#Doomed Petitioner

[sodomyordeath]

I just noticed...

Been playing some Destiny 2 earlier. Leveling up a bunch of crafted weapons when I noticed something funny.

First get your "Doomed Petitioner" Linear Fusion Rifle and your "Empirical Evidence" Sidearm.

Now put on Slayer's Raining Blood and when Dave Lambordo starts drumming fire the Petitioner keep going till the song speeds up and when Dave goes a little more frantic switch to the Empirical.

You are welcome.

[blackwaxidol]

Eexonios and Iziira...

[in-uthenera-we-wait]

It's been a few days since I completed the Veilguard and I am going feral about the dynamics between Mythal, Solas and Lavellan...

It's just a bittersweet kind of pain when I think of them and I want to get my thoughts out before I am overwhelmed by them. Also, this post took way longer than expected to write!

Detailed deep-dive under the cut (to avoid spoilers)

Colour-coded because my brain is weird like that!

Also this is a loooooong post... you have been warned!

On Mythal:

It is clear right from the start (of when we discover the memories of the Dread Wolf) that Mythal is an integral part of who Solas was... Or should I say, who Fen'Harel was/is.

Solas, as a spirit had no desire to take a body and took one for the love of Mythal.

And when I say love, I do not see it as something purely romantic... It goes above and beyond that and not always in the right way.

She sought to mould him into someone she could use. She saw it as Benevolence (the attribute that her spirit is supposed to represent), but I think her purpose had been corrupted even then, even before Solas gets his body at her behest.

The reason I believe it's so is because, true Benevolence doesn't discriminate and denotes a desire to do good for others. Compassion is that desire enacted.

Mythal's benevolence was conditional. Her benevolence came at the cost of suffering for the Titans. So, there was a sliver of selfishness to her purpose. This isn't necessarily bad but this means that she is no longer truly what her Spirit was supposed to depict, not completely. And this sliver of selfishness is what permeates the entire relationship she has with Solas.

We, as the player, have only ever seen Mythal either through the very rosy lens of the Elvhen who worshipped her very much like the way Solas does, or through Flemeth. The latter is no longer the Mythal that Solas knew. She is a fragment of the original who has gained the wisdom and experience of millennia through the hosts she inhabited.

The truest depiction of what Mythal must really have been like is the fragment we encounter in the Crossroads. She honestly, isn't as likeable as Flemeth/Morrigan was/is.

She is openly haughty, expecting her petitioners to convince her of the dangers to the world outside, and sounds almost bitter that her most ardent devotee hasn't visited her once since she was killed and the remnant of her essence was extracted from the dagger to reside in the Crossroads. She faults Solas to an extent for her fate, and clearly doesn't hold him as beholden as he does her.

So, it felt weird to me that she would be so willing to release him from her service, even more so if you had to fight her for the fragment (as I had to).

The only way I can see her being moved to help convince Solas (especially if we fought her in her dragon form) is that she was observing the world outside the crossroads when she is in Rook's possession, the way Rook interacted with Solas, and even more so the way the Inquisitor speaks of her friend/vhenan.

On Solas:

Solas... the man, the myth, the legend! Where do I even begin to unravel the mess that he is!

Originally, a spirit of Wisdom, tied to Mythal in a way that has him put through the thumbscrews of War and Strife, so much so that I see his transformation into Pride as something like a callus that forms over skin that has been rubbed a few times too many.

His love for Mythal was the start of his doom, and right there, his purpose was changed from Wisdom. Because, wisdom would have remained a Spirit.

Now, the nature of that love is up for debate. Again, I don't see it as something that is purely romantic. Though, I think the way he feels for her is different from the way Mythal feels about him. There is more devotion on his side. He says that he will follow wherever she goes and takes on a physical form for her.

And then, slowly, one step after another, he strays away from the path of wisdom - crafting the Lyrium dagger, making the Titans tranquil, allowing the other Evanuris to claim godhood, letting Mythal persuade him to each of these steps, his regrets have her face.

Remember the following dialog he has with the Inquisitor after they drink from the Well of Sorrows? When he asks them how they will ensure the Inquisition doesn't fail, and when the following dialogue ensues...

Let me present you with evidence on how much he was hurt by that.

INQUISITOR: I trust my friends.

SOLAS: I know that mistake well enough to carve the angles of her face from memory.

We had already posited that the 'her' in the dialogue above was about Mythal. But back then, we had assumed it was because of the trust Mythal had in the evanuris that caused her death. What if it wasn't so? What if he was speaking of the trust HE had in HER?! He trusted Mythal to stand by him as he had stood by her. And she had failed him.

It could be that this is after her death, but something tells me this was before. Because Felassan's response to Mythal not joining them would be different if it was because she was dead.

So, we've established just how hung up he is about Mythal, because he has this vision of hers that might not even be true. He views her through the lens of adoration and worship that ends up putting her on a pedestal rather than view her as the flawed person she is. He could never be truly free unless he sets aside these feelings he has for her.

