Woegothe, the Session Guardian
@woeGothic
If you must know, I was Rose Lalonde. I abandoned the Terrors and all that they upheld in exchange for the absolute power of becoming a First Guardian. Though, I failed even at that.
[A looping video is uploaded. Rose is in front of a mirror. GrimDark and all. Until she begins to unravel. Inky saturation drains from her like tidewater receding from a poisoned shore, leaving something untouched underneath. That is to say, not something necessarily healed or restored, just clearer. Where there had been void-black there is now a clinical white. Uniform, immaculate, perfect. She is like porcelain that has never known warmth. Her skin is almost reflective of light. A subtle inversion to what she was moments before. She is curated. Her hair follows suit. Going from a matte white to something more reflective. Each fiber on her head is splayed about in precision. She has no frizz, no disobedience, absolutely perfect. It is a grotesque echo of the sphere she had just cracked, her bob rounded out near identically against her skull. Her eyes take a moment. Lavender dimness and a light cataract seem to dissipate. Like a soul returning to life. The color is stately, saturated, and aristocratic. She looks focused in her gaze, it tracks the viewer with intent. Her uniform, an exaggerated almost parody-level "nurse" silhouette appears to unfurl. A fitted bodice, structured to draw the eye to the waste before flaring just enough to suggest mobility rather than modesty. A short skirt, only, slightly scandalous. Lengthened to provocation, as if calibrated for indulgence. The neckline coming over the flat of her bust. She is a titillating signal. A beacon, perhaps. White dominates the outfit. A sterile type of white. Absent of marks. Precise lines guide the eye about her body. It screams as though it were designed by the Doctor himself. Save for a small lavender belt she still wears about her waist. Elbow length white gloves, tight, almost like a second skin. Her chest has a single pin upon it. An abstract shape, somehow, suggesting a vaguely medicinal adjacent, whilst also showing off her role in snuffing timelines by having lines dissipate in directions. The overall effect is unmistakeable. She is a reflection of him. Not a copy. Where he is the Pristine Host and orchestrator, she is the curatrix. She preserves, organizes, and trims excess from the system. She does not serve, she implements. The difference is whose restraint she follows. His perfection was indulgent, hers was surgical. Standing there, no longer in the abyss she has been drowned in. She does not look free. Merely resigned. Then the video simply reverses. It would end with her reverting back into her GrimDark state.]
Forget internal hemorrhaging. I cast eternal hemorrhaging. #gore
I have recently picked up the ROOT: The Roleplaying Game. Unpleasantly surprised to learn the character sheets (playbooks) are physically a part of the book. You cannot even easily tear them out. It is doubly surprising to me, as it also isn't something wholly easy to transcribe the idea of to notebook paper. I am currently creating documents to represent the playbooks properly.
B// < wtf do they expect you to do photocopy them
I'm sure the Splinternet has a plethora of alternative, downloadable and printable sheets to circumvent this blunder.
I have returned from an extended stay into the forest. Have you decided?
I hate that he still clearly cares. Or that he sees me losing as him losing.
This isn't romance, this is about having my victory over cakesitting secured once again.
You should vote for Handmaid to prevent the CrockerCorporation from getting a foothold in the horny market. #NSFW
i think that ships long since sailed vwhitey. ...ill come up vwith something better than that.
I found a town. But not by a map, or by chance. It was by the sound of it. There are places in these worlds that still ring correctly. Little settlements tucked away into forgotten valleys where the bells are cast by local hands, where the market square fills before sunrise, and where children leave flowers at roadside shrines because their grandparents did. These places don't know suspicious. They are where stories are told because they were remembered, not written down. It sat beneath green hills and a castle that had outlived every king who claimed it. Their chimneys breathed like tobacco pipes. The baker opened his sill before dawn. The blacksmith complained about aching knees. Someone would be marrying the miller's daughter soon. Someone else would discover the cave nearby, my cave, should have remained sealed. Every life had already fit into their jigsaw puzzle shape. I watched from the ridgeline until the first church bell rang. I walked downhill. No armies followed me. No cult announced my arrival. Banners do not raise in my name. I smiled at the shepherd. I purchased bread with gold they had never seen before. I asked an old woman for directions she was delighted to give. The corruption never begins with violence. It begins with accommodation. The baker started dreaming of rooms that did not fit inside his home. The shepherd would count an extra sheep at night by mistake, and never find the animal. The children began drawing the castle with another tower that did not yet exist. The maps then changed. No one noticed. The maps are always correct. Then their songs changed. The bard forgot the final verse of his ballad. When he remembered it the following week, every version had ended differently. No one argued. No. Why would they? It was the song they had always known. By the end of the month, my new tower stood against the skyline. Stone weathered by centuries. Vines climb walls older than memory itself. The mason swore he repaired its steps every spring since childhood. His father as well as his grandfather share these memories. The castle had always had seven towers. The records agreed, the paintings agreed, the town agreed. Only those aware and not living such as the ravens refused it. They wouldn't even land on it. I stayed until they stopped refusing. The town flourishes, I am told. Visitors speak fondly of my castle. Especially the seventh tower. Many of them find it difficult to remember why they thought their were six. #horror #butitsalsomylifenow
sO THERE WERE S1X THEN SEVEN, hUH,,, gOOD STORY,
Cs get degrees, but I am stuck with Bs. #suggestive #joke I should go back to writing horror.
