putting them in a backpack. Someone was looking at him and lips were moving, the words floating to him through a fog.
"What, are ya fuckin' retarded or some shit? Get your -"
Travis was moving in front of him. "Dude, he's scared shitless. Besides, you've already got the rest of our stuff, leave him."
Goatee's voice was as sharp as his blade. "One chance. Move."
Travis moved - maybe reaching for the flip-fold knife he kept in his back pocket, maybe just gesticulating to emphasize something he was about to say. Didn't matter much - all that came out was a soft exhale as the knife pierced his throat.
There was screaming, a lot of it, and it took Jeremy a second to realize it was coming from his throat. Travis grabbed at Goatee's arm, but the older guy bulled into him, knocking Jeremy on his ass as he stabbed again and again and again.
The shock of his tailbone hitting pavement jolted Jeremy back into his body, and he sprung back up to his feet before he even realized he was down. He could see Buzzut closing in, maybe on Travis, maybe on him, but it didn't matter because his body was solidly set to 'run' and the only available direction was forward.
He crashed into Buzzcut's side, staggering at the impact and standing back up to find a fist an inch from his face. Pain exploded through his jaw in a flash and he tasted blood. He flailed his arms in Buzzcut's general direction, hands curled into crude fists, but met only air as he felt a hand grasp his collar and another fist crash into his gut, two, three, four times. He looked up and saw Buzzcut's face inches from his own, snarling in animal fury.
There was a sickening crunch, and Buzzcut was toppling suddenly, his knee buckling to the inside as his face paled in agony. Hands - small hands, a girl's hands, Piper's hands - grasped his head and dug furrows into his flesh as a knee dug into his ribs, then the back of his head. Fingers he'd previously only thought of as dainty pried the bloody knife out of Buzzcut's fingers, and Piper turned towards Goatee as Jeremy stood there, feeling oddly woozy.
Their movements were too fast for him to follow clearly. Piper dashed in, Goatee leapt back, knives traced shining arcs in the streetlamp light. Spittle flew as Goatee shouted obscenities and charged, his eyes reddened and bulging. He missed his thrust, and Piper hooked his arm, drove her other hand into his chest, grabbing at his neck as she drove a knee upwards into his groin. She stepped back and twisted, and now Goatee was on his back somehow, and she drove downwards, the knife flashing in the night air as it came down again and again.
Jeremy was sitting down by the time it was done, lying in a puddle of warmth. Had he pissed himself? He reached a trembling hand to his midsection, drew his fingers back up to his face dripping blood. Oh.
Hands were cradling him, pressing down into his stomach. He looked up - Piper and Sam were looking back at him, faces pale, eyes wide. Sam had a nasty gash going down his cheek. Jeremy blinked - Travis had been stabbed too, why wasn't someone helping him? He tried to speak, but found it oddly difficult.
"Travis?"
Neither of them said anything, but their faces were answer enough.
"Oh."
-----
It happened deceptively quickly.
Jeremy wasn't paying too much attention to his surroundings, laughing instead at a joke Travis had made - some sick crack on how much an orphan could fit in their stomach, but that was Travis for you, his humor was blacker than ... well, Travis could probably finish that statement appropriately. The four of them - Jeremy, Travis, Piper, and Sam - were cutting through some residential streets in Miramichi, heading back to Sam's house after the fireworks festival at the close of the year. They were all of them full of sweet and spicy food and drink (save for Piper, who didn't drink), and looking forward to resting their feet.
"Hey."
Jeremy blinked and looked around for a moment before finding the source of the unfamiliar voice - an older-looking guy with a salt and pepper goatee and long, greasy hair was walking towards him, followed by two others, a tall heavy-set bald guy and a shorter guy with a buzzcut and a hard look on his face. "Mind if I bum a smoke, sir?" Goatee held out his hand, his skin rough and calloused.
Jeremy paused and began to search through his pockets, the others continuing their conversation as he shuffled through his coat pockets, pants pockets, hadn't Sam given his smokes to him to hold an hour or so ago? Ah, there they were. He pulled one out of the packet and held it out to Goatee Guy, looking up to find that all three of the strangers had knives in their hands.
