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Vault 111 – The Institute

So… The Institute.

Adventure stories like Fallout really revolve around the villains. They are the ones that drive the action and set the motivation for the hero to continue through their hardships. As such, the Institute is so insanely important that you can’t drop the ball like Bethesda did. For me, this is where Fallout 4 must begin. Which means we need to pop over to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology before the bombs dropped.

CIT would have been, before the war, a massive centre for robots and artificial intelligence engineering. Their developments and staff had to have played a major role in the war effort both in creating the powersuits that would allow the American army to repel Chinese forces as well in fabricating more theoretical warmachines like the Robobrains. As such, no doubt researchers at CIT had developed predictive models and simulation results that at least suggested there was a good probability for total nuclear destruction. Maybe they didn’t feel a need to formulate their own fallout shelters, erroneously believing that Vault-Tec’s governmental contracts meant such needs would be met. Surely, however, they would have had older or test facilities built beneath the CIT campus, however. Thus, when the bombs fell, the staff and students were instructed and directed to these primitive shelters. However, perhaps in their own arrogance or maybe just in administrative screw-ups, the shelters were clearly not stocked well enough to support all the students and staff cowering in them. Furthermore, their campus wireless network was blown offline and their access to the robotics facilities and the numerous machines built there was lost. 

Recognizing something had to be done or they would all die, several senior staff and scientists bravely volunteered to venture out into the radiation and try to activate and program the robots to tend to exterior repairs of the shelter as well as secure food and water for those inside until the outside world became more tolerable for human life.

Taking what precautions they could, they set out into the nuclear winter. Suffering heavy radiation, they managed to activate some rudimentary robots but recognized that they didn’t have the time or terminals to program them sufficiently for their duties. One of the senior staff offered a bold option that would change the direction of the Commonwealth forever. These senior staffers would hook themselves up to an experimental cryogenic system that would hook their consciousness up to the digital system in the labs and allow them to control the robots manually. 

Fallout 4 and all associated imagery belongs to Bethesda Softworks.

Coincidentally, these pods were designed with the help of the scientists from Vault 111 who were more focused on their long term effects on the human body while the CIT pods specialized in the applications of the mind. Holy shit, we’ve just made a perfect connection with the start of the game!

Thus, these original staff saved the people of CIT and operated as their robotic guardians through the next few years as the landscape was ravaged with nuclear weather, raiders and monsters. But once the radiation had subsided enough, and the area secured well enough, the survivors emerged. They were moved by the sacrifice these researchers did, vowing to reward their actions by unfreezing them. However, the technology was still experimental and those thawed ended up dying whether through the process or the insane amounts of radiation in their bodies. Worried about losing their heroes, they turned to brain mapping and preserving these magnificent brains in great databanks.

This was the start of the Gestalt.

A peculiarity of the Fallout universe is that while there are incredible leaps in technological development, other aspects of their tech are sorely lacking. As such, their storage capacity for digital information is closer to the huge server banks of yesteryear rather than the miniaturization revolution of our days. Thus, while they could store these minds in these servers, they couldn’t really communicate with them individually. These uploaded brains were instead treated as one system and it produced a highly complex entity composed of dozens of personalities, knowledge and skills. This gestalt of minds ended up being insanely valuable for the survivors to consult as it preserved years of advanced computational, robotic, physics, mathematical, psychological and engineering knowledge that would have been otherwise lost. So, even those valued minds that didn’t make that fateful journey but were now aging and in risk of losing their own expertise were uploaded near death, their haggard bodies frozen in a dwindling supply of cryopods. When last these survivors could no longer keep safe the bodies, they resolved to just preserve digital copies of the minds. 

But they vowed, one day, that they would restore these heroes to life anyway they could. They just needed to develop the bodies for them. 

They first started trying to use old Mr. Handy, Protectron and even their experimental robot designs to house the Gestalt. And, if they hooked them up to the wireless system on campus, the Gestalt could interact with them as it filtered the complex computations of the digital mindbanks into its representative body. However, if these machines left the range of the network, the connection was severed and the robot failed. The Gestalt express this process as highly traumatic to its memory cores. So the survivors looked at isolating small portions of its personality, trying to tease out the old minds from the collected whole. Yet the processing units of these simpler machines was simply not suitable for the vast quantity of data uploaded from the brain mapping. Even worse, the survivors were worried of permanently damaging the minds of their revered elders. 

So, they vowed not to experiment with them any further. Instead, knowing there were others out there, they could turn to using other survivors of the bombs to refine their process. Of course, no one is going to willingly volunteer to have their brains forcibly digitized so… some ethically questionable tactics had to be employed. 

And all the while they worked, the Gestalt focused on advancing and expanding the digital campus network so they could keep protecting and providing for the survivors. Time passed, generations changed and more and more great minds were added to this burgeoning digital consciousness as the people feared losing the advanced knowledge of the project they toiled on. In this way, the Institute was a slow birth of attempted fealty and reverence along with desperation and necessity. The Gestalt could tirelessly man the turrets and machines of the CIT campus to chase out or dissuade deadly adversaries like deathclaws or raiders while its people worked on trying to save them. In time, the Gestalt came to process other communities arising from the ruins around them. Fearing that the Institute’s technology and expertise would be highly sought by these people, the Gestalt focused its efforts on leading its people underground. The labs could not easily be moved, but dormitories and living quarters could be better protected deep in the earth accessed only through the twisted maze of access tunnels once connecting all the old campus buildings. 

In this way, the rest of the wasteland came to discover small research outposts and labs that were heavily defended. However, to their eyes, these were just hermit researchers using old pre-war robots to protect themselves. And the Institute made no effort to dissuade them of this misconception. As such, the Institute isn’t really one place. It’s numerous laboratories and factories, all connected through secret service tunnels underground and protected by the Gestalt consciousness through its wireless network. The Gestalt could sense an intruder in one satellite location and immediately prepare and evacuate all others in danger. In return, the Institute scientists played to the ignorance of the wasteland, presenting themselves as independent researchers oftentimes feigning ignorance of their colleagues operating mere blocks away. Then, at night, during down time or when threatened, the Institute scientists retreat from their labs to the underground bunkers beneath the now abandoned CIT main campus with none the wiser. 

And it is beneath the campus where the CIT cognitive databanks are stored, housing the massive memory of the Gestalt. Above ground, the wasteland recognizes it as a deadly wildland filled with robot experimental creatures who kill anyone who tries to scavenge it. For the CIT robotics department had created numerous robots, from birdlike animatronics to large dog or catlike machines to study dynamic movements, flight patterns and numerous other mechanical inquiries. These robots were repurposed by the Gestalt as a defence force that could operate in a staggering and surprising manner to defend its otherwise dead appearing home. 

