Alright Ramblers, Let's Get Rambling (Rant Post, Hello 2024!)

 This isn't anything like my usual posts on here. But, seeing as I haven't posted anything in almost a year, I feel as if I have an opportunity to live up to this blog's name. So, what's on my mind?

I'm a really big fan of war games. More than that, I've always been a fan of the simulation aspect of war games. There's something about an attention to detail, not just in terms of mechanics but in the literal attention that is required from the player, that intrigues me. Sadly, like plenty other interests, I suffer from a severe lack of experience in the medium. I also suffer from a lack of skill. They're related, but not like you think.

A big issue of mine is "putting your money where your mouth is". Although I will spill buckets from my mouth about a given topic, or how much I enjoy thinking about that topic, or what I'd like to do within that medium, rarely do I actually live up to this standard. It's not a standard at all, really—simply describing who I am or would want to be—but it's nonetheless frustrating. Want to role-play as a particular character in an RPG? Good luck getting me to maintain the illusion for very long. How about sticking to a rule set or immersing yourself into a book / game / other medium? Better outcomes, in bursts, while suffering the same degradation in the long-term. Maybe you should write an adventure, or run a campaign, or start writing in a routine again! Doesn't that sound great?

...Yeah, about that...

My point is that it upsets me. I could spend centuries trying to rationalize why it happens or where it comes from (my ADHD diagnosis last year notwithstanding), but ultimately I don't think that matters. Who cares where it comes from? I've had to deal with this sort of thing since childhood, medication hasn't magically fixed the problem, and I've obviously not uncovered a good coping mechanism for it.

Yet in spite of these very real feelings, I continue to play war games. I still play RTS games, I still get upset at simulators, and still do I daydream about the various scenarios that I could craft, re-enact, or run for others. For myself as well, of course, but this feels like it falls into a bucket similar to writing: I have so many ideas, and so much more that I'd like to do with them.

Why do I bring any of this up? For one, because I can, but also because I've spent much of my waking time this year trying to not do nothing and still failing. I could go back several years and argue the same, but screw that noise. I bring this up because there's only one good reason.

I Want Control Change

Mucho Texto, enjoy some compensation
Art by Fishiibo

Now ain't that something we've all heard before? 

Change is a complicated topic. It isn't instantaneous, by which I mean that change is a gradual process, rather than an immediate shift in being, but it seems anytime I see change referred to it's spoken of as if it were immediate. Whether in fiction or non-fiction, I often find change described as both a catalyst and as the sum of its parts. What I mean by that is the "spark", the "moment of change", is always given the honor of being 'the moment things changed.' That past tense is very important to me. Why? Because it wasn't the moment of realization that made things different—it was the aftermath. 

I realize that this is ridiculous, unnecessarily pedantic, and even plain stupid, but hear me out for a second. "Change" as we often describe it, on an individual level, is nothing more than an idea. It is a thought, a light bulb, an 'aha!' which informs our actions. But it isn't the idea that actually changes things, is it? Outside of fiction, where a character's written thoughts directly affect their next move—you would drown if you took a shot for every work whose protagonist suddenly refused to defeat their villain in the final battle—'what we think' can hardly be rephrased as 'what we do'. Because that would be ridiculous, no? If judgements were carried out based on people's thoughts rather than their deeds, not on action but on word, mental word, wouldn't we be in a whole heap of shit? That means it isn't our thoughts that change the world, but our actions. I can think of all sorts of philanthropic shit to do, but if I never actually do any of it, I might as well have never brought it up.

Maybe I'm just nitpicking. I could be making a mountain out of a mole hill, one that only I care about, but what speaks to me is how appropriate it is. I have spent years now trying to formulate a schedule for myself, desperately trying to design and then follow a routine which works for me. I have tried planners, timers, and reward systems. I have tried setting breaks, crafting personalized deadlines, and daily goals. I have tried damn-well everything to what seems like zero effect...

...and yet I've changed, haven't I? In many ways I'm still the same, yes; I still hold many of the same struggles as years prior, but there are places where I have changed. There are differences in my thoughts and in my actions, things which may not have been intentional, but were nonetheless adopted in my struggle to achieve other goals. I never noticed these things they were a part of me.

Things change gradually, but is it always so secret?

I wonder what it feels like to be somebody else. In living their life, which decisions are easy or hard? What does it feel like to sit down and do something? To decide that there are things which must be done and tasks which must be met? What are their habits like? Are their routines always a conscious decision, a meticulously placed puzzle piece, or do they simply carry themselves to do it? Muscle memory is one thing, but what about the mind? Do they feel the draw to dissociate, to stare into space? Do they heed the call of the void?

I can ask these questions forever. I know because I have, in drafts far older than this one, which will probably never see the light of day. Part of why I would like to be different through posting this one is my desire to break this cycle. I want to put my money where my mouth is, I want to follow my own advice. Yet every time I try to crack down on these issue they sprout right back up, like dandelions. 

I know better than to desire "change". Change as an object, as a kind of particle, is useless. It's worse than useless, namely because change alone doesn't do anything. Change requires an intention. More than that, change requires a will behind it, because real change does not come from the idea, but rather the desire to make that idea a reality.

This might all be obvious. I am aware of that, but awareness alone isn't going to cut it.

Esprit de Corps 

I don't want things to be easier, I want it to be fair
Artist Unknown

In the tireless fight to get my shit together, one thing that I have become increasingly aware of is that I have basically zero support network when it comes to making art. I have friends, hell, I have artistic friends, not to mention being part of all manner of online creative communities... so it seems extra weird that I don't interact with any of them. I've tried to make a conscious effort to be involved in these sorts of things, y'know, engaging with other people's work and sharing your own, but for some reason it's always a goddamn struggle. Why is that? 

Maybe it's a lack of praise? I would think not, since I've argued before about the balancing act between making art for yourself and making art for others, but I also wouldn't put it past me. A lack of attention? Similar concept, but I do rarely feel the need to share stuff that I should want to share, and that definitely wasn't always the case.

I don't even TALK about what I might be working on.

