#hillfolk

[anim-ttrpgs]

I'd love to know what some of the team's favourite indie ttrpgs are (apart from Eureka, of course. Otherwise, it'd be at the top of the list, I expect.)

Yes of course Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, but for non-Eureka indie and small-press games, here are a few of the team's answers

@sirobvious:

Mothership. Hands-down.

@chaospyromancy:

mork borg

@ashweather:

Ash's Picks (AKA the "get more literate in the medium" pack) (Most of these are small- or medium-press not strictly indie but ya know)

Burning Wheel Seventh Sea (1st edition) Fate of the Norns: Ragnarok Mothership Don't Rest Your Head Troika! Hillfolk (aka DramaSystem) Savage Worlds Masks

@theblackwarden:

A Dirty World PATROL: The Trench Raiders Triangle Agency Paranoia Mothership A World of Dew

[redratt]

I wonder if the BPM of Amigo The Devil's song "24k Casket" is fast enough to work for the Bone Gnawer Hillfolk gift "Hootenanny"

[pieandhotdogs]

I don’t have the willpower for a real post at the moment but if you’re trying to deepen your connection to the spirits of the land on which you live, I recommend visiting the following locations:

Nearby bodies of water

Nature trails and forested areas

The highest and lowest points, both natural and otherwise

Community cemeteries and memorials

Places of worship

Other prominent landmarks and characteristic sites

Bring field guides, maps, and brochures if you can find them. Study the topography of the area, note how they relate to other parts of the town, how they are accessed by travelers. Can you get there by car, or did you have to approach on foot? Is it within walking distance of your home? What plants do you recognize? Critters? What’s the history of each site, who lived here before?

Visit each place at different points in the year. The sun slants through the trees differently in spring than in fall, this trail is inaccessible in the winter, the river always floods when it rains, if I cut through the graveyard on my way home I can grab a couple fallen branches from that cyprus by the gate. Leave offerings, say prayers, speak to the spirits.

[hapalopus]

Aight so, I've only read about 200 of the +1400 anecdotes Evald Tang Kristensen collected about hillfolk/mountainmen/trolls/dwarves/undergrounders, but already I feel confident saying 1) those used to just be different names for the same phenomenon until nationalistic folklorists came along in the 1800s and wanted to define a "Danish folklore canon," and until they were commercialized in the 1900s which only made them even more separated terms, and 2) the hillfolk bear a lot of similarities with the anecdotes I've heard about djinn - they're primarily people, not "creatures," and they can be as good or bad, as strange or predictable, and as private or outgoing as humans. They really just appear as... people, y'know?? Not human, they live by different customs and have certain abilities that humans lack, but they're people, as much as humans are. There are a lot of vættr who can be defined clearly, like the brook horse, the night mare, or the lindworm, but the hillfolk? You'll have as much luck defining the hillfolk as you'll have defining humans.

[pete-darby]

I'd also recommend the drama system (published in Hillfolk by Pelgrane), focussed on dramatic campaign play rather than single session like Fiasco.

How would you run an RPG where the players play as heirs to their father's oil company, and he's been shot and killed by an unknown person?

My first instinct is to run it using Fiasco. Something about this just feels like the setup to a farsical tragicomedy where we're first introduced to a cast of dysfunctional misanthropes at odds with one another and eventually everything goes to shit and they have to deal with the fallout. Fiasco is basically tailormade for it.

So during group creation everyone determines not only their relationship to each other but also to the father. You can leave the identity of the murdered open. Fiasco is very much a story game and not a traditional RPG so the idea that during a scene a player may suddenly reveal some clue that pins the murder on them works in it. And even that clue might turn out to be a red herring!

This idea rules actually

[purkinje-effect]

I really appreciate the random encounters at Mothman shrines across Appalachia, where you don't just have the chance to run into cultists in the act of worship, but you have the chance too to run into a Mothman that was legitimately drawn to an effigy.

I encountered one altar site this week where all the cultists were already dead, and a red-eyed Mothman was just sitting there chilling. No idea if they killed themselves for it, if it killed them, or it just appreciated the carnage. Wasn't hostile and didn't run, either.

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. ���Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[eddathegreat]

I looked up at the house in confusion.

"So, right, I was going to warn you ahead of time, but couldn't figure out how to say it, and it seemed like the house might be a good way to broach the topic."

"You can begin your explanation, dearest," I growled.

"So, I didn't lie about anything," he said carefully. "There was just some stuff I had to omit."

"Understood. The explanation will begin now."

He rubbed the back of his neck. It was a surprisingly endearing gesture, drawing attention to a vulnerable part of his body.

"So, humans can have really weird bloodlines. You know how every once in a while two humans have an elf as a kid?"

I nodded. "Our clan has knowledge of elves. Some shamans say they are a 'sub-species' of sorts, genetically distinct but able to reproduce with other members of the wider species without aid of magic."

"Right, so, elves aren't the only distinct sub-species."

"And what sub-species do you belong to?" I asked. I tried not to growl, I knew humans could have complicated relationships with families and larger cultural groups.

The question was answered by the enormous door actually opening. A woman of impossible size gazed down at me, with eyes that gleamed like crystal.

Then she caught sight of Samuel, and they lit up with an unearthly glow.

"Sammy! You're back! Is this your bride?"

"Hey mom. And yeah, this is Aria. We're not technically married yet, though. She needs your approval."