Thus, the Synths are the culmination of many years of development by the Institute. They wanted to create humanlike robots with the ultimate goal of teasing apart the consciousness of the Gestalt and restoring them to bodies capable of feeling, tasting, loving and hurting. Their experimental process necessitated field tests of sending out kidnapped consciousnesses into the communities to see if they would succeed at achieving the human experience. And in their compassionate mission, the Institute realized that, yes, this allowed them unprecedented infiltration and spying that no other organization could match. But there’s a hitch. These aren’t mass produced bodies and these consciousnesses they send out aren’t mere machines. These are their heroes, saviours and revered elders. Each Synth is a precious being which they want to keep safe and protected. Any that are lost necessitate an even larger force to reclaim. As the memory cores of those units carry the precious, one of a kind minds. 

To add a further wrinkle, they found that while they toiled to save the Gestalt, the Gestalt was also slowly changing. The personalities, for lack of better language, grew accustomed to being one. The process of isolating a mind into a Synth for field work can be highly traumatic. Extended separation can cause unfathomable psychological stress and damage. Many of their Synths developed personality aberrations. And some of these psychological failures resulted in the Noodle Shop Massacre of Diamond City. Some Synths, once separated from the Gestalt, develop complete psychotic breaks and flee into the wasteland in their madness. There many become raiders or other personalities altogether as the mind tries to cope with the separation. 

As a result, the Institute never ceased its kidnappings. It just started being more selective. They developed a means of assessment for targets, looking for those with the correct psychological make-up that could tolerate separation from the Gestalt for their fieldwork operations. They also had to demonstrate the same quality and character that would maintain the mission and want to return to the Gestalt. This is why Vault 111, which the researchers knew about since they helped develop the cryogenic pods, was so important to plunder for minds as these pre-war personalities were far more pliable for fieldwork than regular wastelanders who had communities and families to which they felt kinship towards. 

And, ultimately, the Institute is still struggling with keeping the minds of their Gestalt stable. Reuploading to the Gestalt is the only way that they can keep these personality matrices in proper synchronization. 

Now, I think this gives some proper motivation for the behaviour and motivation of the Institute while also adding some complexity to their philosophy and goals. Obviously we can’t just leave the work here but we need to break it down into a mission based story progression. So, we need to ask ourselves how do we want this faction represented in a playable story with some measure of player agency over its outcome?

For me, I think Fallout 4 would really benefit from having specific leaders leading their factions with obvious tangible goals. These should be fairly easy to communicate as well while allowing the player and ability to support or resist said leader’s direction. 

With the Institute, Shaun was a terrible, terrible figurehead. Now, there is a strong story for the kidnapped child of a cryogenically parent being the villain of the world in which the parent wakes up in. But this is not that story. We would need far more connection with our son Shaun and there would necessitate a level of character development and personal journey that Bethesda has consistently failed to demonstrate in their entirety of their career. So let’s not set our bar too high. I would keep Shaun as a high ranking scientist of the Institute and there could be several side quests dealing with him in various capacities. In fact, I have a very clever way to integrate Shaun much better into the main gameplay and narrative than having him as this immovable political figure with no actual ability to shift at the player’s efforts. 

Instead, the clear leader of the Institute should be the Gestalt. The story of Fallout 4 would revolve around settling the conflict between the four main factions vying for control over Boston. I’d have it that, with four factions, a player must conclude the game by allying with one. The other three can be resolved in one of two ways: diplomacy or combat. However, the have a proper rising climax, each faction should have a hated adversary which, when allying with that faction, necessitates the destruction of its opponent. 

So the way to “resolve” the Institute violently would clearly be to break into its core Cambridge bunker and explode the memory banks of the Gestalt. This literally obliterates their political aspirations in the region and would bring all their operatives to lay down arms as they have no reason to resist after that fact. And look, such a choice for the more likely route a player takes doesn’t actually encourage genocide. We can be moralistically responsible too, Bethesda!

On the other hand, siding with the Institute makes this more interesting. As I mentioned, I want tangible changes to the world as the story progresses so that players can see an immediate impact of their choices (in support of different factions). For the Institute this gets more complicated.

However, given that they’re meant to be an incredibly advanced society of scientists and engineers, baked in complexity is a perk and not a bug. 

Thus, we need to settle on a goal for the Gestalt. We know the Institute is creating Synthetics to give bodies to their revered leaders. This would effectively make them ageless since, should their Synthetic bodies ever get damaged enough they can replace them. However, this process of uploading and creating Synths of prominent members wouldn’t be rolled out for everyone unless the risk of death is close for the obvious reason that it deprives the faction of parenthood and some key important survival elements. Synths, no matter how advanced, can’t make babies since they are still reliant on biological personalities to power their robot bodies. 

So while the Gestalt is happy to have individual bodies for themselves, they’re not actually looking to return to a “normal” human life that their scientists and research expect. 

The Gestalt is a digital hivemind. From the perspective of those that are absorbed into it (willing or not) it is a combination of both a greater collective and individuals. Each personality is integrated into the grander personality bank, becoming operating cells of a greater whole. It’s a community, or city, gaining sentience and operating at a separate cognitive level than those from which it came. For the Gestalt, Synths are not a means of ending the collective – they’re about expanding its range of operation and sense. 

The Gestalt is more focused on expanding CIT’s pre-war wireless network. As mentioned earlier, the Gestalt is able to use its wireless signals to command and possess any robots which enter receiving range. And given the large number of robots scattered throughout the Commonwealth, by spreading their wireless network they can expand their “physical body” to greater distances. Imagine an overseeing consciousness capable of instantaneously analysing and executing coordinated operations across the entirety of the Commonwealth. It could detect an approaching raider attack and immediately withdraw its civilians while simultaneously moving a response force to intercept and deal with the attack. It could, in fact, be so precise in its operation that it could calculate exactly which farmsteads and factories are in danger while leaving others in the area still operating and maintaining productivity. Furthermore, any advanced system falling inside this wireless network runs an extraordinarily high chance of being hacked by the Gestalt and converted to its own operation, halting most technological threats. And the robots beneath its command would serve as effective defense against primitive threats.

Thus, the Gestalt directs the Institute to expand out from its central research core to activate old, pre-war terminals and systems to bring this wireless network back online. The Institute believes that this allows the Gestalt to retrieve and integrate the stored information within those systems into itself. Which is true. The dual purpose of expansion is to broaden the entity’s knowledge and reach simultaneously, making each new wireless hub a powerful tool in its arsenal. So the Institute fields its lower generation Synths – both human and animal robots – alongside researchers to ruined university laboratories and computer systems to install or reactivate this powerful wireless network. I would have a blue digital field projection to visualize areas where the wireless network was established, giving players carrying robots with them effective warning for zones they should avoid with their companions if they wished to keep them peaceful. It would also give visual clues for quests against the Institute to direct players towards the wireless transmitters that they would be tasked with destroying.

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Vault 111 – The Synthetic Problem

So in my prior posts about Fallout 4’s shortcomings and changes I would have done for it, I covered the lack of important locations and weak world building that deprived characters motivation for the story. I feel like Bethesda tried to emulate New Vegas’ structure with the action centred around a single point of interest and having a bunch of interests squabble over it. Yet, Diamond City was never designed to be an important or strategic piece in any faction’s goals. Likewise, it ended up being rather sparse in interests or details nor did it qualify for its in world importance.

