The Blue Book posted:

"...of the fountain is just a greedy narcisscist, even if they can grant you any of the highest-rank Faeric powers..."

"...presumed that there is one or two special artifacts for every type of non-sword weapon available, such as the Berserker Axe, GROND, Paradice, the Hunting Halberd..."

"...excessively high nightmare chance it will summon something that was responsible for a death in another onerun..."

"...often have dire consequences, it's proven that taking the Tyrant's offer of a special kill will always work without the usual chance for..."

"...time you see 'green' fire, pay attention: it has a 1% chance to be a Tulzschan Flame, which if harnessed can be a deadly..."

"...extraordinarily difficult in terms of Anxiety. But winning the 'Look of Blood' opens up some exceptional armor options, and grants a huge social bonus against..."

"...Starmetal System has some of the most bizarrely overtuned PSI abilities, though without its quest being solvable, there's no known way to use the Master power to..."

"...respect that she draws power from the aspect of The Poisoned World, which is why her wolf and werewolf forms have so many weird Acid-Element abilities, including some stolen or modified from the Sunburners..."

"...says 'Heart-Attack Gulch!!', and it MEANS it, being a superdungeon of extreme temperature, LV.50-99 enemies, and physical strain which adds up to..."

"...hidden grave sunk to the west of the lagoon's island; it reads 'Marlene, Queen of Maida Vale', though the name has never come up anywhere..."

"...only happened twice so far, without success, is the Kicking Horse. The event will describe a distressed horse atop a broken and blasted hill, and approaching..."

"...will go absolutely wild if you use any technique he considers 'heroic', which most often will be The Thundersharp Strike, Air Slash, Least Wish..."

"...utmost attention: If the birds start to slowly sway in place and look fearful of the wind, then that's the first and only sign that..."

"...difference between 'extremely dangerous' and 'frustratingly fatal' during the Games. The latter includes the contestants Walks-Like-A-Man, Lea Gola, block fighter, Chaugnar's Holiest..."

"...obsessed with branding and marketing as usual, which means there is an Agent for almost every element. The ones who survive to the finale of the MC&D quests will become masters of their element, which can make some of them so difficult that..."

"...for consumable firepower, then Sunburner territory is the one-stop shop for the first 75% of the game. It's hard to find and save shelf-stable goods, but it's possible to find dozens of different explosives, special bullets, and one-use devices of mass..."

"...still Knightly, but will have codes of conduct that include literally incomprehensible rules. The Carcosan Festival Knight responds bizarrely well to poetry and masks. The Cthughan Fireworks Knight is betrayed by their name; ANY fireworks used will stun them with Fascination. The Cthonian Tetonic Knight has no..."

quote:

"...hidden grave sunk to the west of the lagoon's island; it reads 'Marlene, Queen of Maida Vale', though the name has never come up anywhere..."

quote:

the contestants Walks-Like-A-Man,

Regallion posted:

taking the what? taking THE WHAT OFFER? isn't tyrant a "fake" class as far as the blue book is concerned, in that it's not normally player-accessible?

this seems relevant.

Hello "Nothing there", nothing at all to be concerned about.

Regallion posted:

taking the what? taking THE WHAT OFFER? isn't tyrant a "fake" class as far as the blue book is concerned, in that it's not normally player-accessible?

this seems relevant.

Hello "Nothing there", nothing at all to be concerned about.

quote:

"...Tyrant's archetype screen to shift from violet to gold, but it's not known how to..."

"...reality of every onerun. The Tyrant WILL start to win. It's not about stopping them, it's about..."

"...known is that each combination of Tyrant and the subclass has a unique marker name. For a majority it's used very rarely, but if you've seen titles like 'Selenian', 'Overlord', 'Ur-Priest'..."

"...a lie. There's never a playable Tyrant, and if they were meant to be one then there would have..."

Dead Hero posted:

[HERO] vs [FINAL BOSS]

[...]

"You're revealed. The Tyrant. The true enemy."

[...]