My heart caught in my throat. I was a proud warrior, I had subdued many foes over the years, but I did not like my odds facing the trials a giant clan may place before me.

"Well come on in, then, let's get to know her!" she said.

The giant woman trundled back into her enormous house.

I followed Samuel cautiously. The doorstep required an actual jump to get onto, rather than a step.

I wondered, idly, how many in my clan could make that jump, how many would have to pull themselves up one leg at a time.

Then another thought struck me.

"Is your athleticism a result of your heritage, or just needing to survive here?" I asked in a whisper.

I was surprised when his mother answered instead. "Oh, he practiced lots, our Sammy, but giants are born pretty strong. We have to grow into our strength. Sammy's still young, his strength will even out a bit by the time he's older.

Another thought sent me reeling. "Samuel, are you... of age?"

"Oh, yes!" he said, "Young for a giant, not for a human. Adult human, definitely."

"And he will always be my little boy," his mother said. "Oh, forgive me, I didn't introduce myself! You can call me Aggie."

I nodded, watching Aggie take out enormous pots and pans and begin to cook.

"I apologize for my rudeness, I cannot think of what to say," I admitted.

"My fault," Samuel said. "I should be able to explain more in a bit."

"We can get to that," Aggie said. "Right now, go talk to your brothers, they've missed you!"

"Oh right! Aria, come meet the triplets, they're loads of fun!"

We had scarcely turned the corner when we were met by one not-quite-so-gargantuan man. His skin was a big craggy, but otherwise he might pass for a human who was merely freakishly tall.

"Eh, Little Sammy? What are you doing back? With a girl?"

"Yep!" Samuel said proudly. "We're getting married."

The man stooped to look me in the eye. "Oh, not many orcs we get in the family. Aw, and she's a cutie, too."

I gave him a serious look, and the smirk across his face made me feel young and small again. "Ah, she's got fire! A fine bride, a wife should stand up to their brothers in law and be able to whip them into shape. She's got my approval."

"Aw, lay off, Three," Samuel said.

"Will do, Little Sammy!" he said happily. If he was at all like my own brothers, I counted that as a lie. "Two and Four are in the woods playing games. You've got your old room, should still fit you and the girl."

He winked and went on his way.

"Was there a reason for the triplets to be named this way?" I asked.

"My Dad thought it was funny. I guess it kind of is."

"I shall praise your father's sense of humor when I meet him."

"Oh, right. Um."

I felt a pit in my stomach. Another turn in the terrible rapids this day had become. "I apologize. I should not have assumed. Had I known..."

"Oh wow, wrong idea, wrong idea," Samuel hastily said.

"My dad isn't dead, he's just asleep for a few more months."

I breathed. "So giants hibernate?"

"Essentially, yeah."

"Very well," I said. I could not keep a growl from entering my voice when I asked, "Is there any other relevant information I should know?"

"Not really. I have one more older sister, Vanity, but she's on a long trip. The rest of the clan won't be coming over, so you won't need to worry about meeting them tonight. There's one other thing, but it's not my secret to share."

"Thank you," I said. I quickly added, "Your family seems lovely, and strong. They are welcoming."

"Yeah, they are," he said happily. "I was excited for you to meet them."

I smiled and nipped his cheek. "Shocking as this was, I am excited to get to know them."

He smiled and kissed my arm.

I rolled my eyes. He was far softer in manner and demeanor than the average orc, but maybe that was why I had found him attractive. Someone who was so ready to be silly and soft, unlike most I'd met.

After walking down the exceptionally long hall, we came to Samuel's room.

He was, of course, more orclike than most humans, so it did not shock me how many weapons he had hanging on his wall.

What shocked me was their impracticality.

"This is a terrible sword!" I said in dismay. "What smith would make this with a blade on both ends of the handle? And why were you using it?"

"I just thought it was cool," he admitted shyly.

I laughed. "We will talk about this later. Your mother is cooking."

His face lit up. "Right! Mom's cooking is the best. I traveled so long, at the finest meals, nothing beats her cooking."

The table we were sat at was the 'youth's table.' The chairs were larger than those normally used by humans. The table itself was piled high with assorted meats and vegetables.

"Do you want me to pick out the vegetables for you?" Samuel asked.

I shook my head. "It's not too much, I can handle it for a night."

The food was well-spiced, far better than it should have been given the scale. The meat was evenly cooked, soft and juicy.

"Oh, should we have saved you some rare meat?" Aggie asked.

Samuel put his hand to his face and groaned, "Mom, no."

"Orcs don't eat rare meat that much, we enjoy cooking plenty," I assured.

"Oh, dear, that was an insensitive question then wasn't it? I'm afraid I might be tripping over my own words for a bit."

"It was an honest question, and far nicer than many human towns."

"Oh that's for sure," Two said. "One town ran Four out because he looked like a troll."

"The comparison was hurtful," Four said.

"I agree," I said, "trolls are foul. You share Samuel's features, if a bit rougher."

Four sat up straighter at that. Samuel elbowed me.

I caught an approving look from Aggie as she sat down at the 'adult table' all by herself. She was large enough to break our chairs with one foot.

How long until Samuel was that big?

Aggie lifted an enormous spoonful of her own food to her mouth, and I saw rocks mixed in with meat.

I realized I was staring and averted my eyes, instead focusing on my own meal.