I'm still trying to figure this one out. I'm trying to figure all of these out, honestly, but I like to assume the best of people. Solving these problems shouldn't include a blaming game.

Boulder Up A Hill

One must imagine Sisyphus happy. I sure do, because if he can make the most out of literal hell, then maybe I'm not too screwed. As I've mentioned in parts scattered throughout this post, I am not a very big fan of the endless two-way cycle. Either I try to stick to a routine, pushing myself and failing to establish a cycle of things I enjoy (or claim to enjoy) doing, or I don't. Choosing not to attempt a cycle leads to either figuring things out on a day-by-day basis, which I am objectively terrible at, or a worsening of my mental health. Why does my mental health worsen? Because I'm not trying to figure my shit out, of course!

Is there really a 'shit' to figure out, though? Arguably, yes, but it's certainly not some ten-step plan or yellow brick road. There is no one true path to success, and by no means do I have any delusions of grandeur about that, but that still means that I can try to develop a cycle which works for me. 

I haven't made much progress.

But that's why I am writing this! Sure, writing it has been largely a stream of consciousness over the course of four hours. Yeah, I desperately want to delete whole paragraphs in search of the perfect word, or I could delete everything and pretend like this article never existed. It doesn't affect anyone else that I do these things, only me, but it makes things difficult. irritatingly difficult. 

I could stare at this page for another four hours and find another dozen unrelated topics to ramble about. Would that be a good idea? I don't know, but maybe it would be therapeutic. I could also leave it until tomorrow, to which I say that that's a bad idea, since I know that I would delete this draft the moment I remember it exists.

I don't know if the person I wake up as is the same as the person who went to bed. I'd like to imagine it isn't, though, because that means that I actually have the capacity to change my mind about something. Even if I'm not aware of it, maybe one of these days a version of me will forget about one of their bad quirks, and a more desirable one will slither into its place. That requires that I still put in the work, though, both as this new person and who I am now. 

I think that I can do the right thing. For my sake, I have to believe it. 

In Unrelated News

Howdy! Like said, definitely an unorthodox post. Good chance you skipped this in its entirety, or you skipped to the end, to which I say that I don't blame you! Life is hard enough as it is without some internet stranger airing their dirty laundry in your face. If you did read to the end of this post though, hello there! Also, thank you. I appreciate your commitment. Was the reading any good?

More appropriate posts in the future! When? Hell if I know, because I'm writing this post all in one sitting! I know damn well that if I try to make up some deadline here it'll be ignored and/or I'll fail to meet it, so instead, I'm going to make a vague written promise. If I could make a pinky promise online—can I?—it would make this a tad extra serious.

 I'm still alive, still world-building, and most of all, I'm still dreaming! Let's hope that this post is a sign of clearer skies. Will it be? I have no idea, and I don't wish to jinx myself, but let us hope for the best.

Go Go Gadget, Post!

Drink Deep and Descend (Science Fiction)

For some time now, I've been working on a "horror" project set in the LANCER TTRPG universe. It's been difficult for a number of reasons, but I am happy to announce that it is finished, and that means I can share it with people!

There are some ARG elements to this. Mildly, you don't have to go to some obscure website and count pixels, but there's a minimal amount of notetaking needed. A PC is definitely required because mobile would be FAR too much of a hassle. Pick up on keywords (if they're words at all) and try your best to solve it! Your efforts are rewarded.

Thank you very much for your time, and also enjoy!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1m-DUYB91WZfhCE_Ca-loOybEfxA13qNi-_vm4SEOVnE/edit?usp=sharing

The Forest For The Trees

 

It's always the little things
Art by Mike Beeman

I'm a university student. More specifically, I happen to be a Canadian university student, meaning I have a functional (albeit much to be desired) transit system. I have a not-so-subtle appreciation for public transit and all its boons, for even if it could be so much better at the moment, it's still good by merit of what it is. Argue all you'd like for cars and motorcycles; I think they're great! But I also believe there's an intrinsic, valuable aspect to the shared commute, never mind the question of accessibility.

I like the train station. I enjoy the benefits that come with trains and buses. Being carried away in a silver-painted storage container seems like it should put the fear of God in me, but it mostly perspirates through my mind. It's not just the system that I appreciate, though: it's the facilitation.

Just to make sure I'm using the word correctly (and to practice defining what I actually say), when I say "facilitation," I mean the effect a choice or decision in an environment has on making more decisions possible. Effectively, how the things we allow let more things happen. It's not a new concept, and it carries the sins of being used in negative connotations, but I think this particular instance is an example of the good one: how things can be better rather than worse.

I promise this'll all neatly tie together; just stay with me, okay?

I Like Trains

The train station's always busy, no matter the time of day or what kind of weather rolls into town. Be it rain or snow, monday or friday, there will always be people waiting for the train. It's a constant.

One of my favourite parts of the train station—besides the trains themselves— is the gap between the first and second set of stairs. After all, the train station is attached to a bus station, so the whole construct works a bit like a checkpoint. A broad, door-riddled hallway is down the first flight and out of the bus station. Another stairwell not too far ahead, broom closets and switchboards, and then the second flight of stairs. But in that middle space where you're forced to walk, there's a singular detail I cannot help but speak on.

A little rectangle! Printed on the floor and hugging the backsplash behind the far stairwell, there's a neat little presented space. A bit like a stage, a bit more like a glorified placemat, but generally just a quiet space. I say it's a quiet space because it isn't often used for its intended purpose, which is a shame, but I'm more interested in when it is used rather than when it isn't. 

Extravagant, beautiful little things
Artist Unknown

The square's an official installation; it wasn't put there by some random passerby or for a homeless person to sleep on. It has the local transit icon on it, and it's decorated with little drawings of music notes, violins, and saxophones. As far as I am aware, it's MEANT for musicians to set up shop, playing for their amusement or for cash. I rarely see people using the space, though, so the warmth of sound is typically replaced with yelling and dusty bootprints (and sometimes, a homeless person does decide that it looks like a comfy spot). But the other week, somebody was there! An older gentleman with a sizeable burly coat, a scraggly gray beard, and a fancy-looking wide-brimmed hat, all set up and ready to go. He had a bunch of stuff wrapped around on a push-cart, a guitar and mic stand, and even a speaker. He never said anything, just played and sang and bowed whenever someone put a dollar or two in his guitar case.

