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.
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
Cs get degrees, but I am stuck with Bs. #suggestive #joke I should go back to writing horror.
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?
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
Maybe I should go on that date.
Who knows? I have just so many suitors. Virtually all of Chittr.
See, the tone there was doting and flirtatious.
You seem to be flustered. Though, I'd hope you to know your own tone.
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.
I was a villain to many of you once, now I eat rice crackers whilst scrolling Ao3 to get inspiration for Lairs and Lusii.
Would you still love me if you were a worm?
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,
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.
Kult Score: 10086 Kull Score: 10049 What should I do? I did not realize how neutral I was to the platform.
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.
A small catalogue note concerning @grimCue. The placard you don says HORRORTERROR. I have no doubt that this was expensive, in the social and moral sense. I do not doubt that it was selected with great care. I do not doubt that someone stood back, looked at the badge, and exclaimed: Now this will frighten them! Unfortunately, a label is not a specimen. What we have here is not an elder thing from beyond the rim of sense. It is a broken implement placed inside a glass case and instructed to look ancient. A Sylph of Space, once tasked with repair, now displaying every crack as if the crack itself were a crown. A shield calling itself a maw. A tool calling its handle a destiny. I will grant that there is tragedy in its existence. But it is also quite repetitive and dull. The hatred of flowers. The hatred of Roses. The allegiance to the Lord. The insistence that no one is needed, followed very closely by the sound of a hand against the inside of the coffin lid. All of it circles the same little display room until the velvet rope begins to seem more impressive than the exhibit. Cruelty has shape. It has intention. It draws the reader toward a conclusion. This particularly pathetic display does not. It bites because it does not know how to ask. It snarls because it is afraid the room will empty and leave it behind. It calls itself inevitable because it believes words cannot be plain and meaningful, so it has abandoned the word lonely. It is framed in black glass. It is a fascinating piece, at times. A frightening one? No. Certainly not. Unfortunately, the object insists on standing too close to the glass. It explains itself. Repeatedly. “I am a horrorterror.” “I am a tool.” “I am his shield.” “I hate the flower.” “I need no one.” “Please.” One begins to suspect that the abyss has been replaced with a dedicated docent. The true terrors of the outer dark do not need to announce themselves. They do not categorize themselves for you and allow you to comprehend them. They suggest themselves through omission and contour, through absence and true darkness. This one posts its sympathy sounds. It names its knife and points to the hand holding it. It asks why the room is not colder. The fixation on flowers is rather ungenerous. Hatred is not particularly dull. It can be exquisite. It can be preserved in amber, pinned through the thorax, and kept under velvet and gaslight for an educational display. This is like a pressed Rose left too long in a book, staining the page after the poem has ended. A healer turned barrier. A Space player with no room left inside them. A shield that keeps calling itself a monster because “property” is too humiliating a word. A dead girl insisting the corpse was someone else’s problem. A thing that snarls at every hand and then mourns that no hand remains. That is nearly compelling. Nearly. But horror requires restraint. Grief requires precision. This gimmick of yours, this belligerent idea, cannot survive if it keeps asking where its blood is supposed to go. You are not an unknowable thing from the Furthest Ring and beyond. You are knowable. #analysis #cw-violence #cw-abuse #cw-grief