The meal passed with little conversation. I suspected that giants simply needed to eat a lot, and had little time for conversation while doing so. Samuel and his brothers each ate more than a human their size would physically be able to, and I ate until stuffed.

"Thanks for the cooking, mom," Samuel said. "You've gotten really good at getting the pepper mixed in."

She beamed at the compliment, and I added, "Thank you, sincerely, Aggie, for the room and board and company. All have been delightful."

"Aw, she's a flatterer! Such a good young girl, I can see why Sammy fell for you."

I elected not to mention that we had first met fighting a monster and had fucked still covered in its blood.

That probably wouldn't have given her a better impression of orcs, anyway.

"Well, now that we've eaten, there's some important business to get to," she said.

I nodded seriously. Samuel held my hand.

"You don't need my approval," she said gently. "You already have it. Samuel is a fine judge of character, we know that from experience, if he says you're good for him and for the clan, we believe him."

"So, no tests to give you," she continued, with a small smile on her face. "We give favors. Three, actually. We can't work miracles, but our strength and magic are great, and we live a long time. Ask for anything. We take family ties seriously."

The offer caught me off guard, but I had been coached by my parents and brothers, on what the tribe needed, what our priorities were.

I also remembered humility, and the needs and wishes of the clan I would be joining my own to. I did not know them explicitly, but they valued privacy and peace.

"I would ask for a spellbook, so that the children of my clan could be educated in greater magic. We always have need of greater understandings of nature and medicine. Second, I would ask for a pledge of food, should starvation plague our clan. Last, I would ask for maps, of all kinds, as our clan has become disconnected from much of the world, and has lost knowledge of how to physically navigate it."

"Granted!" Aggie said happily, before I could even process any anxiety over the request.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and Aggie smirked.

"I am glad I passed your test," I said warily.

Samuel was confused. "She said there wasn't any test, she just gave you favors!"

"The favors were the test," I said.

Samuel looked in horror at his mother.

"Now that that's settled, it's time to tell you an old secret of giants. It's not a well-kept secret, which is why Samuel didn't even tell you he was a giant at first."

Samuel's shock at his own mother's manipulations turned to a more tender expression.

"Giants don't stop growing. We get bigger and bigger and bigger, and stronger and tougher along with it. We don't age, we just eventually get big enough we just nap all the time, enough of us is rock we seem just like the mountains."

I processed that. "Samuel is going to outlive me," I said.

"Nope! That's the fun thing, that we need to keep secret," she said. "We get to share our growth, with one other person. Slows things down, lets us be awake for longer, act like mortals for longer. And the partner gets to share in that very long life and terrific strength."

Samuel would not outlive me. We would... both be immortal. This was an offer at immortality, and invincibility.

I bowed.

"I was already honored by your son's hand. Now that I know the truth of what he has offered me, I cannot express my gratitude."

"Oh get up off the floor," Aggie said, a twinkle in her crystalline eyes. "You've got the rest of a very long life to show servitude towards overbearing in-laws."

You’re an orc woman. Your human fiancee,somehow, survived the pre-marriage trial of beating three of your brothers in bare handed combat to prove himself as husband and is now being treated by the healers. Now, according to tradition, you’re going to his clan to prove yourself as wife to him.

[inexplicifics]

for the Cozy Prompts: number 4 for Eskel/Gaetan?? (sorry if i sent this twice i am sleepy)

Gaetan pauses, sniffing the air. He’s out in the middle of fuckoff nowhere - the smell of smoke does not belong on the wind. It doesn’t smell like a forest fire, though. It smells like a hearth fire, with something savory cooking over it.

There shouldn’t be anyone out here to cook anything, and Gaetan is as curious as his School’s namesake, so of course he turns his steps towards the smell. It grows stronger as he approaches - that’s definitely venison stew, well-spiced and meaty, and Gaetan’s mouth is watering. He scrambles up a tree and ventures closer, wary and hungry.

There’s a lean-to tucked away in a tiny clearing next to a bubbling spring, with a small fire burning merrily and a small pot bubbling above it on a sturdy makeshift spit. And seated in the lean-to, contentedly sharpening his sword, is one of the very few people Gaetan likes encountering on the Path.

He grins and drops out of the trees onto the soft moss, making no more noise than a feather falling - but of course his target hears. Eskel looks up with a small, crooked, beautifully welcome smile.

“Hey, kitten.”

Gaetan would stab nearly anyone else who dared call him that. Even his brothers know better. But Eskel - well. Eskel is an exception to a lot of Gaetan’s personal rules.

“Got enough in that pot for two?” Gaetan asks.

“Sure,” Eskel says easily.

“I’ve got berries,” Gaetan offers, crossing the clearing with a pause to sniff the stew appreciatively, dropping his pack and swords next to Eskel’s, and then plopping himself into Eskel’s lap as soon as Eskel moves his sword and whetstone to the side. Eskel chuckles and wraps his arms around Gaetan, nuzzling fondly at him until Gaetan tips his head back expectantly.

And then Eskel kisses him, one of the good kisses, deep and hungry, that make Gaetan’s mind go fuzzy with pleasure. Gaetan purrs deep in his chest and goes limp, letting Eskel take all his weight.

Eskel chuckles warmly as he breaks the kiss, and drops another peck on the tip of Gaetan’s nose. “Berries are lovely, but I think I would rather have you for dessert,” he murmurs.