He froze, liquid ice coursing through his body. Holy fuck those were knives. Holy fuck those were knives. Blood pounded in his temples, the hollow of his throat, the tips of his fingers. He could feel how dry his lips were, and the pleasant ache of too much Polanian food twisted in his suddenly cramping gut. He couldn't move, couldn't stop looking at the knives and how they gleamed in the streetlight.
Goatee reached out and took the cigarette from his hand. "Get your money out, all of you." His voice was now hard and whiplike, projecting ill intent that cut through the haze of shock. "Valuable shit, purses, watches, all that. Move! Take it out now!"
Jeremy couldn't move, didn't even feel connected to his body. It felt like he were his own puppetmaster, cut off from the strings that would move his limbs. He was caught in an odd detached calm, observing the panic in his mind from a distance. He could see the others complying with the men's demands, see wallets, rings, bracelets being handed over, Baldy and Buzzcut putting them in a backpack. Someone was looking at him and lips were moving, the words floating to him through a fog.
"What, are ya fuckin' retarded or some shit? Get your -"
Travis was moving in front of him. "Dude, he's scared shitless. Besides, you've already got the rest of our stuff, leave him."
Goatee's voice was as sharp as his blade. "One chance. Move."
Travis moved - maybe reaching for the flip-fold knife he kept in his back pocket, maybe just gesticulating to emphasize something he was about to say. Didn't matter much - all that came out was a soft exhale as the knife pierced his throat.
There was screaming, a lot of it, and it took Jeremy a second to realize it was coming from his throat. Travis grabbed at Goatee's arm, but the older guy bulled into him, knocking Jeremy on his ass as he stabbed again and again and again.
The shock of his tailbone hitting pavement jolted Jeremy back into his body, and he sprung back up to his feet before he even realized he was down. He could see Buzzut closing in, maybe on Travis, maybe on him, but it didn't matter because his body was solidly set to 'run' and the only available direction was forward.
He crashed into Buzzcut's side, staggering at the impact and standing back up to find a fist an inch from his face. Pain exploded through his jaw in a flash and he tasted blood. He flailed his arms in Buzzcut's general direction, hands curled into crude fists, but met only air as he felt a hand grasp his collar and another fist crash into his gut, two, three, four times. He looked up and saw Buzzcut's face inches from his own, snarling in animal fury.
There was a sickening crunch, and Buzzcut was toppling suddenly, his knee buckling to the inside as his face paled in agony. Hands - small hands, a girl's hands, Piper's hands - grasped his head and dug furrows into his flesh as a knee dug into his ribs, then the back of his head. Fingers he'd previously only thought of as dainty pried the bloody knife out of Buzzcut's fingers, and Piper turned towards Goatee as Jeremy stood there, feeling oddly woozy.
Their movements were too fast for him to follow clearly. Piper dashed in, Goatee leapt back, knives traced shining arcs in the streetlamp light. Spittle flew as Goatee shouted obscenities and charged, his eyes reddened and bulging. He missed his thrust, and Piper hooked his arm, drove her other hand into his chest, grabbing at his neck as she drove a knee upwards into his groin. She stepped back and twisted, and now Goatee was on his back somehow, and she drove downwards, the knife flashing in the night air as it came down again and again.
Jeremy was sitting down by the time it was done, lying in a puddle of warmth. Had he pissed himself? He reached a trembling hand to his midsection, drew his fingers back up to his face dripping blood. Oh.
Hands were cradling him, pressing down into his stomach. He looked up - Piper and Sam were looking back at him, faces pale, eyes wide. Sam had a nasty gash going down his cheek. Jeremy blinked - Travis had been stabbed too, why wasn't someone helping him? He tried to speak, but found it oddly difficult.
"Travis?"
Neither of them said anything, but their faces were answer enough.
"Oh."
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Deliberately unclear, but insinuated that he wasn't as eager to engage in fisticuffs and either backed off, or got run off by Sam offscreen, causing the gash. Not entirely sure myself, this was my amateurish attempt at emulating the frenetic, not-sure-what's-happening style combat writing of the First Law trilogy by Joe Abercrombie. I think it turned out okayish.