I also found it interesting that he has refused to visit the fragment of Mythal that was stuck to the dagger when she was killed. That fragment is the truest version of his friend as she was when she died. He refuses to acknowlege Flemeth and even Morrigan as Mythal.

Even in the end, it is this fragment of Mythal that he knows and remembers that releases him from her service. Because he wouldn't accept it from anyone else!

And with that established, let's move to the final part of this triptych.

The Inquisitor is a tricky one to analyse because they can be so many different things depending on the player. But for this essay, I will be focussing on Lavellan who romanced Solas and sought to change his heart.

On the Inquisitor:

She is everything that Solas believes is wrong with the veiled world his actions resulted in. A shadow of his people, tranquils with no connection to the Fade (especially true if Lavellan is not a mage). He also begins to believe that the anchor is what makes her who she is. That has to be the case, because any other explanation would make his future plans questionable!

But then, she walks into his life, curious and bright, kind and caring, asking him questions with an open heart! The first thing she does is assure him she would protect him from prosecution. She changes everything!

He tries to justify his feelings for her by assuming that the anchor has changed her. But nope! She shoots that down as well. She is truly herself, with or without the anchor. A rare and marvelous spirit.

Lavellan sees him for who he truly yearns to be seen as. Wisdom. She seeks to understand him and asks nothing in return. She is ready to help him whenever he asks for it, and even when he doesn't. She tells him he does not need to mourn alone, when his spirit friend passes!

His one true fear: Dying Alone... and she allays it by promising to be with him, no questions asked.

He almost decides to give it all up and stay with her... as just Solas. To be with the one true person who truly saw him beyond the cool and collected mask he wears. But he doesn't... In another world perhaps but not this one.

And so, he leaves her in the end, because his regrets are too much to be set aside so easily. He also sees bringing down the veil as an act of self-sacrifice, now more necessary than ever because this would mean She would live on happily in a world where his mistakes don't exist anymore. Also, he doesn't want her to see what he would become.

But she perseveres. Every time he pulls away, she reaches out. The parallels between the Solas/Mythal and Lavellan/Solas relationship is just *Chef's kiss*!

She represents Hope for me. And I'd say, she is true to her purpose that way. Even when things don't go the way she wishes it did, she still hopes. Her Hope springs eternal. And that is what saves her, Solas and the entirety of Thedas!

So, towards the end, her Hope burns bright against his Regret. But he is unable to see it until he sets his own regrets aside. And for that to happen, he needed Mythal to release him.

Mythal was his past. But Lavellan is his eternal future. It was up to him to move from one to the other.

Once he was free from that bondage, he could look towards Hope.

Only then could he truly see it... that she had seen him as he truly was, and she loved him... that she loves him still.

In the end, her love did endure, and how!

'Var lath vir Suledin' indeed!

[todaysdocument]

Anti-Slavery Petition from Women of America

Record Group 46: Records of the U.S. SenateSeries: Petitions and Related Documents That Were Presented, Read, or Tabled

PETITION. ____ To the Honorable the Senate of the united States and House of Representatives: Your petitioners, women of America, whose names are hereunto subscribed, constrained by the love of humanity, address you in behalf of the claims of a million and a half of their sex, who are afforded no legal protection for the heart's dearest ties, or WOMAN'S "sacred honor," but with their husbands, sons, and brothers, are the doomed victims of a system that dwarfs the intel- lect, degrades the morals, and debases the entire being. Believing that they are solemnly bound to "remember those that are in bonds, as bound with them," and believing that in this AGE OF LIGHT, while the great principles of LIBERTY are anima- ting the nations, that the government of these United States-this "Model Republic"-should use all its constitutional power to eradicate, within its own bounds, an evil which is being repudiated by the civilized world as its direct curse-they are constrained respectfully and earnestly to pray your honorable body at once to devise such measures as may come legitimately within their prov- ince, both to prevent the farther extension of American Slavery, and to withdraw the protection and countenance hitherto afforded by your Government and Flag to the American Slave Trade, and to suppress Slavery effectually in those sections over which Congress has competent jurisdic- tion. And your petitioners will ever pray. Rosetta M Cowles Mary Ann Perkins Jane N Coan Julia A Curtys K[illegible] C. North G A Sues Rosetta L Merriam Harriat P Pratt Sarah D. Linsley Alma Dunham Harriet F Foster Charlotte Melone Bridget Mason Margaret Moran Ann Moran Martha G Fowler Berille Shipman Sarah Shipmen Caroline Shipmen

[inaconstantstateofchange]

A Snippet Shared | Minthara x Karlach

There's no real tag game motivation behind this, but I'm proud of this snippet and not sure when I'll finish the larger oneshot it is a part of, so I'm putting it here for now.

Note: Set post-canon, with Minthara and Karlach in Avernus together.