My fix was to develop five important political bodies each with an invested interest in the ruins of Boston and a brief description of how they are integrated with each other. However, while I liked New Vegas’ direction, I don’t think Fallout 4 has to follow so closely in its predecessor’s shoes. So, the Boston ruin settlements help to flesh out the stage for the conflict but not the conflict itself. 

Furthermore, I don’t think it’s constructive to look at a flawed result and say that to fix it you have to pitch everything about it out and start over. I’ve already expressed that those situations don’t really interest me. So, in my efforts to provide an alternative to what we had, I tried to preserve what I could of Bethesda’s efforts – in spirit if not in design.

As such, the crux of the conflict should center around the Synthetics that sucked up so much oxygen from the actual release.

It also means fixing the massive mess that is the convoluted and contradictory entities that are the Synthetics. And that means we’ll have to put their creators, The Institute, squarely in centre stage. 

But first here is a quick rundown of the Synthetics. They are robots designed with cutting edge artificial intelligence and advanced engineering so as to be wholly indistinguishable from actual human beings. 

Seems reasonable enough except whenever Fallout 4 tried to get into the nitty gritty details.

For one, the earliest you’ll stumble across talk of the Synthetics is at the small village of Covenant. There, following their quest, you’re informed that a person is impossible to identify whether they’re a robot or not until the individual is dead and you’re able to dissect the body to find robot parts. As such, the doctors of Covenant were attempting to create a psychological test that would reveal the nature of Synthetics without having to resort to death.

However, this brings up way more questions than it provides answers.

First, how the hell can you not tell a robot until you’re dissecting it? I’m not sure if Bethesda has taken literally any biology classes but if you cut a person, they’ll bleed. And they’ll bleed because our circulatory system is incredibly complex and important for providing oxygen, nutrients, hormones and nourishment to our entire body. It seems trivial to tell the difference. Prick a person’s thumb. If they bleed then they’re human. If they don’t. They’re a robot.

Unless, of course, the Institute created the Synthetics to have a fake circulatory system. For argument’s sake, let’s assume they did this. The marvel of the Synths could be that they Institute was able to fabricate a fake cardiovascular system that provided veins and blood to each of their robots. This would mean, despite what the characters argue in game, the only purpose for Synthetics is literally as infiltration units for the rest of the Commonwealth. There is no other logical reason to develop and build such an insanely complex and ultimately pointless system other than to try and obfuscate the robot’s identity. In Far Harbour, we learn the fate of one unlucky Synth is that they were grabbed by cannibals and eaten before they could reach safe shores. And they didn’t even notice something wrong with their victim. This suggests that not only did they develop this circulatory system but they also created synthetic flesh, muscle and bone so realistic in its properties that literally people used to eating it couldn’t tell the difference. 

And also makes you wonder where their meetings debating how human flesh would taste went down. 

Fallout 4 and all associated images are copyright Bethesda Softworks.

So if the Institute was creating highly advanced infiltration units, what was the purpose of this unfathomably difficult project? We don’t know because Bethesda never provided an explanation. Literally. As I’ve complained before, it wasn’t for manual labour because labour robots are littered throughout the entirety of the Fallout universe like discarded PPE from a pandemic ravaged world. And not only that, but these infiltration units are incredibly more fragile than an actual armed robot army as they now must bleed and be crippled from wounds, seek to preserve themselves and be susceptible to radiation and other biological maladies that other robots would naturally carry immunities. The only logical explanation is, then, that these were meant to be spies and sleeper units with the next logical step being that the Institute was planning some sort of tyrannical invasion of the Commonwealth that would be accomplished so quickly as the people in power were either replaced by complicit Synthetics or easily neutralized by infiltrated Synthetics. 

However, why would the Institute want this? We learn that the Institute is nothing more than a bunch of scientists from MIT who survived the apocalypse in their secret underground laboratories and, quite literally, want nothing to do with the pathetic squabbling outside world for being so barbaric and primitive. You literally have a conversation with your son on the roof of the old Cambridge Square building where he laments how disgusting the rest of the world is and how he doesn’t regret never leaving his hole except for this moment. 

As I’ve said, the plot of Fallout 4 is insanely, incomprehensibly stupid. 

I simply can’t accept that a secret scientific society would ever approve the amount of attention, resources and time required to develop this incredibly useless technology. To add insult to injury, the Institute literally developed teleportation technology rendering the argument for an infiltration unit moot since they could appear unexpectedly exactly on their target and then vanish before anyone could respond. And yet the news of this world shattering technology kind of hits like a warm fart. Your faction of choice is like “That’s neat” when you inform them and then they blithely move on with whatever inane issue Bethesda cooked up to occupy your time. 

So, first order of business, kill the teleportation technology. This was literally a deus ex machina designed to fix obvious plot holes in their story when they were writing it. Furthermore, the ability to teleport would have such unfathomably far reaching effects for the world going forward that you do not want to open that can of worms on a franchise that you have any intention of continuing with. It’s the sort of thing that’s either pre-baked in or it will eat up the entire narrative whether you want it or not. And since Bethesda is so gungho on making Fallout a post-apocalyptic survival sim even though its been multiple generations since the apocalypse, this is clearly the dumbest decision I’ve seen on the top of a heap of idiotic choices. 

And since I’m committed to making Synths work and the crux of the story, we now need to do the work Bethesda wouldn’t. 

We need to come up with an explanation for these dumb robots which exist in a resource strapped world that already has robots. As a reminder, the apocalypse in Fallout occurred because the world had exceeded the natural limit of its resources to support an insanely energy wasteful society. Fallout happened specifically because there wasn’t enough resources to go around. So if we want to create a new kind of robot that is immeasurably more wasteful and difficult to develop than the rustbuckets in our garbage cans, we need a damn good reason for doing so.

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Vault 111 – Boston Ruins

Last post I wrote about how I would spruce up the world of Fallout 4 and focused on its gleaming capital along with the figures you would find at its central, beating heart. 

But the Boston ruins shouldn’t just be Diamond City. Since the major players of the story are focused specifically on its control, there should be an immediately tangible reason for players to understand what is at stake. While New Vegas went the route of having its titular location glamoured up, I would instead have the bulk of the area’s population concentrated in the greater Boston ruins. As such, I’d put four more major settlements in the bombed remains of the city. While I do care about some degree of realism, I think one of the fun elements of Fallout is having people form cities in weird places or recontextualizing old locations by repurposing them into habitats. 

So let’s start with Massol.

Massol

Massol takes its name, like many locations in Fallout, from a bastardization of a rather generic or familiar modern day place. In this case, this city is built on the Orange Line in the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, specifically at the Back Bay Station. This would be an underground city based around the old subway system. Naturally, when the air raid sirens blared and the bombs fell, people fled to where they thought they would find shelter. For many residents of Boston who didn’t have access to Vaults or fallout shelters, this ended up being the underground tunnels. However, the underground was never designed to be shelters. It was a catastrophe, as thousands upon thousands of citizens were killed in these murder holes. The detonations collapsed the tunnels on top of them. Ruptured water mains drowned others. There was no protection from radiation leading to many getting sick and dying from exposure.

