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We looked inside some of the posts by chrisabraham and here's what we found interesting.
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Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
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Tumblr is available in 18 languages.
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PSA: Penultimate means “NEXT TO LAST.” Sometimes it is used erroneously as if it referred to something beyond ultimate, meaning “the very best,” but the prefix pen- means “almost.” Penultimate can seem like a superlative version of ultimate, but it isn’t. Sorry. It's a very common mistake that can also be very embarrassing.
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I finally get to own an Ecomobile Monoracer as an EV with gyroscopes! I'm happy to lose the BMW K-Bike flying brick for modern tech. This is awesome!
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The Corporate Collaborators: How corporations ally with movements only to drain them, discard them, and return to what they have always been
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MAGA has always loved South Park. MAGA loves getting roasted. MAGA loves the devil Trump little penis PSA stuff. Now, Charlie Kirk.
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The Lazarus Project just dropped from Sky onto Netflix yesterday. What do you think? I think it's a very interesting take on all the tropes and cliches, which is refreshing indeed.
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Had a Substack Chat where someone ranted Fox/OANN were “KGB propaganda.” I agreed, adding CNN, MSNBC, NPR, BBC, ABC, NBC, NYT, WaPo, The Economist, and more—all propaganda. I love it. Bias is flavor. He asked my favorite “KGB” source. I said RT and Sputnik. You? He only eats safe media. I told him a varied media diet builds an immune system. Don’t fear ideas—taste everything, even the poison. That’s strength.
Pearls Before Swine: A Substack Chat on Propaganda and Media Diets
When every source is propaganda, the only real danger is refusing to taste the other side’s cooking.
Early this morning, I had a spicy exchange on Substack Chat that says everything about how people consume media in 2025.
It began with a guy declaring that Fox News should register as an agent of a foreign country. I agreed—but added that we should also slap that label on CNN, MSNBC, NPR, PBS, ABC, NBC, The New York Times, WaPo, BBC, The Economist, and the rest of the alphabet soup. They’re all propaganda. And guess what? I love it. The bias is delicious. I can’t get enough of it.
The Smith-Mundt Modernization Act of 2012 turned U.S. media into a domestic propaganda arm, and that’s fine—at least you know what the messaging is. The real fantasy is believing your “team’s” sources are neutral.
He shot back: What’s your favorite KGB-based news source? Without blinking, I said: RT and Sputnik. You?
Then he admitted he gets all the “KGB propaganda” he needs from Fox, OANN, Newsmax, Matt Taibbi, Glenn Greenwald, Truth Social, and Jefferson Morley—ad nauseam. Translation: he doesn’t consume them at all. He sticks to whatever flatters his worldview.
So I told him: I love that you said that. I’m almost certain you’re not a big consumer of those outlets. Whereas I enjoy RT once a day and catch Fault Lines via podcast when I can. Why? Because information diversity is like dietary diversity. It keeps you strong. It keeps your intellectual immune system sharp.
I hope I’m wrong about him. Maybe he does balance out his media diet. But most people don’t. They fear ideas that don’t affirm their priors. I don’t. I want the whole buffet—even the plates that might be laced with poison. That’s how you build resistance.
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Maybe if America becomes a Communist Utopia, maybe we'll finally join BRICS, where America belongs!
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Everyone says the Right spent decades plotting to end Roe, but the Left’s identity politics and anti-racism didn’t appear overnight either. I saw Marxist feminism, critical theory, and Pedagogy of the Oppressed shaping minds in the ’90s. Both sides built their Titans. Now they clash.
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Session Fourteen: The Angel in the Abbey
Where the screams of mongrelfolk echo against the cold stone, the adventurers find that even sanctuaries have teeth.
Chris Abraham
Jul 26, 2025
Date: July 18, 2025 Players: Sean D. (Sören Ironwood – Aasimar Paladin), Chris (Radley Fullthorn – Human Eldritch Knight), Carey (Traxidor – Half-Elf Cleric of Life), Trip (Daermon Cobain – Half-Elf Swashbuckler)
Prelude: The Long Road into Kresk
By now, our heroes have trudged through twelve days of dread in Barovia, where even sunlight is only a memory. They have battled undead blights, toppled Wintersplinter, seen Vallaki burn, and defied Strahd himself on Yester Hill. Their paths are lined with loss: fallen allies (Sklat and Valen’eir), broken towns, and bargains that weigh on the soul.
Now, in the aftermath of their bloody fight with werewolves on the Old Svalich Road, the adventurers reach Kresk — the last village at the western edge of the valley, dwarfed by the silhouette of a monastery clinging to the cliffs above.
The guards at the gate are not friendly. Barovia has no friendly guards. They ask for proof of purpose, and the adventurers use their trump card: a barrel of wine from the Wizard of Wines. In Barovia, wine is not just drink — it is hope. Recognition of the Martikovs and their wagon gains them passage. But the Martikovs themselves — Adrian and Dag — are done with the adventurers’ antics. The head of Henrik the coffin maker, dangling like a grim talisman, and the constant bargaining over wine has shredded their patience. They agree to deliver only one barrel to Kresk before leaving, taking the rest home.
Dmitri Krezkov, the Burgomaster, greets them with the wary eyes of a man who knows survival here comes from keeping one’s head down. Kresk thrives by not provoking Strahd. The villagers obey this rule like they obey the cold. Dmitri accepts the wine and warms slightly, enough to offer advice: the adventurers can find shelter at the Abbey of Saint Markovia.
The advice is delivered with a warning: the abbey is holy, yes… but feared. When its bell tolls, the screams can be heard across the village.
