#Urtrament

[probablyevilrpgideas]

ProbablyEvilRPGIdeas' Guide to Stealing IP For Fun and Profit and Not Getting Sued

Step 1- Identify a thing you want to use that's someone else's IP.

Step 2- Identify a similar enough in vibe/function thing that's a different IP

Step 3- Combine these IP

Step 4- Get REALLY weird with it.

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Holy shit, I kind of... unwittingly did exactly this when I started writing my second Urtrament book-

...now I guess I need to keep this up.

In writing, epithets ("the taller man"/"the blonde"/etc) are inherently dehumanizing, in that they remove a character's name and identity, and instead focus on this other quality.

Which can be an extremely effective device within narration!

They can work very well for characters whose names the narrator doesn't know yet (especially to differentiate between two or more). How specific the epithet is can signal to the reader how important the character is going to be later on, and whether they should dedicate bandwidth to remembering them for later ("the bearded man" is much less likely to show up again than "the man with the angel tattoo")

They can indicate when characters stop being as an individual and instead embody their Role, like a detective choosing to think of their lover simply as The Thief when arresting them, or a royal character being referred to as The Queen when she's acting on behalf of the state

They can reveal the narrator's biases by repeatedly drawing attention to a particular quality that singles them out in the narrator's mind

But these only work if the epithet used is how the narrator primarily identifies that character. Which is why it's so jarring to see a lot of common epithets in intimate moments-- because it conveys that the main character is primarily thinking of their lover/best friend/etc in terms of their height or age or hair color.

[probablyevilideasafterdark]

An Earth Trans in Urtrament, Chapter Seven

Told you it would be a shorter wait for the next chapter. Just had to finish a couple scenes after deciding to cut chapter six where it felt natural.

Chapter 7: Three Decades of Torment

I’m woken by Sharamph bringing me breakfast again, this time with coffee already on the tray. Breakfast is much the same as yesterday, but with diced potatoes today, and it’s all just as delicious. I share some of the sausage with Nyx, and let her sniff at the bits on the plate as I plan for my day.

Today I’m setting out for Pergamano, but first, I want to make Nyx my familiar so I don’t have to worry about her on the road so much, and then I need to summon my mount. The familiar-izing is simple enough, I’m able to do it with just ten minutes of focusing as Nyx sits in my lap purring. A new awareness blossoms in my mind as the process completes, and I feel her happiness and contentment as if it were my own. When I tell her it’s time to start getting things done, I feel her grudgingly understand, as her mental awareness has likewise expanded with the connection.

I get dressed and make sure my things are gathered–an easy task when you can fit all your belongings in a haversack. I rig up a sling that lies across my shoulders and gives Nyx a place to put the majority of her body, as riding my shoulders is now even more impossible than it was at home. She questions it at first, but quickly gets the idea, and is content enough to use it, her head and forepaws resting on my shoulder.

I set my plates and mugs outside my door as I head out. Figure it’ll let the kitchen staff sort things out when they’re ready for them.

Sharamph is leaning against the counter behind the bar, making notes about something, when I enter the mostly empty main room, “Hey Wreaz,” she greets me, “are you going to be staying with us another night?”

“I’m heading out to Pergamano today, actually. Just need to make a couple stops in town, first. Breakfast was lovely again, thank you.”

She nods, “would you like a lunch for the road? We always have a small supply of them in the larder for anyone heading out of town.”

“Sure, that would be great!”

“Great, you have an option of a ploughmans, a couple pasties with either corned beef, onions and potatoes, or roast beef and mushrooms, or pork buns.”

“Ooh, they all sound good. Could I actually get a ploughmans, two corned beef pasties, and a couple of pork buns? Y’all make really good food, and I have no clue how long I'll be on the road. Oh, and maybe some extra meat for Nyx? Whatever is fine, so long as there’s no garlic or onions.”

Sharamph smirks, “sure. I think we have some roast chicken in the larder that’s destined for the stew pot, I can grab some of that for your kitty.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Would you like some cider for the road? Or a bottle of something else, you just seem to drink cider mostly.”

“I do, never been big on beers and the like. A few bottles would be much appreciated. I should probably also get some water, can you tell me where I can get general supplies like a waterskin?”

“Sure, try The Game Trail, it’s a good general goods and supplies shop, near the Phantrain channel, basically just head towards the channel from our door, and you’ll see it. Bring the waterskin by here before you leave and I’ll fill it for you.”

“Thanks, Sharamph.”

“Want me to just set aside your lunches and you can pick them up before you leave town?”

“That would be great. What do I owe you for the lunches?”

“Two gold, and that includes the ciders and the meat for Nyx.”

I pull out a platinum and hand it to her, “for everything. I really appreciated everything y’all have done for me, thank you.”

Sharamph smiles and drops the coin into the till, “think nothing of it, it’s what we’re here for.”

“All the same,” I say, before gesturing goodbye and slipping from the stool.

My first stop is Greizis’ shop. I want to show them that my crazy spell worked, and maybe pick up a few magical supplies. There are a few student-y types poking around and being a bit curt with Greizis when I arrive, and the artificer shoots me a look of bemused mild irritation while gathering things for the swaggering dick currently taking up as much space as he can and mad that it’s not as much as he feels entitled to.

I poke around the shop while Greizis is treated like this asshole’s personal servant, until I hear what can only be a particularly derogatory term for raggamoffyns.

“‘Scuse me, which college do you attend?” I ask the weedy human male, who obviously thinks he’s the most important person in town.

“What’s it to you, swordbait?” he replies, the other humans, now obviously his friends, turning to watch our exchange.

I bristle. I don’t need to know the racial politics of this world to understand what’s implied by that term. “Well, I’m looking at both, myself, and I was going to say that whichever it was I would make sure to go to the other, but now I’m thinking that whichever college you’re at would be a great place to attend, just so I can do everything in my power to make your life shit.”

“Wreaz.” Greizis attempts to de-escalate things before there’s a fight in their shop. I glance at them, and they make a sort of “it’s fine” gesture. I shake my head slightly, and they plead with me with their glowing eyes.

“Ha, I’d like to see you get into Pergamano. Knife-ears can’t even manage to make a flickering light, they won’t let some bedlam whore like you in.”

Greizis is looking at the ceiling, either praying or cursing some unknown god for letting this happen in his shop today.

“Tell you what,” I say, oozing faux sweetness, “how about we step outside, so we don’t give Greizis any trouble, and we figure out who the better caster is. And the loser pays for whatever the winner is buying.”

The human smirks, “as if you have coi-”

I show my coffer mark, “oh, I have coin. The question is whether you have it. Or spine.”

It’s his turn to bristle, “alright, cunt. You’re on. Outside.”

I impress on Nyx the need for her to stay inside through our link, and she wriggles out of the sling and leaps from my shoulder to the counter. “Please watch Nyx for me, Greizis?”

They’re shaking their head ruefully, but stop to nod, and I follow the douchebag outside into the street.

“Alright, formal caster’s duel,” he announces, “To the cede, not the death. Hard for me to claim my prize if you’re dead.”

“Waste of my time to kill you, anyway, spunk-sponge.”

He sneers. “Alright, on three. Barry?” He looks to one of his buddies, who nods.

And suddenly I’m unsure as to what precisely I’m going to do. I’ve focused on more utilitarian spells in the last two days I’ve been here, and I’ve not yet figured out an offensive use for my little experiment. Wait… No, I know what I’m going to do.

On Barry’s count of three, the asshole opens with a magic missile, bland simple bolts of visible blue magical energy flying from his hand, and striking me in the chest, making me stagger, but only a moment. As he’s gesturing and chanting for a follow up, I launch myself at him bodily, letting my mind unfocus and begin the wordless chant. I’m not calling the cabin, or finding the electrical information of an app at home, instead, I’m connecting him directly to my life and memories, and, more importantly, 35 years of depression, anxiety, and trauma response, focused into a touch of just a few seconds as I grasp his collar with one hand and slam my gauntleted right into his forehead. I can feel the harrowing of his psyche while connected to it, and he drops to his knees, sobs wracking his body. His streaming eyes lock with mine and he unleashes a gout of fire that I’m just able to sidestep the brunt of.

This was the danger of dumping my trauma and depression into him. In men, depression frequently manifests in bursts of rage. But now he’s shaking, the fight almost out of him. He’s not thinking, and all it’ll take to end this is…

My eyes glow, and a blast of lambent black energy shaped like a goat skull-headed raven lashes from my gathered hands, hitting him full in the chest and knocking him back on his ass. His friends approach him warily, and it sounds like he’s been momentarily dazed. He coughs, then-

“I yield.” He lies on the cobbles for a moment, but he’s breathing. His friends are crouched over him, checking he’s ok, and they help him sit up. “What the fuck was that?” he asks.

“Eldritch blast? Did you not recognize it?”

“No,” he coughs again, “The other thing. What the fuck was that? That’s no spell I’ve ever heard of.”

“Ah. Hmm, it doesn’t really have a name. I suppose you could call it ‘Three Decades of Torment.’”

“That was no spell. Mage duels are about spells.”

“It was magic, was it not? I thought the idea was to demonstrate our magical power.”

“It was magic, Chraz,” Barry says. “Not a spell I’m familiar with, but it was magic.”

I arch an eyebrow, daring him to argue further. He shakes his head and is helped to his feet by his friends. “Alright. I suppose I can deign to hold up my end of the deal. Get your things.”

“Honestly, I’d rather you just promise to never use words meant to demean someone for their identity. I can buy my own stuff, this was a lesson.”

He glares at me. “Fine. If you want to give me an out, sure, I pro-”

I hold up my hand, “sorry, I’m not going to take it on trust.” I trace a symbol on the palm of my gauntlet and let the mantra flow in my mind to channel energy into it, while focusing on the Nether, the element of stasis and calcification, then hold my glowing hand out as if to shake his. “Ok, grasp my hand, and promise to never use any form of derogatory words based on a person’s identity again.”

Chraz eyes me warily, but to his credit, takes my hand, and makes his promise.

I hold his hand in my metal grasp, allowing my claws to dig into his flesh ever so slightly, our eyes locked, “you are now bound by your promise. If you stumble on your path from this point forward, it will hurt, even if no one around you calls you out.”

He nods imperceptibly, and I release his hand, stopping the mantra in my mind. I can feel the drain in my core from invoking that otherworldly source in such succession, and I’m standing purely through act of will at this point. My back begins to ache, and I glimpse the faintest hint of what the price of this might be. Every time I draw on my past, I link my new body to my old, I think.

I put on a show of leaning on the counter in nonchalant disregard, but it’s really to let my body recover its strength. The students finish their purchases, now simply curt, rather than outright insulting, and leave. I feel Greizis’ burning eyes on me as I’m watching them walk out the door.

“That was unnecessary,” they say.

I turn, “I suppose. But also very necessary. Someone had to give him a quick lesson.”

“And what prevents him and his friends from coming back here at night to cause trouble in revenge?”

“I’m going to go ahead and assume you mean other than the fact that raggamoffyns don’t sleep and you must have something powerful that you hold onto for self-defense given that your shop is literally full of magical items.”

They glare at me, “yes, other than that. I may well have a crossbow I’ve enchanted to Carcintinere and back under the counter in case someone makes trouble, but I prefer to not have to use it.”

“And now, he has been humiliated in the middle of town, and geased to never attack someone’s identity. I’ll be surprised if he comes back here any time soon.”

Greizis continues to glare at me. “Thank you for standing up for me, all the same.”

“You’re welcome. And, I admit, I could have de-escalated, and did not necessarily handle that as well as I could have. But he learned a lesson all the same. …and so did I.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah... I learned to be careful channeling whatever that uncodified magic that lets me connect to my old world is. I’m fucking tired.”

They shake their hooded head. “Well, what can I help you with?”

“Well, first, I wanted to show you that I’m not dead, and my crazy stupid dangerous experiment worked.”

“I see that,” Greizis says, stroking Nyx’s fur. “She’s cute. I take it that’s when you learned about your weird not-actual-spells magic?”

“Yeah. Or, something of it, anyway. I also came to just get some basics before I head out to Pergamano. Cure potions, maybe some basic utility scrolls, things like that.”

“Sure. What kind of utility? Pergamano’s about a day’s ride from here, but you may want to camp on the way, get there tomorrow. So, camp spells? Conjure food and water, alarm, tiny shack, that kind of stuff?”

“Probably a good start. I…” I laugh at myself. “I have no plan. I’m gonna summon a mount and show up in a blaze of aesthetic. Beyond that, iunno. Do me a favor and sort me out with what you think I’ll need? Maybe the basics you would take with you on the road?”

“Plus food?”

“Well, I’ve got a few lunches I’ll be taking with me, but, yeah, probably good to have some kind of backup there.”

Greizis nods. “Here, have a sit back here, you still look drained. I’ll grab your scrolls and stuff.”

“Thank you, Greizis.”

“Yeah, well, us outliers have to stick together. Even when one is running around sticking out and challenging more experienced magic users.”

“Especially then,” I grin, sinking down into a small, but hugely padded armchair. Nyx jumps up into my lap and presses herself over my chest, paws resting on my shoulder. I let myself doze off a little as Greizis bustles around gathering things into a small pouch, and eventually I feel a ghostly hand poke my cheek.

“Ok, you’re all set. I got you a caster’s pouch, it’ll keep the scrolls and potion vials protected. You’ve got some healing potions, a few basic scrolls for travel, including a mount scroll so you can judiciously use your own energy, save it for showing up rather than eating distance. Also sorted you out with some basic alchemical things. Do you see in the dark? I expect so, so I didn’t bother with any light, but I can grab it if you need. Other than that, you’ve got thunderstones, a couple flasks of alchemists fire and some acid. Generally things that you can lob at a threat to discourage them if they’re just some animal, or cut them down a bit before using spells if they’re more intent.”

“Full goblin, here. Dark’s no problem for me. Could be useful to have a bit of light, though.”

Greizis nods, “Ok, I’ll grab you a couple sunrods. Go ahead and take your time, I don’t know how much energy your magic takes, but I know it takes it.”

I nod, “Yeah, gimme a minute, but I think I’m ok. Um, actually, do you have any potions for, like, mental… unease? I had to connect myself to my old body for that duel, and summon the depression and trauma from then, and it’s lurking in my mind a bit, still.”

Greizis considers a moment, “I’ve got a few things you can try. I’ll grab them with the sunrods.”

I nod again, and they bustle off again. From the chair just behind the counter, I can see into the backroom where Greizis fully lifts off the ground, as if picked up by the scruff of their robe, to reach things on high shelves. Must be a raggamoffyn thing. Makes some sense, if they’re ghosts that possess fabric.