Snippet 7 - Ankryn's Secret Cliffside Recipe - Jan. 2, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
People commonly avoided Old Man Ankryn when they could, for he was apt to poke holes in life that niggled endlessly in search of answers that were not needed. He was regarded as a public nuisance, and was frequently run out of towns and cities, always on trumped-up charges because he knew the laws of propriety well and was careful never to break them outright.
During times when foolishness ran rampant through the lands of men, Ankryn's reputation flourished and told tales of itself on all the levels of the world. Many a fool with more brains than sense would seek him out in those times, promising him wealth beyond measure, glory in the eyes of gods and men, and every worldly pleasure imaginable if he would share with them his wisdom and will.
Typically Ankryn would smite them with foolishness until they went away, for their petty desires tired him. Those who truly irritated him he would answer truthfully, and watch as his words battered at their minds and teeth.
One day he was relaxing nude on the edge of a cliff and gazing at the world miles below, watching for the colors of a billow-moth lest it steal his rightfully stolen stash of fruit, when he was approached by the Pirate Queen Kesaatrya of the Southern Elliptical Sea, who had made her fortune by tricking her way into mayorship of many a coastal village and dying dramatically before making off with the valuable shellfish feasts they would throw for her funerals.
"Ho there, old man," said the Pirate Queen as she sauntered forth, her many bone bracelets clacking upon her wrists and ankles. "What brings you to the edge of this cliff?"
Old Man Ankryn looked her over, chewing noisily upon a lemon. "My toesh," he mumbled through a mouthful of pulp. "And alsho the goatsh, they chashed me here."
"Goats?" Questioned the Pirate Queen, and promptly leapt to the side as the implication hit her. A sharp crack echoed out of the plains as a spring-goat whizzed by her, breaking the sound barrier as its oversized legs propelled it over the edge of the cliff, soaring down to the purple sea miles below as its bleating slowly faded.
"Goats," agreed Ankryn. "You might want to watch for them, they're far too fond of clothes for their own good."
"Is that why you're airing your wrinkles?"
"No, I lost my own cloth somewhere in the burrows under this cliff. It'll be a right bastard to get them back, but I'll get to it eventually."
Kesaatrya frowned. "You were hunting for the eggs of the bird-otters? They're worth a fortune, I don't see why you'd still be here if you'd gotten out of there alive."
The old man shook his head. "Not at all, I was just going on a walk."
"A walk? Up the Cliffs of Cam-Dire?"
"What of it?"
"Only those cliffs are impassable by anything without wings! It took me two months to get up here the long way, chartering guides through mountain passes and paying for all those damn zepplin portages. How'd you get up here, really?"
"I walked, oh clickity-clacker. That so hard to believe?"
The Pirate Queen strode to the edge of the cliff. "Old man, if you show me how you got up these cliffs with no climbing gear, I'll make you a rich man from all the eggs I harvest and sell to the colonialists out south."
Ankryn grinned. "Why, it's simple! Don't know why you didn't ask." He lifted a foot and showed the sole to her, shining with sap. "I took this from the bark of a grunge tree, there's a copse about three miles west of here. Get some and cover your feet with it like I have, then come back here."
Kesaatrya shrugged and headed west, for she could see the power of knowledge in the old man's eyes. She trekked through the high swamps for hours until she found the copse of grunge trees the old man had described, gnarled and contorted with pustule-filled bark. She snuck up to one of the trees, careful not to wake it, and popped one of these pustules - not the most pleasant experience of her life - and smeared the yellowish paste over her feet, grimacing mightily at the smell.
The trek back was most unpleasant, for the sap prickled and stung at her flesh. The old man was still sitting upon the cliff edge when she returned, having gone through half of his pile of lemons. "Well," the Pirate Queen inquired.
"Ah," Ankryn beamed. "It's simple, really. If you try to go up a cliff headfirst, you fall towards the ground, where your feet want to be. Therefore, you must reaquaint your feet with their new home - go backwards!" So saying, he sprung up to his feet and waltzed backwards over the cliff edge. The Pirate Queen gazed incredulously over the edge to find the old man standing on the face of the cliff as though it were flat ground, arms crossed in contentment.