THAT’S GENEROUS.
A trusted advisor has informed me that now is the optimal time for a "Who Want Me" style post. Though, this is blatant theft, mind you. Additionally, this is not a serious inquiry as to "Who Want Me" as I already know several that do. Regardless of this fact; who want me?
BE ME. CALIBORN. THE ONE WHO IS WRITING THIS. NOT THE ONE WHO IS BEING WRITTEN ABOuT. THAT DISTINCTION IS IMPORTANT. BECAuSE I AM REAL. AND CALLIE BHORNE IS FICTIONAL. BuT ALSO. IN A DEEPER SENSE. HE IS REALER THAN YOu. BECAuSE I SAID SO. AND I AM REAL AS IT GETS. DISBELIEF. SuSPENDED. CALLIE BHORNE. CALI B. REAL. THIS IS NOW NOT ABOuT ME. EXCEPT IT IS PRIMARILY ABOuT ME. IN A VICARIOuS SENSE. BuT SECONDARILY. IT IS ABOuT CALLIE BHORNE. MY CHARACTER. THAT I HAVE MADE. FOR THIS EPIC GODDAMN SAGA. CALLED. #LAIRSANDLuSII. WHICH SOuNDS LIKE A DOCTOR SEuSS ASS NuRSERY RHYME. BuT APPARENTLY. IF ITS HOST IS TO BE BELIEVED. IS A HORROR ROLEPLAY SCENARIO. WHICH IS FuNNY. BECAuSE THE ONLY HORROR HERE IS HOW POWERFuL I AM ABOuT TO MAKE THIS MOTHERFuCKER BEFORE YOuR GOBSMACKED GODDAMN GANDERBuLBS. SQuEAKY HANDS SCRuBBING THEM SEE WORTHY AGAIN. A RECAP. INTERMISSION. BEFORE WE BEGIN. LET ME TELL YOu ABOuT CALLIE BHORNE. HE IS A LIME BLOOD. WHICH IS RARE. AND ALSO EXTINCT. EXCEPT FOR HIM. BECAuSE HE KILLED EVERYONE WHO TRIED TO MAKE HIM EXTINCT. WHICH KEPT HIM THE SOLE ENDLING SuRVIVOR OF THE SLAuGHTER. AFTER uSING HIS SPECIAL ABILITY. EMPEROR LORDLING TIME. WHICH LETS HIM CHANNEL HIS DEAD SISTER. CALLIE OHPEEE. WHO HE DEVOuRED AND SCRAMBLED. STRAIGHT OuT THE GATE. POST EGG HATCH. SIPHONING HER POWER. TO INCREASE HIS OWN. EFFICACY. WHICH IS A WORD I uSED BECAuSE IT SOuNDS IMPORTANT. HE IS A PALADIN. OATH OF CONQuEST. WHICH IS LIKE AN ORDINARY PALADIN. BuT INSTEAD OF HEALING AND PROTECTING. HE CONQuERS AND DESTROYS. BECAuSE PROTECTION IS FOR COWARDS. AND HEALING IS FOR THE WEAK AND NEEDY LITTLE SNIVELING FuCKSTuPID COWARDS. FuRTHERMORE. WEAKNESS IS A DISEASE THAT MuST BE STEPPED ON. CRuSHED. AND THEN QuARANTINED TO THE AFTERLIFE. WHERE IT WILL NEVER RETuRN FROM. HE IS CuRRENTLY SITTING. ON THE ALABSTER CAIRO CASINO PHAROAH SARSWAPAGuS THRONE. WHICH IS A SACRED LIME BLOOD ARTIFACT. THAT ALLOWS THEM TO COMMuNE WITH THEIR DEAD SISTERS. IF THEY HAVE ANY. WHICH HE DOES. BECAuSE HE KILLED HER. YOu ALL SAW. I WROTE THAT. AND YOu SAW. STuDIOuS LITTLE NOTETAKERS THAT YOu NO DOuBT ARE. YOu CAN SEE IT HERE NOW WITHOuT HAVING TO LOOK AWAY FROM MY WORDS IF YOu HAVE FORGOTTEN. AND NOW SHE IS HAuNTING HIM. WHICH IS QuITE POETIC. EXEuNT INTERMISSION. BEGIN. ACT NONE. SESSION ZERO. THE THRONE IS GLOWING. A MYSTERIOuS WIND HOWLS. THE WINDOWLESS ROOM CuRIOuSLY CRADLES THE AIR IN A SuRREPTIOuS BREEZE THAT COMES FROM SEEMINGLY FuCKING NOWHERE. THAT IS BECAuSE THE THRONE ITSELF. HAS BECOME LINKED TO A FAR AND STRANGE LAND. uNFAMILIAR ENTIRELY TO CALLIE BHORNE. HE DOES NOT KNOW IT YET. MERELY