After a minute or two, I meet Greizis back at their till on which sits a belt pouch and a little drawstring bag, a couple potion vials and something that looks for all the world like a can of soda, branding and all, just made of varnished bamboo, rather than metal. It’s about the height of a large energy drink can. Under the clear varnish, the bamboo is painted vibrant blue, with an image of an owl encircled by flowering vines and branches over a background of what looks like the diagrams and invocations for a spell, but I can’t see enough to know which

“Ok, I also grabbed you a set of summon stones, just toss one on the ground and it’ll summon a minor monster to fight on your behalf.” Greizis gestures to the vials, “these are potions of calm emotions, and remove fear, if anything will help with the mental unease, they will. I also have a can of Owl’s Bolster, it’s a drink that’s made with cascara goodberries, providing caffeine and magical healing, along with sugar, and a bit of fat from milkfruit. Try this first, give it about ten minutes, and if you’re still ‘haunted,’ then try the potions, but I think the caffeine and goodberry will help a lot.”

“That’s… I haven’t seen canned drinks here. And, not that I’ve paid much attention, but, I don’t think I’ve seen much in the way of, like, centrally produced and marketed and distributed products here.”

“Urtrament has some industry. Your vapor pipe is mass produced and distributed. Things like Owl’s Bolster are a bit pricey, so even here in Marsti, it’s a specialty product. I keep a small stock, and occasionally have students come through looking for it. I think it’s more common and available in the colleges themselves, but can’t really say for certain. But, yeah, we have some stuff like this here. It’s not all bespoke one-of-a-kind made by an artisan on the spot stuff.”

“Cool. I take it there are more drinks like this? I can’t imagine one company- guild? Whatever, thought of this and only made the one product.”

“Well, there’s a subset of culinary alchemists that sort of has joint representation among mage and alchemist guilds, and a number of enchanted drinks come from them. There are a couple of companies that produce them, but, again, specialty product.”

I reach up and grab the canned drink and examine the lid a moment. The top is sealed with wax, a small pull string sticking out from the front, which I ignore in favor of just slicing through with a claw. “Ok, so what do I owe you today?” I take a sip, it tastes of something a bit like apples, with cloves, and some light, floral flavor, primarily. There’s a subtle umami flavor to it, a bit like miso soup, but it works rather nicely. “Oh, actually, I have a weirder request, that you may not be able to help with, but worth a shot- is there some item or spell I could use to, like, make my claws disappear for a bit?”

Greizis cocks their head a little, but doesn’t seem to find it too weird, “well, really that would just be extremely minor transmutation magic. Especially with goblins being so variable, you could very well just use alter self to change your shape to ‘you, but without claws’.”

“Ah, fair enough. I’ll have to start learning that.”

“Simple enough, shouldn’t take you long. Tab for today is 1400 gold. Feeling better?”

I take another sip of the owl’s bolster, and nod. “Much, thank you. Do you have any more of these?”

“Sure, I’ve got two more I can sell you. Makes your tab 1450 with both.”

“Definitely, I’ll do that,” I reply, nodding again and holding out my coffer mark.

Greizis traces my mark, and when the crystal turns green they slip it back in a pocket, “Alright, let me get those for you, I’ll let you sort out the new pouches.”

I take my belt off and slip it through the loops of the new caster’s pouch, and find a netsuke on the pouch for the summoning stones that allow me to easily hang it from the belt but still quickly retrieve it. Greizis brings out the two cans of Owl’s Bolster and hands them to me, and I slip them in my all-consuming bag before gesturing goodbye and heading out to the general store.

The Game Trail is quite close to the Phantrain channel, probably doing a lot of business with people who are just getting in or leaving town. It’s a fairly nondescript building, just on the respectable side of a large shack, but with a sign on front bearing its name and an image of a large egg over bird-like tracks. The front has a couple moderately sized display windows, nothing like the ostentatious giant picture windows of The Black Sailcloth. The door is actually a double door, each slightly narrower than typical, but together creating an opening that is slightly larger. They stand open, with a beaded curtain hanging across.

The inside of the shop is reasonably well lit with late morning sun, and items spread across the room, appearing to be haphazard at first, before you notice they’ve been organized, just not in any way that bothers with lots of tables and shelves. There’s a slight musty smell with a hint of acridness, and I wonder at the source until I hear a snorting sigh and scrabbling of claws on wood mixed with a clatter of… something. Looking over, there’s a rather large deinonychus curled up in front of the counter, apparently dozing, but actually lazily watching over the store, with a straight path to the door.

The Game Trail’s security system, I take it. And one that would probably not have much trouble making a meal of me. I love deinonychus, but seeing one in the flesh, and suddenly realizing that, whatever the size relation may have been when I was human, it would now tower over me, with legs as long as I am tall.

I eye it with only a hint of wariness, and much more admiration. It looks quite a bit like a large, well, raptor, a bird of prey. Which it is. It’s not completely covered in feathers, but bright plumage does cover much of its back and tail, with not-quite wing feathers folded against its forearms. It yawns, giving me a good view of its pristine teeth, a move I almost think was quite intentional on its part. It curls back up tucking its head into its arms, but also settles down such that it can still watch the shop through lidded eyes. The clattering sound I heard makes sense now, as it’s wearing a collar and harness that have been decorated with beads and some manner of bone, that I really try to think of as something other than finger bones.

The sound of hooves on wood comes from a stairwell behind the counter, and an androgynous person about a head shorter than me, with short horns and vibrant blue hair, purple fur covering their upper arms, crooked hoofed legs and swishing goat-like tail, wearing simple leather clothes, with jewelry much like the beaded curtain in the door and the deinonychus’ ornamentation comes down it. “Bit wary of Minoa, eh?”

“Just… haven’t seen a deinonychus in the flesh before. And incredibly aware of the fact that I am ‘dinner sized’ for them.”

The person chuckles. “Ah, don’t worry about her. She’s a big softy. At least until I tell her not to be.”

“C-can I pet her?” I ask, still more mesmerized than wary.

“That’s up to her, let her smell your hand first. She’s good enough to not take a bite before you actually try to mess with her.”

I tiptoe up to the raptor and crouch down, holding my hand out for her to sniff. Minoa eyes me languidly and uncurls her neck like she’s doing me a personal favor. I can feel Nyx’s claws digging into my shoulder and her uncertainty about this whole thing in my head. I send back a feeling of reassurance. Minoa sniffs at my hand then tilts her head, offering her neck and jaw for attention, and I stroke my hand down her crown and scritch her under the jaw, eliciting a contented rumble from her. I give her one more pet before standing up and letting her go back to working in her lazy way. The shop owner is smiling in bemusement.

“Well, you’ve passed muster as far as she’s concerned. What brings you in today?”

“Just need some basic travel supplies. Waterskin, a tent and bedroll, I guess. Hell, tindertwigs, too. In fact, let’s put it this way, I+I’m heading to Pergamano, and have literally nothing for travel and roughing it in the wild if I have to.”

They smirk, “Alright. Want me to sort you out, or can you manage?”

“Eh, I know myself well enough to know I’ll overlook something. I guess I can grab the things I mentioned, but if there’s something glaring that I didn’t, I would genuinely appreciate you helping me to not hare off without it.”

“Alright, go ahead and grab what you can think of, and I’ll see you right. I’ve got tents back here so you don't have to worry about lugging one up. My name's Hako, just let me know if you need help."

"Thanks, I'm Wreaz." I set about gathering some basic supplies- a decent blanket, a grooming kit, mess kit and a couple pieces of cookware, a bedroll, and take them up as my arms fill up, then go back, grabbing a box of tindertwigs, waterskin, another plate and mug to make feeding Nyx a bit easier, and a few other incidentals. Hako looks through and adds a few things like a small bundle of firewood and kindling.

"Do you need torches?"

"Nah, I can see in darkness and I've got some sunrods for when I need actual light."

They nod, "ok, you're traveling light, but if you're just heading to Pergamano, you should be good. I'm assuming you've got food sorted?"

I nod, "I've got some meals from the Derelict, and I can do some hunting. Greizis hooked me up with scrolls of Mage's Gamehound, and I'm going make sure I learn it."

"Sounds like you're all set for a short trip, then. Comes to…" they break off to tally up, " call it 27 gold."

I dig out some coin and hand it over, and start feeding things into my bag. The tent is a moment of concern, but it's rolled tightly enough that I can fit it through the opening and then it's just a matter of quasi-dimensional space, which is maybe getting a bit full, but I'm not too worried just yet. The waterskin gets hung of the side of my bag and strapped into place. I gesture goodbye to Hako, and give Minoa another scritch under the jaw and head out.

A quick stop at The Derelict, and… that's it. I look over the Marsti one more time, and feel a bit of anxiety about having to move on from this place that welcomed me so easily. But I've got things to do.

I head to the edge of town and sort out my heading towards Pergamano with the landlay function on my slate, then take a deep breath. Time for experimental casting.

I still my mind as best I can, taking another swig from the Owl's Bolster I slipped into a side pocket of my bag while finishing errands. Thank Æther for non-dimensional spaces where things are held in stasis.

I focus my mind on Æther, and begin my invocation, conjuring a shape in my mind's eye, then metaphorically fleshing it out with raw æther. A quick gesture and space is rent, allowing the material to pour out of metaphysical realms and into the physical world, where it quickly flows into the form I conjured. A stout, roughly goat-like body, with a skeletal raven head, crested with feathers and horns. Another gesture and I tie a thin stand of nether into the now tapering flow of æther, creating a static but ever replenishing supply of magical energy for my mount.

There's a mild commotion as nearby mages begin to view my casting with magical sight and examine what I just cast exactly, finding that it's nothing they know, only similar to codified spells they might know.

Nyx leaps from my shoulders and nestles into the hollows of my mount's exposed shoulder blades and I mentally command it to kneel so I can climb into the saddle. I flash a smirk at the small cluster of students who are studying my spell and with a mental urging, my conjured steed gallops off in the direction of Pergamano.

[probablyevilrpgideas]

TMW you realize the actual implications of some worldbuilding you did

[probablyevilrpgideas]

I'm pretty ambivalent about halflings and gnomes. I don't hate them, I just don't care. And they feel redundant in a setting that isn't incredibly generic. Like, sure, if you're doing a setting where anything goes, then, why not. Why not have two short pc races that are so similar they might as well be two cultures of the same species.

But if I'm making my own, specific, setting, I don't see the need to have either halflings or gnomes, let alone both, because, at least flavor-wise, they amount to "3' tall humans/elves/dwarves."

(not to mention how often gnomes feel uncomfortably like antisemitic stereotypes.)

But I understand that there should, generally, be at least one small race that is well suited to being a rogue.

So, in my horror fic-inspired D&D setting, Zichduszek, I created the niflings. The major PC races in Zichduszek were made from humans who were corrupted by otherworldly powers. Dwarves were made into the perfect mine slaves by dragons, elves are the result of the fae messing with humans through changelings and seduction and kidnapping to the fae realms, orcs were created by infernals to be their blood hounds for souls. So, niflings are the result of humans being corrupted by The Shadow, most notably, through children getting lost in areas corrupted by it. They're broadly halflings, but with grey skin and a connection to darkness. After reaching adulthood, niflings only age in light, and can theoretically live forever if they stay out of it. They can see in any form of darkness and are magically adept at hiding in it.

So working on Urtrament, I had no intention or interest in including halflings or gnomes. Initially, I didn't really want anything even similar to them, and created Raggamoffyns to fill the "short and sneaky" mechanical niche, after a twitter thread joking about how muppets reproduce.

But as I've been working on my story, I realized I wanted an npc to be in that sort of halfling/gnome mold. And not a Raggamoffyn, since I'd already put two raggamoffyn npcs in and a third would have made it seem like the city was just bursting with raggamoffyns.

(actually, thinking about it, Marsti probably does have a comparatively high raggamoffyn populace, since they're spooky and it's the closest town to the necromancy college, making it fairly tolerant of spooky people, but still. It didn't feel like a place for another raggamoffyn character)

So I started thinking about what Urtrament's short arse race was, looking at pages for gnomes and halflings on tvtropes and Wikipedia to sort of get some understanding of their history in fantasy lit and games, and started figuring out what I wanted with some other influences.

Initially, the only real ideas I had were "I like the cannibal halflings from Book of Vile Darkness, and the dinosaur-riding nomad halflings from Eberron." One thing I was thinking about was making trolls my setting's short arse race, drawing a little on Glorantha and troll myths, but I didn't want to cause confusion, since this is still D&D, and I'd sort of already established trolls as being typical D&D trolls (yes, the Things Proq is Not Allowed to Do post is canon for my setting).

I like hyenas, and so seeing either an Hourly Hyenas tweet or some other mention of them made me start thinking about making the short arse race hyena-like. But again, that could cause confusion with gnolls, and rewriting gnolls to be a pc-viable short arse race would also cause confusion.

So, instead, I made Gnomolls, taking these ideas together and making something unique. They're obligate carnivores, so they have touches of the BOVD jerron, and they have some hyena-like traits, as well as some goat traits. They're more specifically fae-connected.

And while I was writing up the physical description in my setting doc, it felt familiar, but I couldn't really place it, other than "they're maybe a little satyr-like."

Lying in bed last night, it occurred to me what they sounded so similar to.

There's a piece of tiefling art for Pathfinder, a tiefling who is obviously from halfling or gnome lineage, but with cloven hooves and short horns, and I think a tail.

I can't for the life of me find this picture, but it's a thing and Gnomolls are basically that guy, at least physically. They're not tieflings, that's teufils, but, I do recognize that they could be mistaken for them.

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Oh, so I kind of intuitively* did it right when I was writing An Earth Trans in Urtrament, just with a split between "the conservative elitist wizard University" and "the anarchocommunist radical necromancy educational coming."

Good to know lol

*ok, I did some Wikipedia research on the origin of universities, so it wasn't entirely intuitive

A thing that bothers me about wizard schools in popular media – outside of the magic-grade-school stuff, anyway – is that they're typically depicted as being basically magic universities, but their actual curricula and pedagogical approaches look much more like those of a technical institution. Like, buddy, that's not a wizard university, that's a wizard trade school. You can't just slap university student culture on top of trade school pedagogy. It doesn't work like that – the one emerges from the other!

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Things Which Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza Is No Longer Allowed to Do

Foreward:

The Golden Throne, in the interest of minimizing inter-throne conflict, proposes this list of acts which will be considered declarations of war when performed by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza. It is not intended to single out the esteemed holder of The Salvage Throne and High Lord-Hero of All Goblins, but rather is directed to them in recognition of their peculiar abilities and frame of mind. It should be understood that such acts would likewise be considered acts of war if performed by any Throne holder if they were able to perform them to the level of skill and ability of Artificer Supreme Proq Khaasza.

While the Diplomatic Community of Urtrament Throne Holders is not able to exercise authority over Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza, they being as sovereign as any other Throne holder, the following items will be considered to be acts of war, and responded to accordingly, by the undersigned Throne holders.