Let me tell you, I've never been so upset at not having cash on me in my life.

I don't even know who this guy was! He didn't have a sign; he never spoke beyond the covers he was singing, and I don't even think I saw him ever open his eyes. He just... performed. I probably stood in that tunnel for close to half an hour just listening to him sing. I don't know if it was the music itself or if I was just in a particular moment in my life and thereby "in my feelings", but I simply couldn't walk away. A lady walked by, gave him a dollar which he responded to with a bow, and with a smile, said to me:

"enjoy!"

Sadly, I eventually had to go to class, but by the time I returned (cash newly in hand), he had packed up his things and left. But in that brief moment of time, I think I really got to experience something special. One of the reasons why I love art at all. Not to mention one of the reasons why I think it's so important.

An Actual Explanation

Things you oft forget
Art by Rachel Altschuler

Have you ever heard the phrase "seeing the forest for the trees"?

It's a bit of a confusing idiom, but generally, it means "to be confused or distracted with minor details; to not see the whole picture", and I think it's pretty appropriate when recognizing some parts of our day-to-day life. So many parts of how we do things, no matter how lovely they are, seem to be at risk of being completely and utterly normalized with time. I don't think it's the normalization that's the problem, but moreso that feeling, that almost numbing sensation, of when something becomes completely and utterly normal. When it stops being special or surprising. 

I love music. I never really got "into" it until I was older, but it's always been at the forefront of my creativity. I listen to music to get inspiration, I listen to music while I write, and I listen to music whilst I daydream. Hell, I feel like I see music in everything sometimes! When I find a new song that resonates with me, it's something to be celebrated. A new feeling, a reminder of something I love that perhaps I'd previously forgotten, or simply a return to something old now new. But I get the same feeling as everyone: eventually, whether I'd like it to or not, a song becomes overplayed. it gets old, and even if I still love the song for what it is, how it sounds, or what it stands for, it loses a bit of that magic. 

I think life is full of those experiences, and I don't think that it's bad, but I also can't help but feel like it's a lot more dangerous than some people realize. What happens when that job stops being special, when the routine becomes dull or (god forbid) sour? I'd like to say you find things to replace that void, but it always depends on the individual, and sometimes you don't have the money (or time) to reinvest in new experiences. Some people can also enjoy something for a long time, which is great too! But what about others? What about when the time runs out? 

Part of what I like about that old idiom is that it highlights both extremes—positive or negative, you can be distracted from the greatness of what surrounds you. I don't think anybody likes monotony, to be honest, and yet many of us spend our days just going through the motions of life; devoid of expression. Of enjoyment. And that's why I think facilitation is so important. 

The Bird In The Trees

Art is such a complicated thing, but I think one of the best ways to experience it is when you don't look for it. At least not exactly. It's really easy to put yourself into boxes as early as possible, so you're only surrounded by what first made you comfortable. Those things aren't bad just because they came first, but I also don't think we should limit ourselves to what we've been "given", y'know?

It's effortless to see the forest for the trees, to only see the minutia and what's immediately in front of you, but I also think it's essential to take notice of the little things sometimes. If you just blur everything out around you and walk through the forest with no curiosity or joy or excitement—pure movement—that's not only dangerous, but it's pretty unhealthy for your mind. You have to smell the roses sometimes. You have to count branches or absorb the space around you. 

I'll call it "seeing the bird in the trees". Even if you didn't expect it, taking notice of the little, beautiful things is quite therapeutic.

That older gentleman in the subway didn't sing with perfect pitch, and he certainly didn't play each chord exactly as prescribed, but he presented to the world something that was thoroughly and utterly his own. His own expression of the world through his eyes and words and mind. I think that's an inherently human thing to do, something that really only we can do, and what's especially important to me is the effect it has.

We're all just going through life. That's a given, but when we allow ourselves to be occasionally convenienced by art, especially art that we didn't go out of our way to see, there's something special there. I don't know. Just something stuck in my mind. Food for thought.

Things you'd best not forget
Art by Jamel Akib

Making Cultures, Not Races

What Becomes Of Forgotten Knowledge?
'All Seeing' by Hector Mansilla

Culture is weird. 

I find it very hard to quantify cultural beliefs. That may be because it is flat-out impossible to boil down a complex system such as this to its foundational elements, which I don't necessarily believe, but it definitely proves challenging to imitate. The general sectioning of ideas that we call "culture" is so incredibly complex, so full of hypervariation, that even an amateur artist can handle what is effectively a bottomless chest of creativity. That difficulty seems to lie not in the department of numbers but in words. How does one form a culture? How does it come about in a way that is believable and not born from the seams of mockery?

If you do not intend to humiliate a group, 8 times out of 10, it will not be portrayed as such. I think that (far more often than some may believe) it is possible to tell whether a person is genuinely portraying a group as "bad" or "lesser" or if they are merely representing it. I also believe that you can describe a culture unfavourably even if it was not your intention, so definitely something to be aware of.

However, especially in fiction, sometimes the issue coalesces not in the portrayal of already-existent negativity but in the portrayal of culture as more than what it is. Culture is many things; it is representative of an individual's ideals, codifies a multitude of traits or features into identifiable groups, and can even serve as a microscope into more extraordinary truths. Through culture, we can identify ourselves within a community and, in turn, recognize what constitutes ourselves. 

If there is one thing that culture is not, it is race.

A Misunderstanding?

It should be stated that by no means is this a rampant issue. As more and more media has been published in film and literature, this odd contextualization of cultures as one big blob has begun to die down. Nevertheless, its presence is still felt, and some of the greatest works of our time have proven guilty of adjudicating its existence. From time to time, fantasy fiction predicates an idea that species persist off of mono-cultures—the elves and dwarves of Lord of The Rings, the Daleks of Doctor Who, and the many races of The Sword Coast in D&D—which inform their behaviour. All dwarves are trudging midgets with large beards who live deep within the earth, and all elves are ethereally beautiful aristocrats, deeply "attuned" with nature (wood elves) or snobbish of its creations (high elves), who wander the woodlands with longbows. 

