For the story, scroll on down. For the the news, read on!
I’m breaking my usual rule of only one link per post because sometimes links pile up! I started this substack just for illustrated stories, while I leave my roleplaying games to my stratometaship patreon and my wizardthieffighter blog. Well, some big news!
My book, the Ultraviolet Grasslands 2nd Edition is nominated for an ennie for best interior art. You can vote for it till the end of Sunday here.
Our Golden Age - the [sepr]equel to the UVG - crowdfunding is launching on Backerkit at the end of this month. It’s a two-book combo, expanding the setting to the “civilized” realms of the Circle Sea and printing the Synthetic Dream Machine [SDM] ruleset for psychedelic roleplaying at the end of time.
My publisher, Exalted Funeral, has a summer sale. You can get free roleplaying goodies and all my books at a 30% discount.
And, if you just want .pdfs, there will also be a UVG bundle later this month.
Ok, there’s a render of the Vastlands Guidebook to tease you some more. Now, thanking you for your patience, the story …
The perspective now shifts, jumps through a portal, and a we see a little oranger vagabund rooting through an abaddon’d house.
part 2: through a red door
Humans wanted for hazardous journey. Low wages, bitter void, long hours of complete isolation. Safe return doubtful. Honor and recognition in event of success.
The little man chittered and chortled as he spotted the call to adventure circled in the hand-printed pamphlet. This explained why the suckling house was empty. The resident had got it in their head to leave burgh and barrow, wall and way, and go on a journey!
“Hoh, it must have ended well,” the little man’s voice fell on disapproving house ears.
“Culpa, culpa, apologia!” he quickly incanted to avert the house daemon’s curse, “visito, expecto, precautio, temere, temere!”
He wasn’t sure they were the right apotropes, but one more wouldn’t hurt, would it? Anyway, no alerts flashed, no numbing gas vented. It seemed the organic building was not rejecting him. Yet, anyway.
He turned the pamphlet over again. Ads for burden beasts and nutrient modifiers and recycler parasites and body modifiers. Invitations for decantings and weddings and divorces and deathdays and mulchings. New vidys and amusements and drugs to be delivered by the next courier golem. The schedule of observances at the electric temple. Ah, there. The local printers held to the prehistoric tradition of marking the solar cycle.
2nd weekend of Greenmonth, year of the Unicyclical Moth.
He clucked and tapped his feet as he added and subtracted and adjusted in his head. Each town had its own calendar, more or less, but he guessed the pamphlet was no more than three weeks old. If this town turned on a typical month, he certainly had at least five days before he could expect a visit from the big meat patty or their patsy.
The little man padded over to the face of the house and stroked it gently, intoning, “amixo nixil nemixo, amixo.”
Perhaps it worked. Perhaps the house was just deaf. He shrugged and looked into the sleeping pod. It had absorbed the sheets and sleeping clothes, but it would do. He moved on. The shower pod was low on cleaning fluids, but had built up plenty of water. The upper floors were sealed off by a membrane. Whoever had lived here hadn’t been entitled to more space. The cellars were … full of root vegetables and bottles? Unusual, but not illegal in this town. He would be able to stock up for the next leg of his journey. The kitchen had the usual nutrient hoses, but also a small deadwood desk lodged in the living structure and some knives. The knives looked hand-made. Inferior, but unlikely to tattle on him. He’d fashion sheaths for them from some of the synthetic skin sacks in the cellar.
Yes, it would do. Maybe he’d even manage to talk the house into giving him some cash.
Now to barricade the door so no town lookers disturbed his rest. His friend luggage would do, but he preferred to keep that mimic mobile just in case.
The front door wasn’t there. Just an ink-swirl.
“By the cursed fifth paw!” he spat and backed away, the house chiming with disapproval.
Then a red light bathed the room and him with it.
… to be continued.
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