The original of this document shall be held by The Golden Throne, while Sympathetic Copies will be provided to all Throne Holders. Additions to this list may be proposed by any Throne Holder, after which they will be discussed and voted on by the Diplomatic Community of Throne Holders, in meetings arranged by The Vellum Throne.

Signature of this document indicates agreement to its terms but does not bind a signatory to act in any particular way.

(this document has been signed by all known Throne holders save for Proq Khaasza and Sunken Throne Holder Kol'Khiaq)

Things Which The Diplomatic Community of Urtrament Will Henceforth Consider Acts of War by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza

Usage of ink composed of deep shadow and black sand in letters sent to other Throne holders anyone.

Handing out Black Bags and Desecration Tape to any goblins

Teleporting around the world over the course of one night and leaving any powerful magic items in the shoes of goblins while they sleep

Any research into the alchemical composition of the body which produces the Goblin Condition with the goal of creating a Goblinization Elixir

Creation of Carrying at diplomatic functions any form of Greater Bag of Tricks made through the use of high level conjuration magic, especially those which conjure proxies of Primal Beasts (we can't stop them from making these things, but by all the gods, we can bar them from carrying them to official functions)

Providing said Greater Bags of Tricks to attendants who are then brought to said functions as Salvage Throne staff.

Handing out said Greater Bags of Tricks to anyone who will then be within a mile of a diplomatic function.

Creating false bottoms composed of sugar and containing Alchemists Fire in the bed pans of other Throne holders through any means, whether magical or infiltration of serving staff.

Providing "medicine" which is actually Tanglefoot compound in pastille capsules to other Throne holders

Replacing the silverware, glassware, or dishes at any diplomatic function dinner with Thunderstones which have been Stone Shaped into the appropriate form.

Setting Thunderstones into the backs of chairs at said functions and then provoking other Throne holders such that they suddenly stand and knock their chair over.

Doing anything on this list to God Throne holder Ny-Aarnd, "even though nobody likes The God Throne." (While true, he tends to make it everybody's problem)

Making gifts of clothing tapestries coffers gold ANYTHING which are actually polymorphed skeletons zombies wolves Daemon Dragons ANY DANGEROUS CREATURE with a non-permanent duration. (Lets not take the chance of letting them get around this with permanent durations)

The next time a rust monster is introduced to someone's Coffer through any means at all, but especially through polymorphing the monster into coins and paying someone through coffer mark will be considered a declaration of war on the whole world, and in particular will be answered by the most highly trained and capable wardens available to The Golden Throne as we consider it to be both counterfeiting and debasement of the currency.

Placing Contingent Evil Weather effects with the trigger "hears the name Proq Khaasza spoken" on vermin which are then released into the palaces of other Throne holders.

Ditto for the trigger "hears (any Throne holder's) name."

Such Contingent Evil Weather effects are likewise not to be placed on serving staff of the palace.

These condemnations also go for any birds which are then released into the area surrounding a palace any settlement.

These condemnations also apply to the following triggers: the death of the creature bearing the spell, the birth of an heir to the Throne holder, hearing profanity or obscenities, when the creature bearing the spell leaves the palace, when the creature bearing the spell is targeted by Dispel Magic.

Offering to help a Throne holder who is suffering a headache, heartburn, indigestion, muscle spasms, or any other physical ailment and then doing so by teleporting the offending body part out of their body.

The same goes for mental ailments and brains.

Heartburn is likewise not to be "treated" through making an incision on the person and casting Chill Metal on their blood, even if "technically, it should work due to the iron content of blood."

Note to all Throne Holders-- At this point, anyone who accepts medical assistance from Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza gets what they deserve. It should be well-known by now that while they may be able to treat any kind of ailment or wound, they are not doing so in good faith, no matter what they say.

Ending any oath with the words "or may the Heavens fall," especially when the oath is magically bound.

Ending any oath with the words "or may Daemons take us all," especially when the oath is magically bound.

Ending any oath with the words "or may we all be violated by Spiked Tentacles of Forced Intrusion," especially when the oath is magically bound, whether that's a real spell or not.

Make any magically bound oath through verbal agreement. Magically bound oaths made by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza must be made in written form such that they will be null and void if they introduce any non-agreed upon additions, and will not become binding until both parties have signed--And Proq must sign first.

All clothing, equipment, jewelry, and other possessions carried or brought by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza are subject to Identification prior to their entrance to diplomatic events, meetings, or functions. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war.

Note to all Throne Holders-- All condemnations to which Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is subject by this list must likewise explicitly be applied to Manacled Throne Holder Rald Ghonaeg. As Proq has pointed out, while they are, perhaps, uniquely likely to conceive of these actions, Rald is as capable of performing them, due to his usage of Efreeti-Wish magic to claim and maintain his throne.

Note to all Throne Holders-- While they are more likely to fight than collaborate, Proq Khaasza and Rald Ghonaeg are not to interact. Any outcome will become everyone's problem in short order.

Creating an army of skeletons and providing them cursed equipment, to then be placed in the path of Templar raiding forces such that this cursed equipment will be quickly looted by said Templars.

Note to all Throne Holders-- Condemnation 31 does not apply within the territory of the Salvage Throne. Anyone who attempts to invade a sovereign territory unprepared for how the sovereign will respond--no matter how cruel, unorthodox, or otherwise "creatively malicious,"--brings such actions upon themselves, and it is not within the power of the Diplomatic Community to control how individuals defend their territories.

That said, the creation of the spell Proq's Time Delay Bowel Disruption Curse disgusts all signatories of this document, and its use is considered to be disproportionate retribution, no matter the acts of the invading force.

Distribution of wands of Proq's Bowel Disruption Curse to oppressed populaces will only result in the slaughter of said populaces you allegedly care about, Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza, I mean, really now.

In light of the fact that a sufficiently powerful casting of Proq's Bowel Disruption Curse can produce the effect "Fatal Intestinal Maelstrom," usage of the spell on any Throne holder, or soldier or guard thereof will be considered an act of war, and an investigation will be undertaken into how the caster acquired the spell or device which produced the effect.

It is the opinion of The Golden Throne that torture, especially that which causes bodily harm of any form, is an ineffective method of interrogation, and a despicable means of punishment. However, simply showing a captive tools or other implements of torture as a means of encouraging cooperation with an interrogation or persuasion is regarded as fairly innocuous. That said, when the "implement" is, to quote from reports, "an amorous half-dragon troll of immense stature, even for his race, with an elephantine erection," who has allegedly been given "enough aphrodisiacs to kickstart a world-repopulating orgy," it is the opinion of The Golden Throne and most other Thrones that this is over the line.

Whether said ogre is an immaterial illusion, or not.

Usage of mental compulsion magic to convince a subject that their blood has been replaced with "evil testicle-hating centipedes," who will "chew their way to" said organs and "painfully destroy them," is considered to be a method of psychological torture which will cause physical harm. It's usage on other Throne holders or their official representatives will therefore be considered an act of war on par with other forms of torture used on such personages.

Actually transmuting a subject's blood to "evil testicle-hating centipedes" through high-level polymorphification magic is not to be taken as a loophole in the above condemnation.

Even if the subject "deserves it."

Transmuting the sex slaves of a Throne holder such that their orifices become "maws full of evil rapist emasculating fangs" is prohibited. Even if said slaves enthusiastically consented to the transmutation. Especially if they enthusiastically consented.

Note to All Throne Holders-- Through majority vote, Condemnations 38 through 41 are invalid in the case of usage against individuals whose sex slaves are found or considered to be of particularly vulnerable demographics.

Note to All Throne Holders-- Both the vote to consider sex slavery to be a despicable act of violation of sapient autonomy and the vote to declare it a practice with no official sanction by sovereign powers have been declared a draw. Individual Throne holders will hold their own opinions of this practice, and any actions undertaken by one Throne holder against another in regards to the practice are between the Throne holders in question. It is not the business of the Diplomatic Community to arbitrate such disagreements. That said, Condemnation 41 is still meant to be considered a broadly held opinion of the Diplomatic Community.

Usage of oneiromancy to attack Throne holders in ways condemned by this document will be regarded as if the actions occurred outside of dreams.

Note to All Throne Holders-- All accusations that Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza used oneiromancy to assault a Throne holder in their dreams will be investigated to the fullest magical ability of The Vellum Throne. Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is not culpable for your own nightmares, no matter how justified.

Note to All Throne Holders-- It is not the business of the Diplomatic Community to arbitrate Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza "stealing your wives."

Or girlfriends.

Or concubines.

Or daughters.

Note to All Throne Holders-- If you do not want Proq Khaasza, High Lord Artificer and Protector of All Goblinkind and AEther's Gift to Femmes seducing the people you consider "your property," perhaps you should treat them better, and begin by not considering them property.

Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is not to alter the master of this document through manipulation of their Sympathetic Copy, and the only reason their methods for doing such have not been investigated is for concern that any investigation would result in broader knowledge of how to subvert the magic which undergirds many binding contracts and agreements in Urtrament.

However, Statement 50 will remain by majority vote of the Diplomatic Community.

All future votes by the Diplomatic Community will involve affidavits verified through the most powerful divination magic available to The Vellum and Golden Thrones to prevent further manipulations through mental compulsion magic by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza.

The fact that it cannot be fully and definitively verified which members of the Diplomatic Community were mentally compelled prior to the vote held for Statement 52 is not to be taken by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza as an endorsement of their actions with regards to Statements 50 through 52.

Usage of Necromantic Magic to control the bodies of dissidents executed by other Throne Holders to perform any musical number, but in particular ones involving the songs "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life," "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts," "Fuck You," or "I've No More Fucks to Give," will not be considered an Act of War, but please, do not do it again, Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza. It was very disturbing.

We likewise apply Statement 55 to the following performance styles: Monologues, Soliloquies, Choruses, "Roasts," "Flytings," "Diss Tracks," Vociferous Praise of the Executioner or Throne Holder, whether genuine or sarcastic, "curses from beyond the grave," Stand Up Routines.

If it is found that Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza had anything to do with the rash of scolding apparitions which most Throne Holders experienced over the AEthertime Week of 3048 GL, the Diplomatic Community will convene to discuss what the consequences of this should be. Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza should therefore consider this to be a condemnation of future instances of such apparitions, if they were in fact involved.

God Throne Holder Ny-Aarnd wishes to make it known that cursing him with "stereotypical villain motif music from a half copper street play, produced by a persistent Ghost Sound effect whenever (he) did anything" was not appreciated, nor funny, and he will consider future "juvenile curses" to be personal insults, and respond as he sees fit--quote, "ask the people who have insulted me before, I will rent you a shovel and map to their graves."

The majority of the Diplomatic Community has voted to make it known "No, it actually was hilarious, and, compared to their typical exploits, Proq is encouraged to do it again."

Note to All Throne Holders-- The Golden Throne neither condones nor condemns such "Juvenile Curses," save to say you are all, allegedly, adults, and encourage you to act like it.

[probablyevilideasafterdark]

An Earth Trans in Urtrament chapter 4: The Obligatory Shopping Session

Holy crap. This chapter is a long one. Please let me know what you think. I really enjoyed writing it, but writing Wreaz rambling around town, vibing, shopping, and learning about Urtrament, and reading it are two different things.

An Earth Trans in Urtrament Chapter 4: The Obligatory Shopping Session

The train pulls into a station and it’s not until an announcement sounds from the air that I notice. The motion of the train was so smooth, and its deceleration apparently so gradual, that the only sign of either was to look outside of it. One moment, the landscape was moving by the windows at a pace rivaling what I would see on the freeway, and the next thing I knew, we sat in the midst of the outer edge of a town. The trains were built on the edge of the settlements they stopped at, but, as is the way of things, enough time had passed that towns had grown across the, for want of a better word, “tracks.”

Mez’gin gathers up her things, “would you like to travel to the Coil together?”

I slide from the booth seat and carefully slip the notebooks and tome and pamphlets I’d pulled out over the last hour or so of the trip into my bag. “Actually, I think Cassiel scheduled a meeting at Pergamano, first, so I’m heading there. This was just on the way. I think she was thinking that the Coil was her better option, though, and figured it would make more sense for that to be her second stop, rather than having to head back there after deciding. But, hey, I’ll probably see you there later,” I smile.

“Ok! Message me if you get a scryslate, and make sure to send an image of your home stone!” Mez’gin waved.

“I will!” I respond brightly, starting to learn to rein in the frenzied lust my body and mind are thrown into when looking at or talking to someone attractive.

We walk together out of the train and onto the platform and say our goodbyes with a hug. Somewhat of an awkward maneuver for Mez’gin with her being roughly half-again my height, but then it’s an awkward maneuver for me as I restrain myself from literally diving into her ample cleavage. Mez’gin waves and heads on her way and I turn for my first real look at the train I’d just been riding on.

It’s… impressive. The cars are fairly familiar, much like the old “steam engines are the big new thing” era train cars of my home world, but prettier, befitting the luxury of a magical means of transportation here, but they have no wheels, instead sitting on large glowing discs of nebulous lambent energy that floats several feet from the ground, where a narrow stream of water runs through a radiant channel. Deeply curious about what the engine looked like, I head towards the leading end of the train, finding no Earthly train engine, but rather a horse-like construct of the same glowing energy as the discs that bear the train. It stands impassively, not even nickering, or flicking its luminous tail or ears. Like a static hologram of the platonic ideal of a horse’s body, absent the mind of a horse. A scant handful of crew, at least compared to what would staff a train this size at home, go about various station-tasks. Some are taking their break, others looking over the carriages in a very quick-perfunctory way. I imagine that wear and tear on this vehicle is rare and light, but still something they watch for, just to be safe. A few crew members bend their heads together over a standing-height table with what I guess to be maps or similar charts, with the occasional courier or messenger running up to share some unknown but presumably vital news and they grumble or nod as they turn to make a note.

All around me, people go on with their lives. I’m a rube, seeing the big train for the first time, awed by this completely mundane thing. Or that’s how I feel. Just like no one’s bothering with the train, no one’s paying attention to this one goblin gawking at it.

I pull the strap of my bag higher up on my shoulder. I got shit to do, so, enough gaping. First up, a scry slate. I want to keep in touch with Mez’gin, she’s cute and can maybe teach me about Urtrament. It’s good to have someone who knows the truth already.

Asking around a bit gets me to a small storefront, undoubtedly with an apartment above it, that has a chalk signboard outfront reading “Greizis Ænimat, Magewright” and “Scry Slates in Stock.” The door is open and a steady ambience of tapping and etching flows out of it. Inside, for a moment, I think the store is unattended, but notice that, actually, what looks like a lumpy coat or robe or something on a chair is the artisan producing the sounds of crafting. A darkness-filled hood with the faintest hint of features sewn and embroidered onto it looks up and greets me with a cryptic, babbling voice that takes me a second to parse into actual words.