This is in and of itself not a bad thing. The problem is when these ideas become assumptions of the norm rather than the individual. What comes to mind when you think of an elf? An orc? A human in fantasy fiction? A walking tree? Once these monoliths of culture become synonymous with the thing they symbolize, it becomes challenging to separate them again. Arnold Kemp over at Goblin Punch has a fantastic analysis of this problem here.  

So what can be done? If this issue holds the key to worse problems, how can we solve it? I don't know, not just because I think it still has some value but because I am looking for another solution. In designing cultures, not races, I wish to develop groups which stand against the grain of preconception. 

Of course, I'm bound to stumble and fall on the way down, and there is undoubtedly a fine line where culture and race intersect, but I see value in developing one separately from the other. Like faith, lore, and ideals, these totems can be set independently of one another, serving complimentary as a result.

Let's run through an example or two.

Art by Jessie Wu

Same Beginning, Same End

Unless you were grown in a vat or removed through cesarean (salutations, my fellow tumour babies), we were all born the same way. All human beings pop out of a womb after a couple of months, and in much the same way, we all eventually return to the earth. In this sense, we are all the same, but it is beyond this beginning and end that our differences arise. Everything from our genetic makeup to our surroundings to our cultural background differentiates us. 

In a group of a hundred people, the chance that two people share a birthday is nearly 100% (some argue that you can get >50% with as few as 23!). Imagine the fact that you share a birthday with somebody may just be the only similarity you have with them? 

Humanity as a species is ridiculously diverse. Ever since our ancestors scattered across the African continent and spread upon the rest of the world like lice, we've changed in nearly every way imaginable. Think of how many kinds of people there are, and not just in the visual sense? We have conquered entire landscapes—volcanos, canyons and island chains—for no reason other than a desire to live there. How much of your life do you think has been manipulated as a result of your living environment? Ever moved to a place that's nothing like where you grew up? Weird, huh? All aspects of our living experience—immigration examples notwithstanding—serve to teach us how to survive in that environment. Our customs, routines, and social norms act as how-to, informing us exactly how anybody stays in this place, especially the dominant majority. 

What would life be like if we all stuck around? What if humanity managed to construct a babel-esque structure, a leaning tower of pisa for communes, and we just evolved there instead? The issue with mono-cultures is that, in and of itself, the problem of settling, you cannot quell dissidents unless you first dispel free thought. An entire species living in a particular, interconnected location is bound to be made of dozens, if not hundreds, of different interacting groups of people. Sure, you can argue that it's unlikely you'll explore many of these groups in a story (or the author will simply focus only on the dominant majority), but there is absolutely value in depth. 

Ignoring questions of interracial and purely racist consequences, although intriguing and potentially significant, think of how a group can evolve only through their environment? In a tower-city surrounded by desert, how do you come about water? Is emphasis placed on the construction of aqueducts or mines? How does the every-man treat it? Is water a resource (at least somewhat) openly shared, for it is considered a necessity to all, or is it tightly regulated and/or hoarded? How do groups get around the tower, and is such transportation common? Are levels segregated?

Some of these questions may seem purely anecdotal, but they fulfill two objectives: to serve and to inform. What may be seen as "normal" to one faction may be reprehensible to another and openly preached by a third. Culture is not some magical background force that symbolizes the penultimate person; it is an evergreen, constantly changing power, which not only evolves with the group who created it but with the individual it seeds.

There's Lots More To Explore. I'll Be Back.
Art by Pieter Bruegel The Elder

 

Mind Before Matter

    Around 1440 AD, the german inventor Johannes Gutenberg introduced Europe to the sublime gift of the printing press. His own twist on the invention sent shockwaves throughout the continent, having effects potentially unknown even to him at the time. Literary skyrocketed, hierarchies shattered, and all of a sudden the educated elite found themselves privy to reading the same material as serfs, who happily flipped away at their own copy of the bible. Johannes Gutenberg changed hundreds of millions of lives in a thousand unforeseen ways, and his contributions (as well as his contemporaries in the east) have objectively changed our society for the better. 

How much information do you think a book can store? Theoretically the answer is an infinite amount, because all you would have to do is shrink the font and increase the number of pages, but how much information really is that? We consider a novel that's less than 200 pages a novella, which somehow isn't a book but is also just enough detail to be considered complete. Dictionaries are hundreds of pages of words, with definitions for those words, using the exact same terms it defines. One of the grandest pieces of literature of all time is a Super Smash Bros fanfiction. It's over 4,000,000 words long.

But knowledge is cumulative, and just because you write something doesn't mean it has any intrinsic intellectual value. A monkey with a typewriter could write all the most extraordinary works that'll ever exist, but it would have to type gibberish first. Who's going to supply all of that paper? Is there something to be salvaged in the pile of scrap? Should we make a book out of it?

Imagine this is your brain. Or maybe you're an evil zoologist.

Our brain answers these questions monotonously and with a mere (on average) 20 watts of energy. Constantly and throughout our day, like clockwork, our mind will reshuffle itself like a deck of cards. Reminders will pop up in your head, old memories from past moments will flood into consciousness, and all the while, older memories are quietly thrown out the back. Do you know what you had for breakfast this morning? Do you remember the first time you cried? 

The human brain is a fascinating organism, but it is an organ, and as far as we know, in the current state of things, these organs are limited by space. Actual evidence about how we store this information is limited. Ironically, the thing the brain knows least about is itself. But there is one nugget of truth we can know for sure: We use it. 

Our brain makes room for other memories and allows us to experience things without remembering them. We designate specific memories as more valuable than others, birthdays or important dates, until we eventually replace those memories with different ones. Diseases of the mind ravage us. By the time we die, we'll have experienced a lifetime of memories, both lost and found, and the ones we hold on to will define how we write verses of our history.

Or just be an elf; they remember everything.