A CHILDHOOD FRIEND jabs a finger and says "You are. You are the Tyrant. You are the Darkest Lord, the Final Foe, the finalty waiting beyond all Ends." A COLORFUL ANIMAL chirps "Why would you ever stop walking towards that? You are what all stories wish they could become." A CHILD SENT TO DIE BY A HIGHER WILL smiles. "Watch. I'm nothing to you. I could win against the Duke, but not against the one who rules him."

Regallion posted:

taking the what? taking THE WHAT OFFER? isn't tyrant a "fake" class as far as the blue book is concerned, in that it's not normally player-accessible?

Regallion posted:

taking the what? taking THE WHAT OFFER? isn't tyrant a "fake" class as far as the blue book is concerned, in that it's not normally player-accessible?

this seems relevant.

Hello "Nothing there", nothing at all to be concerned about.

Black August posted:

"...hidden grave sunk to the west of the lagoon's island; it reads 'Marlene, Queen of Maida Vale', though the name has never come up anywhere..."

Grond posted:

quote:

Berserker Axe, GROND,

Grond posted:

yeah i'm pretty sure that GROND is gonna be like the greatest weapon of all time my dudes we gotta get it

(I'd assume it's gonna be like a warhammer or a battering ram of some sort considering the original reference, which might be good because we're pretty jacked, but I guess we'll see)

taiyoko posted:

Yeah, but I don't think we have axe proficiency, just sword and gun.

quote:

!Tyranny is the primary Skill of the Tyrant archetype, and acts as a Combat Skill. Its ruling attribute is Will, and it often draws on Strength and Health as well. Its uses include feats such as conquest; conducting the self with discipline and peerless regality; knowledge of the nature of darkness in the literal and metaphorical; inspiring fear; discovering weaknesses; mastery of any chosen profession; acts of willpower; and the use of swords, scepters, lashes, and weapons of mass destruction.

!First-Aid is the primary Skill of the Ch̨̧ chetype ▯▯▯▯▯▯ includes feats such as basic bandaging, CPR, setting bones, cleaning wounds, an▯ an▯ an▯

use of knives, scalpels, and chainsaws.

CoolCab posted:

what are the good things we've done with the gun? all i can remember was us botching an anxiety roll or something at the party and missing deimos like six times. given our predisposition to being taken over by various horrible people or melancholies maybe the ideal number of bullets we should carry is zero, but iunno if our fearless protagonist would be into that.

King Crimson posted:

...prepared in innocence to meet our king of glory
And so we have this
You have it in your secret windows
And you're understanding to understand it and to bring it forth
It takes minute detail
It takes a holy life
It takes emotions
It takes dedication
It takes dedication
It takes a death
And only god can allow it
And you couldn't do it if you're not the seed of god
And so the path through the great corridors
These are corridors unto his perfection
That is which the prophet and the urim and thummim has penetrated
That through this great sea of blackness
That I penetrated through these corridors
And I went through that last segment
Where I went through these dark serpentines
I passed through that corridor
Where they sat
Where they are
And when you penetrate to the most high god
You will believe you are mad
You will believe you've gone insane
But I tell you if you follow the secret window
And you die to the ego nature
You will penetrate this darkness
Oh yes there's many a man or woman
That's been put in the insane asylum
When this has happened to them
And they're sitting there today, people think they're insane
But they saw something that's real
And they see it when they're on drugs
The only thing is they see it not through the light of god
And the way I show you
I show you to see it through the light of god
And the understanding of god
Because when you see the face of god you will die
And there will be nothing left of you
Except the god-man, the god-woman
The heavenly man, the heavenly woman
The heavenly child
There will be terror under this day of night
There will be a song of jubilee waiting for your king
There will be nothing you will be looking for in this world
Except for your god
This is all a dream
A dream in death

Black August posted:

"...will go absolutely wild if you use any technique he considers 'heroic', which most often will be The Thundersharp Strike, Air Slash, Least Wish..."

Regallion posted:

Ironically we actually do NOT have a skill in guns, at all.