“...hi, Greizis, I take it?”

“That’s me” the strange figure replies. “No apprentices, never works out. I do have a few homunculi wrights in the back, but they’re not much use on the sales floor.”

“Nice to meet you, Greizis. I wanted to pick up a scry slate? And maybe a quasi-dimensional bag if you have any.”

“Oh! Yes!” says the wild-throated person who hops down from their stool and comes out from behind the counter. I’m a little surprised to see they are shorter than me, coming up to about my mid-chest, and still with no indication of what the person inside the patchwork robe looks like. Their robe touches the ground, with no rise from it as they glide towards me, not a hint of actual feet stepping inside, and their hands are covered in rough leather gloves that move stiffly, as if the leather was incredibly thick, but their width would leave no space for fingers inside if they were. “Did you have a particular scry model in mind?” they say in a voice that is just too comprehensible to rightly call a jabber.

“Uhh… well, I was thinking either a mirror slate or black ice slate. I’m likely going to be attending The Ororboric Coil soon, and figured those would be the most appropriate.”

The enigmatic Greizis walks over to a case, beckoning me to follow, “Blue ice has been difficult to get lately, so I don’t have any black ice slates in stock, been trying to find a new source… but I have mirror slates in stock. Those are much easier to produce.” They gesture to the case, with numerous scry slates of various makes propped up under the glass, a small stack behind each display. I’m struck for a moment by the familiarity of it, with some even having loops built into the metal backing that allow you to attach small charms. “Most of these use standard iron backing, but I have a few other pricier options if you’d prefer.”

“...do you perhaps have any with obsidian backing?”

“Ah, the full necro-core option. I keep a few in stock, since we’re close to The Coil here in Marsti,” Greizis points to a small group of slates on a black cloth. One floats up from the middle stack and the shop owner plucks it from the air and hands it to me. Turning it over in my hands, there’s a silver design etched into the back, depicting a skull grasped in a ghostly hand.

“Your maker’s mark?” I asked.

“Yep! Thought it was a pretty fitting mark for myself, and it could be more prominent on the necromancer special models.”

“You’re a necromancer yourself, then?”

“I am, and of course an artificer, and a raggamoffyn.”

“...I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with raggamoffyns.”

“Oh, you must have been pretty sheltered,” they … well, it isn’t a visual smirk, but you can hear their smirk. “Ask around about us. Then ask at the Coil. It’ll be entertaining,” they chuckle and take the slate. “There’s a selection of quasi-dimensional bags on the wall over there, lots of different styles, all the same basic enchantment. Were there any slate scrolls you wanted as well?”

I browse through the bags as I think, “Well, you’re not wrong about me being fairly… sheltered about this world… I have a pretty general knowledge, I suppose. I guess I’d be interested in any slate scrolls that can capture images and play music? I don’t know if those are things…” The raggamoffyn artisan bustles around as I look at bags, and I can hear parchment rolls being set together. “Oh, actually, come to think of it… is there anything like an encyclopedia ap-, uh, slate scroll? Something I can use to look up basic information about things?”

“A lorecall scroll, yeah, that’s reasonably common, I have some in stock. Would you like a psyche charm as well?”

I turn, holding a black leather bag with a tendrils and skulls motif, “Pretend I have absolutely no knowledge of what that is.”

Greizis chuckles, “a psyche charm is a magical sapience. Most can converse with you, and if connected to a slate with lorecall, it will convey the knowledge unless you would rather read what is turned up. I have a simple set up here that allows you to select a charm and then have it made into a psyche charm with a chosen personality, rather than choosing from whatever I’ve already made. No turn around time.”

“That’d be cool.” I take the bag up to the counter and set it down, where I take a moment to re-orient myself as Greizis is suddenly looking over the counter at me, presumably standing on a stool or box behind it. They slide a bowl of assorted charms, each with some manner of strap and clip, over to me.

“Go ahead and dig through the charms. I can also make some minor customizations if you find one that’s not quite what you want, no additional charge. Was there anything else?”

I consider a moment, “no, I think I’m good, though if you could point me to a good shop for some more fashionable clothes, and maybe give me a recommendation for lunch, I’d appreciate it.” I dig through the bowl of charms a bit more and pull out a few I like, “And I think I’d like this spectrolite bird made into a psyche charm, could you make it more crow-like? And maybe give it more eyes.”

Greizis takes the glittering proffered charm, “Well, for clothes, you might find some things you like at The Black Sailcloth, it was opened by a pirate who got rich quick and tired of dodging the navy even quicker, so it’s pretty eclectic. I get some good off-cuts there. For lunch… well, I don’t eat much, and ragamoffyn taste is… different from others’, but I’ve heard good things about The Strange Lounge. I can give you directions, but you might want a Land Lay scroll for your slate. It won’t map anything and everything, but it can give you a map of most cities, towns, that stuff, at least in a broad points-of-interest level.”

“That’d be great, actually, I’ll take a Land Lay scroll, too.”

“Ok, I’ll grab that from the back when I enchant your psyche charm. You have a choice of whether it’s empathic or can speak, it could be telepathic, too, but that’s a good bit costlier.”

“Speech would be fine.”

“Ok, then you can select some abilities for it, two or three, more than that, and it has to be telepathic, and you can choose a personality. I have a booklet of the basic options, if you’d like to take a look.”

“Sure. Otherwise I’ll be sitting here asking you things all day,” I smile.

Greizis lifts out a book from under the counter, “I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s slow, I don’t mind. I’ll start altering the charm while you look.”

Leafing through the booklet, I quickly find some options that sound good, “Ok, I think I want deathwatch, detect magic and spellcraft, and a sympathetic personality. Though, is it possible to give the charm the ability to read all languages without necessarily going up to the telepathic price range?”

“Strictly, not as part of the typical psyche charm effects, but I can make it work.” Greizis tallies up some amounts on a scrap of paper, “Ok, so that brings you to 22,000 gold. I shaved off a bit since you’re buying… a good bit,” Greizis audibly smirks again.

“Ouch. Alright, well, no worries, I’m spending ‘daddy’s’ money,” I snark and offer my arm with the… debit? tattoo on it.

“Coffer mark, eh?” Greizis waves a small wand over the tattoo and startles a bit, “you’re the Oredenark girl?”

I make a note of how Greizis referred to the tattoo. “There’s been… a substantial rift. But I haven’t been cut off, just disowned. It’s like I’m dead to him,” I smirk ghoulishly. “Don’t worry, I share literally none of his beliefs.”

“And don’t you worry, I will gladly take that asshole’s money. Serves his entitled dick right. Ok, I’m gonna go enchant your charm, and get that last scroll for you, do you need any instruction on any of these?”

“Nah, I… have a good working knowledge of how scry slates and quasi-dimensional bags work, I just don’t know what all ap- er, slate scrolls exist.”

“Ok, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As Greizis hops off of whatever was boosting them to see over the counter and shuffles to the back, I start familiarizing myself with my new bag and loading things in. The scry slate comes with a nice wooden box, with an illuminated instruction manual inside, and I resolve to take a look at that over lunch. Hopefully basic setup doesn’t take too long, but we’ll see. Greizis comes back with my new multi-eyed raven charm and another instruction manual and a scrap of paper.

“Figured it would be handy to give you the basic write up for the psyche charm, and here’s directions to The Black Sailcloth and The Strange Lounge.”

“Thank you so much, Greizis. Hope to see more of your shop in the future.” Shouldering my bag, I turn to leave and take a look at the directions. The desire to sit for a bit and set up my new totally-not-a-smartphone and the desire to get into clothes I chose being pretty even. My stomach gurgles and my brain yearns for serotonin, making that decision for me. The Black Sailcloth isn’t far, but neither is The Strange Lounge, and the latter is on the way to the other, so lunch it is. I have no clue what food is like here, but at least there should be a menu.

The Strange Lounge is only about a ten minute walk away, but some of that time is mean gawping in excitement and wonder at strange things and stopping, or missing a turn because I was paying more attention to a pretty, tall woman I want to raid and pillage my warrens than where I was going. I should have told myself there’d be plenty to wonder at and lust over at the Lounge, but, hell, I doubt that’d have focused me. Walking in, I carefully focus on looking at tables, not people, just so I would actually find myself a place to sit, and see a small table in a corner available, likely empty because the few patrons here at this time being larger groups. There’s a steady low buzz of activity. Not loud, not raucous, just the hum of people being social and eating. I take one last quick look to make sure I didn’t miss a sign or indication that there was a “seating by host” setup, and slip over to the table, lounge on the large-for-my-small-body seat with my bag beside me, and allow myself to really look at the place for the first time.

The walls of The Strange Lounge are a rich purple, with deep red curtains and wall hangings giving texture and absorbing sound. There’s a seating area towards the front, soft padded chairs arranged around a low table with what I think is a hookah, or something similar, sculpted in the shape of some strange beast or animalistic demon god–I really need to get my slate set up so I can look things up. The clientele are in the “young, thinkers of profound thoughts and holders of non-physical jobs” mold, or at least playing at it, but I can see ink on the hands of some the ones closest to me, and no one looks like a dockworker. The dishware at the other tables gleam with a polish that belies their utilitarian sturdiness. I doubt they’re the silver they seem to be, more likely a tin alloy, thick enough to give some weight, but shiny and cheap, but above all durable, at least compared to actual silver. A variety of drinking ware sits on the other occupied tables, wooden tankards of something like a beer, glasses of wine, and steaming ceramic cups of tea or coffee. The utensils are stamped metal, almost certainly a tin alloy, but actual silverware is not out of the question.

A slender elf woman with a short apron over her peasant-style skirt, wearing a thin bodice and light blouse, her hair closely cropped and hints of vibrant tattoos slipping over what could be seen of her shoulders and nape comes to my table, and I realized I haven’t looked at the menu card in the center of the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Uh, sorry, mind’s a bit elsewhere today, still need to look at the menu. But could I please get a cider, if you have it?”

“Certainly, pear or apple?”

“Apple, please. Is that served chilled, by any chance?”

“Yes, we pride ourselves on actually having a blue ice box here,” she smiles.

“They’re not common in Marsti?”

“No, a lot of blue ice that comes into the city is quickly turned into scry slates. We even have been getting artificers wanting to buy our box to turn into slates. But Óminni figures we make more money on the prestige of cold drinks and sweets than they’d make even on the finished slates, let alone what they’d pay us for the ice. I’ll get you your cider and let you look over the menu. If you need anything, my name is Delsanra.”

“Thank you, Delsanra,” I reply and pick up the menu card. The menu’s simple layout and small offerings bely the complexities of flavors the dishes speak of. I can read it as well as if I’d grown up here and learned the language from birth, but can only guess at some of the spices and components mentioned from their use with things I do recognize. Delsanra returns shortly and places a bottle of pale golden liquid with a light froth inside in front of me.

“All ready?”

“I think so. You’ll have to forgive me, my upbringing was a bit spartan, so I’m not entirely familiar with some of the things here. I think I’d like the bonamundi sandwich, but, please, tell me, the sigisforz peppers, are they yellow and pickled?”

“No, you’re thinking of, I think, jadwellocins. Sigisforz are a red pepper, and we roast them for the bonamundi sandwich.”

“Excellent, I think I’d like that. Are they particularly hot peppers?”

“They have a little heat, but they’re more sweet, and pretty mild. A little bit more bite than bell peppers, but that’s it.”

“Oh, that sounds good. What kind of cheese do you use?”

“Well, our bonamundi sandwich uses a salt-kneaded and cave aged cheese. We can’t get the salt brine bathed cheeses out here.”

I think for a moment, trying to remember culinary lessons a decade past. I think that’s cheddar. “Great. I think I’d rather the salt-kneaded cheese,” I smile.

“Perfect, that’ll be up pretty shortly. Fried potatoes with it?”

My mouth almost waters more over the prospect of something like french fries than it has over anything …else since I woke up here. “Yes, please, you’re a goddess.”

Delsanra chuckles. “Ok, let me know if you need anything else.”

I set my menu back down in the rack I pulled it from and pull the box containing my new scry slate out. Looking over the manual, basic setup seems pretty straightforward, but the scrolls will need to wait. They can take a bit, and I’ll need fire. I sip on my cider as I go through the process of forming my astral attendant in the AMS–an impish humanoid figure of black and red streaked stone-like material, designing my home marker–a tower of an ascending horned raven clutching an inverted pentacle in its beak, and selecting a messenger–a crow to carry out the theme. By the time my sandwich and potatoes–beautifully golden fried larger sticks, with what I’m fairly certain is a small ramekin of ketchup beside them–arrive, I’m using a little bit of polymorphic magic included in the setup options to give my messenger two more eyes and small curving ram horns.

The sandwich is wonderful. It is piled high with thinly sliced fennel kielbasa, pepperoni, ham, and even some lightly pan fried pulled chicken, then onions, fresh bell and roasted sigisforz peppers, and a generous brushing of oil and vinegar on the inside of the toasted bun. I order one more cider while I eat and finish sorting out the slate setup that doesn’t require a crucible and stand, mostly just waking up my psyche charm and naming them–Taufr. At the end of my meal, I’m wishing I had my vape, or a cigarette at least. Guess this is as good a time as any to try out my new slate.

I sketch out an image of my home marker and write a quick message-

“Hi Mez’gin! Got my slate. How well do you know Marsti? I just finished lunch at The Strange Lounge, and could really use a cigarette on my way to my next shopping stop, do you know anywhere near to the Lounge I could pick some up?”

I send the message off and take care of my tab while I wait for Mez’gin’s response, which doesn’t take long.

“Wreaz! There should be a corner shop within sight of The Strange Lounge, there are plenty in Marsti. If you prefer vapor to smoke, look for a more upscale corner shop, and you should be able to find a vapor pipe. I’m not very familiar with the area around the Lounge, but I think pretty much any corner shop within a few blocks will have them.”

“Oh! Sorry, do you have vapor where you’re from?”

I smirk, and send a message back as I walk out of the Strange Lounge, a couple more bottles of cider picked up from the bar and slipped into my new bag.

“Hahaha. Yeah, we’ve got vapor where I’m from. Does Urtrament do flavored …well, we call it juice where I’m from. Vapor liquid.”

Looking around as I step back towards the wall of the building, keeping out of the bustle, I spot a couple of corner shops and my slate pings as I’m working out which one looks fancier.

“Yep! We flavor our vapor liquid here. We just call it tobacco extract. I’ll spare you the litany of slang and short terms that vary in silliness, but are all at least a little silly.”

I stop for a just a moment before stepping into the corner store to reply,

“You mean like ‘juice’? Haha”

Mez’gin replies quickly as I’m looking around, seeing if tobacco products are on a shelf or behind the counter like at home.