"And the sap," she asked.
"To help your feet get used to where they need to be," Ankryn said. "Trust in your stride, lass, and you'll be traipsing down this cliff in no time flat."
His words struck heavily at her sensibility, and Kesaatrya decided to heed the old man's advice. What was the worst that could happen?
The Pirate Queen turned around, walking very carefully backwards step by step towards the edge of the cliff. She took one step over, feeling how the sap clung to the rock with devilish quickness. Arms held fast to her grappling rope, she took another step over, and another, and was almost to where Ankryn was standing when the cliff hornets nesting in the honeycombed stone, attracted to the scent of the grunge sap, burst out of their hive and stung the bottom of her feet most ferociously. She came free of the cliff with a cry, and sailed down the slope to the waters far below, a cloud of hornets following her the whole way.
"Ha," giggled Ankryn, who was clinging to the rock with the strength of his well-exercised toes alone. "You cleared them out! I can go get my clothes back after all."
During times when foolishness ran rampant through the lands of men, Ankryn's reputation flourished and told tales of itself on all the levels of the world. Many a fool with more brains than sense would seek him out in those times, promising him wealth beyond measure, glory in the eyes of gods and men, and every worldly pleasure imaginable if he would share with them his wisdom and will.
Typically Ankryn would smite them with foolishness until they went away, for their petty desires tired him. Those who truly irritated him he would answer truthfully, and watch as his words battered at their minds and teeth.
One day he was relaxing nude on the edge of a cliff and gazing at the world miles below, watching for the colors of a billow-moth lest it steal his rightfully stolen stash of fruit, when he was approached by the Pirate Queen Kesaatrya of the Southern Elliptical Sea, who had made her fortune by tricking her way into mayorship of many a coastal village and dying dramatically before making off with the valuable shellfish feasts they would throw for her funerals.
"Ho there, old man," said the Pirate Queen as she sauntered forth, her many bone bracelets clacking upon her wrists and ankles. "What brings you to the edge of this cliff?"
Old Man Ankryn looked her over, chewing noisily upon a lemon. "My toesh," he mumbled through a mouthful of pulp. "And alsho the goatsh, they chashed me here."
"Goats?" Questioned the Pirate Queen, and promptly leapt to the side as the implication hit her. A sharp crack echoed out of the plains as a spring-goat whizzed by her, breaking the sound barrier as its oversized legs propelled it over the edge of the cliff, soaring down to the purple sea miles below as its bleating slowly faded.
"Goats," agreed Ankryn. "You might want to watch for them, they're far too fond of clothes for their own good."
"Is that why you're airing your wrinkles?"
"No, I lost my own cloth somewhere in the burrows under this cliff. It'll be a right bastard to get them back, but I'll get to it eventually."
Kesaatrya frowned. "You were hunting for the eggs of the bird-otters? They're worth a fortune, I don't see why you'd still be here if you'd gotten out of there alive."
The old man shook his head. "Not at all, I was just going on a walk."
"A walk? Up the Cliffs of Cam-Dire?"
"What of it?"
"Only those cliffs are impassable by anything without wings! It took me two months to get up here the long way, chartering guides through mountain passes and paying for all those damn zepplin portages. How'd you get up here, really?"
"I walked, oh clickity-clacker. That so hard to believe?"
The Pirate Queen strode to the edge of the cliff. "Old man, if you show me how you got up these cliffs with no climbing gear, I'll make you a rich man from all the eggs I harvest and sell to the colonialists out south."
Ankryn grinned. "Why, it's simple! Don't know why you didn't ask." He lifted a foot and showed the sole to her, shining with sap. "I took this from the bark of a grunge tree, there's a copse about three miles west of here. Get some and cover your feet with it like I have, then come back here."
Kesaatrya shrugged and headed west, for she could see the power of knowledge in the old man's eyes. She trekked through the high swamps for hours until she found the copse of grunge trees the old man had described, gnarled and contorted with pustule-filled bark. She snuck up to one of the trees, careful not to wake it, and popped one of these pustules - not the most pleasant experience of her life - and smeared the yellowish paste over her feet, grimacing mightily at the smell.