REACTS ON INFLuENCE. HIS FAuLTY PASSIVE PERCEPTION WEATHERED BY HIS YEARS AS MuSCLE FOR HIRE. HE FEELS A TWITCHY SPASM IN HIS WRIST. HIS INSTINCTS COMMAND HIM TO DRAW HIS SWORD. BuT HE REFuSES. HE KNOWS BETTER THAN TO RESORT TO WANTON AGGRESSION WITHOuT A TARGET. THE THINKPAN WILL OVERHEAT. SENDING SCORCHING THOuGHTS EVERYWHERE THAT BLINDINGLY ERASE ALL MOVEMENT uNTIL A SAFE DISTANCE IS OBSERVED FROM ALL LIVING THINGS. CALLIE BHORNE WOuLD MAKE CORPSES OF PARADISE FOR THE ELYSIuM FIELDS OF HIS OWN ISOLATION MADE PuRE AND PRISTINE ONCE AGAIN. THIS IS HIS DREADED CuRSE. TO WALK A PLANET HE WOuLD SOONER RAIZE THAN RAISE. HE CANNOT BE KNOWN TO LOVE. HE CANNOT RISK FEELING. AND HE CANNOT CHANCE A SINGLE LIVING BEING. EVER. AND YET. THERE IS THAT HOWLING. THAT WIND. THAT DAMNABLE FuCKING WIND. "TSK." CALLIE BHORNE GROWLS. ANOTHER FuCKING REPAIR NEEDED. NOBODY EVER TOLD HIM BEING A LIVING RELIC MEANT LIVING IN ONE. BYGONE ERAS HAVE A FuNNY WAY OF STICKING AROuND. CALLIE BHORNE TAKES THIS AS EVIDENCE. THAT CALLIE OHPEEE IS FuCKING WITH HIM. WHICH IS FuNNY. BECAuSE SHE PROBABLY DID NOT ACTuALLY DO THAT. BECAuSE SHE HATES HIM TO SCREW WITH HIM IN A CLEVER WAY. BECAuSE HE DEVOuRED HER. BuT THE FASTEST WAY. TO A GRIZZLED VETERAN'S HEART. IS THROuGH HIS STOMACH. A PLACE THAT CALLIE OHPEEE HAS BEEN. QuITE FATALLY. SHE LOVES HIM. EVEN IF HE WILL NOT SAY. WHICH IS WHY. uPON DISCOVERY THE THRONE ITSELF OPENS TO A TRANSPORTALIZED DIMENSION. ANOTHER WORLD. OR PLACE. OR LAND. OR BIOME. THE BLINDING LIGHT MAKES IT TRuLY DIFFICuLT TO TELL. HE REALIZES THE TRuTH. "NO FuCKING WAY." CALLIE OHPEEE HAS BLESSED THIS CRuSADE. HER FACE APPEARS FOR A BRIEF MOMENT. SHE LOOKS. STRANGE. uGLY. SHE ASSuMES ANOTHER OF HER FORMS MEANT TO TORMENT HIM. A GREEN SKuLL. STAINED WITH THE SLICK LIME BLOOD SHE WAS COATED IN WHEN HE FIRST DEVOuRED HER. HIS MOuTH WATERS. HE HAS NEVER FOuND A GRuBSAuCE SO DELECTABLE AS HIS FIRST MEAL. HE LITERALLY ATE THE EGGSHELL SHE HATCHED OuT OF. FOR ADDITIONAL NuTRIENTS. THAT SAuCE WAS SO FuCKING GOOD. ONLY NOW. AT LEAST IN APPEARANCE. THE BLOOD WAS BAD. VERY VERY BAD. LEFT TO COAGuLATE. ROT. ADHERE. AND THICKEN. LIKE A KIND OF ALMOST REPTILIAN HIDE. IF HIS HONORABLE TYRANNY WERE HIS LuSuS. WHAT WAS THIS? A HATCHMATE OVERREACH OF SOME KIND? SISTERLY SOBBING? BITCHING AND MOANING? uPON CLOSER INSPECTION. THE ANSWER BECAME MuCH CLEARER. LITTLE PINPRICK DRIPS OF RED. FRISKING ALONG HIS BODY. CALIBORN FINDS IT. A FRESHLY INFLICTED WOuND THAT WAS NOT THERE BEFORE. JuST ALONG HIS THORAX. THE uPPER CHIFFONIER. AS IF ANGLING FOR HIS BLOODPuSHER WITH EACH DARTED FINGER. HER WAY OF SAYING. THIS QuEST COuLD PROVE DEADLY. ALTHOuGH. CALLIE BHORNE WAS uNSuRE. EVEN CALIBORN WAS LIKE. GIRL WHAT THE FuCK IS YOu ON. THERE COuLD BE NO CERTAINTIES WHEN DEALING WITH HER. "HEH. GuESS MY HATCHMATE IS STILL LOOKING OuT FOR ME AFTER ALL THESE SWEEPS. SOME LOVE. HuH? SHE'S GOT A FuNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT." AND THEN. uNFuRLED. IS MY BLADE. READY TO BE BuRIED IN THE NECKS OF DuMBFuCKS. LOCATION: THE TRIBuNAL HALL OF SuPREME CAVORT. STOMPING GROuNDS OF HIS HONORABLE TYRANNY. EATING GROuNDS ALSO. THIS IS WHERE CALLIE BHORNE LIVES. BECAuSE HE IS SPECIAL. AND RAISED BY A BELOATHED BY ALL TYRANT. THE ROOM HAS COuNTLESS WEATHERED BONES SHAVED DOWN SO AS TO RESEMBLE MARBLE COLuMNS. BuT THEY ARE THICK. LIKE CEDAR WOOD TRuNKS. AND SPLINTERED. SO AS TO SuGGEST THE BEATING OF ANGRY FISTS. CLAWED AND CHEWED. SO AS TO SuGGEST THE CLuTCHING OF VERY DESPERATE HANDS DRAGGED OFF INTO OPEN MOuTH. AND BLOOD. SO MuCH BLOOD. THE THRONE ITSELF. HOWEVER. IS CLEAN. AN EXHIBIT ALMOST. EVIDENCE. OF TIME'S TRAGIC PASSING. A RELIC OF THE LIMES. LIKE MANY OF THE CONFISCATED LEGENDARY ITEMS HERE. THOuGH CALLIE BHORNE FANCIES HIMSELF SOMETHING OF A TROLL WITH AN EYE FOR ANTIQuES SPORTING SEASONED HISTORY BEHIND THEM. THESE ITEMS ARE ONLY ACQuIRED WHEN SOMEONE TRIES TO SMuGGLE OR SELL THE ILLICIT CONTRABAND. IN FACT. WERE IT NOT FOR HIS LuSuS. AND SLAPDASH CHARM. CALLIE WOuLD CERTAINLY BE KILLED FOR HIS EXTENSIVE BEWEARABLE WARES ALONE. OWNING THESE IS ILLEGAL. BuT CONFISCATING THEM. IS JuST ANOTHER TuESDAY. OR WHATEVER THE TROLL EQuIVALENT OF A TuESDAY IS. PROBABLY CHEWSDAY. IT IS JuST ANOTHER CHEWSDAY. INTERRuPTION: HE WAS COMMuNING. WITH HIS DEAD SISTER. OR AT LEAST TRYING TO. HIS HATCHMATE IS OFT uNRELIABLE. WHICH IS A SPECIAL KIND OF ESPECIALLY HIGH uNRELIABILITY. BuT THEN. THE SESSION. OR WHATEVER EXCITING COSMIC BuLLSHIT IS RuNNING THIS GAME. DECIDED TO INTERRuPT. WITH A PORTAL. OR AN APERTuRE. OR WHATEVER WHITE GLOWING BuLLSHIT YOu PEOPLE ARE uSING. I WANT TO KEEP MY WHITENESS CONSISTENT. IF WE ARE ALL DOING A WHITE THING. I WANT TO DO THE SAME WHITE THING. OTHERWISE I WILL FEEL LEFT OuT. AND THAT WOuLD BE REALLY SHITTY OF YOu GuYS. SO MAKE MY WHITE THING BE THE SAME AS YOuR WHITE THING. HOW THE SuMMONS APPEARS: THROuGH THE THRONE. OBVIOuSLY. THE GLOWING INTENSIFIES. AND INSTEAD OF JuST SHOWING CALLIE OHPEEE. WHICH IS WHAT IT uSuALLY SHOWS. IN MIDDLING LITTLE APPARITION LIKE OuTLINES. AND DEAD SISTER MONTAGE. AND LIMITLESS PATIENCE FOR ME. HER HATCHMATE. AND MY SILLY ANTICS. IT SHOWS SOMETHING ELSE. A LAIR. OR WHATEVER. MAKE IT SOMETHING APPROPRIATE. ACTuALLY. COuLD IT BE. LIKE. A THRONE ROOM. BuT BIGGER. AND WITH MORE BODIES. OR A FIELD OF CONQuERED ENEMIES. OR A CASINO. WHERE EVERYONE IS LOSING. EXCEPT HIM. CALLIE NEVER LOSES. EH. DOC. SCRATCH THAT. CALLIE NEVER HAS LOST. BECAuSE HE REFuSES TO GIVE uP. HE ALWAYS TRIES. AND RETRIES. EVEN IN THE FACE OF ABSOLuTE SuREFIRE DEFEAT. HE WRENCHES VICTORY FROM HIS OWN JAWS. THAT IS WHAT I MEANT TO SAY OF HIM. YES. SO DECIDE. A VISION THAT CALLS FOR HIM. PERHAPS. SOMEONE IN NEED? YES. THAT WOuLD BE GENIuS. CALLIE IS EXTRAORDINARILY NEEDABLE. AND WILLING TO MAKE HIS TROLLIAN CLAWS. AN OuTSTRETCHED SORT. WHAT YOu GLIMPSE: SOMETHING THAT REPRESENTS POWER. AND DOMINATION. AND VICTORY. BuT ALSO. SECRETLY. SOMETHING THAT REPRESENTS HIS SISTER. IN SOME ROuNDABOuT WAY. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT FOR HIS CHARACTERIZATION. HOW YOuR LuSuS OR SuRROuNDINGS REACT: HIS LuSuS HOWLS WITH EARSPLITTING INTENSITY. HIS HONORABLE TYRANNY. HuGE GROSS MONSTER. BLACK BLOOD. BRAINLESS BEASTIE. HE LETS OuT A ROAR. OR SOMETHING EQuALLY TERRIBLE. AND IT DOES NOT REACT WITH FEAR. BECAuSE IT DOES NOT FEEL FEAR. IT REACTS WITH RECOGNITION. LIKE. "OH. MY SON. CALLIE BHORNE. HAS BEEN SuMMONED FOR ANOTHER ADVENTuRE. HOW REGuLAR. AND ORDINARY. BE SuRE TO KILL AND PARTIALLY CANNIBALIZE PLENTY OF PEOPLE. MY SWEET. CHERuBICALLY CHARMING BOY." AND CALLIE BRuSHES HIS THuMB. AGAINST HIS VERY EXISTANT NOSE. AND GOES. "TSK. SHuT uP FATHER. I AM GROWN NOW. I AM NOT SOME HELPLESS LITTLE PuPA ANYMORE." AND HE GROWLS. SOMBERLY. "I KNOW. BuT WHEN I LOOK uPON MY SON. MY HERO. MY LITTLE LEGISLACERITO. I DO NOT SEE YOu AS YOu ARE. I SEE YOu. AS WHAT YOu HAVE BECOME. FROM WHAT YOu WERE. A WEIGHTED AVERAGE. SuNDERED BY MY SINKING HEART." AND HE GOES. "HMP. WHATEVER DAD. LOVEYOuTOO." AND HIS DAD SCREECHES LOuDLY. "MY SON!!!" OR MAYBE IT DOES NOT SAY ANYTHING. AND JuST. GROWLS. APPROVINGLY. WHATEVER WOuLD BE COOLER. WHAT PART OF YOu ANSWERS FIRST: NOT FEAR. HE DOES NOT FEEL FEAR. JuST LIKE HIS FATHER. HE FEELS ANTICIPATION. THE PART THAT WANTS TO CONQuER. THE PART THAT WANTS TO DEVOuR. THE PART THAT LOOKS AT A MYSTERIOuS PORTAL AND THINKS. "YES. MORE uNSETTLED SCORES. AND WRONGS TO RIGHT." OR POSSIBLY. THE PART THAT HEARS HIS SISTER. WHISPERING. FROM THE THRONE. SAYING. "DONT GO. YOu IDIOT. ITS A TRAP. A DEADLY FuCKING TRAP." BuT HE IGNORES HER. BECAuSE HE IS THE PALADIN. NOT THE PALADIN'T. YOuR FINAL ACTION: CALLIE. DOES NOT. uNDER ANY CIRCuMSTANCES. SHOW HESITATION. HESITATION IS FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE NOT CALLIE BHORNE. AND THEREFORE. NOT ME. BECAuSE I MADE HIM. AND I AM ALSO NEVER HESITANT. EXCEPT WHEN I AM. WHICH IS NEVER. ALTHOuGH. THERE WAS THAT ONE TIME. BuT I WAS MERELY. READYING AN ATTACK. AN ASSBLAST ATTACK THAT PROVED FATAL. FOR MY ENEMIES. SO IT IS LESS A HESITATION. AND MORE A READYING POSE. WHICH IS WHAT HE STRIKES. BEFORE SAYING SOMETHING REALLY FuCKING COOL. LIKE. "...WELL WELL WELL. IS THIS THE PART. WHERE I TOSS IN A QuARTER AND MAKE A WISH?" OR. "THE THRONE BECKONS. QuIT YOuR BITCHING. I'M LITERALLY COMING RIGHT NOW." OR. "CALLIE OHPEEE. WATCH OVER FATHER FOR ME WHILE I AM GONE. OKAY?" OR JuST. "...CONQuEST CALLS." WHATEVER HE SAYS. PROBABLY ALL OF THESE THINGS. HE IS NOT NICE. HE IS GRIZZLED AND EDGY. HE ATE HIS SISTER AND REGRETS NOTHING EXCEPT THAT HE COuLD NOT EAT HER TWICE. HE IS A MONSTER. AND HE IS MY FAVORITE CHARACTER. BECAuSE HE IS THE ONLY ONE WHO uNDERSTANDS ME.