"Somewhere In The Tombhouse, A Recorder Plays posted:

You're sitting in your chair, wrapped in a white sheet, and you're wondering if there's ever going to be peace. Sunlight filters in through the great dust of veils, mouldering silks strung about in ways that make sense to nobody but the empty bottle. You inhale, and wretch a cough tinged by inhumanity. You rise from your chair, stumbling, falling to the floor with unchanged expression as your face smashes to the dirty wood. You stay there a while, but rise when you hear it again. The bell ringing. Someone at the front door. Nobody has been at the front door in... a...










Oh. You're in the hall. You slide-stumble across countless empties. Pools of filth and cloy. Strange insects writhing in the undying rot. You slam against a dark wet wall, legs still not working right. Serves you for sitting down for half a year. You push away, now soaked in moldgore, animate with an expression that still hasn't realized it can't change. Where is the front? Where in the estate are you? Stairs, and you fall down them halfway to the bottom. Contorted and ruined; you feel nothing, and get up with the undying flex. Nothing hurt. You're crawling, slowly to standing, something vile now bloated and puffed up in your rotten bowels; it's standards, making your back straight and legs stride smooth, body now stagelight. Is this the front? The bells are louder. Must be. Sunlight plagues the blackyellow halls, warming the rot to sickly-sweet. You find the main hall, utterly utterly utterly utterly empty. There's absolutely nothing there and it's absolutely sincere. Barren cold stone. A place to die. Invite of masoleum. You shuffle over the rock to the grand double doors, aware but unable to care that your suit is stained so old and dark.

You inhale again, ready to force withering lungs back into the immortality of the scream. The door is wrenched open with a wraith's intent, storming out as the dead disturbed with sheet torn away.

It- her. It's Śmiercią. She- this isn't your birthday. Why is she... she looks mortified. Why? Trying to form words and you're still running at one hundred miles an hour to catch up with your turndown mind, fighting to wake up from your snarl of rage at the intruder. You slow, spitting and drooling, one eye rolled and stuck from the muscles trying to work again. You lean on the doorway and speak incoherently, all while she looks at you, horrified. You come out of the farlong dissociation just enough to speak it clear. Śmiercią.

"Słońce. You're- I'm sorry. I called and called and sent bird message. I know I said I'd never bother you again but-"

Your mind, all-red. Sudden engine start. You scream and remember. She brought you out. Why. Why. You fished me, you tell her. You're incoherent. Why did you wake me up. What's happening. Why the gently caress are you here. She did this on purpose. You weren't thinking you weren't THINKING you were almost dead in mind and you scream and she's shaking you, shaking you, screaming back Słońce Słońce Słońce Słońce, and you startle when you realize she's actually being fierce for once, she's shouting and SHAKING you and demanding you stop and listen. You? Stop? No. No. No. No. You won't stop. Nobody st-

"Słońce. I'm pregnant."






































Oh.

Come in for coffee, Śmiercią.

Don't mind the mess.

pumpinglemma posted:

I think we just found out part of why yellow and mould are always such terrible omens for us. More than that, with the context of it being a POV quote, and the reference to being unable to care about the suit, and “stagelight”, I’m wondering whether Slonce might be part of us from the Hell End.

taiyoko posted:

Slonce is the only pov that I'm really struggling to make sense of. Our character is young enough that other people often still see them as a child, while Slonce seems to be well into adulthood -- especially with the hella alcoholism. Slonce also doesn't seem to have our character's constant anxiety, though that could be why they drink? No indications of the black crown or the tyrant either. No Aitvaras either. And Slonce makes multiple references to being unable to die because of Smercia.

Black August posted:

Clarity. They had not see Smiercia for several years at that point. So,
no, they are not the parent.

taiyoko posted:

Slonce is the only pov that I'm really struggling to make sense of. Our character is young enough that other people often still see them as a child, while Slonce seems to be well into adulthood -- especially with the hella alcoholism. Slonce also doesn't seem to have our character's constant anxiety, though that could be why they drink? No indications of the black crown or the tyrant either. No Aitvaras either. And Slonce makes multiple references to being unable to die because of Smercia.