The trek back was most unpleasant, for the sap prickled and stung at her flesh. The old man was still sitting upon the cliff edge when she returned, having gone through half of his pile of lemons. "Well," the Pirate Queen inquired.
"Ah," Ankryn beamed. "It's simple, really. If you try to go up a cliff headfirst, you fall towards the ground, where your feet want to be. Therefore, you must reaquaint your feet with their new home - go backwards!" So saying, he sprung up to his feet and waltzed backwards over the cliff edge. The Pirate Queen gazed incredulously over the edge to find the old man standing on the face of the cliff as though it were flat ground, arms crossed in contentment.
"And the sap," she asked.
"To help your feet get used to where they need to be," Ankryn said. "Trust in your stride, lass, and you'll be traipsing down this cliff in no time flat."
His words struck heavily at her sensibility, and Kesaatrya decided to heed the old man's advice. What was the worst that could happen?
The Pirate Queen turned around, walking very carefully backwards step by step towards the edge of the cliff. She took one step over, feeling how the sap clung to the rock with devilish quickness. Arms held fast to her grappling rope, she took another step over, and another, and was almost to where Ankryn was standing when the cliff hornets nesting in the honeycombed stone, attracted to the scent of the grunge sap, burst out of their hive and stung the bottom of her feet most ferociously. She came free of the cliff with a cry, and sailed down the slope to the waters far below, a cloud of hornets following her the whole way.
"Ha," giggled Ankryn, who was clinging to the rock with the strength of his well-exercised toes alone. "You cleared them out! I can go get my clothes back after all."
Fezzes
Knight of King Stannis Baratheon
- Location
- Sydney, Australia
Oh yeah, the gash. That'll teach me to not pay attention.
I wouldn't say "okayish". It was pretty good. We knew enough to picture it without making the character look omniscient. That's something I often struggle with myself, tbh. I naturally want to describe everything, when really, someone in the rush of a firefight isn't going to be gazing overhead to watch a grenade fly in and see someone get shot in the head at the same time.
Also that old man's a dick. And very strong. Slow twitch muscles for days.
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
I'll never be fully satisfied with what I've written, but it's gratifying to hear that I accomplished some of what I tried to do. It's definitely a different feel than the more cinematic fight scenes I normally do.
Many things can be said about Ankryn, but it cannot be denied that he's got ludicrously strong toes.
Snippet 8 - Hatte Frogs - Jan. 3, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
On the Hatte Frog
Hatte Frogs are a delightful species of amphibian originating from within the Trafalgar Swamps, first sighted 741 years after the breaking of the Great Dam. They are considered a luxury pet among many of the indigenous villages in the Swamps, often held by the natives to be good luck charms of a sort. Here in the Vaudevillian Empire, of course, we do not hold to such superstitions, but the peculiar antics of the creatures do offer some amusement to the onlooker, and their eggs are a delicacy when prepared with mercurium and bone cream.
Anatomy
Hatte Frogs are lumpy, greenish-brown creatures of about knee height with warty skin, bulging eyes, and long, gangly limbs that are startlingly out of proportion with the rest of them, often twice the length of the rest of the body in mature specimens. Their skeletal structure is somewhat unique among the denizens of the Trafalgar Swamps, with the only actual bones in their body being located within their hind legs. Everything else is made up of a pliable, gelatin-like substance that wiggles and bounces to the touch. Their feet are quite widely-spread, and male specimens have a set of retractable claws in their toe pads.
Behavioral Patterns
Hatte Frogs behave as most omnivorous swamp-dwellers do - they spend most of their time searching for food, leaping after insects and birds to fill their voracious appetites. In this regard they are not much different than the common frog. However, during the months of their mating season, the Hatte Frog displays their iconic behavior. Males will seek out large members of other species, seemingly without regard for whether they approach predator or prey, and leap upon the head of their target. Once they succeed in this, they will grip firmly to the head they land upon with their claws and begin making as much of a ruckus as they can, wailing and ribbiting to the maximum capacity of its lungs. This will continue until a female has been attracted by the commotion or the target manages to shake its Hatte Frog off. If a female is nearby and called over, she will assess the male by the height of the being he managed to scale. If it is high enough, she will consent to mate. This behavior has seen Hatte Frogs attempting to leap onto everything from buildings to giants to aircraft passing overhead, and it is a common hazing ritual for members of prestigious Vaudevillian universities to have a Hatte Frog snuck onto their head without their knowledge.