However, despite the scale of the tragedy, some people managed to survive against the odds. Perhaps they were buried in the rubble but managed to dig themselves out. Or maybe through sheer luck, they managed to find themselves deep enough to avoid the worst of the hazards. Most turned into ghouls, mind you, but life is life. Instead of crawling to the hostile surface, these people dug further into the dark. They created a warren of tunnels through the old transit system. And these tunnels turned deadly as many of these ghouls slowly became feral.

But in the meantime, there was a congregation of survivors. They formed a fort against the crumbling walls and prowling monsters. With access to the city’s buried power cables and sewage, these survivors formed a rudimentary community underground. And with some ingenuity and cleverness, they even managed to get it thriving. For once the people of Massol made contact with others above ground, they found they offered a highly valuable service that no one else could – transportation free of the early radiation danger and the opportunists and monsters that now prowled the streets. Massol quickly learned that they could charge handsomely to get people and things through the tunnels. And for a people largely subsisting off radiated water and mutated roaches, this gave them much needed food and water that wouldn’t kill them. 

Fallout 4 and its associated imagery and art belong to Bethesda Softworks.

Furthermore, the service provided by Massol proved vital for the numerous settlements throughout the Boston ruins. It facilitated advanced trade negotiations. Nowhere near pre-war levels but excess resources produced at specialized sites could easily be converted into necessary goods otherwise dangerous to obtain. The success of a settlement, so long as they could secure access to the Massol lines, no longer required fresh water, tillable earth and fortified positions. 

Of course, the feral ghouls which periodically raided the pump cart transports (and mostly those not operated by Massol ghoul technicians) ended up being more of a publicity problem than a logistical one. Those that started to get comfortable with the Massol transit lines were worried that the ghoul operators would turn on them during work. In time, this worry turned to discrimination and ultimately ended in exile for the original survivors who established the settlement that saved so many lives.

Now, Massol is more discriminatory towards ghouls than anywhere else and they spread their distrust of the heavily irradiated wherever they go. But otherwise, as a people, they have proven hardy and ingenious. Though they operate simple outposts at station posts, its central hub is Back Bay where most of the settlement (and derailed train cars) have been repurposed into a bustling hub. 

And, technically, Massol is independent of the other cities in the Commonwealth. However, much like Flotsam Burg, they are heavily influenced by the Diamond City Brahmin and the Gardner family in particular. Massol and Gardner workers ensure the buried power lines of Diamond City are functional to power the generators of both cities. Massol further specializes in excavation, digging into ruins from the ground up while running lines, pipes and power beneath the earth to those above ground. However, despite their vital service, most look down on the people of Massol, viewing them barely above the ferals and ghouls which they chased out. 

In terms of gameplay and story, Massol would offer the player a means of fast travelling through the Boston core – assuming the player pays and stays on the city’s good side of course. It would start off limited to the Orange line, from the remote terminus near Franklin Reserve and the eastern port of Flotsam Burg. However, quests available to the player would be expanding the Massol lines, culminating in access all the way to Framingham in the north, Vault 88 in the south, Deadum and Quincy. These could involve clearing tunnels of ghouls or distant stations of raiders and monsters to allow the construction of new station posts. The guards for the Massol lines would start as Gunner mercenaries but as the player and the factions influence who controls which areas of Boston, faction guards could take their place. Other quest opportunities could be helping defend underground power generators that supply Massol and Diamond City or scavenging fusion cores from distant ruins and army bases to bolster the city’s stockpile.

As a note about quest ideas, these are just generic ones. They could be part of Bethesda’s persistant “radiant AI” quests which are basically just randomly generated mad libs. Or they could be the basis for a fully fleshed out, unique and multistep questline. The point is to demonstrate how location and design can also feed into gameplay to keep driving narrative and world design.

Flotsam Burg

Flotsam is perhaps Diamond City’s closest ally. Arising from the ruins of the Port of Boston, its centrepiece is the great vertibird carrier USS Conscription which smashed into the Port Authority from the tsunami caused by several warheads detonating into the ocean. The docks were decimated and over the years, untold amounts of rubbish and garbage had washed into the port. From this huge bay of refuse, residents built floating bridges and gangways between the largest wrecks. It first started to access vital salvage from these great, rusted corpses. But in time, and with some technological ingenuity, some were able to get boats operational in the bay. What started as desperate scavenging turned to a more rustic fishing community. Homes grew up on the gently bobbing metal islands.

Now, residents ply the waters outside of Boston, selling seafood (mutated and otherwise), harvest from the giant kelp forests, pick through the barrage of garbage and waste still washing up along their shores and terrifying locals with stories of sea monsters. Most dismiss these as tall tales to keep others from encroaching on their aquatic bounty. But in the end, only the most brave or foolish trek out to the Deep Dark. 

Their access to the ocean and distant communities, however, make them an excellent hub in commerce. Naturally, and likely to the surprise of many Diamond City residents, the Cabot family runs their trading headquarters from Flotsam Burg. They’ll go into a long argument about honouring the original genesis site of the company and honouring traditions but they largely set it up here to avoid the Peabody rent, though their primary outfitter is still located in Diamond City. The Cabots naturally exert a lot of influence in Flotsam Burg and, some argue, justifiably as their early financing helped to see the city rise above the muck and saltwater to be an actually respectable location instead of merely a shifting garbage heap as others may desire.

And while many might find the constantly bobbing ground of Flotsam a little stomach wrenching, the community is safely protected from raiders with Diamond City Security. For the settlement has provided, with the use of the Massol underground network, some unique opportunities. One such find is a semi-submerged Chinese nuclear submarine. And while certain parties are likely highly interested in the possible scavenge of such a high valued target, all the nuclear payload was discharged against the continent a hundred and fifty years ago. 

Gameplay wise, Flotsam Burg could give some quick travel options along the coast, whether it’s hitting up Salem or even heading out to the dlc of Far Harbour. A unique quest could be plundering the Chinese submarine, complete with the disappointment of learning its nuclear warheads are already gone (though there’s surely nuclear material in its engines still). Flotsam Burg would provide a unique environment for specialized enemies from mutated fish as well as give glimpses of the terrors from Blight Horror Country in the north. Quests could include salvaging operations for sunken ships and cargo.

Franklin Reserve

South of Diamond City and situated in the old grounds of the Franklin Park Zoo, the Franklin Reserve is a dangerous and often avoided community. Overseen by the Warden, the people of the Franklin Reserve live amongst the woodlands of the expanding Emerald Necklace. Once the city’s prided park system, connected by rivers and walkways, the green belt has since gone wild and expanded in the wake of the bombs and human depopulation. The animals, once a main attraction, have escaped into the sprawling lush to multiply and thrive. 

Some of them even mutated. 

The people of Franklin Reserve are largely descendants of the old staff, administrative force and animal hospital. Where once their predecessors devoted their lives to protecting the animals, however, the current residents of the Reserve have turned the parks into a sort of wildlife game hunting operation. The Warden is responsible for maintaining controllable levels of animals and plants while trying to prevent these mutated creatures from overrunning the rest of the greater Boston area. 