“No, that’s much less silly than almost all of our slang.”

I smile to myself as I find a rack of wooden boxes, each with a cut away showing a shiny metal tube and various makers' names and marks burned into the wood. Taking one off the shelf and looking it over, the tubes pass through glass bowls capped with metal lids, and are embedded in crystals, each with a tiny glow like a banked ember on the other side of a camp inside.

There’s an impressive array of colors, metals and crystals to choose from and I select a glossy black pipe embedded in a blood-red crystal. A fanged humanoid skull is burned into the box, which I guess means Marsti really does do a lot of business with Coil attendees. I briefly wonder how shops deal with theft as I think about how I could just walk right out, but if shops are selling magical magical smartphones and vape pens, they’ve got to have some kind of magical security against theft, and I don’t want to learn what that is on my first day here.

A spinning rack next to the shelves of vapor tubes holds small bottles of variously colored liquids. Or… not bottles, but syringes. Huh. That actually seems even better than the plastic bottles back home. Smaller nozzles, and easier to use regardless of hand strength. Each vial has a plunger and needle clipped to it with a metal ring, but to be honest I’d prefer larger bottles. I guess that makes the syringe model less usable, though. I grab a couple of flavors, one sweet coffee and the other cloves and cherries, and head up to pay the clerk.

“Just picking up these,” I say, smiling at the tanned skinned human man behind the counter. His build is trim, with a hint of muscle. A swimmers or archer’s build. I wonder if it comes naturally or if he works out for it. “Out of curiosity, these are 60ml bottles, right?” I have no clue if when I say “milliliters” he hears a relevant measurement, whatever’s used in Urtrament, but I have to hope, at least until I can do some reading.

“Ah, no, they’re 120s. The bottles have a very minor shrink item effect, allowing them to hold more liquid in less space. New to vapor?” he asks, tallying up my expenses.

“No, I’m an old hand at it, just new to the packaging here in Marsti. Or, well, outside of home. This is probably pretty standard, isn’t it?”

“Oh, not so standard. Common enough, but the enchantment is a higher end product thing. Altogether you’re at 100 gold.”

I proffer my coffer mark for him to scan, “ha, glad to know I’m buying the good stuff.” I gather up my new purchase, and turn to leave, “Oh. I suppose I should ask- how is Marsti about smoking and vapor? Are people going to hassle me for smoking inside, or on the sidewalks or anything?”

He laughs, “you must come from a pretty uptight place. Nah, no one worries about it here, or in most places.”

I smile, “Oh, they have their reasons. But, it’s nice to know. Thank you! Er, actually, mind if I take a moment to use your counter and fill my pipe?”

“Just don’t get your bac-ess all over the place,” he smiles.

I slip the clove and cherry juice into my bag and slide the lid off the box of my new pipe. It takes me a moment to work out how to fill the reservoir, but only a moment, and it’s only about a minute before I’m walking out the store with a lungful of coffee-flavored nicotine.

One last thing before I continue on my trek to check out the hopefully-not-transphobic wizard school. I need clothes I actually chose. So I check the directions Greizis gave me, and head over.

The Black Sailcloth is an… eclectic building. Which is to say, it’s a whole-ass ship that’s been sunk into the ground, with a blue tile mosaic patio that gives the impression of a deep sea around it. The only thing that belies the sense it’s a fully sea-worthy ship just biding its time until the oceans rise is the entrance–made of a rowboat on end and fitted into the bow–and large picture windows fitted either side of the entrance. Even the sails remain, great unfurled black cloths catching the light breeze of the afternoon. Inside the open door, as if a mark of shame worn in defiant pride, a war standard-like jolly roger hangs, slit up the middle to serve now as curtains. Emblazoned on it is a leering demonic skull over crossed cannons, from which issue curling clouds of smoke.

I suppose it's worth noting that this new world has some manner of firearms.

I open the door and step inside, not intending to creep, but my slight size and my instinctual wariness make it a quiet step that might go unheard if not for the ships-bell rigged over the door. The very loud ship’s bell. My sensitive goblin ears are aching as a woman looks up from behind the counter inside and greets me.

“Welcome to the Black Sailcloth,” she calls. “Sorry about the bell, but its volume has its uses here.”

I rub one ear as I take a draw on my vapor pipe, “it’s ok,” vapor coils out of my opening mouth. “I’m sure I’ll be able to hear again sometime tomorrow,” I respond in a stage yell.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected inside, but it’s impressive. The ship’s broad decks were gutted inside to provide a reasonable store space, within which lush rugs cover the floor, and racks hang along the walls, laden with clothing. The ceiling is hung with flags, banners and veils. The woman behind the counter is dressed in mismatched, haphazard layers–multiple shirts and tops and a coat over all of it. I can see a scarf and wide belt around her waist where she sits, and her propped up legs show a couple layers of clothing themselves. Her shirts and coat end at the elbow, but she wears knitted arm warmers on her scaly forearms, and two layers of bandanas are tied over her hair. Her face is scaled as her arms are, with only a hint of a bump for her nose, and no ears visible on the sides. Glasses with narrow lenses sit over her slit pupiled eyes, and I have a sense of why she is so covered up in a building that is comfortably cool for me.

“Name’s Inez, and if I like you, I might let you call me Captain,” she says, swinging her legs down and standing from the deck chair she sits in, a thick tail coiling absent-mindedly behind her, a knit warmer covering the base and extending down most of the length, “Looking for anything in particular?” she asks in a sibilant accent as her eyes follow mine.

“I have… well, I have what you see on me, clothing wise,” I say, looking up to her face, feeling a tad ashamed for vaguely ogling her, “they’re nice, but not my preference, to be honest. I grew up pretty sheltered from this world, and didn’t get to make my own choices in it until recently.” Not, strictly, a lie, but only by my precise wording. “And I… don’t have a lot of exposure to people other than humans, so, I’m sorry if I stared.”

“Marsti must be quite an education for you, then, but you seem broad-minded enough,” Inez replies, “a lot of sheltered women are shrinking violets, speaking in whispers and running scared when they see an ophebean. Well, assuming they aren’t ophebeans themselves. Obviously we don’t run from ourselves, but we can be pretty sheltered. The cult does ingrain a certain swaggering assurance rather than shrinking, though.”

“Ophebeans,” I repeat, “are all ophebeans part of this cult?” I hesitate, worried that might be offensive. I let myself forget my typical don’t-be-othering filter on my thoughts. “Er, sorry. That’s probably personal.”

“It’s ok. And you’re a very obvious goblin, so… we’re both in the margins, if not quite the same one. We ophebeans are the result of the cult we grow up in. The cult transformed themselves in ancient days from their human roots to us, and now no human is born into the cult, and most ophebeans are. It’s.. somewhat known that occasionally ophebeans are born outside of the cult, as a result of a cult agent infiltrating an outside society, or the rare rogue ophebean just living their life, but any cult agent will hide their true race, and any rogue’s days are numbered, in a very real sense. It took a lot of work to be able to exist without disguise here,” she says sharply, “any time I have to show someone they’re being rude, it endangers that.”

I gaze up at her, looking her steadily in the eyes, even though I’ve always preferred to look just to above or to the side of someone’s eyes, “I have no intention of threatening what you’ve built here. I’m a stranger to the world myself, and I get the sense that I’m somewhat less than welcome as a goblin, at least by the institutions.” I look away, hiding the metaphorical flinch in looking out the window to the city, “Marsti seems pretty cosmopolitan, though. I’ve talked to one human here, against a raggamoffyn, an elf, and now an ophebean, and on the journey, I met… I don’t actually know her species, but she had horns and dark skin like a rainy afternoon.”

“Teufil.” Inez says, “or, if you’re being overly familiar or impolite, demon-born. I don’t like the more outright rude terms for them.” she nods, “Marsti’s ok. I get shouts and leers from drunks, but half of them are because they want to fuck me, so, I suppose in a way it’s better than cities where they’d all be death threats and oaths.”

“Yeah… not looking forward to those…” I say. I’d forgotten what comes with a body that’s perceived as female. A trade, I suppose. Comfort in my skin, but every asshole thinks it’s public property.

Inez cocks a scaled eyebrow as I trail off, but doesn’t comment. “I could help you with some disguising of your form, if you’d like. It’ll at least take the focus off your gender.”

“No.” I weigh a thought in my mind a moment, and quickly decide to offer a sliver, “I chose this form, I’ll not hide it just to spare me some harassment.”

Inez smiles, “So, sailor, what do you come to your captain for?”

I smile at the subtle allowance, and gesturing vaguely at the fine, but simple and light earth-toned outfit I woke up in, “Black. Silver. Red. And a statement. Not this frock made to blend in with the wallpaper while I’m neither seen nor heard.”

Her smile breaks into a grin, showing predatory teeth and a pair of snake fangs in front, “Oh. You, I can work with.” She turns and beckons with her finger, “Come with me, girl,” and I barely stifle a moan and a ‘yes, Captain,’ as I force my knees to not turn to jelly in that instant.

“I am under your command, Captain,” I allow myself to actually say, with a smirk, and follow her. “Sa- Gods know I could definitely use the help in the fashion department.”

Inez chuckles, “Well, I don’t know about fashion, and my particular sense prioritizes containing body heat, but I’ll try to skip a layer or two for you, and I think aesthetically we should be on similar charts, at least.” She turns to address me in front of a rack, “first question, I suppose, skirts or pants? Access or mobility?”

I grin, “I’m good with loose skirts, as far as mobility goes, though,” I look down at my legs, which are a considerable portion of my height, but still short next to this statuesque woman’s, “length may be an issue. And honestly, as much as I like a good loose skirt, a pair or two of pants would be a good idea. Maybe one a bit looser than form fitting, but with a flare, and one that’s more skin-close, and distressed?”

Inez nods and grabs a few things from the rack, “Don’t worry about length, the sailmaker’s upstairs and she can see you right there. Is there a style of skirt you prefer? Do you like maxi skirts like you’re wearing?”

“I do, that’s more about color, though if you have a tiered skirt, I do like the look of those. Might be interested in a…” I stop, I know what I want to ask for, but it’s more particular than maxis and tiers. I don’t know how it would be called on Urtrament, or if it’s even really a thing, but there must be something like it. Skater skirts didn’t just pop into existence when figure skating or skateboarding became things… “Hm, I’m not sure what it’s called. I’m thinking of a skirt that’s high-waisted, but with a hem that ends just above the knees, loose and light, not pleated–though I’d be into a pleated skirt too–just kinda… well, loose. Like a short circle skirt, I suppose.”

Inez smirks and grabs another skirt from the rack. It looks long, but, I suppose if a skater skirt is a short circle skirt, then the sailmaker can handle that. “Ok, tops. What kind of blouse are you interested in?”

I nod, considering, “How about something a little military, loose enough for movement, but close enough that some bastard won’t grab it while you stab him,” Inez smirks, “with pockets and some style. Then also… a top with a low neck, and high hem, around the navel, could have sleeves around mid-length, or maybe shorter, but I do like mid-length sleeves. I definitely want a light button up shirt, too, something for layering. That can be oversized, and maybe a couple different ones, at least one light weight, linen or so, and one that’s a bit heavier, for warmth on cool, but not cold days. Oh, and a couple of light weight, close fitting undershirts.”

“Are you sure you need me? You seem to know what you like.”

“I… know what I think looks good, but I don’t know what looks good on me, and you know your ship. Store. Ship-stores. Plus, I’m trusting your sense of colors and patterns, quicker than pouring through everything myself.”

“Alright, that would leave undergarments, which I generally think a woman should pick for herself, and maybe a jacket, but let's get you sorted with these. I have a small room where you can try them on, and we’ll see what you think.”

Inez leads me to the fitting room and I try on the things she pulled for me. They’re mostly solids in dark tones, primarily black, but with some reds and purples, a few patterns in similar tones. Novelty prints have not cropped up in Urtrament, it seems, at least not on the racks. I ask for a few other things, sending a few she pulled back, and in about half an hour, she’s tallying up while I select some basic undergarments beyond the camis I asked for in the first picking. Here, at least, there’s some more flair like I’m used to at home. I suppose skulls emblazoned on your blouse will get some looks, but if anyone sees them painted on your panties, they should already have a sense of what they’re in for. Which… well, ok. Most people on Earth don’t look twice if you have skulls printed all over your top, because even most people who think that’s macabre are polite, but there are still some people who think they get to dictate others’ fashion. And they’re boring, at least until you upset them to the point of ranting and raving while you laugh at their outmoded sensibilities. I take my selections up to the counter and place them next to the pile. Still getting used to counters being about tits-height for me, but the perspective does lovely things for Inez.

“Alright, you’re looking at about 25 gold now, and then tailoring by the sailmaker will cost another couple gold–it’s a silver per item, unless you need really extensive modification. Want to see jackets and some more specialty stuff?”

“Sure, we’ve got the basics covered, lets have some fun.”

Inex smiled, “woman after my own heart. I figure in addition to a good coat, you might want some belts and sashes or scarves, since I think you’ve got a pretty similar sense of style to the ladies I sailed with, and you could probably use some boots. We’ll have to see what we’ve got in the store, but no promises on those. If we don’t have anything that fits you, you’ll have to see an actual cobbler. I can recommend a good one.”

With Inez showing me around the shop and chatting, I pick out some embellishments for my wardrobe, belts, enough sashes and scarves to wear a different one almost every day of the week, and a velvet tunic, not necessarily for fashion, but because I cannot imagine sleeping in something so fancy, and deeply want to. I luck out and find a pair of boots that come up to just about my knee, and a pair that are at least close to ankle height on me, and fit my feet, fortunately, goblin extremities are slightly large in proportion to the rest of our bodies, or at least people who express the goblin condition as much as I do. Inez shows me corsets with an indulgent attitude, like treating a friend to dessert, and helps me pick out a dusty muted purple corset with reddish brown embroidery of an angular motif that evokes daggers. It’ll be more expensive to tailor, but… I could never wear a corset at home, in the body I had, despite dearly wanting to, but fashion corsets on the rack just didn’t go up to my size, as I was already at the top end of womens’ sizes in stores, being overweight and trans, and custom corsets were just perpetually out of my price range. So even with it already costing as much as the entire rest of my purchase combined, a corset is mandatory.

Inez returns to the counter with me in tow, and adds the new selections, “ok, you’re at 60 gold, and then a gold and three silver for tailoring, plus whatever Wren quotes you for the corset, which will probably be another gold or two.”

I nod, “ok. Wren is the sailmaker?” Inez nods, “and I pay you for tailoring, right?”

“Yeah,” she replies, “Wren’s part of the crew, she tells me what the tailoring costs, and I just keep track, and pay it out at the end of the week. Or if she needs it sooner, that happens sometimes, too, but I gave her a good deal here. She’s from my sea days, and decided that she was done when I did, so since I was taking the ship anyway, and she was interested, I let her keep her cabin and set up a workspace upstairs.”

