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The West, the Waste

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There’s definitely alternative forms of knowing, alternative things to know, which the force of law has prevented us from accessing. There’s kinds of ways we could transform peoples’ perspective if they were open to it. Poetic powers, to grant hopelessness and red-fire courage to others. The rule of law imposes itself on us, and these avenues are closed. The city is a place of things that cannot move, can only crumble. When people crumble in those cities on the east, they flee to the rocks and shrub-wastes of the west, where the wicked sun picks the sweat from their skin for itself to drink. The cities are choked with people and within the miasma of the infernal industry. Babies drink in the demon smoke before they’ve learned to stop crying; it shuts them up real quick. Kids these days don’t have a light in their eyes, the shivering folk who’ve made it out will tell you.  The west is full of broken people too. Bandits haunt these roads. The only surefire way to break a bandit’s curse i
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GLoGTober '23 2.4: Rose Simon

GLoGtober '23 2.4: Information about a small, local god. Rose Simon & the Rose Order The Rose Temple is a mausoleum now. Black riders came in the night and slaughtered the knights. They are piled in the temple center with rose petals strewn on their fallen bodies, burning flesh and sweet smells rising to the gods to please and disgust. The rose fields are trampled by hooves; and Rose Simon keeps the fire going until the bones and plate are all that remains.  Rose Simon takes the incense lamp and the sacred sandals, and reconsecrates the fields. Sweet smells waft in the air as he walks among the trampled petals, and incense-ash falls to the ground. The fields are crushed and color-strewn. He does not take off his Rose armor, save the rose-tint bronze helmet with its petalled crests, which he lays on the altar-benches in the circular temple proper with its rounded-star roof. The smoke burns and he prays, inured to the smell of his burning brethren. He prays as nights pass, and th
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GLoGtober '23 3.1: Drip

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GLoGtober '23 3.1: Modern Horror Shotgun Scenario . (Semiurge) Thanks to deus and Archon for the consultation. This post is for Best Case Scenario . Rules  here . GM materials here . Drip A house. Every faucet is dripping. Rain is coming down outside. The sound of water trickling down drains is ubiquitous. Water drips through the cracks in the roof into the attic. The floorboards too; all the way down to the basement. In the basement, there’s a puddle. Everything is dripping down into it. You can see your reflections in the water. They look like they’re draining down, down into the pool.  Get dripped on, and you feel heavy. Get dripped on enough, and the heaviness makes you feel like you want to descend, to the basement, to the pool, into the pool. The body falls, and is never found; but the spirit abides in the world, unweighted by the heaviness of the rain, untethered to its body, lost and ethereal in the world of the corporeal. Operative Requisitions & Mission Profile Opera
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How to See Spirits / d5x5 intimations of the Spirit of Pyre-Shadows

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This post is for the That We Are So Much More Setting . But it's also for the setting outlined by Magic as Radiation: Enter the Spirit-World , and a new setting I'm creating which incorporates the Spirit-World into it. How do we see spirits? In order to see spirits, you must be a talented semiologist, who believes her signs to be symbols. When the rams raise their heads at a wolf's cry, it is the Epimeliad raising their heads; they pay attention, and the Epimeliad watches too, because when they attend to that which the Epimeliad attends to, the Spirit abides in them. When the sheep encircle the lambs as the wolves circle, the Epimeliad guides their steps and inheres in their geometry; the instinct to protect the young is the motivation of the Epimeliad, and the geometry of the circled flock is a manifestation of that protective spirit, and thus of the Epimeliad. In those ramblings, I named a few signs of the Epimeliad. I'll add a few more at the end of this list: The a
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Excuse Me-- You! (That We Are So Much More, #1)

Yes, you. Walk With Me for a Second.      Do you ever get the feeling that there is a presence, pressing through your conscious mind and the veil of time as if to punch through and slip you onto another timeline?      Sitting on the hill, you see the confused and anguished clouds of another warm spring evening slipping away, the cold gathering... And words come to your mind to describe it. A smoky, tenuous blue . You've heard these words before: they were in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man , you did not author them.       But then again, you did. You just felt them emerge from you, just as they emerged from him once; just as they did; this is not an assumption, this is apodictic, you felt the sigh of youth from a mind that is not yours, the tingle of fingers against a felt pen, a sense of a room with sawdust, and most clearly, a sense of a different time . What if... what if you are James Joyce...?      No, that's silly. You're you. Obviously, this is my memory. I'
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