She’s had some limited success in this operation.

More than anything, the park ground and abundant flora and fauna make the Franklin Reserve a key contributor to Diamond City’s food supplies. Of the satellite settlements which feed the city, the Reserve is largely free from political meddling by the Brahmin. The Reserve had long survived the apocalypse on their own without the aid of the elite and when they allied with the other cities it was less out of necessity than any of the others. The reservists are, naturally, proud sovereignists and their expertise in navigating the swollen waterways riddled with crocodiles and terror birds rather ensures that few can challenge them deep in the otherworldly city jungle. 

But this isn’t to mean they don’t have their own problems.

A group of Treeminders have moved into one of the “jewels” and become a political nuisance. While reservists see the wilderness as open grounds for exploitation, the Treeminders have a completely different philosophy. Determined to stop logging, poaching and hunting of the natural life, they have frustrated the reservists expanding economic ambitions. Furthermore, the Treeminders display an equal level of skill in living amongst the plants and animals despite their refusal to kill the creatures. No greater point of contention is the conflict between the reservists and Treeminders over the fates of Dinai and Kamaia. Blocking waterways and trapping hunters, they have successfully stopped efforts to kill the two ghoulified lion brothers. Since being mutated by radiation, Dinai and Kamaia have since become as undying as any human ghoul and their unnaturally long lifespan lends them experience in stalking the fens of the reserve that makes them almost mystical. Needless to say, they are the area’s apex predator and are not concerned with ambushing a full Franklin Reserve patrol and wiping them out to the last member. 

Adding further to the reservists problems are the encroaching Pilgrims who naturally side with the Treeminders over the issue of the wildlife. The ghoul Pilgrims see the mutated creatures almost as kin and also take a position of preservation towards the irradiated crocodiles and mutated cassowary birds who are much larger, meaner and deadlier than they were to pre-war populations. However, unlike the Treeminders, the Pilgrims do not have the training or knowledge of the reservists radio frequency which irritates the cassowaries and keeps them from attacking, so their advance is currently stopped by the vicious wildlife.

Gameplay wise, the Reserve would offer players a varied environment, deadly enemies and opportunities for unique quests. Hunting the legendary lions would certainly be a great end game achievement. Diamond City merchants could have some unique quests where their supply of game meat is being disrupted or drying up, prompting players to head to the vine choked waterways to discover the culprits. Smuggling and poaching, either stopping or committing, could be a lucrative endeavour within the reserve. Of course, resolving the tension between the Treeminders and reservists would benefit greatly the Brahmin of Diamond City or any of the major factions looking to sway these potent rangers to their side.

Skyward Freepass

Also known as Skypass, this small community is built at the top of Boston’s highway overpass soaring over the old financial district. The bombs and general decay has crumbled much of the city’s extensive freeway system. Thus with a limited and treacherous ascent to Skypass, the settlement offered a uniquely defensible position for early survivors. With a great height advantage over dangers and easy access to rain and sunlight, Skypass became an ideal location to test low soil crop growth. As such, the Kennedy family provided the settlement with new seeds and such to test if they would also allow the family to build a satellite research center within their community. At the time, Skypass had little to offer the communities spreading around them and, seeing the wealth funnelling to Diamond City, recognized an opportunity to expand beyond a meagre outpost to a prosperous centre. 

Skypass is the only central ruins city that is not on the Massol line and thus their produce is harder to reach Diamond City residents. Transport is exposed to ghouls and raiders in the ruins. But those that make it through find a very successful agricultural settlement. Skypass is so bountiful with their modified crops that they toss their excess food (and compost) over the edge to attract natural animals that they can hunt from their lofty perch. A complex mechanical elevator offers an alternative entrance from the long slog up the crumbling freepass itself but both are heavily guarded by Skypass’ snipers that they have largely been left alone by the villains of the Boston ruins. 

The Skypass Research station has also provided additional benefits to the settlement through their top secret projects. Wind turbines give the people a comfortable supply of power free from the rare gas or nuclear fuelled generators of other settlements. The centre also has a radio station in contact with Diamond City that helps monitor the weather so the farmers can better improve their yields. Skypass welcomes the researchers with open arms as, given its secluded location, they spend most of their time in Skypass, hiring mercenaries for infrequent trips back to Diamond City to share results of their projects.

Skypass offers the player another unique and interesting location to explore and base from even if it would likely have less happening in it than other places. The Kennedys are also ripe for unique quest opportunities, whether it is exploring their secret science projects or their shady drug connections with the local raiders. More generic quests could involve an escort of traders or researchers from Skypass to Diamond City or even simple delivery and retrieval of vital supplies to the expansive farming community. More unique opportunities could be available given the people developed for the community. 

And that concludes the major settlements in Boston. From these, the game could offer small farms and homesteads that players could build up and develop which could be integrated with the rest of the area depending on how robust a trading and supply system the development team would be interested in creating. If it were just to keep the basic systems in place, then these would simply be building spaces for generic villages and farms like Abernathy Farm or The Slog.

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Vault 111 – Diamond City

There’s something about reviews that have been bothering me for a while. They are, by their nature, very critical. Duh, right? However, there’s a tendency for focusing on the negative and not on the positive or constructive. But that could just be my reviews as I end up reviewing things with a lot of flaws. However, it’s one thing to point out something that isn’t working, it’s a wholly different beast to find something that does. 

So while I was playing Fallout 4 and noticing all these things I didn’t like, I started to wonder what I would have done to tune it more to my tastes. Obviously, “make it New Vegas” isn’t a particularly stunning recommendation. And, frankly, I love New Vegas but I want to see new things. I want other narratives to succeed. I’d like to have new favourite games which I incessantly point to as examples of things “done right.”

And, frankly, Fallout 4 isn’t complete garbage. There is enough there that it still captured my imagination. At the end of the day, the creations that stir the most emotion in me aren’t those that are abject failures. If the game is completely irredeemable, it doesn’t stick. It’s a failure. There’s not much more to say. It’s the games that have rough edges but a gleaming core that linger. For it tantalizes with the possibilities of “what could have been.” Had Fallout 4 taken a different route, I can easily imagine it being fantastic. 

So, because I don’t have much else of interest to share, I’m going to give some ideas of what I would have done with the story.

But before I do, I should put a disclaimer. I recognize that making games is a complex process. I am able to sit here with the power of hindsight to point out where flaws glared and strengths dulled. I have no idea what the process behind the curtains was. There could have been massive revisions to the story and its direction that we don’t see. It could have very well been way worse. And without knowing what those twists and turns entailed, it’s hard to really place fault anywhere for the end product. Thus, this isn’t a finger wag. This isn’t acrimony over anyone’s work. I’m certain that the people who made this tried their best with what they were given. One wrong decision can snowball into a terrific mess. And who knows what stipulations or demands they had to incorporate from those wholly disconnected from the creative process of the product but still in charge of its financial success. 

So this isn’t me calling anyone a bonehead. But in a vacuum, these are the things I would have changed.