Karlach, gracious in victory – at least this once – doesn’t belabor her point. And she, too, is undoubtedly impatient to take advantage of this potential windfall. “Now, don’t go expecting some grand beacon of hospitality. We’ll be slumming it with the finest dregs Zariel’s legions leave behind them, b-u-t—four walls! That’s basically the Elfsong, at this point!”

Minthara nods, deadpan, as she agrees with Karlach’s determination. “An apt comparison, my love. The music certainly sounds similar enough.”

Karlach nods enthusiastically, half her quick-paced mind already mapping out the path before them as she scans the desolate horizon. Minthara waits for the constant background noise of Avernus – the wails of doomed petitioners forming a melody with the snarls and clashes of distant engagements – to filter back into her hearing. Karlach has proven quicker and quicker to pick up on her little jests, and this one was surely obvious enough—There. Karlach whirls back around, pointing at her accusatorily. 

“You—you! The music is similar, oooh! How many of those little jokes did you slip past everyone back then?”

Minthara smiles, slow and toothy. “More than you would ever believe, dear one.”

[y-rhywbeth2]

With more specific information on the Barrens of Doom and Despair specifically comes further information about what one might expect in the afterlife as a worshipper of Bane, Bhaal, Loviatar, Hoar, and sometimes Tiamat:

Each malicious mortal spirit that comes to the Barrens of Doom and Despair becomes a special form of petitioner called a larva. Larvae appear as Medium worms with heads that resemble those of their mortal bodies. Larvae serve as the currency of the fiendish planes, especially among night hags, liches, demons, devils, and yugoloths. Most are used as food as to power spells, but occasionally a larva is promoted to some kind of fiend, usually a lemure or dretch.

And honestly, being a lemure or dretch is... not really an improvement: I'm pretty sure Bane and Loviatar are served by higher ranking fiends, though, so I assume you might be able to get promoted to higher ranking fiends... but if you break the laws that govern devils as set by Baator then your deity is actually forced to forfeit ownership of you to one of the Archdevils.

(Withers let me resurrect Orin right now! I'm not sure regular Bhaalspawn rules apply to her generation)

[sfaccountant]

Pony cultists are an odd lot, which is unsurprising. Gifted with harmonious, pure souls mostly blind to the influence of Chaos, in order for a pony to take on Chaos worship they must seek out the forbidden knowledge and powers on their own initiative. They sell their joyful souls as wilful agents of a greater cause rather than desperate petitioners or corrupted madmen.

To be sure, the changes they experience are still dramatic, but somehow... incomplete. Granted, Equestria's alliance with the darker powers is still very young, and few equine cultists have earned substantial mutations yet. Still, the human priests and preachers of Chaos find something... uncanny about the way their dark bargains fall upon the pony mind.

(Art by Minekoo2)

Tzeentch is the dark god of sorcery and secrets, and so it is only appropriate that his appeal is almost exclusively limited to unicorns, the natural psykers of the equine races. Those curious or fearless enough to venture upon his path and hear his whispers have their minds and souls opened to a million scathing truths and poisonous lies, and those who take his Mark usually sacrifice some important element of their senses or consciousness. In return they are able to perform feats of dizzying sorcery and unleash raw magical power with a casual mastery that would make them the envy of the greatest Canterlot magi.

When humans take up Tzeentch worship - if they don't break down in short order from insanity and mutation - their gifts inevitably drive them toward greater acts of hubris and doomed bargains to satisfy their lust for power and knowledge. The pony devotees find such an attitude inexplicable. They are highly aware of their own middling rank in the galactic pecking order, and see clearly the terrible risks that threaten to drag them across the veil should they overstep their skills. They also don't suffer from the alienation and awe of their peers as human psykers do, which encourages solitude and madness. Most other ponies find the Dark Mages of Tzeentch strange and somewhat annoying, but less outwardly terrifying than other cultists. Besides, such power as they have barely impresses when one's liege lord hauls the sun into orbit every day.

(Art by Fenwaru)

Khorne, the Blood God, has about the same number of pony cultists as Tzeentch does. Like Tzeentch his flock is limited to those who seek out his power and wish to submit to the cult, and as it happens a philosophy of mindless rage and wanton slaughter simply doesn't find broad appeal among Equestrians, including the ones inclined to or skilled at violence. What's more, Khorne despises sorcery, and will not countenance having his Mark upon unicorns. Despite all this some rare ponies desire martial excellence and raw power to a degree that they submit to the trials and are found (more or less) worthy. Incidentally all such ponies thus far have been pegasi; the earth ponies who have braved the blood trial without the advantage of flight have all failed thus far.

In becoming a cultist of Khorne these ponies are granted utter fearlessness in the face of the enemy, seemingly endless stamina, and a volcanic fury that overwhelms pain and injury to drive them ever onward to the next kill. These traits naturally mean that they usually come off as constantly hostile in conversation and regular social conduct, but the priests have noted that such ponies never seem to fully lose themselves in their own bloodlust and remain quite sane. They have also noted, with some concern, that Khorne's passion sometimes ignites emotions other than anger among ponies: Since the blood trials began accepting ponies and marking them, a full third of the mares in such cult units have become pregnant.