“Smooth bastard,” Gaetan grumbles without heat, and curls closer to tuck his head under Eskel’s chin, basking in the incredibly rare feeling of being safe while out on the Path. Or anywhere, really. Even in the Caravan he’s usually got to keep one eye open in case of pranks or a brother going a little stir-crazy. But with Eskel, he can relax.

Eskel gathers Gaetan a little closer, resting his chin on Gaetan’s head, and starts humming an old song Gaetan half-recognizes as being something he’s heard up in hillfolk territory.

Gaetan smiles and closes his eyes and hums along.

(Or HERE on AO3!)

[book--brackets]

Summaries under the cut

Damar by Robin McKinley

This is the story of Corlath, golden-eyed king of the Free Hillfolk, son of the sons of the Lady Aerin.

And this is the story of Harry Crewe, the Homelander orphan girl who became Harimad-sol, King's Rider, and heir to the Blue Sword, Gonturan, that no woman had wielded since the Lady Aerin herself bore it into battle.

And this is the song of the kelar of the Hillfolk, the magic of the blood, the weaver of destinies...

The Railway Children by E. Nesbit

In this much-loved children's classic first published in 1906, the comfortable lives of three well-mannered siblings are greatly altered when, one evening, two men arrive at the house and take their father away. With the family's fortunes considerably reduced in his absence, the children and their mother are forced to live in a simple country cottage near a railway station. There the young trio—Roberta, Peter, and young Phyllis—befriend the porter and station master.

The youngsters' days are filled with adventure and excitement, including their successful attempt to avert a horrible train disaster; but the mysterious disappearance of their father continues to haunt them.

Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George

Alone and lost—on the North Slope of Alaska

Miyax rebels against a home situation she finds intolerable. She runs away toward San Francisco, toward her pen pal, who calls her Julie. But soon Miyax is lost in the Alaskan wilderness, without food, without even a compass. Slowly she is accepted by a pack of Arctic wolves, and she comes to love them as though they were her brothers. With their help, and drawing on her father’s training, she struggles day by day to survive. In the process, she is forced to rethink her past, and to define for herself the traditional riches of Eskimo life: intelligence, fearlessness, and love.

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall

The Penderwick sisters busily discover the summertime magic of Arundel estate’s sprawling gardens, treasure-filled attic, tame rabbits, and the cook who makes the best gingerbread in Massachusetts. Best of all is Jeffrey Tifton, son of Arundel’s owner, the perfect companion for their adventures. Icy-hearted Mrs. Tifton is less pleased with the Penderwicks than Jeffrey, and warns the new friends to stay out of trouble. Is that any fun? For sure the summer will be unforgettable.

The Harper Hall of Pern by Anne McCaffrey

For centuries, the world of Pern has faced a destructive force known as Thread. But the number of magnificent dragons who have protected this world and the men and women who ride them are dwindling.

As fewer dragons ride the winds and destruction falls from the sky, Menolly has only one to sing, play, and weave the music that comes to her so easily—she wishes to become a Harper. But despite her great talents, her father believes that a young girl is unworthy of such a respected position and forbids her to pursue her dreams. So Menolly runs away, taking shelter in a cave by the sea. Miraculously, she happens upon nine fire lizards that could possibly save her world...and change her life forever.

Secret Series by Pseudonymous Bosch

Warning: this description has not been authorized by Pseudonymous Bosch.

As much as he'd love to sing the praises of his book (he is very vain), he wouldn't want you to hear about his brave 11-year old heroes, Cass and Max-Ernest. Or about how a mysterious box of vials, the Symphony of Smells, sends them on the trail of a magician who has vanished under strange (and stinky) circumstances. And he certainly wouldn't want you to know about the hair-raising adventures that follow and the nefarious villains they face. You see, not only is the name of this book secret, the story inside is, too. For it concerns a secret. A Big Secret.

Mr. Lemoncello's Library by Chris Grabenstein

Kyle Keeley is the class clown, popular with most kids, (if not the teachers), and an ardent fan of all games: board games, word games, and particularly video games. His hero, Luigi Lemoncello, the most notorious and creative gamemaker in the world, just so happens to be the genius behind the building of the new town library.

Lucky Kyle wins a coveted spot to be one of the first 12 kids in the library for an overnight of fun, food, and lots and lots of games. But when morning comes, the doors remain locked. Kyle and the other winners must solve every clue and every secret puzzle to find the hidden escape route. And the stakes are very high.

Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

Caddie Woodlawn is a real adventurer. She'd rather hunt than sew and plow than bake, and tries to beat her brother's dares every chance she gets. Caddie is friends with Indians, who scare most of the neighbors -- neighbors who, like her mother and sisters, don't understand her at all.

Caddie is brave, and her story is special because it's based on the life and memories of Carol Ryrie Brink's grandmother, the real Caddie Woodlawn.

Pendragon by D. J. MacHale

BOBBY PENDRAGON is a seemingly normal fourteen-year-old boy. He has a family, a home, and even Marley, his beloved dog. But there is something very special about Bobby.

He is going to save the world.

And not just Earth as we know it. Bobby is slowly starting to realize that life in the cosmos isn't quite what he thought it was. And before he can object, he is swept off to an alternate dimension known as Denduron, a territory inhabited by strange beings, ruled by a magical tyrant, and plagued by dangerous revolution.

If Bobby wants to see his family again, he's going to have to accept his role as savior, and accept it wholeheartedly. Because, as he is about to discover, Denduron is only the beginning....