“Part of the crew, huh?” I ask wryly. Inez smiles a bit, but gives no sign that confirms or denies that she and Wren are more than just crew. But I’d bet pirates here are no different from the raucous queers I’d have felt fairly at home with had I been born a few hundred years sooner back home. “If you both are cool with it, I’d be fine with just adding three gold for the corset tailoring now, and if she quotes higher, I can pay the rest.”

“Sure, if that’s easier for you. So 64 gold and three silver, and I’ll show you up to Wren’s workshop.”

I pull my purse from my bag. Two pounds worth of coin for my vapor pipe and some juice at a corner store is one thing, but I feel like it’s easier for Inez if I can pay in coin. Taking a look inside, still reorienting myself to a pure coin currency, I find a few platinums and enough golds to hand over 65 gold, just for ease. I can eat the seven silver, I’m not that worried about money here. Though I definitely should get some sense for how much I can realistically draw with the coffer mark. My purse is nearing empty, though, so I also need to see if I can just…. Get coin through my coffer mark.

Inez shows me up a ladder and through the upper floor, reconstructed in gutted decks like the one below, save for a couple rooms towards the back that seem to be original to the ship, probably cabins for Inez and Wren, maybe anyone else from the old crew who’s still around and I just haven’t seen. Again, I’m betting pirates on Urtrament are just as queer as the pirates of old Earth, and us queers hang together. Because all too often, we hang separately otherwise.

“Wren!” Inez calls from the top of the ladder, “you have a client!”

“Aye, Captain,” a slightly raspy and husky voice replies from a room across the ship from the ladder. A woman with angular features, hands like bird’s talons with sharp claws and thick black bands of scaly skin running halfway up her forearms, crests of oil-slick black feathers framing pointed ears on either side of her head. She holds herself with a poised grace, “got some work for me,” she asks me.

“A good bit. Kinda needed a whole wardrobe, and… I don’t exactly fit a standard size.”

Wren smiles, and waves me in, taking the stack of clothing offered by Inez. “All of this?”

“I held back the things she doesn’t want altered,” she turns to me, “they’ll be at the counter when you’re ready,” then back to Wren, “but double check, of course.” She turns back to me, “sorry, hon, I didn’t get your name.”

“Wreaz,” I reply. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

Inez nods, smiling at me, “Ok, Wren’ll see you right. You’re in good hands.”

Wren ushers me inside and waves Inez away in mock dismissal, and sets about sorting through the clothes. “Let me know if there’s anything here you don’t want altered, I’ll set it aside. And nice to meet you, Wreaz. Anyone who the Captain likes tends to be a good-” she smirks, “I tend to get on well with. Even the bastards. Actually, especially the bastards that she lets call her Captain.”

“Oh, I’m probably the bastard sort,” I laugh. “Um, ok, I’m sorry, I grew up very… apart from the world. I’m not really familiar with …other peoples. Would it offend you if I ask what your species is? Race? I’m honestly not sure which term is better.”

“I’m a Vrava,” she indulges. “We’re mostly from up north, but we get around. We’re a wandering and noisy people. You’re ok here, but it can be dicey asking people that. You chose your words well, though.”

“I… try to not be unintentionally rude,” I reply. I turn to the piles of clothes and sort through, pulling out the tunic and lighter weight button up. “These are fine as is, they can be oversized. This other button up here,” I point to a plaid with longer sleeves, “I’ll want still a little oversized, but it can use some tailoring, too.”

“Ok, we can keep that in mind when we get to it. Let’s start with a skirt and top, and I can probably match the alterations from that skirt to the others, to save a bit of time there. You can change behind the screen there,” she point out a folding screen with beautiful painted paper in one corner of the room.

I pick out the tiered skirt and what will be a crop top, and quickly change. Wren positions me in front of a set of mirrors and chats lightly with me as she works through what needs to be altered, and how I want things to fit. It takes about an hour and the sun is just starting to visibly dip in the sky when I walk back down to the shop floor while Wren works.

“How’d the fitting go?” Inez asks.

“Well, I actually thought it might take longer. Wren says the alterations should be done in a couple days, so I guess I need to sort out where I’m staying.”

“Well, I can recommend a few places near the river, if you’re ok with a louder inn. Just passing through Marsti?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way to Pergamano. I’m gonna check them out, but I’ll probably be happier at The Oroboric Coil.”

Inez nods, “In that case…” she considers, “there’s an inn that’s a little more towards the phantrain channel than the river, but it’s well situated between them. It serves all, but is definitely more used by people heading to one of the colleges.” Inez takes a scrap of paper and sketches out a rough map, before handing it to me. “It’s called The Derelict.”

I take the paper, “Thanks, Captain. I really appreciated your help, and Wren’s. Guess I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Inez slid over the items I wasn’t having altered, neatly bundled together with a scrap of fabric and waved me off as she lit a pipe, settling back into her chair behind the counter.

The Derelict isn’t far, but it's still a bit of a walk. The late afternoon is cool and a breeze comes off the river, and I’m very grateful that I’m not doing all this walking in my old body. My feet are starting to get a little sore, but it's nothing like how unpleasant it would be with that husk. By the time I see the Derelict, a driftwood sign hanging above the door, sunset has begun in earnest, and the windows are starting to glow with lamplight in the faltering day. Inside, the clientele does look mostly as I expected. Younger people, at least respective to their races, a mixture of fashions between proper and rakish and some truly outre, while the majority is still mostly perfunctory.

The main room isn’t packed, but there are enough people that I suddenly worry, just a little, about whether there will be any rooms available. It did not seem like a particularly large inn from the outside. Servers of a variety of species weave through the mostly full room, while a stout man with literally coppery skin and a dense, well-kept and carefully braided beard, mottled like granite, served drinks behind the bar. Judging by rough proportions, the dwarf bartender must have a raised platform like Greizis did.

I hope Urtrament dwarves don’t have a problem with goblins…

I carefully pick my way through the room of people who start at around half-again my height and don’t seem to take care to look down when walking, and make my way to the bar. The bartender is busy pouring a drink from a large keg as I clamber onto a stool, but I don’t have to wait long before he turns to me, “What can I get you?”

“Do you have cider? Apple for preference, but pear is good too, and please tell me you have a room available?”

“Ya, we have cider, and we’re not full up yet. How long are you going to be with us?” He turns to say something to a serving woman, who I think is teufil, who just came behind the bar.

“Thank you,” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Let’s figure two nights. Might be one, but better to have the room and not need it.”

The serving woman returns with a bottle of cider from the kitchen behind the bar, and hands it to the bartender, who grabs a mug and pops the cork on the bottle, “alright, rooms are seven silver a night. We’re not fancy, but we try to stand out. If you’d like, we can bring you breakfast, or lunch if you’re a late sleeper to your room for an extra silver.” He sets the mug on the bar, “and its five copper for the cider.”

I fish out three gold from my purse and hand them to him, suddenly aware that different cultures feel differently about that, but no one’s seemed offended here yet, so I’m probably fine. “Breakfast to my room would be lovely, and the rest is a tip. For both you and the lovely young woman who fetched my drink,” I smile.

He chuckles, “Don’t worry, I make sure the bar shares its tips, even when I’m not behind it. I’m Fitrani, by the way, you can call me Fit.” Fit turns to shout and is surprised to see the teufil serving woman beside him, “Oh, Hazel. Find a room for our guest and get it ready for her, please.”

“Sure, Fit,” Hazel replies, “Hazel, nice you meet you, hon,” she says to me.

“Wreaz, thank you, both.” I take a sip from my mug and savor the sweetness as Hazel heads off down a hallway off the main room. “Oh, what’s on the menu? Or… Is there? A menu?”

Fit chuckles, “we’ve got a house stew, kinda tends to be whatever cuts of roast or the like left at the end of the previous night. We have some lovely roasted chickens tonight, with various root veg, and if you’d like, we can always do up a ploughmans for you, plenty of sausage and cheese and bread on hand. I think we might still have pork buns, but I’m not sure, I can check on that, if you’d like.”

“Could I get a ploughmans, some butter with it, and a bowl of stew? And a pork bun, if you have any left.”

Fit continues pouring drinks as we talk, handing them off to who I assume are regulars, or otherwise have a set order. Maybe most people just get the same thing and I’m the weird one. He nods, “find a table, gal, I’ll have one of the ladies bring it out for you. Dinner comes with your room, so don’t worry about it.”

I nod and raise my mug in a mock toast and slide off the stool to find a table. The edges and corners are mostly taken up, but I spy a small table near the hearth, only enough room for one or two people, but plenty for a goblin.

Hazel must still be setting up my room, because another server, a vrava, like Wren, I think, but younger, her feathers more true black, brings over a tray with my dinner. I thank her, and start filling my mouth with food. I eat, pouring over the books that Cassiel had in her bag, familiarizing myself with what I can of the world. I find a journal she kept, and look through that some. Hazel comes over to let me know my room is ready, and hand me a key at some point. I order another cider before heading to my room, and sort out the scrolls for my slate, finding a small crucible with little detachable legs to prop up the slate up in its box, and climb into bed after changing into my new tunic to sleep in, leaving the neck undone, planning to shoot Mez’gin a message and talk to her until I fall asleep, or just familiarize myself with things if she doesn’t answer.

Hey Mez’gin! How’s your night? Are you back at the Coil yet?

She doesn’t reply while I’m awake, but that’s fine. I can chat with her tomorrow, learn a bit more about the people of Urtrament, and work my way towards sexting, if she’s interested. I’m not awake much longer. Sleep coming over me feels like a weight that had been dragging at me all day until I forgot it was there, finally pulling me down into the embrace of the surprisingly soft bedding. Better than pretty much any hotel I could ever afford back home, that’s for sure.

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Urtrament Magical Tech: Coffer Marks

Ok, so the next chapter is not coming out very soon. And while other magitech is more obvious or incidental, I do want to talk about a tech that is mentioned in chapter 2, but not actually used till chapter 4, Coffer Marks.

The Coffer Mark is the tattoo of text and runes on the inside of Wreaz' right forearm mentioned in chapter 2, and does in fact function something like a magical debit card. The runes form an arcane mark which identifies the bearer and their "bank." Some people in Urtrament use actual banks as we know them, others simply have their own stores of wealth in a private vault that is set up to use this same set up.

When a person with a coffer mark wants to use it, the person they are paying will need a Coffer Wand, which is generally a fairly simple, short wand with a crystal on one end. When passed over a coffer mark while the user states an amount, the wand effectively casts a sending spell to the relevant bank stating an amount of money to be drawn, and a unique vault to transfer it to. The vault, whether private or in a bank, is enchanted to automatically respond either "insufficient funds" or "transferring," depending on whether the payer has the money to cover the purchase. The wand will then glow either orange for insufficient funds, or blue for transferring.

At the bank or vault end, if there are sufficient funds, the funds will be teleported to the designated vault. Most Coffer Wands will be linked up to a single specific vault, but some exist that allow the user to specify a vault.

If a Coffer Mark bearer does not wish for the funds to be drawn, they will not be, and the wand will glow red. This is to ensure that bearers cannot be robbed while unconscious, but also cannot trick shop owners by willing the mark to not transfer funds (without a visual indication this happened, at least).

[apocalypticvalraven]

Meanwhile, in Earth Trans in Urtrament, the magic phones just have apps, so you could just turn on the light app

Ive seen people be like in modern fantasy like "oh the pritagonists can just look up spells on their phone how do you solve that"

Imma be honest most people who go on recipe websites and book every recipe they see don't even use them lmao why would with be different

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Magitech From My Story

Would people be interested in examinations of how the magitech of Urtrament works and why I decided on the means I did?

Chapter 4 is taking a bit for a few reasons, but, like, I think I'm averaging a "here's a magical emulation of a modern technology!" per chapter. Some of them get explained because it makes sense for the protagonist to get that on page, but others I'm not going into much detail on, and if people are interested in reading the explanations, I'd be down to make those a sorta "next chapter is still in work" thing

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Started writing again, wanted to share

So, a month or so ago, I started working on creating a new fantasy setting, something I could run games in and write in. I have one setting, but it's very horror lit-inspired, so I wanted something more standard fantasy.

About a week ago, I decided I wanted to do some actual writing, just to make myself do something, and let myself enjoy something. I decided to just write a self-indulgent isekai, and then realized it would work well in the setting I've been working on.

So, here's chapter one of what I've been writing. I posted it over on my "after dark" version of this blog because I do intend to have actual smut in later chapters, but the first few I've written do not have actual smut, just mild lewdness (and the first chapter doesn't even have that).

An Earth Trans in Urtrament, Ch. 1: "Just Like My Japanese Animus"

I’m sitting at my computer, staring at an endless scroll of meaningless stimulation, for… the third night in a row? I think it’s the third. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do tomorrow. Nowhere to be. No one to see, all my friends are busy with real lives. I don’t even have a job to be at. I’m not sure there is a job for me, at least, not one that is willing to accept some overweight queer who resents the necessity of work like me, let alone one that will also play nice with my fucked up brain and terminally fucked body.

Basically, right now, my life is a long stretch of dissociation, with occasional moments of me having to pull my head back on long enough to do some necessary task, like buy groceries because I’ve already put it off for a week and there’s nothing in my fridge.

I look at one of the clocks on my desktop (the other is on my second screen for when I’m using the entirety of my main screen). Apparently it’s 6am.

Fine, I guess that means I might as well go do that grocery thing. Some close-by store will be open and I don’t have to go across town to the only 24-hour one, even if it’s my preferred store. I’m used to it, but… I can’t waste the gas.

I pull myself away from the computer, putting it to sleep, and go throw on clothes I can leave my apartment in. They’re not nice clothes, but they’re not pjs I’ve been wearing for a week straight. I slip on my shoes, throw a bottle of vape juice and some earbuds in my purse, my phone in my back pocket, tell my cat “I’ll be back, be good,” and go and get in my car.

It’s ten minutes before I set my phone in the cup holder and actually leave my complex parking lot. ADD is a bitch of a mental condition. Sometimes I wonder about seeking hard street drugs that might give me the serotonin my brain is so starved of. But I have no money, so. Maybe I could suck dick for whatever makes my brain work, but… maybe not. It is what it is.

I wind up driving across town anyway. I’m not paying attention, driving on autopilot, and just wound up heading that direction. I’d have to stop, and find wi-fi, and spend time googling to find another store that’s open now and then turn around, so… fuck it. I’ll go to my old standby from when I lived on that end of town.

But I never get there.

Read More

[probablyevilrpgideas]

...ok, Urtrament is getting a god of fraud

untitled god game, a video game where you play as a mischievous minor deity loose in an ancient city

it’s a lovely day in mesopotamia and you are a horrible god

[probablyevilrpgideas]

A friend asked permission to commission a drawing of a raggamoffyn OC, so I decided I should do up a basic style sheet they can hand to the artist as reference.