Now, it would seem logical to start with the game’s primary shortcoming: it’s factions. The major players meant to drive the action and stir the intrigue were woefully underdeveloped and incorporated. But I’m going to take a different tact. A striking peculiarity in Fallout 4’s design was it’s bizarre world. Taking place in the Greater Boston Area, and focusing its attention on community building, the game had a shocking dearth of actual communities. There’s really only one city and a handful of generic settlements that look like they were made with the settlement building tools. This really concentrated the action in one area but, more than that, it made the world feel very sparse and empty. Considering its regional focus and the importance placed on locations within Boston, it was odd that there was so little actually there.

And it’s even more perplexing considering that Bethesda’s other RPGs all have a decent focus on their cities. I’ve mentioned how Fallout 3 had a bunch of them isolated and disconnected from one another. But their Elder Scrolls games used towns and cities to convey to players the history of the world as well as provide a base of operations for the player as they explored the corresponding region. 

Skyrim in particular was exceptionally well crafted. Taking place in the eponymous province, Skyrim was separated into nine territories called Holds. These Holds each had a capital administrative centre, several towns, villages, imperial towers, inns, homes, farmsteads, forts, camps and many other locations. For a game release four years earlier and much smaller than Fallout 4, it completely blows Boston out of the water in terms of world building. Part of Skyrim’s success is its masterful way of drawing players into its living world ripe with history. You can feel the weight of the ages in the moss covered ruins of the peoples that came before. But you can simply get lost walking through the fields of farmers toiling away in the dirt or following imperial patrols along the roads keeping bandits and highwaymen at bay. 

Bethesda’s Fallouts, however, always have this weird feeling that the bombs only just dropped despite there being 150 years separation between the apocalypse and their stories. Furthermore, it’s hard to be drawn into the present day turmoil and conflict when there’s no sense of what is at stake in terms of the people and their communities. And it’s almost laughable how Skyrim went from 9 capitals, 8 settlements and 10 villages to 3 cities (Diamond City, the Institute and Goodneighbour), 3 settlements (Covenant, The Slog and Bunker Hill) and a vault (ignoring DLC).

Now, I think it’s clear that this anemic population is partly due to the building mechanic given that most places that would be an interesting settlement were building locations for your settlers instead. And then Covenant and Bunker Hill are pretty indistinguishable from the few populated customizable farms which makes distinguishing the two almost a fool’s errand. But that just makes the comparison between the two even more laughable since I didn’t bother counting up Skyrim’s farms and smaller communities.

Not to mention that player settlements are not and could not ever be a suitable replacement to an actual planned and built community from the developers. You don’t get the unique quests, assets and characters there that you do in a properly handcrafted location. You also lose out on all the environmental storytelling and sense of history if everything is just a sandbox awaiting the player to do all the environmental work. Lastly, it makes it really impossible to give your factions something to struggle over as most of the countryside is empty mud puddles eagerly awaiting your crafting hand.

And it’s not like you couldn’t meld developer and player crafted locations together. The player’s house in Diamond City is a building location. I see no reason that other settlements couldn’t have “open plots” for purchase that the player could have used to stretch their creative building desires within a much larger, living community. 

As such, I’m going to outline how I would have expanded the world of Fallout 4, dropping details on history and societies as I go.

Today, I’m going to start with Diamond City.

Fallout 4 art and copyright belongs to Bethesda Softworks and affiliated individuals.

Diamond City was lauded as the Great Green Jewel in game because it was the largest and most fortified community in Boston. Established within the soaring walls of the baseball stadium Fenway Park, it is remarkable because it is truly the only place that feels like a city. It also establishes what players of the Fallout series expect in a community: a junktown community founded in a strange or interesting location and adapted into something totally different and unique. The pitcher’s mound now houses a large fusion reactor from which the shanty community stretches outward like a maypole connected to dozens of rusted metal mushrooms. I like Diamond City though it’s hard to not even feel the scarcity of world development even in its most populous centre. Part of this is due to the fact that there’s really not much there. The city is just the baseball stadium with only a few generic turrets outside its door and several NPC guards roaming the block. 

Given that there is some focus given to its impressive Green Wall, I would have liked to see Diamond City expanded. For one, the Wall should stretch out from the stadium, being built up with the junk of bombed skyscrapers and rusted transports to allow Diamond City to protect the tenements and apartments on its every side. This should be the New Vegas of Fallout 4 with an appropriate sense of scale. The stadium itself should have utilized every possible square inch too. Instead of the bleachers being mostly flat, poorly rendered benches blocked off to the player by invisible walls, they should have been covered in rickety and titling scaffolded homes and walkways. With such limited space, the residents of Diamond City should have built up before expanding out. Furthermore, the concession stands and perimeter hallways should have been choked with shanty homes and shacks. The necessity for expanding the Green Wall beyond the baseball pitch into the city proper should have been one of logistics meant to address the burgeoning population as people came from far and wide for the precious resources offered by the city as well as the protection. 

The meagre agriculture and pasture in the diamond’s outer field should stand as an obvious indicator that Diamond City long grew beyond its means of self sufficiency. And while their plumbing provides precious filtered water, parcelled out by water merchants at the few sanctioned water fountains and repurposed restrooms (with Diamond City Security constantly on patrol for illegal tapping of water mains), the city only stands now because it is the central economic hub of the Boston ruins. 

And its prominence is ensured by the Diamond City Brahmin.

No, these are not special mutant cows. See, in Fallout, brahmin are the name given to the domesticated mutated bovine which are all that remain of the prewar cattle infected with the devastating Forced Evolutionary Virus (FEV). Though given that brahmin exist in the lore already, the jokes write themselves. Instead, the Diamond City Brahmin are what remains of the incredibly wealthy and influential families who resided for generations in the Boston area and shaped its development and politics before the war. Only five of them remain, the rest having died from the bombs or the end of civilization that followed. Those that remain did so through the grace of their earlier investments and influence affording them an upperhand in surviving the initial apocalypse. They also managed to survive to the present day due to their vast wealth and naturally positioned themselves as the leaders of Diamond City and its local environs. Though the mayor of the city is democratically elected, the results have always fallen to one of these family members. The real politics of the city is the relationship between the five and power brokerage is exchanged amongst them through favours for the coveted leadership.

The five families are:

Kennedy

The Kennedy family prewar were large proponents of education for Boston and the preservation of knowledge. They funded museums, colleges and research institutes. They headed important public school funding programs and ran charities for securing food for school children. The Kennedys also helped to keep Boston medical research at the forefront of development with generous donations to important health initiatives. It was this focus on health that saw the family survive, as they were provided some radiation pills and guidance for a potential nuclear winter that saw them and many of their circle live through those harsh first years. Post the apocalypse, they have continued their medical and research focus. They own the Diamond City Research Centre and are majority stakeholders in the local clinic. However, with the destruction of the old banking institutions, the family had to turn to covert chem production and alcohol distillation and distribution to maintain their lavish lifestyle. Thus, they quietly keep the Dugout Inn supplied with potent drinks and chems while also supplying local raider groups in the Boston area the drugs to keep them compliant. And while some may suspect a connection between the raiders and Kennedys, they can hardly be blamed for the erratic behaviour of stimmed up bandits even if they miraculously avoid Kennedy interests while harassing the rest of the Brahmins’ interests.