Goodnight Mr. Tom by Michelle Magorian

The gruff and surly Mr Thomas Oakley is less than pleased when he is landed with a scrawny little city boy as a guest, but because it is compulsory that each villager takes in an evacuee he reluctantly agrees. It soon becomes obvious to Mister Tom that young Willie Beech is hiding something, and as the pair begin to form an unlikely bond and Willie grows in stature and in confidence he begins to forget the past. But when he has to return to war-torn London to face his mother again he retreats into his shy and awkward ways once more.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hi! I'm on a regency binge at the moment and while Good Society is on my list, do you have any more regency games/systems to recommend?

THEME: Regency Games

Hello friend, I think I have a nice little selection for you to take a look at!

One thing to note is that some of these games are very gendered, providing roles such as “Matron”, “Nobleman” or “Countess” that is rather unavoidable. Sometimes this is simply part and parcel of playing in a specific era of history, and sometimes it is done purposefully, as games can often be commentary about certain issues that were prevalent at the time.

While I think you could likely make a non-binary character in these games if you really want to, I think that one of the appeals of playing in the Regency era is the strict social structures that created such rigid gender boundaries, and so I’m not surprised to see those boundaries enforced in these games.

Vicious, by Budget Versailles.

Vicious is a game set during the Regency period about scandalous gossip told via letters between three or more players.

Players roll dice to generate scenarios and gossipy twists to pass on to the next player until everyone has been deceived with shocking slander and hearsay.

If you’re a fan of the epistolary phase of Good Society, Vicious is probably worth looking at. Watch a piece of news twist out of your control as your letters get flavoured with gossip. You can roll for inspiration for various scenarios, as well as for juicy gossip to make those scenarios even better - but the game ends with one player sends out an invitation to determine how many of the accusations that have been sent around are true.

I think Vicious is also an excellent add-on to pair with another game of your choice, especially since it could be played in between sessions, cooking up drama for the players to hash out in an in-person confrontation.

Hazelwood Abbey, by stevehatherly.

Downton Abbey meets Hillfolk. Players play an aristocratic family in a player-led dramatic game of emotional needs and wants for 4-5 players.

Hazelwood Abbey uses Pelgrane Press' DramaSystem rules engine to create a story of high-stakes interpersonal conflict. During the session, you will create family members with conflicting needs and goals. And then you will find out what happens.

To play this game you’ll need a good understanding of how the DramaSystem works. The author recommends referencing a copy of Hillfolk, although you can also check out the SRD for free to see how you feel about the system.

The DramaSystem is all about relationships, and give and take. Your characters all need something from each-other, something tied to an emotional reward. When interacting with each-other in a dramatic scene, tokens will be gained or spent by following prompts specific to your playbook. In Hazelwood Abbey, your characters are split between the upstairs and downstairs, just like in Downton Abbey. The upstairs playbooks will wrestle with ties to family, tradition, and duty, while the downstairs playbooks commonly struggle with ambition, social inequality, and precious secrets. If you deny another person what they seek, too many times, they may force an emotional concession from you by spending tokens.

I think this is a great example of dramatic tension, and while I suppose Hazelwood Abbey might be slightly later than regency era, it might give you some of what you’re looking for.

Sense and Sensibility, by Armanda.

YOU ARE A DEAD GUY’S SECOND FAMILY IN 18th CENTURY ENGLAND. Your mission is to get one of your sisters to marry well, since you’re all women and can’t live without the favor of a man. You have no rights other than the right to marry and be a mother. In this game, you’ll explore the terrible vicissitudes of British bucolic countryside life and deal with neighbours and city people coming to visit the various families in the area, where gossip and marriage (and love, in the best of cases) are the order of the day. 

Since this game is built off of Lasers and Feelings, I’d expect it to also be fairly easy to pick up if you’re familiar with other works in the same system. You have two stats and a number somewhere between 2 to 5 that tells you how good you are at one of those things, and how bad you are at the other.

I think this game is more focused on family relationships than some of the other games on this list, because your entire family’s well-being depends on the success of finding a wealthy match. Battle gossip, defend your honour, and possibly even sabotage your rivals in an attempt to find some security for yourself and your loved ones.

The Season, by Rue.

It's London season and you're in for a ball! 

The Season is a GM-less RPG about elevating your status and keeping up your reputation during the fabled Regency Era social season. 

This is a competitive RPG that takes place over the course of 10 rounds. Each characters’ goal is the same: to end the game with the highest Reputation. To chip away at your rivals’ reputation, you’ll have to demonstrate your own social graces, spread rumours, or meet gossip with the perfect amount of composure. You just need 2d6 to play, although you’ll probably want a few roll-tables for inspiration if you don’t consider yourself that good at improv.

This is another game that might benefit from being played alongside something bigger, or perhaps using some established lore from another setting.

Teacup Masquerade, by Sam Scribbler.

A one-page cozy social game about getting revenge on your enemies. Inspired by Regency-era romantic dramas such as Bridgerton with a vengeful twist. Create a character, discover your rival's secret, and become the darling of high society.

This is a simple game meant to fit on one page. You have three basic stats, and a gradient scale of success. You gain a random social advantage and a random personal shame, which you’ll want to try to hide as you go about discovering the secrets of your rivals.

There’s not a lot of guidance for this one, which is pretty common for one-page games. It might be a good fit if you have an idea of the kind of story you want to tell, or if you have your own set of home-brew rules that you want to add onto an existing premise.