The Ascent: To the Abbey of Saint Markovia
The road to the abbey winds like a serpent up an 800-foot cliff. Gravel slips beneath their boots, and the mists roll in, swallowing the world below. Along the way, they pass a shimmering pool of crystalline beauty — an alien sight in this gray land — but the mists close in again, and beauty here is always brief.
At the summit, they find the abbey walls, made of ancient stone, frost clinging to the cracks. The chill here bites sharper than in the valley below. Within, scarecrows pose as guards, a hollow bluff against fear. This is no ordinary monastery; it feels abandoned and alive at once.
At the gate, they meet Otto and Zygfrek, the mongrelfolk guards. Mongrelfolk — twisted remnants of humanity fused with animal traits, a parody of creation itself. Otto is a patchwork: donkey flesh, wolf’s ear, leonine legs, and a donkey tail. Zygfrek is worse: scales, fur, and a feline eye glimmering from a half-human face. They bark and quarrel like beasts until Sören, with paladin authority, demands an audience with the Abbot.
The name still holds weight. They reluctantly lead the party inward.
Courtyard of the Damned
The inner courtyard is a nightmare zoo. Behind padlocked doors, mongrelfolk howl, laugh, and weep — more heard than seen. They are the Belviews, a name that will echo with sorrow before this night is done.
A chained creature cowers near the posts: bat wings, spider mandibles, a cloven hoof. When Sören approaches, it thrashes and hisses, tugging against the chain until it collapses. This is no random mutation — it’s a deliberate blasphemy of creation.
Then, from the well, something moves. A spindly creature with three spider eyes and mismatched limbs — frog’s hand, crow’s talon — scuttles up and lunges at Daermon. The rogue pivots, rapier flashing, skewering the thing. It flees, but Sören and Traxidor finish it with holy light. The mongrelfolk erupt in a chorus of “Murder! Murder!”
The Abbot and His Bride
When Otto and Zygfrek return, they wave the adventurers into the abbey’s main hall. There they meet the Abbot at last.
He is not what they expected. Young. Handsome. Dressed simply, yet with an aura of command. He wears a symbol of the Morning Lord. At his side sits Vasilka, a pale, scarred woman in a red dress, beautiful and unnatural. She does not speak. She barely breathes.
The Abbot welcomes them with warmth, calling himself simply The Abbot. Sören lies about his identity; the Abbot’s gaze pierces the lie, but he lets it pass.
He explains the truth of the mongrelfolk: they were once the Belview family, lepers who came seeking healing. He cured their disease but could not cure their madness. They begged for animal traits to make them “whole,” and he granted their wish. Now they breed, fight, and rot in cages.
Daermon challenges him about the plaque outside, “May her light cure all illness.” The Abbot sighs: “Even miracles have limits.”
Then he reveals his plan: Vasilka. She is his creation, stitched together from corpses and refined through surgery. She is to be Strahd’s bride.
“To redeem a soul as black as Strahd’s, he must first know love.”
He asks the adventurers to find a wedding dress. Not for vanity — for salvation.
The Angel Revealed
Sören’s Divine Sense confirms the truth: the Abbot is not human. When pressed, the Abbot relents.
“Very well. Then behold!”
Light explodes. Radiance burns. Wings of celestial fire unfurl as the Abbot ascends, hair like solar flares, eyes without pupils but all-seeing. A flaming sword gleams in one hand, a lance in the other.
“Behold an angel of the Morning Lord, servant of light and truth. See me and know despair.”
The party collapses beneath the weight of his presence. For a timeless moment, they feel the crushing smallness of mortals before divine judgment. Then the light fades, and the Abbot stands once more as a man. His gaze lingers on Sören — a fellow aasimar, now humbled.
“Rest. But do not wander.”
The Hunter and the Warnings
Clovin, a mongrelfolk servant with two heads and a crab’s claw, escorts them to their quarters. There, they meet Ezmerelda d’Avenir, a Vistani monster hunter with a prosthetic leg and a heart full of vengeance. She packs to leave, unimpressed by the party’s bravado.
“You’re like the others. Brash. Reckless. Strahd will break you.”
Sören asks her to join them. She scoffs. “No. Killing Strahd takes patience. And guile. Neither of which I see here.”
Before leaving, she calls the Abbot insane. Her words linger like a curse.
Dinner with a Mad Angel
The bell tolls. Mongrelfolk howl in chorus. At dinner, the Abbot dismisses Otto and Zygfrek. He serves Red Dragon Crush wine and cabbage stew. Sören refuses to eat, suspecting horrors in the pot. The Abbot does not eat either; instead, he gently teaches Vasilka to use a spoon, guiding her hand as though she were a child.
Shadows in the Dark
Ignoring his warning, Sören, Radley, and Daermon explore the upper floors. Traxidor stays behind, uneasy. The infirmary reeks of death. Doors marked Surgery, Nursery, Morgue promise only nightmares.
From the shadows, the undead rise: Shadows, the same strength-draining wraiths that haunted the Death House. They strike with cold fingers, draining vitality as easily as breath. The party weakens, cornered, memories of fallen allies flickering like dying torches.
Then, Traxidor bursts in, Amulet of Ravenkind blazing. His Channel Divinity sears several Shadows into nothingness. His Guiding Bolt shreds the last, its radiance tearing it apart.
The adventurers collapse, barely alive, and drag themselves back to their room. Sleep claims them as the mongrelfolk scream below.
Next Time…
The angel wants a wedding dress. The rogue questions the angel’s sanity. The mongrelfolk hunger in their pens. And somewhere, far above, Strahd waits at his table, smiling.
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