Light-Weightedness, Light-Headedness

I like elves. There's a natural appreciation to be had for the concept, especially the effect they've had on popularizing fantasy and all of its variations. Tolkien had a good thing going with them; tall, swanky, perfectionist figures with fae-like features and an impeccable historical edge. But of the many crumbs of knowledge left behind in LOTR's wake, one bothers me, specifically when it is hijacked (at times incidentally) by other IPs. That crumb is memory. 

I don't hate the notion, far from it, but I hate how it is treated. Call me out for being finicky, tell me I'm picking at straws, I'll accept those taunts, but I refuse not to die on this hill. Elves in LOTR are synonymous with spirit creatures, but their relatives in TTRPG settings, such as the Forgotten Realms, do not have this benefit. They are living things with lives and expiration dates, but it's more or less assumed that with their long lifespans comes a long memory, exacerbated through trancing.

Living long does not need to be synonymous with memory. In fact, people who live a long time often forget quite a lot more. A solid majority of people suffer some form of memory loss by the time they enter their 60s.

Art by Lizzart

"Oh, but author!" you may say, running your fingers through speculative evolution textbooks, "Elves aren't human! They're an entirely different species; obviously, they won't have the same form of memory as us!" and you would be correct. That is why I argue that if your elves are disconnected entirely from human mechanics, why not explore that? If the human brain is arguably inferior in terms of raw storage space, why in the seven hells wouldn't a human being explore that beyond ethical concerns? 

I want to reiterate when I say that you do not have to do any of these things. Your story is yours; I fully support any and all approaches to the medium, including the softest soft fiction. As a representative of the H.F.F. (Hard Fiction Fans), however, I cannot help but push an alternative perspective.

Humans explore art partly because our lives are so short. Fragile and brief, we create things that will far outlive us. In a thousand years, our society will be nearly unrecognizable to us, but our novels and sculptures will surpass even the ideas which made them. Is that process lost entirely when your species remembers generations past? At what rate does a culture record history that isn't at risk of being forgotten? 

Is it only long-term memories? Can a member of that race recall ancient history as if he were there but deflect the memory of his meals like a mesh screen deflects flies? What changes can be found in their diets compared to another race? Is it specialized? Do they consume far more than other races, or are they just efficient with their energy? If I plucked two prods into their brain, could I turn on a lightbulb? For how long?

When an alien writes a novel, what words does it think will fit best?

What Makes A Brain?

Within Elkem enclaves, there is a silent understanding of the weight of one's words. Language was one of the first things taken from the Sun-Walkers when they arrived in Bromeilles, and it has cost them centuries to stitch something together resembling it. Most of those alive now were born on the cracked continent, but the population of pre-storm Elkem is still staggeringly high, an act proven to be no small feat.

It's the ears and skin texture specifically that, to me, fit the Elkem's design. You can imagine how difficult it is to do things myself when you can't draw!
Art from Ava's Demon, a webcomic by Michelle Czajkowski Fus

Elkem culture is an exceptionally compact encyclopedia. What knowledge has been lost— save for fragments—is presumed to be gone forever, but what remains on the minds and persons of its kind is ripe for the taking. Elders are revered among the colonies, comforted and protected for the secrets they have yet to share. The oldest are treated with a deistic fervour, known as Ytrl, where they become specialized in their role.

Human biology differs greatly from incursors. What few connections can be drawn are made regarding limbs and general shape, but the most confusing difference lies in the brain. An Elkem's mind is composed of three distinct lobes, the whole approximating sack more than a spheroid, with its third positioned in front of the others just below the eyes. This third lobe almost exclusively handles the processing of visual stimuli, providing the rest of the brain with the space required to perform its calculations.

Elkem physiology supports slow-acting but constant processing. While Republic-backed studies have shown a marginal decrease in quick-response proficiency compared to humans, their ability to retain and expout information is substantially improved so long as they remain un-malnourished. 

State-sanctioned expeditions to the Elkem enclaves have revealed the presence of massive tree-like growths constructed with the help of an unknown fungal biopsy. Ytrl are often found within the growths in varying degrees of entanglement, presumably fed either by hand or the growths themselves. Despite their condition, these Elkem are still capable of speech, a feat the others treat with reverence. 

Every word spoken from the shaman's mouth is frantically inscribed in an exalted process. Every bit of information, from the devout to the seemingly mundane to the incomprehensible, is stored and retained for study. The enclaves call it Yr Grullik: "The Message". 

Knowledge is sacred to the Elkem. Knowledge of any capacity, of any calibre, is a requirement for archivization and study. This is often confusing from the perspective of archivists' within The Republic, but the cultural impact is prevalent. Humans, in their brief and fragile lives, attempt to refine the details of their history to the finest grain of sand, constructing a picture of reality which lacks any bloat or redundancy. To the Elkem, everything known is already known, but the new is an act of the sublime. What is found may never be found again, nor may it ever be experienced by another living thing, and so it must be saved.

It is a violent, emotional conflict. While the archivists of The Republic dream of a return to the old world, the sculptors of the Elkem struggle to recover what remains of it.

Down the rabbit hole.
Mycelium Sun by Raya Wolfsun

Phobophobia

F3LC4T on Artstation

Mortal beings are complex things; the best way for an alien to understand one is to view them through mortal eyes. What emotions make up the human experience are as unique as they are dangerous.

Pleasure. Passion. Fear. These things make up the genetic makeup of every creature. They mould our understanding of the universe around us into mutable shapes, granting us eyes to places previously misunderstood. You only understand anger because you have experienced anger before. You can empathize with a mother's loss of a child because you've experienced that loss, or at least some vague approximation of it. The death of a loved one. A beloved pet. 

The feeling doesn't have to be exact. It can be close or entirely off the mark. You wouldn't consider the loss of a pet even close to that of a child, but you can draw some conclusions. Both are a kind of grief. Both are debilitating, and yet one is far worse than the other.

Something that is not human could draw that conclusion. It may not understand, but it could try.

Fear in Faith

In Bromeilles, belief is power. Rumours carry genuine danger in their delivery. Wive's tales are more than just stories; their creation can actively spurn violence in the community. This was true long before the trappings of civilization and has only worsened in the wake of The Storm. 