The Social Season, by Scott Sexton.

In this single page role playing game inspired by the works of Jane Austen, you and your friends play as high society characters navigating the treacherous London social season.

To save your family from ruin, you must land an advantageous marriage proposal by the end of the season. Will you outwit scheming rivals and jealous suitors to make a fortuitous match, or will you become embroiled in scandal and depart London in disgrace?

This is a Honey Heist hack, pulling you between the two extremes of Composure and Scandal. Since it’s built off of a familiar system (to me), I can expect this game to be rather light-hearted, pushing your characters to vacillate between following social graces or deliberately doing something considered… untoward. This is certainly a chance to put on your stuffiest airs, flutter your fans dramatically, and describe your attempt to kiss your beau on the back of their hand.

The London Season, by Stéphanie Dusablon.

The London season of 1874, a perfect time for the aristocracy to advance the marriage prospects of their offsprings, entertain themselves through various social engagements and, naturally, gossip to their heart's content.

We were also taught that once we attained marital bliss, our husband would take ownership of our wealth, property and body. They probably would have passed a law to ensure our mind became theirs as well, had it occured to them that we might actually have one.

Create your young lady, decide if you hope to secure or avoid an engagement this season and carefully navigate 8 fortnights of glamorous events, social engagements and secret messages. 

As a solo roleplaying game, The London Season is an examination of the social inequities present in the Regency era, as well as a love letter for a time of secret messages and glamorous events. You’ll mostly be drawing cards to answer questions, receive secret messages, and navigate both welcome and unwelcome engagements, journaling each step of the way. At the end of eight fortnights, your young lady will have either achieved or lost her goal. Whether that goal is marriage or something else is up to you.

Games I’ve Recommended In The Past

Le Bon Ton, by RobotFrancis.

Pride and Extreme Prejudice, by Grant Howitt.

Eyes on the Prize, by ira prince.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

100%!!

I think your response gave me the space to expand on my thoughts a bit though, which was nice.

do you have any tips for being comfortable with other people concealed carrying since you're a gun owner? I'm not, but due to a recent law a place I previously considered a safe enough space is now allowing concealed carry (this comes after some shootings in the surrounding area, but again, the place itself didn't seem too bad). It's only for people with licenses, but the gun laws don't seem particularly strict in this area, and it's majority-white and uncomfortably conservative/ignorant when I'm visibly Black, queer, and disabled.

I'm pretty anxious about this, but I can't tell if that's just bc of my biases against guns or if I should actually be nervous considering the "lots of these people suck" circumstances of it all. Would you happen to know of anything I could do to feel more comfortable/safe (minus getting my own gun bc i'm too young even if I wanted to)?

I am not a gun owner. I do carry a weapon, I do not own a gun. I'm not the guy to go to for gun advice.

[hapalopus]

I sincerely love how mundane most of these stories are

"One evening, a man from Lindet in Vester parish rode by a hill that was standing on pillars and the hillfolk were dancing so merrily inside. When the man saw this, he stopped to watch the dance. Now, a little man broke away from the flock and came out with a mug of wine in his hand, which he offered the man to drink, to honor the bridal couple, for it was a wedding party. The man dared not drink the wine at first, but the little one ensured him that the wine was harmless. At that, the man emptied his mug and he was very satisfied with the wine." (Told by the man's grandchild, a woman from Törring named Lovise Hansen)

No kidnapping, no drama, the hillfolk were celebrating and they just wanted the onlooker to celebrate with them.

[somethingclevermahogony]

The Regions of Kishetal

Pictured Above: An environmental map of the land of Kishetal

Pictured Above: A map of the 7 Kishic Regions

Pictured Above: A map of the Kishic City-States and their territories

Pictured Above: A map of Significant Stable Forestfolk Populations

Here is a quick overview of the regions of Kishetal, the homeland of Narul and Ninma. And some good ol' maps. I'll be posting in the future about some of the creatures and forestfolk mentioned below!

As always send questions please!

Continues below the cut!

The Regions of Kishetal

1. The Red Cedar Mountains

Pictured Above: The Red Cedar Mountains near Kepfis

The Red Cedar Mountains stretch from the Shabalic Sea in the north nearly to the Sea of Agitu in the south. The Red Cedar Mountains were formed in ancient times having already been present in the Age of Metal and Glass. However, the Red Cedar Mountains are not among the eleven “Chains of Sanctuary,” those mountain ranges around the planet in which humanity sheltered from the wrath of the gods during the Calamity. The predominant underlying stone of the RCM is limestone, with occasional but significant areas and deposits of serpentinite, basalt, and dolerite. The region experiences warm summers and cold winters, often with considerable snow and rainfall, particularly at higher elevations. The Mountains surround Lake Shebali, which acts as an inland sea and a source of food and transport for much of eastern Kishetal. At lower elevations, such as Labisa, the predominant vegetation is juniper and oak. Forests of black pine, cedar, and fir are dominant and common at higher elevations. The highest peaks are home to alpine meadows. Wild grapes, figs, and olives are all abundant in this region alongside their domesticated cousins.

Some fauna include wolves, jackals, wild goats, giant minks, wild bulls(aurochs), leopards, kishic lions, kishic tigers, caracals, roe deer, gazelle, wild boar, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, lynxes, and kishic ibex.