Black August posted:

19XX: The beginning of the Time of the God. Experiments in using Mythos power have finally gone utterly out of control, unleashing exponential destroyers on the War-worn world. 90% of life is lost, with 75% of planetary landmass uninhabitable from bombing carnage, Mythos spells, entities, or infestations, protomatter rebellion, or outright sinking into the ocean to join Mu, Atlantis, and Hyperborea - most often because someone summoned the God for those holy few seconds of almighty Radiance.

In these years, at all times, from all points in the world, Unknown Kadath is visible on the northmost horizon, rising beyond the crown of the sky.

Black August posted:

Health perfect. Śmiercią's gift had taken eternal hold. She established the final nation based out of your homeland, one of the very few habitable places left. She took you there after she found you again in the wilds, convinced you to at least try the School of Arts. So you went. So there you were. Examined, scrutinized, criticized.

You draw a finger across the Sun-warm tank shell. What were your skills, they asked.

What skills? Bang bang until you've won, stab stab until it's done. Sit in a tiny tunnel tight, put together guns all through the night. Mend a wound. Identify when the Boogeym- when a Servitor was come, when it was time to run. Raise a shovel dig a hole. Hide without breathing from the patrols.

Oh they banged their fists on the table so loud. Gnashing the words; those aren't skills, those are kills. Useless useless useless. What CAN you DO?

You could die. But she took that away. That's something you didn't say. So you gave them (cold bluenumb buzzing inside) the one thing you promised yourself you'd never let them have.

You like to sing.

Black August posted:

Śmiercią smiles, and raises her glass of wine to toast. Even even tones. Cooled allure of her scythe.

"All the best, Słońce. Three years of the most beloved show in the world."

You don't react to your title. You look up from the replay of the anniversary episode to smile back with no feeling, pressing your glass to hers. You empty yours in one motion and set it down.

You don't realize yet that all you have to feel about it is ice. Only been ten years since the end. Still only been ten days. You're always ready for it to be waiting for you, always just ten minutes ahead. While your show is something you put a terrible passion into, even that doesn't have a true fire inside it. Just a cold longing motivation. You have to give it your all; there's no choice in the decision.

Your show is watched religiously. You sing, you preach, you opera, you teach, you joke, you dramatic, you explain.

All the children of the world come to see you perform live. The brightest minds stand behind you, the creative unbound, painted by a legion of guest stars, speakers, witnesses. Puppets and costumes, machines and lights, fireworks and sound systems, telling the thousand stories that would reach across the decades to see the last to be born raised with a sense of unity inside of a terrestrial divine.

It's been three years of untold beauty in the collaborative expression of those who survived, and The Słońce Show will do all it promises and more.

You have not yet built up enough courage to ask Śmiercią to let you die.

Black August posted:

OST: Weary Sun Tango

because you were in the chair still,
alone with someone you hated,
the roar of the audience still heard in the farwood floors of the backrooms

yellow room
yellow halls
yellow yellow calls



glaring into a mirror so dense with decay
you only appeared a shadow in its return
your bowtie tightened right by automation

the stage was gold but here was yellow, mirror black sullen damp from sulphur lamp



they all loved you and you loved the ones to who you sang but for all others it was just an instrument playing a love song. decade running strong since you began.

third bottle. bottoms up the entire burning full-size in a single pull. you got so good at it, perfected it faster and faster every time - now was forever time. you drank it this hard and deadly because you could, because didn't want to

DEAL WITH YOUR poo poo, ŚMIERCIĄ. EVERY YEAR.

every year you're back here and looking at me sadder and sadder every time
you're leaning on the door dressed in All-White, sickle no longer worn at your side

Every Year, Śmiercią.

You ask.
She says she can't.
You call bullshit.
She says you're too drunk to be coherent anymore.
It's been 6 bottles in as many minutes.
You're vomiting up the black of dissolved lining.