Mankind has always feared its own thoughts. As necessities are met, tensions rise, and more esoteric concerns enter the fray. Once a home has been built, and physiological needs are met, what of improvement? What of one's social standing, achievements, and doubts? The hierarchy of needs states plainly that there is more to fullness than survival. 

This does not have to be a good thing. More requirements are simply more problems to fix. And in a world with so many issues, what harm could one more supplant?

Maslow had a pretty good framework.

La Republique has always known of The Mirages. It was founded with the things in mind; shaded beasts just beyond the vale. Creatures made from nightmares and whispers. Phenomena of the unknowable. When the republic's amendments were finally written, prefaced by a brief struggle for power, handling these mirages became a point of utmost importance. 

Hunting down mirages is a simple task. It is even easier to identify the things, which dwell where children speak to shadows and hunters say of tigers. Resistance arrives when one remembers that, while it is easy to tell someone to avoid a place or stop a slipshod habit, it is far more challenging to order an entire country to stop thinking.

Mirages spawn from mortal misunderstanding. A peasant girl who fears monsters in the woodlands may create one on accident. A child who sacrifices bones to the "well-thing" is curious, yes, but could just as likely conjure something to consume those bones. Once a Mirage has been fed its due diligence, it breaks free from its fear-ridden chains, granting it a sort of freedom it should never be allowed. These are the monsters which devour towns. These are the beasts who take children away.

Not all mirages are malevolent, nor alive. Some have brought good to the people of Bromeilles. Others are active in its continued subsistence. This does not make them any less undesirable.

Faith in Fear

There was no great fanfare when The Authority came to Seraphine, no blowing trumpets or grand parade. It came to the first king in a gust of wind, shapeless yet with booming voice, and ordered its will as it would be. The angels came later, strapped in jointless wings and molten chariots, but it was he who etched the first words on parchment.

The many manuscripts of the angels, conjoined with both the first king's writings and the complete work of The Manual, bring a somewhat complicated canon to the church. What all three of the works agree on, however, is their stance on mortality:

"Mortals are in a state of constant, perpetual suffering. This suffering is their fault, but it is not something they can control. We cannot simply remove this misery from them. Therefore, we shall work with what we have. They will be tormented as a result. We do not blame them, but it must be done."

This uncomfortable truth has led to several revelations in the world, most notably the existence of Devils. The official canon states that devils have always existed in the material plane, influencing mortal lives and inflicting pain upon them. It is their vulnerability to suffering which grants these devils such power. Devils are considered vile, despicable creatures. They are also considered a necessity.

According to church canon, Devils are the natural consequence of mortal will. Their freedom to both emote and inflict harm on one another is a sheer indicator of maliciousness, which these same creatures accept like parasites. By consequence of existing, the people of Seraphine have created vessels containing their worst parts. Beings which hate more than any living thing. Things which hunger to consume more than the world could possibly provide.

This is as expected, and therefore it is right. Angels give no hesitation in slaying the beasts, but it is known by all that they are under no false pretenses; they will continue to exist so long as man does.

The Fishing Devil

David Johnson

Makram Al-Tervih was the greatest entertainer to ever live. 

A young talent from the moment of his inception, the gold jester was born to indentured servitude. A result of his father's secret affair with a water peddler. He was stricken in two for the act, but his mother was allowed to carry the young child to term. They were subsequently servants to the man's old house.

A titular munchkin at his emergence, the midwife joked that had he been born any smaller, he could fit into a mail canister. It is said that young Makram smiled with glee at the proposal.

A Golden Child

Born Makram Aben Rahmat after his blood father, it took many years for the young entertainer's talents to be noticed. A self-proclaimed rascal in his youth, the boy's quick wit and arrogance were his grandest defence, keeping him out of far more trouble than he deserved. 

Note: Seraphine is a continent built under extreme predeterminism. When the Authority first came to Aabrya and became acclimated to the building of its church, a set of ground rules were delivered from its molten throne to the growing theocracy below. Such rules, comprised in The Codex of Kings, include a strict code of destiny; Peasants are peasants, and kings are kings. Few gain the privilege of defying this rule. It is always given and infallibly earned.

He was a jester at heart. A boy of laughter and chide, as quick on his feet as he was with his tongue. A menace to all, including his mother, the boy's antics were permitted unfettered so long as he completed his drudge tasks. A chore he performed amicably even long after his departure.

David Lloyd Glover

Under the palm of his new lord's house, Makram performed diligently to age 17. His attitude was jovial in all things, lighthearted even at the darkest times. It was that spark that made him so desirable. Suitors would come in well-packed suits, attempting to marry a poor servant boy their daughters and sons. Time and time again would their advances be brought to the house. In dowry or word, proclamations of love and wedlock. All would be denied with a gallant whump.

Makram had no need for the trappings of love. Prestige and honour were merely a means to greater aspirations. Those without a knack for wit, without patience for jest or laughs, were discarded in his mind instantaneously. For if you could not understand what a man loves most, why bother at all?

A Silver Lord

It took many years for the boy's talents to be noticed. After innumerable letters and heartfelt summons, it seemed as if he would remain forever a joyous servant. His jokes were of little interest to the master of the house, his father's brother, and there was only so much content that could be scrapped from the bottom of his surroundings. 

Makram was content with the knowledge that he would never truly be free. He would have been right had he never met the Lord Aphotritchides.

Son of Fahid, Father of a Million Sons, ruler of the Mesquite for a hundred years. He came for the young entertainer in a letter fashioned from beads of silver and parchment gold. The Old Lord was, at the time, a grand duke of Seraphine's eastern provinces. A ruler of beaches and timberyards, who ripped trees by their roots with great success. A man of limitless coffers, he had a penchant for petitioning artists from all across the land. His hunger for new talent was voracious.

And so, the young entertainer found himself in the company of royals. His talents would only grow with age, and his mind would swim in the pleasures of life.

A Copper Coin

For twenty years, the now-proclaimed Makram Al-Tervih served as crown jester to the duke's throne. His journeys took him across the continent, to country and island, filling his eyes with the many great wonders of the world. His blessings were great; wine, comfort, lovers: for his duty was as crucial to the realm as his master. He was a comedian. A clown of the heart. His words were a source of much-needed joy.