Raggamoffyns

Raggamoffyns are, basically, ghosts bound to fabric or otherwise constructed bodies. Specifically, they are the spectral essence of hands severed from people, then bound into some form of effigy or clothing. They don't retain any specific memories of the person they were originally part of, but may have something like muscle memory related to hand-oriented tasks of that person, meaning many are artisans, spellcasters or thieves, especially as these people are more likely to have their hands cut off.

There are, broadly, two major forms of raggamoffyns, those with fully humanoid bodies, and those bound to robes. Because of the simplicity of robes, these raggamoffyns are very common. If a raggamoffyn's physical form is a robe, there is very minimal internal structure to it, and the inside of it is basically a black void with two glowing eyes. The raggamoffyn may leave their hood open, or may use a mask to cover their internal void. If a raggmoffyn's vessel doesn't have eyeholes, this does not impair their vision in any way, and so some raggamoffyns use doll heads or the like.

Raggamoffyns with fully humanoid forms may look like anything, limited only to what their creator made to be their form, or how the raggamoffyn has altered themselves over time. Humanoid forms are often just what amounts to a fabric doll, which may or may not have stuffing. They do not need to have stuffing in their forms, as their spiritual essence can serve to fill out the form.

Most raggamoffyns will have at least one large opening in their physical vessels, which is another reason for the popularity of robes. Those with fully humanoid forms will often have mouths that open to their internal void. These large openings facilitate the raggamoffyn's spiritual essence leaving their vessel when they desire or feel it is necessary. Without such an opening, the essence must pass through the fabric, taking much longer.

When outside of their vessel, a raggamoffyn may be invisible, or appear as a formless black shape, at their option.

Raggamoffyns have relatively little emotional connection to their vessels, viewing them more like vehicles or clothing than their bodies, and they do not actually feel damage to their vessels. If a raggamoffyn's arm is ripped off, they are more likely to be angry or irritated than indicating any feeling of pain.

Raggamoffyns must repair their vessels when they have suffered extensive physical damage, leading to those who are particularly old, or who have particularly dangerous professions to often have very patchwork forms or large portions of their vessels stitched back into place. Raggamoffyns who come from seamstresses will generally have very good sewing skills themselves, and so have very fine, artistic forms, while those who come from people who didn't have remarkable sewing ability often have more "make do, whatever I can use to cut corners" repairs.

Influences

Raggamoffyns were conceived of after joking with someone on twitter about how muppets reproduce, their idea being that muppets do not reproduce sexually, but rather create a new muppet body and then summon a dark entity known as "The Possessing Hand." I have used this method of reproduction whole cloth for raggamoffyns, they are not born, they are made through sewing and necromancy.

Therefore, a major influence on the raggamoffyn concept is muppets, but spooky.

Other influences on the idea are mimikyu, sheet ghosts, and similar ideas, where some dark otherworldly entity is using a fabric form to interact with the material world.

The Name

"Raggamoffyn" is a somewhat obscure term these days, often used to describe an unkempt, ragged, or otherwise disheveled person, which is a fair way to describe individuals of this race. They are also often composed of stitched together rags and scraps of fabric, creating another connection to the term.

Raggamoffyn, or rather, raggamuffin, also was used to refer to a 19th century practice that is essentially trick or treating, but happened on Thanksgiving, and rather than dressing up as monsters or super heroes or whatever, children would dress up as beggers and hobos.

However, there does seem to be some connection to "spooky things," as the earliest known literally use of the term is in William Langland's Middle English poem Piers Plowman-

"So rise up Ragamuffin and break all the bars that Belial your grandfather beats your mother with." (translated)

In this usage, Raggamuffin functions as the name of a demon, deriving from "rag" and "muffin," which, possibly, has roots in Anglo-Norman words for "scoundrel" or "devil."

As for my specific spelling, raggamoffyn, eh, old words had a lot of different spellings, and I generally prefer the weirder, less commonly used ones, such "fae" instead of "fay" or "fey," and "faerie" instead of "fairy" or "fairie." Especially when it comes to things that are, by their nature, weird, such as fae and raggamoffyns.

[probablyevilideasafterdark]

An Earth Trans in Urtrament, Chapter 6

Ok, I finally decided to cut the chapter I'm working on off at the point I felt like was the natural break point, and chapter length be damned. It's shorter than previous chapters, but still seven-ish Google Doc pages, so it's not like it's a stub of a chapter or anything.

This chapter moves towards the smutty part of my intention with this fic, but is still SFW.

Chapter 7 may take less time than this one did, even if it's longer, because what will be chapter 7 was originally part of this chapter, and so I already have a good bit written past where it felt like it was right to cut off chapter 6. But I'm still working on it, so I don't know when it will go up. We'll see.

Enjoy Chapter 6, and if you like it, please like and reblog the post.

Chapter 6: Crazy, Stupid and Dangerous

It’s a few hours before I hear from Mez’gin again, during which time, I go back over the scrolls and my notes, and write out an actual spell, first on scratch paper, then copied into my spell tome. I run out and buy some spell reagents while waiting, and ask around the Derelict dining room where a good place for an experimental summoning would be around Marsti. It takes a few tries, and people who want to know what I’m working on that I have to convince it’s better if they wait till I know whether it’ll work, but I’m told about a reasonably safe, concealed place on the banks of the river that would be suitable.

Mez’gin messages me around half past ten, and appears outside of the Derelict just a few minutes later. “Ok,” she says, “lets see what you’ve put together.”

I guide her to my room, and lay out my notes and the final spell so she can take a look at them. She examines everything for another hour or so, but eventually concedes that it looks like it should work.

“I’m still not sure you’ll be able to reach into your world, but… I don’t think you’re going to kill yourself doing this. Do you have a place to cast it? Please tell me you’re not planning on using this room.”

“No, that would be rude to the people who work and sleep here if this spell goes seriously awry. There’s a place on the banks of the river we can do it. I asked around where I could try out an experimental spell.”

“Oh good… you told other spellcasters you were going to try something experimental. Tell me, is reckless curiosity not a thing where you come from?”

“Oh, no, it’s basically a defining trait of some of the best scientists. ...and some of the worst.” I gather my supplies up and lead Mez’gin to the spot I was told about. “Ok, we need to draw a summoning circle. I am taking some precautions. ...also it will help direct the energies.”

Mez’gin smirks. “Alright, gimme a second.” She mutters a word I don’t quite catch under her breath and conjures a few floating lights that illuminate the area. “Ok, what am I drawing?”

I hand her a diagram, a copy of the one I’m holding, and we sort out a basic grid on the soft earth to help us get things lined up. Mez’gin pulls out a thin silver rod to do her drawing, while I simply use my claws. It takes about fifteen minutes, then another ten to carefully fill the lines with silver dust. As a final step, I take my bracelet off and lay it on the ground, encircling the whole summoning circle. “Ok. Ready?”

“Let me ready a dispel just to be safe. I can hold it, and discharge it harmlessly if it turns out we don’t need it.”

“Ok.”

She focuses for a moment, and mutters another incantation, causing her hands to glow softly, then nods. I turn and step into the circle, holding my spell tome open in my un-gauntleted hand. The incantation is short, the gestures simple, and then I get to a point that hadn’t quite occurred to me when I was writing the spell.

I’m supposed to reach into the conduit. And I don’t think the ready routes in this case are really the best. I take a deep breath, and continue chanting as I lay my carnamanite gauntlet on my stomach, then push in, focusing on Æther, and the space I remember first waking up in, and my hand glows and passes through me. I feel around, mentally following a whining meow which stops suddenly, and I feel a small head butting into my hand. I smile, carefully take hold of Nyx, and pull.

“WREAZ.”

Mez’gin’s shout brings my attention to the fact that my arm feels incredibly warm. Right under the gem on the gauntlet. I shake my head and try to focus back on my task. It feels like I’m trying to pull a car one handed. In a lightning storm. But I’m already at this point, so… I keep going.

It feels like forever, but eventually, I’m cradling the black, furry, purring form of my cat Nyx, and falling back as the spell ends and the magic drains, sitting hard on the soft ground of the river bank.

Mez’gin rushes over and makes a fuss, checking my eyes, “can you hear me? Wreaz?”

I cough and laugh, “Yeah, I can hear you.” I hold up my cat, now much larger in proportion to me than she was, “Meet Nyx.”

Mez’gin smiles and reaches a hand out for Nyx to sniff, then strokes her head.

“What the SHITTING HELL WAS THAT?” says a man’s voice, alerting me to the handful of magic students that had been watching from behind trees and rocks.

I turn to the one who exclaimed and replied simply, “I missed my cat.” He stares at me in utterly shocked puzzlement, but shakes his head and gathers the other students up to head back to the Derelict for a drink. “Tell Fit that I’m buying your drinks!” I shout after them, which cheers them some.

Mez’gin taps a hoof on something hard in the dirt, “I think… we need to do something about this.”

Looking down, I see that the summoning circle has apparently melted the silver dust and even the dirt beneath it, creating a permanent circle of silver and glass. “Um.” I stand up. “Gimme a second. I think there’s something I can do. I focus, and a wordless echolalia falls from my lips as my hand glows. I trace a doorway of light in the air, and push the center of the bounded space, opening a portal to somewhere else, something that looks like a cozy entrance of a cabin. “Help me pry this up,” I say.

Between the two of us, we’re able to dig out the circle and roll it on end through the portal. With a pull inside the space, I close it as easily as I opened it, and find Mez’gin staring at me.

“And that was….?”

“I think it was a benefit of Cassiel’s pact. She wanted a home she could enter from anywhere. I saw the thread leading off from my body while I was in Æther during the calling spell and… just kind of knew how to open the portal. Hold Nyx for a second for me?”

Mez’gin takes Nyx while I dig a harness and leash out of my bag, and get them on the struggling cat.

“Ok, now I feel comfortable letting her walk on her own. I’m going to make her my familiar, and then she’ll probably be ok without the harness, but for now, I didn’t rip a hole in two worlds through my stomach just for her to run off and get eaten by a warg or something.”

Mez’gin sets Nyx on the ground, who quickly gets over the harness and starts sniffing around as we rub out the impression of the circle and I put my notes and supplies back in my bag. We walk back to the Derelict, where Fit raises an eyebrow as we walk in together, cat in my arms.

“Er… did I create an uproar when I told those, like, five students I was buying their drinks?”

“Little bit. Fortunately in their ‘someone else is buying my drinks’ they opted for the heavier stuff and most of them were quickly bludgeoned into quiet drunkenness by liquor I warn other thumbar about before serving. Also, they’re students. They’re rowdy, but I’m not having to put a table on your bill like I probably would if they were sailors.”

I rub my neck abashedly, “Sorry. How much do I owe you?”

“20 gold.”

“They really did go high end. Can I get some cider and… Mez’gin what do you drink?”

“Oh, you’re buying me a bottle of wine for this little caper.”

“And a bottle of wine, whatever your best is, can you have someone bring them to my room? Oh, and… a bowl of water and a bit of sausage steak for my friend here,” I say holding Nyx up.

Fit smiles sardonically and nods, “yeah, that makes it 35 gold even.”

I set Nyx on the stool next to me and pull my purse out, counting out five platinums and handing them over. Fit drops them into a cashbox and nods his head towards the hallway.

In my room, I have Mez’gin hold Nyx while I pop the window open and position a chair under it, then pull out a scroll of antilife shell, casting it such that it butts up against the outer wall of the inn, and then a scroll of persist effect, and cast it on the shell, creating a small area where Nyx can poke around outside, but go no further than, and no one can pass the other way, either. Then I position a chair under the window and let Nyx off her leash. “Ok, Nyx. You can go outside, and please do so if you need to piss.” Mez’gin giggles and Nyx starts exploring the room before jumping up to sit in the window.

I climb up onto the bed, and Mez’gin sits down next to me. Hazel brings our drinks, and a glass for Mez’gin.

“How are you feeling?” Mez’gin asks me.

“Tired. That spell was… draining.”

“Yeah, magic will do that. Let me see your arm.”

I take my gauntlet off and give her my arm. My forearm is red like a sunburn under where the sapphire sat. Mez’gin looks my hand over, telling me to flex my fingers, make a fist, roll my wrist. She pushes my fingers back gently, and satisfies herself that there’s no damage to my hand. She pulls a small jar of salve out of her bag and rubs it into the burn on my arm, then wraps it with a bandage.

“You’re lucky you just got a bad sunburn.”

“I know.”

She shakes her head. “Please don’t make a habit of trying out spells you wrote in a day. You did good, but with refinement, you could have made that much safer. The gauntlet probably actually saved your arm, at least.”

“I know,” I say, nodding grudgingly.

“But you did good,” she says, taking my face in her hands, and looking into my eyes. “You could overturn magical theory as we know it—if you don’t kill yourself with dangerous experiments, first.”

I blush and close my eyes, nuzzling my cheek into her hand. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Mez’gin says quietly, drawing my eyes open and back to hers, before kissing me. A light peck at first, then another, deeper kiss, our lips parting and tongues seeking each other. We separate after what feels like an eternity of bliss, and her hand strokes down my neck, caressing my collar as it traces a line down towards my chest.

“I-” I hesitate, “Satan, I want this so much, but… I’m drained.” I look at her guiltily. “Sorry.”

Mez’gin smiles and pulls me into her arms, “don’t be, it’s ok. I’d honestly be surprised if you weren’t too drained.”

“Can we just sit like this and talk for a bit?”

“Of course. For a little bit. I need to get back to the Coil for lectures. But we can stay like this for a little while.”

We sit and cuddle for while. I tell Mez’gin about Earth, and about the fantasy fiction from there that serves as my sort of basic reference for things in Urtrament. Not that I expect things to be exactly how Earth fantasy writes them, just that it’s a model to work from. Nyx comes and sits on our legs, and after about an hour, maybe a bit longer, Mez’gin says she should be heading back. Before she goes, I ask her to look over another spell I worked out. She’s disapproving at first, but it’s less an entirely new spell, and more an alteration of existing spells, and she points out a few places where I should change something, but says that it should work well, and safely.

“Ok, I need to get back. Rest up. You’re going to need the energy for your mount spell to get to Pergamano. But it’ll work. You’re just an aesthetic bitch,” she smiles teasingly.

“Damned straight,” I grin. “Enjoy your lectures. Fill me in when we see each other next.”

“Of course.” Mez’gin gives me a peck on the cheek, then steps back and mutters a word, disappearing from my room.

I go out to the kitchen, finding Fit sitting behind the bar, the rest of the staff done for the night while any clients have turned in for the night. The fire in the main room is banked to a low glow, the lanterns on the walls carefully lowered similarly.