---------------------------
AN: Another 'too tired to really think of anything coherent so here's a random unrelated snippet' kinda day today.
Hatte Frogs are a delightful species of amphibian originating from within the Trafalgar Swamps, first sighted 741 years after the breaking of the Great Dam. They are considered a luxury pet among many of the indigenous villages in the Swamps, often held by the natives to be good luck charms of a sort. Here in the Vaudevillian Empire, of course, we do not hold to such superstitions, but the peculiar antics of the creatures do offer some amusement to the onlooker, and their eggs are a delicacy when prepared with mercurium and bone cream.
Anatomy
Hatte Frogs are lumpy, greenish-brown creatures of about knee height with warty skin, bulging eyes, and long, gangly limbs that are startlingly out of proportion with the rest of them, often twice the length of the rest of the body in mature specimens. Their skeletal structure is somewhat unique among the denizens of the Trafalgar Swamps, with the only actual bones in their body being located within their hind legs. Everything else is made up of a pliable, gelatin-like substance that wiggles and bounces to the touch. Their feet are quite widely-spread, and male specimens have a set of retractable claws in their toe pads.
Behavioral Patterns
Hatte Frogs behave as most omnivorous swamp-dwellers do - they spend most of their time searching for food, leaping after insects and birds to fill their voracious appetites. In this regard they are not much different than the common frog. However, during the months of their mating season, the Hatte Frog displays their iconic behavior. Males will seek out large members of other species, seemingly without regard for whether they approach predator or prey, and leap upon the head of their target. Once they succeed in this, they will grip firmly to the head they land upon with their claws and begin making as much of a ruckus as they can, wailing and ribbiting to the maximum capacity of its lungs. This will continue until a female has been attracted by the commotion or the target manages to shake its Hatte Frog off. If a female is nearby and called over, she will assess the male by the height of the being he managed to scale. If it is high enough, she will consent to mate. This behavior has seen Hatte Frogs attempting to leap onto everything from buildings to giants to aircraft passing overhead, and it is a common hazing ritual for members of prestigious Vaudevillian universities to have a Hatte Frog snuck onto their head without their knowledge.
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AN: Another 'too tired to really think of anything coherent so here's a random unrelated snippet' kinda day today.
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Jan. 5, 2020 - Did a few hundred words in miscellaneous editing of Respect Your Elders and From A Dead World stuff, mostly behind the scenes notes and whatnot. Not exactly the most impressive feat, but I also ran a D&D session today so I reckon that fulfills the spirit of the promise.
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Jan. 6, 2020 - holy crap I actually posted on time today. Did about 240 words of finalized writing and spent a few hours trying to get mechanics for FADW working. I've got the general idea of what I want, but no real idea of how to translate that into actual workable systems yet. It'll come in time, though. Might do a bit of idle writing on a snippet or something, too. Feeling productive today.
ganonso
Compulsive Quest Starter
- Location
- PACA France
I know it's not the stated intent of this thread but what problems do you meet?
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Mainly that of translating my idea into reality. I want to have the collective skaven clans to have a rather big amount of action points, and the players to be able to allocate those points up to a limit - Thanquol's authority would translate into how much of the underempire he could marshal to his will. Say Skyre has 5 actions, Grey Seers have 6, Eshin has 4, Moulder has 3, and we ignore all other clans, making it a total of 17 actions possible. Say Thanquol has 13 authority dice like in the last thread - this means he could take 13 of those 17 actions and tell them to do whatever. Currying favor with the various clans would grant Thanquol more authority, maybe limited to that one clan, so he could do a max of 7 skyre dice and only 3 grey seer dice if the Seers hated him and Skyre liked him, for instance. Trouble I'm having is how to decide how many actions each clan gets in the first place, and how to distinguish between warlord clans and great clans, since warlord clans should be tied to the amount of territory they have while greater clans are just kinda everywhere they can get their paws on since they're like skaven guilds.