But the boy had a secret. Whisperings of the heart never meant to be heard. Known only by his closest friends and then only truly understood by his mother, he had managed to avoid its woes for decades.

Andreas Achenbach

One day, The Lord Aphotritchides declared yet another hosted celebration, set to the sight of his most prestigious villa. It was a grandiose occasion for a monstrously large locale, his favourite summer home atop the rocky shelves of the coast. Its cliffs crumbled into the waves below.

Even as the festivities began, the duke could see his jester's essence flush. Eyes chattering in their sockets, sweat rolling down his arms and into the baggy pockets of his leggings. Indeed this was not his first celebration, so what was the fuss? His grin was wide as he called those in assembly to attention.

"As a means of goodwill and pleasant feasts," he spoke, tongue flippant with liquor, "I ask that my most trusted confidant perform his greatest feat yet!"

The jester's heart sank beneath his bowels. Several servants began to unravel the final festivity: a massive stage atop the cliff's edge. Its foundations crumbled rock as they were nailed to the earth.

"My golden child shall complete a daring performance atop the blessed cliffs of my home! His rushing blood shall liven this land. His sweat will purify the surf below!"

"May his composure in the face of death bless our nation for years to come!"

Edward Potthast

Makram Al-Tervih was scared of the sea. It had terrified him since he was a child, its inky depths as mysterious as the endless cosmos above. He had written entire plays on the folly of man in war. Love, science, and the great forever above were topics he took great joy in dismantling, but never the ocean. He avoided the subject as if his attempts would offend it. His gaze avoided its as if some great catastrophe was set to strike, would they have met.

He lasted thirty minutes. Half an hour of constant, incessant dancing and performing. Not a word slipped from his lips, even as he tumbled between brass rings and burning spears, and yet the crowd still roared with applause. Makram could be funny as a mute or an amputee, but never to the sea. He finally met his end, catching his foot beneath a copper plate, snapping the support and sending them plunging into the waves below.

It is said that he cried as he plummeted. It was a long drop, ten seconds before the rocks or the water took him. Plenty of time for the terrified trickster's mind to conjure up some final words. The rumours say that he spoke of fear and devils, of heresies unheard of by his tongue, just before his lips touched the water. A servant whispers that the waves broke as he approached, and that his body flattened against the seabed dry as a stone.

Of Consequence

The Old Lord never returned to that palace. His guests were ushered outwards, and the gates locked behind them. Its location was stricken from all the world maps, and its serfs cut at the tongue. It is muttered that he never spoke of what occurred that day. Many post-mortem accounts proclaim that it caused a profound change in him. The Lord Aphotritchides would live another six years after this event, completing his centennial service and allowing his body to rest.

Makram Al-Tervih is remembered as a man of great talent, who gave his life in worship to the Authority and its teachings. Lessons are taught from his works in universities, and statues are erected in his honour. But it is the sailors who speak most highly of him. Those who ride the eastern cliff walls speak blessings to his soul and cast gifts in his name, seeking protection from the man who missed the tide.

The fishermen curse his name inland and speak of him nowhere else. They believe that his spirit roams the ocean still, a pocket husk burrowing beneath the ocean. They would be partially mistaken.

The Storm Eternal, Pt. 2

 This is part two. You can find part one here.

P.A. Nisbet

Nobody remembers life before the storm. There are no beings, alive or dead, who still reminisce of azure skies and celestial rays. The idea of Bromeilles before The Storm Eternal is a dead memory, a dream lost in the seas of human consciousness, chased endlessly by poets and envious politicians. Anything alive that could possibly share its recollections of the old world has no desire to, especially not with mortals. 

History books are filled with eyewitness accounts. Thousands of old fables, fears and hopes, each recorded tediously over generations. Shelves complete with compendiums line the wall of high society like wallpaper. Many have read their contents. Others have no need. Whatever idea the books represent is invaluable compared to the actual content shared. 

The Storm Eternal was a manifestation. A clockwork machine of enigmatic design focused on achieving a goal far beyond our understanding. With it came the rain, the dark, and the violence. But the children of the old world were familiar with oddity; They had witnessed the great blood storms, of beasts born through human fear. If this storm was simply another creation of their own beliefs, they could surely destroy it? And so villages fell to their knees in synchrony. Those first great cities toiled their bells and pounded drums. The children of The Old World looked to the sky and begged the universe for salvation, giving in exchange whatever they did not have. 

As forests burned, haybales were struck ablaze. While farms were ripped from their foundations by magnetic winds, lambs were slaughtered by the litter. If they could merely buy some time, a moment of reprise in an eternity of grief, then surely something could be done. And so it was. 

The final seven years of The Storm Eternal are considered the official end of the Old World's anthology. This was when the meteor swarms began, thus introducing the Exterior Races to the world. 

The Old World did not end because of The Storm Eternal. It ended because The New World superseded it.

By BrandonSticker 

End of An Era

Before The Storm Eternal, Bromeilles had three "intelligent" species:

1. Hallwani, an immigrant species from a far-away continent, are long removed from their cultural centre. Although stout and short-lived, they are a proud race of sailors and labourers. They are one of the only major religious factions remaining on the cracked continent.
2. Imps, a viciously diverse race of insectoids. Their culture is highly isolationist, only truly revealing themselves to the other races in bulk when The Storm Eternal tore open their burrows and threatened their colonies. Progenitors of the Artisinal Schools.
3. Humans, the most populous of the kin. Their cultural barriers alone number in the hundreds, and the half-dozen ethnic groups which now permeate the continent's surface are as distinct as they are alike. They are disproportionately afflicted with Curseridden.