(Art by Rozmed)

Nurgle is by far the most popular of the Chaos Gods among the Equestrians. It is the chosen god of the Company Warsmith and his Vice Commander, and as such bears a larger cult within the 38th Company than the others. More insidiously, however, Nurgle is also the only god that can corrupt equines without their explicit consent, as his power lies in mundane viruses, parasites, and bizarre foliage. Most of the time this manifests as a simple bargain in which a pony is struck by a lethal affliction and worship is presented as a way to live with the symptoms. But there have also been cases of the diseases themselves marking ponies and twisting their bodies with hideous mutations without contract or ceremony. And who is to say that Nurgle's more mundane plagues leave the equine mind untouched as it weighs its future against its soul?

However it occurs, Nurgle cultists promptly start growing a colony of diseases or parasites within their bodies, and the discomfort from their afflictions quickly fades. Often this numbing removes their sense of pain entirely, their nerve endings rotting or their mind simply adjusting its pain response to nullify it. Mutations, cysts, tumors, and wasting flesh are common, although so far the cultists have not been infected long enough for their bodies to change too much.

Puzzlingly, although equine Nurgle cultists love their diseases and are as gleefully devoted as any marked human, they are conspicuously reluctant to spread them among their friends. Pony Nurgle cultists lack the feverish insanity of their human peers and are very self-conscious about their appearance and contagion. Although the ponies tend to be shunned to some degree anyway, they harbor little resentment; to the infected this is simply another part of their grand bargain, and must be quietly suffered in lieu of agonizing muscle pain or violent retching.

Somewhat like the Khorne cultists, the Nurgle-marked ponies have also experienced heightened libidos, but are largely unable to satisfy them. The Nurgle cult's gender balance is inexplicably skewed among ponies, with more than twenty mares to each stallion. Finding love outside the cult is understandably just as difficult; even among those mares who maintain an outwardly attractive appearance, such intimate contact is usually quite dangerous.

(Art by Taiga Blackfield)

[queenaeducan-writes]

A Study of Hands

Chapter Five: By the pricking of my thumbs

Pairing: f!TavxGale Dekarios Characters: Female/Tiefling/Druid Tav, Gale Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Other Tags: Canon Dialogue, Gale POV, Named Tav Summary: Gale had bid farewell to his beloved Waterdeep. For what he thought was the last time, he watched its splendid walls dip below the horizon, and dried his eyes of their tears. Yet before he could find the quiet death he sought in some remote corner of Faerûn, the mindflayers find him. And then Ophelia does.

A thick blanket of regret permeates the air, fit to choke on. The atmosphere of the hag’s lair bears down upon Gale from all sides as they descend into its depths. Around them, a grisly display of doomed petitioners are arranged like animal heads in a hunter’s lodge. No two are alike, save for their shared misfortune. Ethel has purged them of their joy, their grief, their hope, leaving only their regret as her gruesome trophy.

“It seems the hag has no shortage of fools eager to fall victim to her promises,” Lae’zel says with her typical level of hostility. “A pity we arrived too late to save them.”

“Those who are too far gone to help, we will deliver them a headsman’s justice,” Wyll assures her, despite undoubtedly parsing her true meaning. “And I disagree: I see the desperate, not the foolish. We do not know what drove them to Ethel’s poisonous hospitality.”

Lae’zel scoffs. “Spoken like a true warlock. If you did not wear the mantle of those horns, you might see them as I do.”

“Stop it, Lae’zel,” Ophelia chides. She had been gazing mournfully at one of Ethel’s victims until the githyanki’s commentary shook her from her stupor. “It is not becoming of a warrior to mock people who cannot even defend their honour.”

“Chk.”

Well, that seems to be the end of that.

(Read the rest here on AO3!)

[pulse-oflife]

Prompt #7 // Noisome

The flies were ever present, swarming and dispersing according to logic known only to them. Keryn absently swatted away a swarm that had formed near her, send the insects buzzing off in circles above her. This was a decided problem with having any sort of meeting near Wineport, the bugs and the humidity of course. It was sometimes amazing the difference between Costa Del Sol and Wineport - one a balmy tropical beach, and the other bordering a humid rainforest. The river dividing the two areas must be doing a lot of interesting things to the climate. But Urianger had been most insistent on her meeting someone here regarding the mysterious primal that had called out during the celebration. Minfilia had mentioned that the roar had an aetheric signature comparable to a primal from five years ago - and there was really only one possibility. They had all avoided speaking the name aloud, but the specter of Bahamut lingered large over the land still. A reappearance from that dread primal would likely doom all the work they had done thus far.

So, here she was, traveling on Normandy to meet someone who was known to the Scions but that Urianger refused to name. For some reason that he thought was good. Keryn was mildly concerned about his propensity to keep secrets for the good of others, and made another mental note to speak to him about it. Otherwise that was going to one day either get him in trouble or cause a lot of problems from misunderstandings.