I'm also making research a separate pool of points than actions and am going to tie how many 'points' each clan can assign per turn to their current seating arrangement on the Council of Thirteen, with the lowest chairs getting nothing or possibly even penalties while the higher ones get bonuses as they hog all the tech and whatnot.
Also I gotta have each Council member have an opinion of his/her rivals and Thanquol which will affect how they deal with each other, but that's just formalizing what I've already written out so that part will be fine.
That's my main issue at the moment.
ganonso
Compulsive Quest Starter
- Location
- PACA France
I'm not too fond of making that big of a difference really. The Great Clans are guilds but they have also holdings they seek to expand. Hellpit for the Moulder, the Eshin stronghold in not-Asia and what not.
As for the other issue. It depends of what feeling you want to incite. To tell the truth one thing I disliked with From a Dead World is I hadn't the impression of reading about Skavens but about dopplegangers who were way more united they had any right to be.
Personnaly I would allocate Actions as by Council of Thirteen seating arrangements, so 13 for the Grey Seers and so on. If a Clan has free actions not directed by Thanquol and they always will, it tries to backstab its rivals, engage in grandiose pet projects, or do many things who have a very slight chance of empowering the Underempire in a major way but will almost certainly go wrong in an explosive fashion.
But that's because for me a Skaven quest should be a train wreck and perhaps it's very not the tone you want to set.
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Aye, I've got something like that in mind. I just need a way to differentiate between warlord and great clans somehow.
The weird sense of unity was because of two reasons - first being I didn't know jack about how to actually run games back then, second because I was expecting it to be a lizardmen quest and I'm pretty sure my initial planning ran into the feel of the game. Hence why I'm revising it now.
That's actually in line with what I'm wanting to happen - the skaven as a whole should have more actions than the players can actually control, and the majority of them will be spent in the background either fucking with each other or creating doomsday devices out the ass or whatever. Just gotta figure out a consistent way of deciding how many actions the clans will have so it'll make sense.
Snippet 9 (Sort Of) - Demigod Game Opener - Jan. 8, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
I was looking through some older notes of mine and found an old game idea I'd had way back in 2015 or so, centered around playing as one of the protagonists from the game Demigod. I'm not actually gonna run it anytime soon, what with being fully devoted to my lizardmen and skaven quests, but I still like the general idea so I'll be filling in the various options there over the next little while, I think. I did the Torchbearer section today.
--
Near the end of the 87th migration, when the minions of Hel-Gorgath were in rebellion and the balance between light and dark was under threat, the Ancients of the Deep convened a Gathering. Assembled thusly since last they imposed silence upon the worlds were the Six, oldest and most terrible. The Gathering found that one of their own, the so-called Progenitor, had intervened by sharing Names and Ways with his underlings and allies on the other side of the Veil.
In punishment, the Ancients cast down The Progenitor from the Deep Places and all of the beings in his ken were laid low and utterly destroyed.
The Ancients, known as Gods to mortals, therefore sought a successor. It was known that the Progenitor had many offspring, begat by mortal consorts, who retained sufficient divinity to stand for Induction. But, not all agreed, for some were offended by the obscene co-mingling of Essences, crude flesh, and the rank perversity of the Progenitor's dalliances. For this reason, a game was proposed for the offspring to prove themselves worthy.
So it was made to be that messengers were sent to the Dark and Light Places to summon the pretenders to Rokkur, place of blood rites. There, they would throw down their brothers and sisters in fratricidal combat to win the favor of the Ancients and ascend to their ranks. The victor would become a God.
Thus is your destiny - you are a child of the All-Father, offspring of one of the Progenitor's numerous affairs with mortals. A demigod, greater and more awful in every way than your peers. One day you will be summoned to the Crucible of the Gods, and be made to murder your blood kin for the chance to descend to the Gathering of the Ancients. If you survive you will become a god and know the Deep Places as your own, and forever change the balance between Light and Dark, for better or worse.