Very rarely found is the Kishic Elephant, actually a species of mammoth, these tiny pachyderms are about the same size as the average dairy cow. Only about 100 still survive in sheltered valleys to the north.

Examples of monstrous and magical Fauna including Flesh-eating deer, kiriki, dorasi, and the kutiri. While there are rumors of larger monsters such as dragons, these are mostly little more than legends and folklore. Though there is no telling what creatures could be hiding in the many caves and tunnels which dot the mountains.

There are numerous small forestfolk tribes which live in isolated areas.

(I will post more about that later)

2. The Felic Plain

Pictured Above: The Felic Plain north of Boshalum

The Felic Plains primarily consist of grassland with occasional patches of deciduous forest. The area is famed for its almond trees and its many wildflowers, including wild roses and hasir flowers. During the fall, great patches of the plains turn red with the blooming of hasir flowers.

The region experiences hot summers and mild but wet winters, which makes the region ideal for farming. As such, the Felic Plains act as the bread-basket of Kishetal. The region is split by the Aratshin River, which extends from Lake Shebali to the Green Sea. The plains are disrupted by an especially dense forested area known as the Garden. All attempts to settle the Garden have failed.

Fauna include, wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, polecats( which are popular pets), felic falcons, and hyenas. 

The plains are home to several monstrous/magical species, including Flesh-eating deer, garudu, takmek, and the Unturu Serpent. 

There are a handul of forestfolk tribes as well as a single hillfolk tribe in this region.

3. The Western Coast

Pictured Above: The Western Coast near the city-state of Chibal

The Western Coast borders the Green Sea stretching from Bura in the north to Bisabal in the south. The ecoregion has a warm semi-tropical climate akin to a Mediterranean climate. Winter is the wettest season, and summer is the driest. 

The Western coast consists primarily of three biomes. The deciduous forests in the north consist primarily of hornbeams, oaks, maples, cedar, and black pine. The central marshlands surrounding Udur have heavy concentrations of reeds, papyrus, poplar, and willow. The southern plains are similar to the Felic plain region though typically arider. Bay, olive, carob, and sweetgum are all common in this region. The Green Sea and its coast are home to many kinds of edible seaweed which form an essential part of the Chibalic and Buric diets.

Fauna include wild boars, foxes, jackals, wolves, badgers, wildcats, coastal brown bears, gazelles, deer, wild bulls, wild goats, and storks. Marine life includes dolphins, seals, whales, sea turtles, and many species of fish.

Monstrous fauna include bulari, sea-dragons, serpents, krinari, and ramitalek.

Aside from Ikopeshi's there are no surviving forestfolk tribes in this region.

4. The Northern Coast/Sheprian Forest

Pictured Above: The Sheprian Forest near Shepra

The Sheprian forest in the northern part of Kishetal is primarily composed of deciduous trees with occasional conifer patches at areas with higher elevations. Common trees include oak, chestnut, birch, hornbeam, black pine, cedar, and beech. 

The climate is temperate with warm dry summers and cold wet winters. The north is typically thought of as the wildest region, with most city-states and settlements, including Shepra, clinging to the Corin river. Sheprian poetry is a unique variety of poetry, similar to the Japanese haiku, which originates from the forest festivals of the northern coast.

Fauna include wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, giant minks, horned rabbits, wild sheep, eagles, and kishic leopards. 

Monstrous fauna include flesh-eating deer, garudu, kiriki, dorasi, and winged tigers.

This region contains the second highest concentration of forestfolk after the Red Cedar Mountains.

5. The Southern coast

Placed Above: The Southern Coast near Bisabal

The Southern Coast consists of three regions; the southern deciduous forest, the scrubland, and the plains. The climate in the south is quite warm, with summers being hot and dry and winters mild in both temperature and rainfall. On rare occasions, the southern coast may experience heavy snowfall. 

Major cities are sparse however, many villages dot the southern coast, many of these villages rely on piracy, preying primarily on Apunian and Jezaani ships traveling to and from the Western Coast. 

Limestone plateaus and outcroppings are near the border of the southern coast, and the desert are said to be the remains of ancient buildings though this is not true.

Poplar, olive, bay, carob, almond, oaks, and umbrella pine are all common. 

Fauna includes wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, polecats, felic falcons, kishic leopards, and hyenas. 

The south is home to relatively few monstrous/magical species though it is home to the largest population of kiriki in Kishetal.

There are only two forestfolk populations in this region.

6. The Kipsian Desert

Pictured Above: The limestone formations of the Kipsian desert south east of Kipsu.

The Kipsian desert is the least populated region of Kishetal as the arid environment is not conducive to agriculture. Ruins of older civilizations suggest that the area may have once been more hospitable.

Plant life is sparse and largely limited to hardy shrubs and grasses. The region is famous for its carob and the candies and sweets produced from the carob by its inhabitants. Mesa, plateaus, pillars, and other stone structures are common; foreign visitors often visit the region seeking religious or spiritual enlightenment amongst the arches and columns. Many never leave.

Fauna include jackals, gazelles, kishic lions, deer, gazelle, wild asses, and hyenas. The Kipsian desert is also the only region in Kishetal in which the kishic ostrich and oryx survive. 

Monstrous fauna include Flesh-eating deer, takmek, sikara, kiriki, and giant lions.

There are no forestfolk populations here.