Probably both, knowing Urianger. Hopefully this petitioner would indeed be as familiar as she had been told. Lightly tapping Normandy's flank with a heel, she urged the chocobo on so they could get away from the reforming swarm of flies.

[alphareleasemedia]

A Missive Missile -- Robert Frost

Someone in ancient Mas d'Azil Once took a little pebble wheel And dotted it with red for me, And sent it to me years and years-- A million years to be precise-- Across the barrier of ice: Two round dots and a ripple streak, So vivid as to seem to speak. But what imperfectly appears Is whether the two dots were tears, Two teardrops, one for either eye, And the wave line a shaken sigh. But no, the color used is red. Not tears but drops of blood instead. The line must be a jagged blade. The sender must have had to die, And wanted someone now to know His death was sacrificial-votive. So almost clear and yet obscure. If only anyone were sure A motive then was still a motive. O you who bring this to my hand, You are no common messenger (Your badge of office is a spade). It grieves me to have had you stand So long for nothing. No reply-- There is no answer, I'm afraid, Across the icy barrier For my obscure petitioner. Suppose his ghost is standing by Importunate to give the hint And be successfully conveyed. How anyone can fail to see Where perfectly in form and tint The metaphor, the symbol lies! Why will I not analogize? (I do too much in some men's eyes.) Oh, slow uncomprehending me, Enough to make a spirit moan Or rustle in a bush or tree. I have the ocher-written flint, The two dots and the ripple line. The meaning of it is unknown, Or else I fear entirely mine, All modern, nothing ancient in't, Unsatisfying to us each. Far as we aim our signs to reach, Far as we often make them reach, Across the soul-from-soul abyss, There is an aeon-limit set Beyond which they are doomed to miss. Two souls may be too widely met. That sad-with-distance river beach With mortal longing may beseech; It cannot speak as far as this.

[sentryvt]

AAAAA I FINALLY DID IT I FINALLY TOP DPS'D WARLORDS RUIN QAQ <3

Ran Lorelei, Praedyth's revenge (rewind rounds/high impact reserve) and Doomed Petitioner (Recon/Precision Instrument)

TvT last time I had used my Cuirass arc build but seems like flaming hammer are kinder to me than being a missile myself

[kelgorath]

love that so many video game “articles” are just nonsensical AI garbage now. trying to look up the god roll for doomed petitioner and one of my go-to websites i use for looking at pve/pvp god rolls is trying to tell me that this void linear fusion rifle can roll with voltshot. like damn you’re gonna use chatgpt and not even proofread it after???

[blackwaxidol]

TFS Legendary is certainly so far easier than WQ Legendary.

The most I have died on were the tripmines in Reqiuem... the bosses themselves are fine, partly because my new favourite technique is to freeze them in place with Wicked Implement and then completely waste them with Doomed Petitioner. It works great on Disciples with their small little heads and fast movement...

[mynameisjessejk]

But In Our Selves, Beginnings, Part 5

Feyrith woke screaming, with blood in his mouth. He lay where he was, staring at the cracked ceiling and the few stars visible, for a long moment, and then he rolled slowly to his feet.

The cistern was cool when he rinsed his face, sticky with tears or sweat, and then took a long drink. He licked carefully over the inside of his mouth, trying to decide if he’d bitten his mouth or if the blood was from his nose originally.

He paced to the doorway to check the time, though the scattered clouds and the depth of the forest made it hard to be sure. It was probably a few hours before dawn, Feyrith decided, and wandered back in to roll himself sullenly into his tattered bedroll.

This made every night this month, he thought grimly, when sleep refused to return. Twenty seven nights dreaming of flames and water, waking screaming with blood on his face. The last time he’d gone this consistently portending doom, the city of Eithel had fallen within a year, and he’d retreated alone to the shrine of Inialos to mourn in peace and solitude.

Feyrith had had plenty of solitude; with the exception of trips to the market-village eight miles downstream and the odd petitioner, he’d seen very few folk at all in the intervening years. But he’d had little enough peace; for nearly a hundred years he’d woken shouting from TrueDreams, come out of trances in places he didn’t remember walking to, and battered himself bruised and bloody by collapsing to the stone floors. He’d also watched from afar as human cultures grew and changed and warred themselves apart, the dwarves retreated deeper into their mountains, and his people slowly faded, the once booming elven population reduced to a handful of settlements, tucked far away from human influence.

With a calendar and enough fucks to give, Feyrith might have been able to line up the rises and falls of cities and kings with the TrueDreams and visions, but he didn’t need the empirical truth to solidify the truth in his gut: when the dreams got bad, things were about to go wrong for someone.

The chorus of night-birds shifted into morning, and Feyrith uncoiled himself from his nest, grumbling a soft noise of discontent. It was market day in the nearest village, and he needed some things. There wasn’t much he could do in the wilderness for good colored thread, not without significantly more equipment than he had the ability to build, and while he could forage with the best of them, it had, over the years, become apparent that cultivation was beyond him. He traded for his vegetables like any civilised being who didn’t want to die of scurvy. He was also considering buying a goat or a chicken, but wasn’t sure he wanted the effort of it. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time he set on his way, a basket of wares–mostly smaller baskets, textiles, and wild plants he’d collected–on his back.