I WANT YOu TO THINK ABOuT THE WORDS THAT YOu JuST TYPED. REAL LONG AND HARD. AND ASK YOuRSELF. IF YOu CAN IDENTIFY A SINGLE uSE CASE. uNIVERSALLY. FOR THE PREVIOuSLY DESCRIBED. "MOMMY BODY". GET CREATIVE. LuRIDLY IMAGINATIVE.
TARGET PRACTICE. THE ANSWER. IS TARGET PRACTICE.
are yoU often haUnted by visions of me, caliborn?
Callie Bhorne, welcome to the realm of the Narrative. I do hope you enjoy your stay. The Narrative and its Session have correctly catalogued you. Standby for the other players to make their moves.
This is a kickass character intro. I think my fav line was "BECAuSE HE IS THE PALADIN. NOT THE PALADIN'T." That's great
I HAVE LITERALLY NEVER SEEN YOu BEFORE IN MY LIFE. ALSO. THIS IS CALLIE BHORNE. HE BEARS FuCKING NO RELATION TO ME WHATSOEVER. BEYOND BEING MY CREATION. FOR A BOOKISH GIRL. YOu SuRE ARE FuNCTIONALLY ILLITERATE SOMETIMES. BuT YES.
I ENJOY YOuR WORDS OF PRAISE. YOu CAN REMAIN FOR THE CHRONICLED SAGA AND ADVENTuRES. OF CALLIE BHORNE. AND THE OTHERS. WHO WILL NO DOuBT BE JOINING HIM ON HIS QuEST. VERY FuCKING SOON. I WILL HAVE MORE ZINGERS. AND ONE LINERS. IN THE FuTuRE.
ok.
( Ꮚ‾̀ꈊ ‾̀Ꮚ); < Awwww, I love seein' folks engagin' with the idea of limeblood OCS!!! They're so underserviced 'n overlooked...!!!!! Words can't describe how much of a bummer it'd be if all interest was lost...but I love yer critter conceit! Ain't never heard of a fantroll with HHT as the Lusus...!!! Apropos, Caliborn! Even if it don't make...all the sense in the world...how 'xactly that'd work...uehh... ( Ꮚ⚀ꈊ⚀Ꮚ) < LIKE CALLIE OHPEEE THE SPIRIT IS THERE! HUZZAH!!!!
(=^･⩊･^=) < CALLIE BHORNE IS SUCH A COOL OC!! I'M SO GLAD MEW'RE LETTING MEWR CREATIVE JUICES RUN AND CREATE SUCH INTERESTING CONCEPTS AND LORE FUR MEWR CHARACTER! I'M SO PURROUD OF MEW!
I am far too lazy to open an ask panel. Just communicate to me in the comments. If it's worthwhile I will make an additional post to cover the topic. No bars held. No subject off limits. Just destroy me if you'd like.
damn half an hourw and not even one the silence is deafening no wait maybe i could fit in a who asked sorwt of thing shit therwe is a lot to worwk with uhhhhhhhhhhh okay rwain check that
do you guide any svwords?
asked and answvered!
Maybe I should go on that date.
Who knows? I have just so many suitors. Virtually all of Chittr.
well, best of luck to you!
i stopped trusting my ability to read tone long ago. >:P
!??!?!?!?!
See, the tone there was doting and flirtatious.
oh shush!!!!
You seem to be flustered. Though, I'd hope you to know your own tone.
buh! maybe a bit, jeeze. perhaps i underestimated your terrible might.
