Owlbears and Chickenhawks

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 cur...

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...