It was nearly three hours’ hike to the village proper, because the trail as it were was nearly impassable without the ability to travel by tree-top. Fifteen minutes outside the village, finally on the well-maintained road, Feyrith dropped from the trees and paused to tie on his blindfold.

Sharp ears, a guidestick, and the general nosiness of humanity stood him in good stead. And truly, the people of Mistcross knew him well, as well they should after nearly sixty years, and kept out of his way. Better to be the eccentric, blind elf-hermit from the woods than to accidentally tell the futures of every person he looked at. Humans rarely thanked him for the knowledge, even when they came to him to ask for it. And, if he saw too many futures, or if the folk were particularly fate-touched, the vision gave him debilitating headaches. Better by far to be blind.

“Morning Feyrith,” the village mayor said cheerfully, falling in at his side. The spoken warning and his footsteps were a herald, and once Feyrith had jerked his head in acknowledgement, the man–Feyrith suddenly couldn’t have said his name if paid for it, though he could have recited the man’s genealogy for three generations–linked their arms together in a guiding touch.

“Morn,” Feyrith said, making an effort to keep his lips down over his teeth. The touch, as always, made his skin crawl, but he allowed the liberty without growling. It was not easy, letting himself be so vulnerable among humans, but the people of Mistcross had earned his trust, hard though it was to offer it. “How’s the planting?” he asked, though he resolutely did not care, any more than he cared to remember the man’s name. Humans got so tetchy when they thought Feyrith didn’t care for them, and Feyrith had learned that lesson generations ago. Now he asked, even though it was stupid, and nodded through the harmless answers, counting the minutes till he could leave again.

“Excellent!” the mayor enthused, “We should have a great crop this year, and stores for the winter should be plenty.”

“I’m pleased for you, friend,” Feyrith said, and it was at least partially true; it would be horribly inconvenient if this village ceased to exist, and even if the mayor annoyed him, they weren’t all bad.

The mayor handed Feyrith off to the healer, who wanted the herbs he’d collected over the summer, and she passed him off to the dyer, who gladly took the bloodroots, butternuts, and alders that grew wild by the Shrine and hardly anywhere else. The dyer passed him over to the weaver, who sold his textiles beside hers, and her husband, who traveled to surrounding villages to sell goods for the whole village.

These two were special to Feyrith. The weaver was called Joyanna, and she had been a girl the first time she had cooed softly over his needlepoint, which he’d been offering to her teacher. Her husband Rodric worshiped the ground she walked on. Joyanna still loved his needlepoint, and Rodric loved how his baskets sold at market. They pressed him to join him for luncheon, and Feyrith accepted with a ducked head and a pleased rumble in his chest, skin crawling not a bit under Joyanna’s arthritic hands.

“How are the trees?” Joyanna asked him. She’d heard him, years ago, mention the felling and burning of the trees around Eithel, and she asked him each time how they fared.

Feyrith smiled, a true one, and rumbled again. “Well,” he answered. “Growing deep roots and strong leaves.” He’d worked hard to restore the vegetation around the Shrine, Inialos’ sacred grove at the heart, though there was little enough he could do for the stonework.

“Any good tree gossip?” Rodric asked cheerfully. He hadn’t been present for the grim aside that had led to this question, and didn’t understand the weight of it.

Feyrith and Joyanna had a silent agreement never to tell him, and Feyrith said, “Depends on how you feel about squirrels.” He couldn’t quite stop the low rumbling in his chest, contentment and pleasure at their company, and he worried, as he always did, that they thought he was growling.

Joyanna laughed. The picture of her in Feyrith’s mind was of a stout, cheerful woman with greying hair and laugh-lines around her eyes and mouth, though he had no idea how close or far to the truth he was. “You tell him, lovely,” she said, patting his forearm. “What have you brought us today?”

“More of those spiral weave baskets you liked so much,” Feyrith said in Rodric’s direction. “And some forest scene embroidery, a few in thread and one in the last of those beads you brought me from Asharel.”

Joyanna made an interested noise. “You do such lovely work, dear,” she said, patting his arm again.

Feyrith rumbled in pleasure at her joy, but it was hard to take the compliment gracefully when he knew his work was only mediocre; his mother’s had been truly beautiful.

When the meal was done, Joyanna loaded his basket with vegetables from their garden, a new quilt she’d finished, and a few coins to even out their account, and Rodric took his arm to lead him to the main road. “Anything else you needed?” he asked gently.

Feyrith shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said. “Anything else can wait till next time.”

Rodric hummed in agreement and patted his shoulder. “Feyrith,” he said quietly when they reached the edge of the village.

Feyrith tilted in his direction, head canting to one side slightly.