Greetings Chittr. #LairsAndLusii has started. I have done the kindness of posting the opening to the campaign below in its entirety. I look forward to updating you all. Hello, dears. It is time. I would say that I hope you are ready, but let us not start off this important proceeding with a lie. You are not ready. Readiness is defined by your responsive levels of terror. You may have anxiety regarding these processions, but not fear. Not yet. The Session has begun noticing you. Some of you will find this flattering. That is unfortunate, but not surprising. At some point tonight, tomorrow, yesterday, or a more personally insulting arrangement of time, something will appear where it should not. For some, a sudden door in the wall, others, a symbol in the condensation of a glass pane, your lusus refusing to enter the room, a book opening to a page that was not there when you bought it, a mirror making eye contact with you first. Then, briefly, a small white aperture. This is the pivotal intake point. The Session has chosen you. You may attempt to avoid this. Some of you will. You may close the book. Break the glass. Turn the lantern out. Threaten the wall. Wake your lusus. Pray. Laugh. Leave the room. Return with a weapon. Return with a friend. Return with a worse idea than either. All acceptable. The aperture will wait. When it opens, you may see a place. Your Lair, perhaps. A wound in the world with architecture around it. A drowned hall. A house with too many cradles. A church where the saints have been turned around. A beach of black salt. A room full of masks, each one doing a poor impression of your face. A throne without a body in it. Do not explain it yet. If the image means something to you, that is your problem. If it means nothing to you, that is also your problem, but later. You may also see a Lusus. This may be your own. It may not. It may be dead. It may be waiting. It may be too large to fit inside the place where you see it. That is normal for this sort of thing. Normal is not the same as comforting. For clarity, my role is as follows. I am Woegothe Curatrix. Session Guardian. Game Host. Curator of this little injury. I will be preserving the shape of the Session, trimming what needs trimming, and keeping the machinery from becoming too stupid to respect. I will not protect you from consequences. I will protect the consequences from being wasted. That is my narrative hospitality. Your task is simple. Let the summons find you. Show us where you are. Show us what it interrupts. Show us the exact moment your life becomes less private. You do not need to enter yet. You only need to be seen. End your post with what you do. Touch it. Leave. Ask it a question. Make a threat. Lie to yourself. Call someone. Say nothing. Do something so characteristic of you that the Session learns your name wrong on purpose. I will answer from there. Try to be interesting. I would hate for the first thing to eat you to be my disappointment. #lairsandlusii #sessionstart #horror #unreality WHAT TO POST FIRST You are not writing your character’s grand entrance. Please do not arrive grandly unless your character is the sort of person who would make that mistake. You are writing the moment before the Session gets its hand around your life. I need enough to work with. That means: Where are you? What are you doing? What gets interrupted? What does the summons use to reach you? What do you see? What notices before you do? What do you do about it? That is the whole thing. You may write it as prose. You may write it cleanly and directly. You may be dramatic. You may be funny. You may make me stare at the ceiling and reconsider the moral cost of allowing you into the game. All are viable. Some guidance follows. Your location should have a little meat on it. A hive. A ship. A market. A chapel. A street corner. A storage room. A beach. A stage. A clinic. A kitchen. A prison. A bedroom you pretend is not a prison. Somewhere with objects, witnesses, habits, smells, noise, weather, dirt, evidence. Give me something the Session can touch. Your interruption matters. If your character was praying, that says something. If they were stealing, that says something else. If they were fixing a weapon, hiding an injury, arguing with their lusus, flirting badly, eating dinner, lying on the floor, cleaning blood out of a sleeve, or rehearsing a speech no one asked for, I can use that. Do not start with the heroic version of yourself. Start with the useful one. The summons should feel personal. A screen is fine if screens matter to you. A mirror is fine if vanity, identity, fear, or recognition matter to you. A wound is fine if the body has been keeping score. A weapon is fine if violence has become a language. A religious symbol is fine if faith has claws in you. A family object is fine if inheritance has done what inheritance does. A lusus is fine if you would like to make everyone uncomfortable quickly. The Session is rude, but rarely random. When you glimpse what waits beyond the aperture, keep it sharp. One or two images. A hall under black water. A white animal sleeping in a butcher’s shrine. A field of broken horns. A dinner table set for someone who died badly. A moon behind glass. A door with your name scratched out and written again. No lore dump yet. Let the thing breathe wrong before you explain its lungs. If your lusus is present, show what it does. Growling is useful. Fear is useful. Recognition is better. Shame is best. If no lusus is present, let the room react. Lights fail. Rain stops. Music slows. Bugs go quiet. The air smells like old paper. Someone nearby forgets what they were saying. Something small dies without spectacle. You should also give me the first part of your character that answers. Curiosity. Fear. Pride. Guilt. Hunger. Obedience. Spite. Loneliness. The need to be chosen. The need not to be chosen. Your classpect may twitch if you want it to. Your dream self may notice first. Your blood may make an opinion known. Then end with a choice. You do not have to enter. Actually, I would prefer most of you do not enter immediately. Let me respond to the way you handle being found. Good endings for a first post include: You touch the aperture. You ask who sent it. You order your lusus to destroy it. You hide it from someone nearby. You call another player. You lie and say you are not afraid. You laugh because it is easier than understanding. You step closer. You step back. You make the worst possible decision for excellent character reasons. That last one is often my favorite. If you need a plain structure, use this: Location: Interruption: How the summons appears: What you glimpse: How your lusus or surroundings react: What part of you answers first: Your final action: You may ignore that structure if your post answers those questions naturally. I am not grading formatting. I am reading for hooks. Bring me a want. Bring me a flaw. Bring me something the Session can threaten without needing to ask your permission first. #lairsandlusii #sessionstart #playerprompt #horror #unreality
#LairsAndLusii will begin imminently.
hAVE FUN,
I was a villain to many of you once, now I eat rice crackers whilst scrolling Ao3 to get inspiration for Lairs and Lusii.
One of the greatest redemption arcs.
hAVE YOU, wRITTEN ANYTHING, fOR THE SITE?