Soon you're throwing everything at her- bottles, filth, rags, costumes, the chair
Screaming for her to take back her gift to the world.
You know they've all seen it by now.
The lines in your face.

one last scream and scream and you're on your feet and your hands claws her face look look
at what you have in your hand
telling her
look at me
I'll do it
look
LOOK-



ANXIETY: 10% [Asleep...]

awake awake AWAKE

ANXIETY: [ X ][ X ][30%] [AWAKE] [NIGHTMARE]

BOLT UPRIGHT AWAKE

STAND TO ALERT AWAKE

GUN OUT AWAKE

ANXIETY: [ X ][ X ][ X ][ X ][ X ][60%] [AWAKE] [NIGHTMARE] [READY]

You're stumbling through the black, screaming at her in a language only you understood.

The gun is not aimed into the dark. It's pressed to your head. Under the chin - no bone in the way. Finger to trigger.

ANXIETY: [ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][ !!! ][90%] [AWAKE] [NIGHTMARE] [I'M READY]

I'll do it, Śmiercią. I'll do it. Look at me. I'll do it. Again and again I'll do it I'll do it watch me do it I want you to look at me I want you to look

ANXIETY: [ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ][99%] [I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT][I'LL DO IT]






I WANT YOU TO LOOK WHEN I DO IT

Black August posted:

You're sitting in your chair, wrapped in a white sheet, and you're wondering if there's ever going to be peace. Sunlight filters in through the great dust of veils, mouldering silks strung about in ways that make sense to nobody but the empty bottle. You inhale, and wretch a cough tinged by inhumanity. You rise from your chair, stumbling, falling to the floor with unchanged expression as your face smashes to the dirty wood. You stay there a while, but rise when you hear it again. The bell ringing. Someone at the front door. Nobody has been at the front door in... a...


Oh. You're in the hall. You slide-stumble across countless empties. Pools of filth and cloy. Strange insects writhing in the undying rot. You slam against a dark wet wall, legs still not working right. Serves you for sitting down for half a year. You push away, now soaked in moldgore, animate with an expression that still hasn't realized it can't change. Where is the front? Where in the estate are you? Stairs, and you fall down them halfway to the bottom. Contorted and ruined; you feel nothing, and get up with the undying flex. Nothing hurt. You're crawling, slowly to standing, something vile now bloated and puffed up in your rotten bowels; it's standards, making your back straight and legs stride smooth, body now stagelight. Is this the front? The bells are louder. Must be. Sunlight plagues the blackyellow halls, warming the rot to sickly-sweet. You find the main hall, utterly utterly utterly utterly empty. There's absolutely nothing there and it's absolutely sincere. Barren cold stone. A place to die. Invite of masoleum. You shuffle over the rock to the grand double doors, aware but unable to care that your suit is stained so old and dark.

You inhale again, ready to force withering lungs back into the immortality of the scream. The door is wrenched open with a wraith's intent, storming out as the dead disturbed with sheet torn away.

It- her. It's Śmiercią. She- this isn't your birthday. Why is she... she looks mortified. Why? Trying to form words and you're still running at one hundred miles an hour to catch up with your turndown mind, fighting to wake up from your snarl of rage at the intruder. You slow, spitting and drooling, one eye rolled and stuck from the muscles trying to work again. You lean on the doorway and speak incoherently, all while she looks at you, horrified. You come out of the farlong dissociation just enough to speak it clear. Śmiercią.

"Słońce. You're- I'm sorry. I called and called and sent bird message. I know I said I'd never bother you again but-"

Your mind, all-red. Sudden engine start. You scream and remember. She brought you out. Why. Why. You fished me, you tell her. You're incoherent. Why did you wake me up. What's happening. Why the gently caress are you here. She did this on purpose. You weren't thinking you weren't THINKING you were almost dead in mind and you scream and she's shaking you, shaking you, screaming back Słońce Słońce Słońce Słońce, and you startle when you realize she's actually being fierce for once, she's shouting and SHAKING you and demanding you stop and listen. You? Stop? No. No. No. No. You won't stop. Nobody st-

"Słońce. I'm pregnant."


Oh.

Come in for coffee, Śmiercią.

Don't mind the mess.

Black August posted:

You can feel his wing rest on your shoulder. You sigh, hidden by how close to the mirror you're leaning your head. You tell him you're going to be ok. This had been an especially hard one of your 'bad days'. They called it Awakening because everything before felt exactly like a dream; but for some, yourself especially, that dream was still real in every stress and pain, the body remembering every awful loss and injustice.