But that is the end of your story. We start at the beginning.
Who are you?
[] The Torchbearer
- The Rook
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Oak
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Queen of Thorns
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Unclean Beast
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Vampire - erebus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Blind King - orcus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Demon Assassin
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Crippled Angel - regulus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Lifegiver - sedna
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- Something Else?
-leads to custom character creation thing-
--
Near the end of the 87th migration, when the minions of Hel-Gorgath were in rebellion and the balance between light and dark was under threat, the Ancients of the Deep convened a Gathering. Assembled thusly since last they imposed silence upon the worlds were the Six, oldest and most terrible. The Gathering found that one of their own, the so-called Progenitor, had intervened by sharing Names and Ways with his underlings and allies on the other side of the Veil.
In punishment, the Ancients cast down The Progenitor from the Deep Places and all of the beings in his ken were laid low and utterly destroyed.
The Ancients, known as Gods to mortals, therefore sought a successor. It was known that the Progenitor had many offspring, begat by mortal consorts, who retained sufficient divinity to stand for Induction. But, not all agreed, for some were offended by the obscene co-mingling of Essences, crude flesh, and the rank perversity of the Progenitor's dalliances. For this reason, a game was proposed for the offspring to prove themselves worthy.
So it was made to be that messengers were sent to the Dark and Light Places to summon the pretenders to Rokkur, place of blood rites. There, they would throw down their brothers and sisters in fratricidal combat to win the favor of the Ancients and ascend to their ranks. The victor would become a God.
--------------------
Thus is your destiny - you are a child of the All-Father, offspring of one of the Progenitor's numerous affairs with mortals. A demigod, greater and more awful in every way than your peers. One day you will be summoned to the Crucible of the Gods, and be made to murder your blood kin for the chance to descend to the Gathering of the Ancients. If you survive you will become a god and know the Deep Places as your own, and forever change the balance between Light and Dark, for better or worse.
But that is the end of your story. We start at the beginning.
Who are you?
[] The Torchbearer
On the coldest night in living memory, you were born to the queen of the Vinling people, Frythia Fair-Frost. Hearing of your birth, the king Hungarling, who had been pushing back the savages of the northern frontier for the past seven years, returned to his home and drowned your mother in her bath. He took his sword to your nursemaids, but could not bring himself to slay you, and instead claimed you as his own, naming you Hrundel for the fey-like beauty in your face.
A traumatic start to your life, admittedly, but it ended well. You will be prince of the Vinlings, raised to high expectations with all the resources of nobility. As you age, you will be taught to lead armies, to manage realms, to wield sword and coin both in defense of your realm. And you will excel in this, for you are a demigod, son of the Allfather. Frost and flame will bend to your will, and men's hearts will melt at the warmth in your words.
The Torchbearer is supernaturally charismatic, and will grow to be able to control fire and ice as he wills. He will come of age in Vinland, a kingdom of honor and martial prowess, but also quick wits and the intermingling of many cultures due to their extensive trade routes. Beware, for not all who speak of honor talk with unvarnished tongues...
A traumatic start to your life, admittedly, but it ended well. You will be prince of the Vinlings, raised to high expectations with all the resources of nobility. As you age, you will be taught to lead armies, to manage realms, to wield sword and coin both in defense of your realm. And you will excel in this, for you are a demigod, son of the Allfather. Frost and flame will bend to your will, and men's hearts will melt at the warmth in your words.
The Torchbearer is supernaturally charismatic, and will grow to be able to control fire and ice as he wills. He will come of age in Vinland, a kingdom of honor and martial prowess, but also quick wits and the intermingling of many cultures due to their extensive trade routes. Beware, for not all who speak of honor talk with unvarnished tongues...
- The Rook
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Oak
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Queen of Thorns
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Unclean Beast
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Vampire - erebus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Blind King - orcus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Demon Assassin
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Crippled Angel - regulus
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- The Lifegiver - sedna
-expound on starting situation, powers, inclinations, etc-
- Something Else?
-leads to custom character creation thing-