The Exterior Races are a collection of intelligent, collaborating species that arrived Post-Storm and have since engaged in active communication with The Republic. First contact with most of these races occurred in the final years of The Storm's operational period, outliers notwithstanding. Some of the more prominent Exterior Races include:

1. The Elkem, a race of lean, sharp-eared creatures placed somewhere in the uncanny valley between the humanoid and the utterly alien. Solid eyes of unnatural colour, skin the tone of beaten flames, and an unnatural lankiness to their form. The Elkem, as they are now, rival even The Republic in places. They have fragments of their own culture to thank, brought over from whatever world they came from. They are the closest thing to "elves" in this setting, and they are not pleased.
2. La Verre, a colloquial term for elemental spirits that have cobbled together (or have been forced into) a humanoid vessel. These vessels are typically capable of safe communication with their neighbours. Some believe that the Verre was always present; that the congregant nature spirits that possessed the world were granted the ability to better interact with humanity. Or were forced into it by The Storm.

Hundreds of species landed in Bromeilles in the starting weeks. Thousands were wiped out in months without ever being known. The ecology of an entire continent was forced to adapt to this new, alien environment. Its new inhabitants were no luckier, now introduced to a locale entirely unlike their own. Local flora was foreign to these creatures, and diseases were strange weapons in an unfamiliar arms race. Predators became prey. Animals previously hunted to extinction found themselves engorged on land.

The druids remember the old ecology, but even their own fears have subsided. The natural order has adapted. Many have grown fat on such opportunity, jovial bears through and through. Even still, there are some who believe in the sanctity of a world restored to longevity. An uncracked continent. Their circles collect in quiet commune under the moonlight. Their bodies will be thrashed by beasts never meant to flay human flesh. Their siblings will collect the pieces, hoping that their next life will be one returned to grace. 

Only the Elkem live to tell tales of The Old World, but their numbers are few, and their words are melancholy. What little knowledge they share is that of a sputtering flame, struggling to outlast its final breath. They have already witnessed the death of one world. They have no desire to wrangle with ours.

The Storm Eternal, Pt. 1

 

P.A. Nisbet

Note: All of modern history is referred to as Post-Storm. This means that the current year would be written as 2022-PS. There is no written history preserved before this time, as it was either torched or lost to the ruins. 

When The Old World died over 400 years ago, many assumed that the end times had come. Screaming in terror as liquid night drooped over their heads and swallowed up the sun. Great pillars of lightning bundled together and struck the earth like hammers. It was a time of equal parts tragedy and horror, but mostly one of change.

In the time before, Bromeiles was an anarcho-primitivist's paradise; Tribal cultures were king. Small communities of nomadic people dominated the continent from coast to coast. Mankind was alone (as far as they were concerned) and thrived due to it. Various ethnic groups propagated the landscape, complete with their own unique customs and scattered communes, with none more prominent than the Roussili.

The Roussili are river folk. Their own namesake is a progenitor of The River Roussillon, a roaring stream which cut through the continent into two discernable halves. They are the most populous of the humans on Bromeilles. Their settlements originated from both sides of the River Roussillon, scattered threads from coast to near-coast. They are a proud people, an arrogant one at that, and it is that arrogance which leads (in part) to their eventual position as "founders" of The Republic.

Michal Karz

It was the druids who first noticed the signs. The coughing gust of winds. Blackened clouds the shape of inkblots. It was all reminiscent of a vile tornado, an omen encroaching slowly on the horizon. But the first mark of illness was no wind but light and a crackling ball of electricity. The records now call it Le Mauvais œil (The Evil Eye), but many argue its proper name was L'oeil des cochons. The Eye of Pigs.

This ball of static fire was the forerunner. It hung from the sky like a pendulum on electric strings. As it spun, dark clouds formed, and fields burned beneath it. With each swing, bolts of lightning carved trenches in the earth. 

The children of these circles say that there were many such conduits. (under whispered tones, as if horrified that merely speaking of the event may summon it again.) Others argue that there was only one. This discourse doesn't do much other than spawn arguments between bitter astrologists, but it at least keeps them occupied. Nobody knows the truth, after all.

As you might have noticed, all of these images are heavily overcast.

There was a mixed reaction to the storm's first appearance. Although strange, there was hardly anything that could be done to prevent the great event, and what was the point in assuming it was anything more than some natural phenomenon? 

Not all of the settlements which clambered together during the storm had been nomadic. Some (many roussili) had formed small towns or villages, held together with wooden palisades and piled stones for walls. They were shoddy even for their standards, but they were better than exposure to the open elements. Hundreds clambered to these forts, hoping to be sheltered from the increasingly darkening sky. Many of the dead are said to have spawned from these towns. A poor location, idiotic harbouring, or simply bad luck was all it took for an entire section to be wiped from reality. An electric current through a weathervane. A tornado on an open plain. Simple starvation.

Thunder roared with pouring rain for days on end. Lightning struck barns and trees, torching cattle and settling forests ablaze. The weather seemed to fight with veiled malevolence, a threat of some vile consciousness targeting the land. But there was still hope in the eyes of the needy. Perhaps this was all a haughty storm. A bad dream gave too much thought. Villages flocked together in communion, fear in their hearts, in the conjoined belief that this too shall pass. And so it was that the rain did revert to drizzle, and the clouds returned to silence.

But the blackness remained, for it had swallowed up the sun and all of its light. And for twenty days and twenty nights, the world was plunged into nothingness. A glance into the void.

That's on purpose.

Humans do not have darkvision. The closest comparison we have is a form of low-light vision, but even that is more or less subpar. We can see in the dark, but our ability to navigate in said darkness is better said than done, especially when likened to tigers and other predators. 

Spending upwards of a month in complete and utter darkness is not a beneficial scenario for your race's continued existence. Especially when you can't see anything. That doesn't even consider that the pitch-black void isn't the only problem. The storm is still there; the rain, the mud, the lightning. Natural predators are still wandering the woods. (albeit pretty blind, but not nearly as blind as you.) There's also the other stuff.

The Storm Eternal is not something I can explain in a single post. Well, I can, but it would either be a milquetoast rant or a page far longer than anyone would comfortably want to read. It'd probably be both. This is also for archiving my own thoughts, and so I'd prefer it to be in a digestible format! So, I'll definitely come back to this. I feel there's a lot of information here (both shared and not yet discussed) that is more or less paramount to understanding what exactly is happening in a lot of Bromeilles.

Or you could just skip this and pick up the pieces from whatever else I write. I don't judge.