For all the blessings this strange new life had gifted, you still struggle with the weight of your dark old self; boiling in your belly, arthritic in your bones. The habits come roaring back, the walls close in, and even the holy of Home seemed unreal and ugly. But then, in that dark old life, you never had Aitvaras. Or Miss Bella.

Or Mom.

Hers was the iron hand that had pulled you up out of the quiet night you had been habitually prepared to confine yourself to. She was the reason you were happy to get out of bed every day. Your gloom brightens to bearable, as you think about a righteously crude joke she had made during breakfast. And that's why you loved her- she made you smile, and never until now had your smile MEANT it.

You stand up, and look at yourself in the mirror. You can bring yourself to smile at the person you see there. You even begin to laugh, as you wrap your arms around Aitvaras. There it was, after a lifetime of lying. But now you could say it true-

A smile like the Sun.

Grond posted:

It's rather suspicious that our character instantly went from being homicidally angry to accommodating after Smiercia told them she was pregnant... I believe that maybe they were thinking about using the baby to get their revenge on her or something, maybe that's why they killed Kwiat.

Grond posted:

Black August posted:

Śmiercią knows this. She's grinning it. She's so angry with you.

"I knew you'd be here, eventually. I waited for a long time for you to finally catch up."

She's so MAD. Her bone hand shivers and twitches as it holds the scythe, ready to wrist-flick it at any second into your heart.

"I watched you in the city - yet again, you were the heart of a disaster."

You did a horrible thing. A bad bad bad thing.
_{(I did?)}
Something she'll never forgive you for.
_{(But I didn't do anything...)}

"So I'll make you now pay. I'll send you to labours, to earn my tithe. Force your responsibility-"

...

"Shhhh... swallow that sad sound. You're already as close to grave as I'll allow - why cry when only one step away? You'll suffer more under my labours than under my sickle. Shut it in!"

(Exert Emergency Control) (WL) (-10 Penalty!!) 8 - [1]+[3]+[4] = 8 - Success!)

Something dark, something that's been paying attention, gently wraps itself over your mind. Still shaking, you go slack, sitting up weakly with a detached expression - the light has left your eyes. You nod, body simply responding to her words.

character bio posted:

In your last moments, you stood over the corpse of your first kill. When Śmiercią came to collect, you asked her to take you instead.

quote:

Słońce killed her daughter to make her so mad that she'd actually kill Słońce like she's been asking for after so many years

Grond posted:

I've been thinking of Slonce as You, actually, because of the pronoun use. We're pretty consistently referred as "You" whenever we're Slonce or whenever there are memories regarding the old war against the Mythos, but it's not like that's definitive proof of anything... I don't think there has been any flashback where our character referred to themselves as "I", which to me it means we don't know anything about the Tyrant yet... Hell maybe the Tyrant is actually Kwiat. That'd be a doozy. I mean she's literally the daughter of Death, so.

That'd make perfect sense, yeah. Maybe that's the point of divergence between the Dark End and the Holy End, actually. Maybe in the Holy End we tried to defend Kwiat while in the Dark End we killed her ourselves, and that's why Smiercia is not coming after us in the Holy End. It'd be an explanation as of why there are two different descriptions in our character profile even though they both refer to our character as "You".

Black August posted:

"Aw. You really don't want to?"

You're fighting to keep your patience. You're being petty again. You're looking for a cutting remark again. You're not explaining the why to him because it takes you right back into the black, and you're not being honest by telling him you're just not comfortable doing it.

Your nails are biting into your palm. Your jaw is creaking with how hard you clench it. Your lungs, your world-class evervaunted lungs, seize and shrink and deny you air. Come on. Come the gently caress on. Stop. Stop being that bitter old monster. Stop flashing back to every injustice. Stop slamming your hand on the counter after every show and reaching for a bottle, reaching for a gun, reaching for a noose, reaching for the one- the one that would finally be End.

Stop. Stop going back. Stop feeling muscles ripping themselves apart microscopically with every violent tense. Every bone-grinding clench. You feel sick. It comes on so suddenly that you finally find a way to end the conversation - you tell him you gotta run to the bathroom.