“I know you’re not blind, lad,” the old man said softly. “Your work is too precise for it. And I know what stories the city folk tell about the seer-elf in the deep woods.”

Feyrith bit his lip, resisting the urge to flee.

“I’ve kept your counsel, even from my Joy,” Rodric said gently, “But I have to ask you now.”

“What is it?” Feyrith asked hoarsely. He was shaking slightly, the rumble in his chest gone.

Rodric sighed. “I’m slowing in the mornings, and I don’t seem as solid as I was.” Quickly, as if he needed to get it out quickly, Rodric asked, “Is it me first, or Joy?”

Feyrith closed his eyes for a long moment, unable to stop the distressed noise from tearing out of his throat. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to consider his farewells to these friends. But humans were so fleeting, and these two loved so well. He couldn’t help but grant them this.

Feyrith lifted the blindfold up his forehead, and flicked his eyes briefly up to Rodric’s face.

He was a redhead, Feyrith realized with a rush of fondness that was accompanied by a low rumble of happiness, though it was nearly all grey now. His face was weatherbeaten and warm, lined with laughter and hardship. And he would lay his beloved wife to rest this winter, after a brief illness, and follow her in the spring in his sleep.

Blinking back tears, still purring, Feyrith dropped his blindfold. “It’s her first,” he said, answering only the question Rodric had actually asked.

Rodric embraced him quickly and firmly. “You’re a good lad,” he said softly, “And I thank you.”

Feyrith rumbled softly, and turned away without reply, not sure he could speak. He tapped his slow way up the road, not sure what to do with all the emotion in his chest, except to continue to purr it out.

[dailycharacteroption]

Creature Corner: Outsiders (Fiends) part 1

 Overview

 We’ve seen celestials, and then monitors, and now we get to the breed of outsider that player characters are most likely to fight (with elementals and such being slightly behind).

Fiends are the outsiders associated with all the evils of the world. Selfish desires, abject cruelty. Vicious nihilism, wanton indulgence, merciless tyranny, and more. These are your demons, your devils, and other such horrors that stand in opposition to the goodly deities and the very concept of altruism and kindness. Theirs is a philosophical war against the idea that the multiverse has any shred of kindness in it, that it is just as wicked as they are. That being said, many may lack the awareness to recognize their beliefs as a cosmic debate, but rather, simply desire to indulge in their vices or manifest their will.

Naturally, because of their nature as antagonists for most heroic parties, fiends are the group that has garnered the most attention from the writers and the players.

Like other outsiders, fiends come in broad categories. Most notably are the big three. The lawful evil devils, that seek to establish a “perfect” order, where all power and reward is funneled towards the top and the weak and lowly are either ground down by work or exploitation, or become equally as wicked, joining the ranks of the hierarchy, yet doomed to never ascend naturally, only by proving themselves greater than their superiors or slipping in to fill the gaps when such a superior fails (While said superiors squash said upstarts that they cannot in turn exploit).

Then come the daemons, the neutral evil fiends of pure, unadulterated nihilism, who want nothing more than to choke the life out of the whole multiverse simply because they cannot stand it existing. Even their own existence is only perpetuated so they can continue to bring suffering and death, and every type of daemon embodies a form of death, some narrow and specific, others much more broad, and they are led by the Horsemen, entities that embody the death of nations, species, and even worlds.

Then there are demons with an ‘e’, created originally by daemonic experiments on the maggot-like petitioners that come to their chaotic evil home of the Abyss, these entities are wanton, selfish desires made manifest, and are often the living embodiment of sins both broad and specific. Everything from lust and greed to things like pollution and misogyny have their demonic forms, which are believed to come in nigh-infinite flavors.

 Of course, beyond the big three are plenty of other fiends living on the lower planes, such as the velstracs (also known as kytons), fiends of torture and transcension of the flesh, eager to share their horrifying knowledge regardless of whether the victims wish to learn or not.

There are also the asura, fiends born of the mistakes and indiscretions of the gods, returned to bite them in the ass and torment the mortals they love so much out of jealousy and a twisted sense of justice.

Born from genies that fell under the sway of a great evil called Ahriman, divs strive to ruin and despoil all that mortals have created in cruel retaliation for the slights and torments that drove them into the arms of darkness. However, their obsessive nature gives them odd quirks of behavior.

Born from the hubris of thanatonic titans who believed they could equal and even surpass the powers of creation of the deities they had rebelled against, demondands are all misshapen things that nevertheless cling to life and possess a small measure of their master’s quasi-divinity, making them dangerous and spiteful foes. They exist purely to serve their titan masters, worshippers to petty tyrants with the might to lay low many foes.

Deep in the recessed cracks of the Abyss lie the original denizens of that realm, the crawlling qlippoth, horrific beings whose bodies defy natural ideals of form and may very well come from the outside of the outer sphere. Cruel and predatory, they were nevertheless driven into the darkest places by the success of demonkind. And so, qlippoth seek to defeat the demons and demodands and retake their plane by targeting mortals, hoping to one day rid the material plane of all mortal life, thereby starving demons of the sins that create their kind.