7. The Makurian Steppe

Pictured Above: The Makurian Steppe north of Shebal

The Makurian steppe is massive, spreading over most of western Masia. Only a tiny sliver of that vast extent falls in Kishetal. Trees are almost entirely absent. Vast expanses of grass-covered hills define the area. To the north of the steppe is the Shabalic forest, and to the south is the Jezaaic desert.

The heavy presence of sagebrush, sedges, and grasses and the relatively dry climate have led to a preference for a nomadic and pastoralist lifestyle. Makurian tribes regularly raid and intrude in the region, with their westward pushes typically being halted by the mountains. 

Fauna include wild horses, wild asses, wild bulls, jackals, gazelle, deer, mountain sheep, macuri lions, and leopards.

Monstrous fauna include the tomob and the wulut. 

There are only 3 native forestfolk populations in this region.

As always ask questions! Anything! And if y'all like this I might do this with some other regions.

@patternwelded-quill @flaneurarbiter @skyderman @blackblooms @roach-pizza @illarian-rambling @dezerex @theocticscribe @axl-ul, @persnickety-peahen @angie-j-kay

@surroundedbypearls I was looking through my intro post and I just realized I've been completely forgetting to put you in the taglist! Sorry about that!

[zitasaurusrex]

I would not call it "really in-depth" because it's basically a system of determining who's willing to invest a limited resource (tokens) in an outcome, but I still think the way Hillfolk (and thus DramaSystem) handles "drama scenes" is really interesting.

Hillfolk calls itself a "game of iron age drama" and it centers interpersonal drama. During character creation, one of the most important things you establish is 1) what emotional need is driving each character that they are consistently struggling to fill. (love, forgiveness, vengeance, approval, etc) 2) Dramatic Poles: the central conflict your character is facing internally. (Do I forgive or do I avenge? Follow ambition or hold my loyalty? Preserve tradition vs adapt new ideas?) and, most importantly, 3) two other player characters where you need something emotionally from them that the other character is reluctant to grant. Each of those connects to one of your two dramatic poles. (My emotional need is approval. I seek it from my father, who wants me to carry on our oldest traditions, and from my best friend, who rages against their unfairness. Obviously, neither of them trusts that I'm committed.)

You end up with a web of people wanting things from one another that drives tension. The system for "dramatic scenes" (defined as a moment where one character is petitioning another for something they want that the other character is reluctant to give) has the players roleplay the request and the response. This is storygamer "everyone roleplay it and think about the answer" kind of fare, but it does specifically tell you that the argument is played out and stops here if characters start repeating their points or the other players start to seem bored and restless.

Then, turn to the petitioner and ask them if their character feels like they got a significant concession here even if it wasn't 100% of what they wanted. (The game even suggests trying for petitions with bold asks that will take more longterm effort for another character to come around to, because even partial concessions that you might be persuading them can be important.) (Also if the petitioner player is really out of sync with the rest of the group about if there was a concession at all, they can be outvoted for the mechanics even if their character is still unsatisfied.)

If the petition is granted, the petitioner gives the granter a token. If the petition was denied, vice versa. The petitioner can force the granter to take the next step and soften a denial into a concession by paying them two tokens, and the granter can double down by paying the petitioner three tokens instead, if they have them. (Only one of these token exchanges happens, not both at once.) Other characters in the scene can support either side by lending tokens. Then, once this dramatic scene is settled, the issue shouldn't be revisited or have an attempt at reversal until time has passed and the situation has changed.

It's not mechanically super deep, it's not "I roll my argument dice vs your persuasion dice to see who wins" type gaming, but I think it's interesting and I see how it approaches the goal of breaking down one of the oldest problems in pure roleplay: How do you get forward motion when two players are dead committed to their character's side of an argument and refuse to budge because it would be "out of character" for anything to change?

Are there any good examples you know of systems with really in-depth rules for dialogue/arguments?

A couple come to mind!

First of all there's Burning Wheel, which I think is basically the idea of a social argument mechanic taken to an extreme. Its social system, called Duel of Wits, literally has players set up volleys of arguments and counterarguments that are then played against each other. It's extremely deep and crunchy.

Another type of design I've seen a lot is basically to, instead of making a combat system, create a generic conflict system and then just have social and physical conflicts use different sets of skills and target values. Fate does this, as does the Vampire: the Masquerade fifth edition to my knowledge. It's less inspired than Burning Wheel's approach, but it does add a bit of crunch to the proceedings.

Not a system for settling arguments or debate as such, but Monsterhearts has a fantastic system for handling interpersonal conflict which involves the exchange of Strings, which represents leverage and emotional purchase over another person. The game is very much about high school drama so you won't find a system for actually arguing a rational case here, but for explosive monster teenage drama it's perfect.

[ahedderick]

Rescue and Recovery

My father's partner was originally from Mandeville, Louisiana, a bit north of New Orleans. After Katrina hit, they packed chainsaws, other tools, fuel, supplies, etc in the farm pickup and headed that way. Based on his description, years later, they drove as far as they could, until the road was blocked with downed trees, then got out and just - started chainsawing. He was in his sixties, then, but very fit. I'm sure there were many other rednecks and hillfolk doing the same thing (not to mention the "Cajun Navy" in their boats.)

I am hoping that, in the days to come, there will be a similar response to the devastation of Hurricane Helene. Robust governmental aid, of course - but also that type of private citizen response. The news from down south just keeps on getting worse every hour.