"Oh! Take your time."

You can't look at his smile as you rush off. You can't, because you'll think it's fake and full of hate, and you'll start to let the night in your head speak. You can't. Not to him. Not now.

It's half an hour later and you're sitting in the stonework bathroom of the school, hiding in a corner where water and tropic plantlife breaks through the rock and decorates the stalls. You managed to not punch the stone so hard your hand breaks again. The Doctor wouldn't believe a lie the third time. You stew instead, shaking away the creeping voice that tells you, hey hey, sharp little knife, now now, slice the chords. You're not listening. You're breathing. In and out. Skin slowing from a crawl to a cold shiver.

Does it still make you happy when you do it? Yeah. But you want to keep it to yourself. You don't want to share it with the world anymore. You don't want to be the one who walks out onto stage, With A Smile Like The Sun.

...

...but Mom smiles so bright when you do it around her...

Maybe. Maybe maybe. The ratlings were here to trade, and everyone was going gonzo over what they wanted to do for entertainment, to impress the colony's first trading partners. Maybe. Maybe a private show. For a select few. You've never done it for lovely little rat people before. Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. It isn't who you ARE anymore, after all. Maybe. Just once. Mom said, hey, everyone needs a hobby; you loved the sound of that. Not an identity. Just a facet. Just a sometimes. Just a for-fun.

You could be it again. Under the Sun.

You,

Black August posted:

See? I've done it. I've mastered this poor, tired, frightened body. I've kept my promise. I spend a little while longer looking up at the tree canopy. It's nice here. Quiet, humid, sleepy. I can see birds sometimes, pale and slender ones with angular wings, silently scavenging the treetops of the many insects hidden there. I begin to empty my mind in the river's blue static. I set my pack aside, down to nothing but suit, shroud, and sword.

Because of my colors, I find my mind drifting to places that tyranny would never allow itself to. I just need you to be savvy about this. I know that's next to impossible with the anxiety that soaks to the bone, but if I'm going to keep this lying promise, then I need you to know how to deal with the creative types. My career gave me a lot of exposure to those types, especially in those starting years. I spoke with a whole host of personalities of all walks, those final entertainers and teachers who made it a holy mission...

I'm not going to dwell on it right now though. I want you fresh.

There on the bank, I spread my arms while lying back, and look at the sky. I think about my color, its strange new hue, and I wonder if you'll see it again. I'm going to let it fade now. It'll stain some corner hidden in the back of the black.

(WL - Dissolution To You) 19 - [2]+[6]+[4] = 12 - Success.

I look at the sky, and close my eyes. My last thought is of the nearing hills, and what is hiding inside of them.

Black August posted:

I'm not particularly comfortable with talking, or interested. But the wingless painter likely controls this area, and I can't take overconfident risks in my current state. I have to play along. So I tell her, yeah, I've always liked singing. That's the truth, so I can say it sincerely.

She smiles. "Yeah, singing is a fundamental art. I know a lot of singers in my crew. I don't do it myself though; too dangerous. I just paint."

I decide it doesn't hurt. So we talk about singing's strength as a universal art. I would talk about my career, but my phantom tyranny is too tenuous to risk with stressing out over those memories. It'd really take another showrunner to understand that sort of talk anyways. So I point at the mural, and ask if that's all her work. She nods noncommittally.

Black August posted:

You did a horrible thing. A bad bad bad thing.
_{(I did?)}
Something she'll never forgive you for.
_{(But I didn't do anything...)}

"So I'll make you now pay. I'll send you to labours, to earn my tithe. Force your responsibility-"

Her scythe comes up to caress your neck. You stop shivering; the only motion allowed is the raging pain of your heart. She rests it there, fingerbones dancing with tresses of shredded yellow flesh.

"For the death of my daughter."

You knew it was true, pulling you down gravity-black into the guilt. You were crying, face wrenched into an ugly wet mess. Śmiercią is nodding as her wicked flesh curls, wrinkled with a smile of condemnation.
_{(But it's not true! I didn't!)}