In the mists of the ethereal plane lurk the sakhil, former psychopomps that grew resentful of their duty, and now seek to subvert and end the cycle of souls by spreading and feeding on fear, so that mortal souls will lack the ambition needed to actually do anything significant with their lives, and therefore crumble into dust.

 Additionally, and perhaps most curiously, there are some types of fiends that dwell not on some outer plane, but on the material. Rakshasa being a perfect example as they are the reincarnated souls of the greedy, the selfish, and the tyrannical that rejected the afterlife and went straight for reincarnation rather than come back as undead, their utterly twisted souls transforming them from normal mortals into monstrous beings that hide their true nature and seek to set up immortal empires of indulgence.

Similarly, oni in Pathfinder are kami that have grown envious and covetous of the wonders and experiences of mortal life. They abandon their wards, and invoke dark magic to take a humanoid form reminiscent of one of the many humanoid races they envy, twisting into monstrous mockeries of that species, eager to indulge in mortal pleasures selfishly at the expense of every other creature they come across.

 With such a broad list of horrors from the lower planes and beyond gnawing at all that is good in the multiverse, some may ask if good has any hope. However, it is not just the celestial hosts and their sometimes-allies among the monitors protecting the multiverse, but also the daring heroics of adventurers and heroes that stand against great evil. However, as we’ll see throughout the week, fiends can mean many different things to different people.

[dailyadventureprompts]

I’d like to have my players, at some point, descend into a particularly deep cave system that has been tainted by the presence of the shadowfell. Particularly, too, I’d like to have an emphasis on the horror aspect of the adventure - having them uncover all manner of disfigured and monsterous things that have been gradually corrupted by the shadows.

Any ideas for hooks as to how they end up exploring this area, and what they could find down there would be awesome! Thank you!

Demiplane: The Reviled Grotway

In this realm of jagged stone and fetid water, it is best to crawl on your knees. Not only does it show deference and remind you of your proper place, but the wormgod is fond of all things that creep through the foulness. Perhaps he will be persuaded to spare you for a time. 

Setup: There are many places where the nightmarish domains of the shadowfell bleed over into the ever-twisting tunnels of the belowlands, as the terrors of darkness, clastrophobia, and skittering things are all too prominent in those ever-tightening tunnels. Many of these places are claimed (or atleast visited) by Torog the crawling king, god of torturers, madness, and all the horrors that lurk below. 

The Reviled Grotway is one such realm, something between a pilgrim’s road and a hungering gullet, where sacrifices and mad petitioners are prepared for their entrance into Torog’s true kindom.  “ Prepared” in this case means desperate and traumatized, as everything within the Grotway, from the wildlife to the geography seems purpose built to inflict fear and torment: hungering beasts which never stop their hunt, walls that crush but do not kill, pits that open up to swallow, the malformed horrors of the sorrowsworn that weep or laugh as they stalk you through the halls. 

Mortals cannot die in the Grotway, as a byproduct of its nature as a road of trials. Torog wants his victims to suffer eternally, and so their souls cannot leave their bodies, no matter how damaged, starved, or depredated, until they pass beyond the demiplane’s reaches.

Adventure Hooks: 

In the depths of a collapsed mine, the party finds a portal to the Reviled Grotway, opened by cultists who engineered the disaster long ago, and  spilling horrors out into the lower tunnels ever since.  Closing the portal may prove even more hazardous, as its destabilization collapses the mine around them and sucks them into the demiplane in a whirlpool of chaotic energy. Stranded between worlds, they must do their best to explore the dread realm while seeking out another portal back home. 

The only safe place to rest in the demiplane is the prison palace of Hangal the Mortifier, a wretched acolyte of Torog that was driven so mad in the wormgod’s service that he ripped off his own head to spare himself the visions imparted by his patron.   Now risen as a deathlock, he rides out through the tunnels on the back of a disgusting grublike drake,  looking for entrapped mortals to abduct and present to his god as worthy tribute. While perfectly content to let some victims “ripen” over decades of imprisonment and torture, the Genteel Hangal will sometimes “rescue” stranded travelers with an invitation back to his domicile. He does this not out of charity, but out of a desire for a second opinion on the quality of torments going on throughout his domain. “Guests” will be offered sanctuary, succor and refreshments, so long as they are willing to witness the depravities and give flattering critique on how they could be improved.  

For the sake of her ailing brother,  A magistrate has fallen into the wormgod’s service, paying for his place in Hangal’s palace with a tribute of criminals she dooms to torture or lengthy imprisonment. The players may be some of these criminals, and unwittingly seek escape through the Grotway when they discover that the lower levels of their prison contains  “secret” tunnels. When they find the Magistrate’s brother, they’ll discover he’s as desperate to escape as they are, his body eaten alive by cancer or plague, and knowing that leaving the Grotway is the only means to die and escape his sister’s suffocating mercy. 

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