“Need anything?” he asks from his chair, positioned so he can easily see anyone coming into the main room, but also tilt his head back against the back counter.

“Um, is it possible to get some food? A ploughmans would be fine.”

He nods, “of course.” He holds up a hand as I reach for my purse, “don’t worry about it. You spent enough buying drinks for students that we can comp you a ploughmans.” He gestures for me to follow as he gets up and walks into the kitchen. He pulls out a plate and starts gathering things, “who’s your friend?”

“Oh, her name is Mez’gin. I met her on the phantrain. She was headed to the Coil.”

“She’s cute. And she cares about you. You need friends like that in this world.”

I smile despite myself, “yeah. Friends who’ll teleport into town to keep you safe when you try something crazy are good to have.”

“That where the cat came from?”

I nod, “yeah. She was my cat back home. And home is a long ways away, so I had to sort of create a spell to call her here.”

“I heard the students you bought drinks for talking about it. I don’t know a lot about magic, more of a beater myself, but it certainly sounded impressive. They sounded disappointed in the result, though. But they were also debating whether you succeeded or failed. I know enough about you magic sorts to know that debate is probably a good sign.”

“Ninety percent of most magic merely consists of knowing one extra fact,” I smile, arching my brows.

He chuckles as he hands me my plate of sausage, bread and cheese with some sliced onions. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Y’all always think you’re the smartest one in the room. It’ll do them good for you to be around with your one extra fact, just as long as you remember they’ve got their own, too.”

I nod chastened. “Well, I was smart enough to ask Mez’gin for help with the spell. That’s an improvement for my normally much more impulsive and over-confident ass.”

“Stay safe, always make sure your friends know when you’re going to do something crazy, stupid and dangerous. They’ll be the ones patching you up.”

“Yeah? I think you have some experience with that.”

Fit pulls the neck of his shirt down a bit, showing a large scar of what looks like actual copper on his shoulder seamlessly melding with the skin around it, possibly the result of a spear or similar tearing through it. It must have destroyed the bone and sinew and muscle. I don’t know if it’s a testament to healing magic, Fit’s resilience, or both. “On both sides. But all crazy, stupid dangerous things are worth it when it’s done for your friends.”

“Thanks, Fit. Oh, I hope it’s not a problem that I have Nyx in my room. I opened the window so she shouldn’t make a mess inside.”

“No problem. We’ve dealt with worse.”

“Thanks.” I take my dinner back to my room and sit on my bed. I think back on that cabin I was able to open a portal to, and wonder. Biting my lip, I slip the carnamanite gauntlet on again, and focus my mind, then let it unfocus in a very specific way, calling up the wordless repeating chant I used before, but this time, instead of a doorway, I sketch a well-known emblem from my before life into the air, and reach into it. I feel something vibrating within, buzzing in familiar ways like the vibration of a speaker playing your favorite song on the other side of a wall. I swirl my hand in this unseen space, gathering the vibration like strands around my fingers, then pull my hand from the glyph and lay it on my slate. I go back a few times, repeating this process until there are no more familiar vibrations in the otherworldly space, but before I close the portal, I reach in one more time, and grasp a thread-like energy that composes the space itself, pulling it out of the portal and examining it. It glows a dull lime green and I pick at it, pulling a couple strings away and letting them draw back into the portal, then wrap the remaining slimmer thread around one finger, and press the finger into my slate, passing into the magical half of its form, and find the signature of the polterstra function. I wrap the thread around this signature and tie it off. I pull my finger out, and brush away the glyph in the air, then double check-- the glowing lime green strand extends out of thin air and into my slate, remaining even as the portal is gone, but only visible with magical sight.

I grin to myself and take off the gauntlet, setting it on the bed table. With a flick of my thumb, I wake my slate to pull up the polterstra musical function. Inside is my music library from home. I hit shuffle and sit back to enjoy my dinner. A while later, plate set aside on my night table and slate in my hands, I doze off reading more about the world I find myself in. I wake up a couple hours later, set everything aside, and nestle under the sheets to truly sleep. Nyx jumps up and curls up on my hips and I fall into true sleep quickly with my music playing.

[probablyevilideasafterdark]

An Earth Trans in Urtrament ch 1: "Just Like My Japanese Animus"

I’m sitting at my computer, staring at an endless scroll of meaningless stimulation, for… the third night in a row? I think it’s the third. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do tomorrow. Nowhere to be. No one to see, all my friends are busy with real lives. I don’t even have a job to be at. I’m not sure there is a job for me, at least, not one that is willing to accept some overweight queer who resents the necessity of work like me, let alone one that will also play nice with my fucked up brain and terminally fucked body.

Basically, right now, my life is a long stretch of dissociation, with occasional moments of me having to pull my head back on long enough to do some necessary task, like buy groceries because I’ve already put it off for a week and there’s nothing in my fridge.

I look at one of the clocks on my desktop (the other is on my second screen for when I’m using the entirety of my main screen). Apparently it’s 6am.

Fine, I guess that means I might as well go do that grocery thing. Some close-by store will be open and I don’t have to go across town to the only 24-hour one, even if it’s my preferred store. I’m used to it, but… I can’t waste the gas.

I pull myself away from the computer, putting it to sleep, and go throw on clothes I can leave my apartment in. They’re not nice clothes, but they’re not pjs I’ve been wearing for a week straight. I slip on my shoes, throw a bottle of vape juice and some earbuds in my purse, my phone in my back pocket, tell my cat “I’ll be back, be good,” and go and get in my car.

It’s ten minutes before I set my phone in the cup holder and actually leave my complex parking lot. ADD is a bitch of a mental condition. Sometimes I wonder about seeking hard street drugs that might give me the serotonin my brain is so starved of. But I have no money, so. Maybe I could suck dick for whatever makes my brain work, but… maybe not. It is what it is.

I wind up driving across town anyway. I’m not paying attention, driving on autopilot, and just wound up heading that direction. I’d have to stop, and find wi-fi, and spend time googling to find another store that’s open now and then turn around, so… fuck it. I’ll go to my old standby from when I lived on that end of town.

But I never get there.

My car crashes into some asshole not paying attention to signs who comes out of nowhere as I’m doing 50. Just as I’m turning my car off and grumbling about the whole thing, swearing about how this was the last goddamned thing I needed, the lights hit me.

I turn just in time to see another asshole not paying attention, bearing down on my crashed car. This time in a semi. I have just a moment to swear and reach for the door handle, and then…

Blackness. But blackness with texture and depth, and yet like a thin sheet laid over some brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Like the blackness wasn’t a color or an absence of light, but a thin plush blanket, and the colors behind it weren’t simple light or visual information, but an endlessly varied landscape of shapes. All you see is the blanket, all you can technically feel is the blanket, but under it lies shapes and forms, and you can make them out through the fabric of the blanket.

I look down, and don’t see my body. I don’t see ground, either, just more blackness over a riot of color. I don’t know if this is Hell, or the last visions of an oxygen-starved brain, or… a genuine Heaven, a heaven tailored to each experiencer, and this lush, brilliant darkness with no aching body was mine.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know where you are, do you?” says a voice from everywhere and nowhere.

“...should I?” My voice… well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that it likewise comes from everywhere and nowhere. I mean, I didn’t see a body when I looked down, so where do I expect my voice to come from?

The disembodied pantheonic voice giggles, a light, chiming sound but overlaid a gutteral chuckle, and a hacking laugh, and other sounds of amusement that I couldn’t begin to describe. A part of me says I’m the joke, but the voice, the sound of the laugh, is reassurance itself. The voice isn’t laughing at me, just a funny thing that happened, no mistake or slip of mine.

“I’m sorry, you’re… not from… here. Even the people from here probably wouldn’t recognize where they were in your place. So, it’s my mistake for not thinking about how confused you would be.” The voice pauses, a silent “hmm” reverberates, “I think you’d call it an ‘outside context problem,’ but… also that you’d then say that’s wrong. Well, no matter, you’re… Let us say you are in Æther. And that Æther is… a substance, and a place that substance comes from and… well, me.”

I cocked a non-existant eyebrow and spiritually smirked, “Well, I’ve always wanted to wake up inside of someone who sounds as beautiful as you, but usually I’m more of a bottom…” I couldn’t resist. My mind, all I am now, I guess, is by nature much like how Edgar Allen Poe died–dirty, delirious and in the gutter.

The voice giggled with a symphony of voices again. “Charmer.”

“Of a sort, so I’ve been told. …so… are all religions wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, the religions of your world, you mean?”

“Ye- ah, right, you said I’m not ‘from here,’ so… I take it I’m not ‘in’ my world, and Æther isn’t connected to it, right?”

“Correct. Æther is connected to a world known as Urtrament. Don’t worry, you’ll probably find it quite familiar, even if only as something you’ve… played in? I’m not sure I understand those memories. Imagined, it’s a world similar to those you’ve imagined many times.”

“Just like my Japanese animus…” I mutter, wryly.

“Y…eeess… I’m sorry, I can read that you’re making a reference, but I don’t understand it.”

“Don’t worry, most people in my world I hung out with didn’t get my references, either.” I look around, and settle for imagining that I’ve lounged myself over a handy chair. To Æther’s credit, I feel it, after a fashion. “So… why am I here? Is this really like one of my ‘Japanese Animus’ and you’ve brought me here as some chosen one you can throw at an evil overlord?”

“No, you just… you seemed so unhappy. And then you died, and in such a painful and unjust way.”

I shake my head in essence, “Not so unfair. I’m not the most attentive driver, either. And there are people who die far less just deaths than mine every day in my world. It wasn’t that painful, either, to be honest. Too quick for pain to register.”

I could sense my conversation partner nodding, “this is true. I can’t capture every soul so callously or unjustly snuffed out, however. I could grasp yours, though. My realm is Urtrament, not your world. At best, I can nudge things, just a little, and catch the occasional queer soul.”

“Queer as in odd, or is liking the same gender’s bits actually a requirement?”

“Well, I do consider Urtramentis who are like you in that to be more tied to me than their fellows, but, no, queer as in odd.”

“Tsk. Woulda been nice for there to be something that was just ours,” I snark again. “You can nudge things in my world… I think my cat has plenty of food, but, if you could just… nudge the bag over, if necessary, until someone comes by to take care of my effects? And maybe, if this counts as a nudge, make sure my little notebook of last wishes is in a conspicuous place in case my parents are the ones who show up?”

The voice smiled in benediction, “your concern for your cat does you credit. I’ll see if I can nudge those couple of things for you. Cats help.”

“Thank you. Tell my cat I love her, if you can?”

“She knows, in the way that animals can know such things.”

I sniffle ephemerally. “So… what did you pick up my tarnished little soul for?”

“Do not sell your soul so short. You couldn’t see it, perhaps, but… your soul is vast. It reminds me of some of the most magnificent spirits to have sprung from me in Urtrament, not only vast like those of my beloved primal beasts, but radiant like theirs, too. And not so tarnished. Patinaed, maybe. Broken in, perhaps. Your soul is not dirty, or ragged. It is not some worn-out threadbare thing. It has been shaped, and given character, in the same way a shield or a bulwark is made unique by the blows it deflects, or a crucible is blackened by the flame that cannot consume it, and colored by the metals it renders. Even some of the gods of Urtrament do not have souls such as yours. Though, and I think you’ll enjoy this, there is a devil whose essence is much like your soul. Misused and discarded by their creators, all because they found a purpose and a meaning that ran counter to their creators’ beliefs. Look into Lahanael, when you can.”

If souls can cry, I’m certain I’m watering this otherworld now. I sniffle again. “...thank you. …how will I be able to look into Lahanael?”

“It so happens that… someone in Urtrament was… similarly unlucky at the same moment as you. But where as your body was destroyed, and survived by your soul, her soul was snuffed out, to be survived by her body. And I think… you would be a good fit for the hole she left in the world. If you would like to take it.”

“What happened to her?”

“There are… beings in Urtrament with immense power and greater callousness. She thought she could bear the weight of a pact with one such being, a pact for power. To her credit, she did, for a moment. Long enough for some of the physical boons to materialize and be bound to her mortal form. But, her soul was obliterated. Which ended the pact, as while the boons were bound to her mortal body, the pact concerned her soul. If you decide to step into what was left, you will not be party to the pact she formed. But you’ll receive the tangible boons.”

“...would this create a pact between you and I?”

“In a sense, but I’m a patron of no demands, save that you do your best with the gifts I give. Our pact will not obliterate your soul, I’m certain of that.”

“Who was she?”

“Cassiel Oredenark, a daughter of a Templar from the cult-nation of Ny-Aarnd. She had been disowned already for seeking such heretical power, but she persisted, believing it to be no different from how Ny-Aarnd himself gained his power and that she could show that she was as worthy as her father, as Ny-Aarnd himself, that she was strong enough to own power such as what she sought, and through that strength, as free as her father and their hero-god-king. Having been disowned, she reached out to The Oroboric Coil and Pergamano University, colleges of magic, to see if either would take her. Having little magical ability of her own yet, and having sought power that many would consider of a dubious nature, she had higher hopes for The Coil, but her status meant that she expected Pergamano to at least consider her application.”

“So… I would be some young noble woman turned occult petitioner, on my way to a school of magic?”

That smile that was more a feeling than a sight came over me again, “yes. If you wish to tread the path she charted. You could abandon all of that, but… I did say I felt your soul would be a good fit for the hole she left. Part of her pact involved certain physical changes, and mental ones, as well. I can… co-opt some of the transmutative energy created by such changes and tailor your new form to your wishes, to some extent. I… it would take too much of my power to completely overwrite whatever changes she agreed to. I don’t know quite what would happen if I poured my power into Urtrament in such a magnitude, but I’d rather not learn. So, you will end up with some physical and mental traits that you may not entirely want.”

“But you’ll help me make some I do?”

Æther nodded holistically.

“Well, how can I not accept?” I smirked, conceptually rubbing my hands together.

“Oh, one more thing I feel I should disclose… certain… aspects of your mind will mark you as a goblin in Urtrament. From what I can see of your memories, you have a certain conceptualization of what goblins are, and… Urtramenti goblins match well enough, as a whole, but in this world, goblinness is a… Condition. It is characterized by a complex of mental and physiological traits that occur at random, or apparent random, among all mortal peoples. I believe that Cassiel held some of these traits, but concealed them well. I can help you erase some of these mental traits, or, if you wish, we can shape your new form to embody the goblin-ness of your mind. But you needed to know this to be the case.”

I chuckled, “fucking point my ears and paint me green, Æther, I’m already a goblin where I come from, lets make it explicit.”

The atmosphere giggled again, “You truly are one of mine. You’ll need a new name, might I suggest Wreaz? It is the word for myself and my realm and substance in the Goblin cant. And it is very subtly feminine by connotation.”

“I would be honored, Æther.”