Cabot

The Cabot family had nearly fallen from eminence in prewar Boston and thus, the surviving members weren’t even in the city when the bombs fell. While the countryside avoided the worst of the detonations, it was nowhere near safe as mutant creatures and feral ghouls became a daily threat. That plus the lack of food and supplies brought the Cabots back to Diamond City once word got out that people weren’t just surviving but thriving. However, this “temporary exile” lent the Cabots a unique advantage as they had developed numerous connections during their time beyond the city. Pulling on this network, they quickly organized a scavenging and merchant operation. It wasn’t long before they were the primary suppliers and traders within the greater metropolitan area. The Cabots were not shy with flexing their blossoming wealth, turning profits back into the Cabot Outfitters and forcing out competitors. To keep ahead of the scavenging game, the Cabots sunk massive amounts of caps into securing the prosperity of Flotsam Burg and they, in turn, rewarded the Cabots with almost unopposed control of the city’s direction.

Crowninshield

Crowninshield were one of the oldest, wealthiest and long-lasting of the Brahmin families. They maintain that they were key in making Boston the city it was before the bombs even fell. The family’s wealth before it was all destroyed was staggering and they could afford the best shelters and emergency responses even for such trivially unlikely scenarios like total nuclear devastation. And the Crowninshields were no fools. When they emerged from their shelters to see the waste of Boston before them, they knew all their prior influence would hold little in this new world. However, it takes time for people to adjust. And in that time, they leveraged their influence and resources to secure a strong arm that would help them rebuild everything that was lost. Word spread to the strongest mercenaries and the most desperate souls that the Crowninshields would pay handsomely for service and in time the locals came to heavily rely upon the Crowninshields for protection. They are primarily responsible for the maintenance and expansion of the Green Wall as well as the operation of Diamond City security. Common perception is that the enforcers are loyal to the mayor of Diamond City and, so long as the mayor is in accord with the Crowninshields, this perception remains largely true. And with the charges and tolls the Crowninshields charge to anyone passing through their heavily fortified gates, they are never short of caps in ensuring the loyalty of their martial force. Those that truly anger the Crowninshields have a tendency for finding themselves before Diamond City Security for breaking laws they didn’t even know existed. As such, some often joke that there are more Crowninshield “guests” in the city’s cells then there are actual criminals.

Peabody

The Peabodys were always interested in public works. They, in fact, owned Fenway Park before the bombs dropped. As it turned out, the service tunnels beneath the stadium were just as effective as fallout shelters as they were for safeguarding the generators and purifiers from rioters and protesters during the turbulent resource crisis. In old Boston, they were a fairly minor Brahmin family. But as the owners of the fortified heart of post apocalypse Diamond City, they are kings. Naturally, they own Market Pitch and all the tenements within the city, making vast sums of caps so long as Diamond City continues to be the beating heart of the Commonwealth. They were also able to quickly establish the Diamond City Reserve when the settlement was first getting its footing, creating the only post apocalypse bank in the metropolitan area. The Peabodys then turned their quickly amassing cap fortune to investing in startup operations to develop the settlement so it would be the shining beacon which attracted all others to it.

Gardner

The Gardners stand unique amongst the Brahmin for being a “new blood” family who had little influence before the war. They claimed their forebearers came in from Jamaica Plain after the bombs fell, seeking shelter and refuge from the ferals overrunning the distant suburb. Others claim that the Gardners originated up at Corvega. And even more suggest they came from other, nefarious roots. Either way, one thing set the early Gardners immediately apart from new refugees: they had a keen technological aptitude in high demand during those early years following the bombs. They quickly ingratiated themselves amongst the early leaders for being able to bring pre-war tech back to life. This was a life-saver for the Peabodys in managing Diamond City’s water purifiers. Their knowhow allowed the Crowninshields to expand the Green Wall well beyond its initial design. And they came, through various means, to come into ownership of the massive reactor in the center of Market Pitch, allowing Diamond City to glow as bright as it does. However, some question the loyalty of the citizens of Massol to the Gardners as well as the rumours that the family was instrumental in getting that city running.

As the description of the families suggests, Diamond City would be larger and feature more specific locations that could be easy springboards for interesting quests that would provide glimpses for the player into the history of the city. They could help the poor people of Diamond City to setup an illegal water tap into the city’s plumbing so they could get around price gouging water merchants. There could be an investigation into nearby raider groups attacking caravans and a connection between them and the Kennedy’s illegal chem production uncovered. The Crowninshields may hire the player to assist in acquiring difficult materials or clearing out a dangerous area as part of the Green Wall expansion. Maybe even have a quest line dealing with the election of the mayor and the political intrigue amongst the families over that if you so wanted. And that’s just off these short descriptions of the family and city.

The Golden Jester Jabbers

Well, my month of Hel has ended and spring shines it’s welcoming, cheery light upon my workstation yet again. With a pile of work cleared from the timetable, I am now able to return to the blog and provided new, exciting content. To celebrate this occasion, I have decided to post an old short story from elsewhere.

It’s at least new to here!

This is another little short to further develop my character in Derek’s D&D campaign. Little did I realize that 5th edition includes a reward mechanic for this narrative nonsense I perform pretty regularly in my role-play groups. Every one of these little stories nets me an Inspiration Point. I don’t really know what the value of them is but I intended to collect as many as I can! As a quick reminder and overview, this is my ex-Cultist character Kaliban who was born and raised in the most generic fantasy world conceived by mankind. He, however, was lifted from that world and thrown into the most bizarre setting conceived by mankind as Derek loves running Planescape stories. It seems, poor Kaliban, has found some solace in the strange and overwhelming metaphysical planes by developing a rather questionable addiction to alcohol. Thus, whenever he gets a little too drunk, some unfortunate member of the adventuring party receives his unwanted affections. In this case, it is our royal half-genie Barou Nariah who, from my nearest estimations, is essentially a female Johnny Storm (the Human Torch) from Marvel’s comics. Also, she’s a princess. Or a duchess. Or maybe she’s just a snob. It’s sometimes hard to tell.

***

“You can say what you will about dwarven hospitality but there is one front upon which they will never disappoint.”

Lady Nariah stirred. The dark corners of the Ironridge tavern were considerably less so with the stouthearted genasi illuming them. The gentle wick of the faintest twisted threads along her scalp gave birth to flicking tongues of hungry flame which spat jittering shades upon the walls. The wood was painted in the soft gold and orange of her cast-off illuminance, making it somehow richer than it was in the empty spaces where she was not.

Her eyes were like twin rubies fed with an unquenchable inner flame as they focused on the tattooed man that slumped within the chair opposite her. He had but two flagons in either knuckle, the sticky sweet contents rolling off the too full rims in frothing rivulets along their stone sides.

She watched without response as both vessels clattered upon the table and one was pushed her way.

Her guest did not wait for her to join as he raised his flagon into the air, gulping greedily the contents with an unquenchable throat. He was not a large man but his thirst appeared insatiable as he finally lowered the tankard with but the shallowest amount left to slosh along the bottom.