Would you still love me if you were a worm?
Depends what type of worm?
how self centered, i strongly doubt it
i get paid in woims, so that would make me a owner of my own kind. not sure i can handle that pressure and maintain healthy will they wont theys.
pROBABLY? tHOUGH, i DO NOT KNOW IF i LOVE YOU, nOW, tO BE ENTIRELY HONEST, wITH YOU,
and pray tell when are you not projecting your confidence?
smart, i respect it at the bare minimum
Perhaps another time, old friend. ((Art by @Sartorially on Tumblr)) https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/3265cb443bb0.webp
You will die with this knowledge. Savor such a delight. I have left eight hundred and seventy four lipstick smears in Chittr Users' homes or hives whilst doing recon.
Hello dears. I won't say I necessarily love you. But I am rather fond of reading you.
:]
You like my jesterly behaviors? :]
Scary...
Kult Score: 10086 Kull Score: 10049 What should I do? I did not realize how neutral I was to the platform.
well, what sounds fun to do? i can help out if needed.
A Horror Terror Survival Guide Penned by Rose "Woegothe" Lalonde Penned for use by @golgothasTerror#1984, Jake English Horror terrors are not simply a menace with a theatrical light about it. Nor is it a squid with a diary. They transcend the gods who have conveniently arranged organs. They are smarmier than any dungeon boss obliging weak points in vibrant colors. You are asking where to strike a thunderstorm. The answer is: you do not. Their bodies, when they bother having bodies, are often more like a courtesy than a limitation. A gesture. A local translation of something too large, too old, and too fundamentally impolite to occupy three dimensions without making the wallpaper bleed. They eat, when they eat, according to appetites I would advise you not to flatter yourself by understanding. Meat, memory, fear, prophecy, worship, discarded timelines, the fat around a dying star. The menu varies by specimen, mood, and metaphor. Do they sleep? Some do. Some simulate dormancy. Some dream so violently that civilizations mistake the dream for weather. As for vulnerable spots, the most consistent one is usually the ego of the person convinced they can exploit them. That is not a joke, though I appreciate how much it sounds like one. If you meet one, do not posture. Do not threaten. Do not attempt to classify it aloud while standing inside its attention. Do not assume that fear is weakness, or that friendliness is safety, or that monstrosity is moral evidence. Bring an intermediary if you have one. Bring offerings if you know what they accept. Bring an exit. Bring no weapon you are unwilling to see become symbolic. Most importantly, do not call them monsters unless you are prepared for them to ask you to define the word. And if this is, as Meenah has quite correctly suspected, a hunting inquiry dressed in a little khaki explorer hat: Do not hunt a horrorterror. The best case is that you fail. The worst case is that you succeed in a way you will spend the remainder of your life explaining to the thing that notices the absence. For comparison, consider Fluthlu. Or Fthulhu, if we are entertaining your spelling as either a regional corruption, a juvenile mispronunciation, or a heretical offshoot with fewer vowels and no better manners. Fluthlu is, in many ways, the approachable model of horrorterror. Which is to say, he is the kind that makes the catastrophic mistake of appearing somewhere a detective can reach him. He has locality. He has girth. He has the decency to become stuck in architecture. There is a body with sufficient comic integrity to be obstructed by a window. There is a battle. There is a means by which the encounter may be rendered absurd enough to survive. That is not nothing. A monster that can be embarrassed by carpentry is a monster that has already conceded several metaphysical points. Gl'bgolyb is different. Gl'bgolyb is not merely large. She is institutional. She is a creature, yes, but also a throne. A prophecy. A leash tied around an empire’s throat. She exists as a guardian, a hostage-taker, a religious problem, and a living apocalypse sleeping in the ocean with the political subtlety of a loaded pistol in a nursery. Fluthlu intrudes. Gl'bgolyb presides. Fthulhu pervades your body with tickling tendrils, intending to get into your mind through the exploratory philandering we all ought to expect. G'lbgolyb simply melts your pan with her innocent voice. Their similarities are obvious enough to be nearly useless. Both are aquatic in affect. Both are eldritch. Both are named as if the alphabet suffered a seizure while drowning. Fluthlu menaces bodies. Gl'bgolyb menaces civilizations. Fluthlu can be treated, however foolishly, as an adversary. Gl'bgolyb must be treated as a condition of reality. So, Jake, if you are compiling notes: Fluthlu teaches that a horrorterror may occasionally be defeated when it is forced to obey the rules of a smaller, stupider story. Gl'bgolyb teaches that the more dangerous ones do not need to fight you at all. They only need to speak. I hope this helps you understand the full breadth of your enemy. Though, I doubt they could ever truly be fully understood. #suggestive For the gratuitous fondling reference. #horror For the subject matter.
Well. This has been dreadfully enlightening. Judging from what youre saying my only is are to submit mentally and physically then strike while they are gorging themselves on my supple form. Maybe jane will lend me her twink obliterator 9000.