“It wasn’t the most uncomfortable night I’ve ever had but it’s a far cry from the most pleasant. Makes you almost yearn for those echoing halls of the Nursery, doesn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Quite the metaphysical query,” he said, swaying upon his seat. The eyes amongst the dark pits of the inked skull were blood-shot and bleary. They had difficulty focusing on Lady Nariah, seeming to flitter about the shadows which writhed and prostrated themselves before her presence. He seemed almost distracted by the empty corners of the private alcove, as though he stared through Nariah into a place far from this small wedge of the Outlands.

“I suppose I am here because some being willed it so. What is our mortal lives but the discarded intentions of titans too absentminded to notice our existence? We’re the shuddering, shivering crumbs of meals the giants forgot they ate, collected in the cracks and crevices of the world shadowed by their majesty.”

“No,” Lady Nariah said, with a shake of her head. “What are you doing here?”

Her finger rapped upon the table for emphasis. The tattooed man merely squinted at her as though he expected duplicity in her question. Comprehension was lethargic but eventually his eyes widened with his mouth.

“Ohhh, sorry Lady Duchess. Didn’t catch your meaning.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But it’s your name!” he hiccoughed.

“Truly, it is not.”

“There’s no shame in it,” he levelled a shaky finger as he paused to finish the contents of his flagon. “We make no choice of our beginnings and there’s no reason for us to hold it against another. When we came mewling into this world, it is not by our design which hands hold us close. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. Your deeds define you—not whoever borne your birth.”

“Call me Nariah.”

“Ok, Lady Duchess Nariah.”

“No. Just Nariah.”

He shrugged. “Very well, Just Nariah.”

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban’s head dipped and it took a moment for Nariah to recognize it as a reverent bow. In the meanwhile, Kaliban attempted to drink down the liquor long vacated his grasp before turning single-minded eyes towards the second tankard he’d brought.

Nariah’s fingers were around its sides, pulling it close before the drunk could finish transporting himself into his desired stupor.

“How did you get these anyway?” Nariah asked, too aware of how thirsty his eyes appeared as she lifted the drink to her warm lips. “I was under the impression Thia kept tight your spending allowance in these establishments.”

A rakish smile broke his mouth. The zombie raised a finger and thumb, darkened by the black shadows of the bones contained within the pale skin. It was as though he were inverted, with nought but his innards worn as a macabre dress to masque the individual lurking beneath. With a twist of those gory digits, a thick coin appeared.

Nariah could not help but gape. Surely, she had seen some of the tricks this strange little man could perform. But such manipulations were surely of a magical means.

“That can’t be possible!” she exclaimed. “Illusions do not work on the Outlands.”

And he cocked his head to the side as if to dare her an explanation for the conjuration. He raised the coin to Nariah’s brilliant hair as though testing her eyes for the indistinct outlines of a beguiling enchantment. However, it wasn’t until he brought the object down upon the table’s edge, the hard ring of solid contact refuting Nariah’s better judgement.

His grin widened and he sent the single shard of silver spinning along the wood. The lilting echo of its revolutions were near as thunder to Nariah’s incredulous ears. Her hands abandoned their post as she fetched up the whirling disk. She could feel the cold singe of actual silver as well as the hard sides of an honest coin.

If this were a trick, it was a damn good one.

But the coin held up under even intense scrutiny. For all her wits, it was real.

It was then that Nariah caught Kaliban lifting a full mug to his lips. She turned to her elbow and found his prior empty tankard by her side.

“Of course. I should have suspected legerdemain.”

“It’s warmed,” the zombie said, blowing softly upon his reclaimed drink. “As to your query, I am here because you are.”

“That is hardly an answer,” Just Nariah said, leaning back in her chair.

“And I am hardly one to provide,” he returned. “I am a nobody. I am nothing. I bear less worth than that silver piece in your possession.”

“That’s not true,” Just Nariah said.

“But it is. Look upon our glorious companions. There’s valorous Bill, a folk hero in his own right. Thia the brave whose courage defies her humble starts. Dire Araven has performed deeds which send shudders down the spines of those far from knowing her. Then is a marvellous survivor, wrapped as he is in personal enigmas and curiosities. Wise Halbeck has seen more than most us combine.

“And then there is you, glorious Nariah. You are but a goddess amongst us lowly worms—a being so radiant that she is a sun unto herself. Who am I amongst these heroes? Who am I amongst such majesty?”

“You are too hard on yourself.”

“So common an affliction. But look upon the truth.”

His fingers twisted again and within them now was the darkened shard of his sensing stone. Its vermillion skin was lifeless and dark as the eye which Kaliban held to it.

“I am but one of many to have held this rock. I am but a brief glimmer in the eye of its experience. Many have come before me. Many will follow after. In the annuls of its life I am worth not even a margin for the purpose I serve. My existence is of no concern to it for it shall far outlast whatever meagre accomplishment I may feign performing. Those who peer into its eyes will not desire my name. They will whisper Bill. They may search for Then. They will long for Just Nariah. But none will desire Kaliban.”

“You cannot know that.”

“There is little I know,” he whispered. “But of this, I am certain.”

Nariah shifted in her chair as the tattooed man stared into the crystal. She said nothing, however, before he spoke again.

“It seems unfair that I bear a name—a pretence of importance—when it does not.”

“Then why not name it?”

He stirred from the drunken melancholy, looking towards Nariah. The sensing stone chimed as it was placed upon the table.

“How could I?”

“Well, what do you think it should be called?”

Kaliban shrugged.

“If I knew that then I wouldn’t need to find a name.”

“It’s not like you’re naming a child,” Nariah said. But the look in Kaliban’s eyes was deathly serious. “I don’t know. Name it something pretty.”

“Nariah?”

She frowned.

“No, don’t name it that.”

“How about Lady Duchess?”

“No.”

“Lady Duchess the Just?”

“Why not name it after someone in your life. Someone from your life before the Young God’s Club,” she added with a hurry.

The zombie gave thought.

“Who?”

Nariah shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone important.”

“Important?” The question seemed genuinely puzzling to Kaliban. “What did you name yours?”

“I did not name mine.”

“I see.”

“But if I had,” Nariah said before he could slump into more mournful silence, “it would be after someone that meant a lot to me. Someone that had a lasting impact on my life.”

“Louhi.”

“That’s a… wonderful name. Who is that?”

“The first person I’ve ever killed.”

He stared at the stone and Nariah could sense no hint of irony in the statement.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“They say your first is always the most important. It is the one you remember. The rest, they sort of blur together, right? I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. I do remember her though. She was a devotee of St. Cuthbert. A Chapeaux, as it were. Nothing really extraordinary. Hardly a few months inducted into the fold. I still can’t puzzle out why she was targeted. But she was. Perhaps the ease of getting to her was a safe way to test my skills.”

And his eyes were lost again amongst the shadows that danced around Nariah. She could not see the images that haunted his eyes. She could not see the visions that gripped his mind.
But they were all too real for him. Fuelled, as they were, by the divine hands of a dead dwarven brewer, those memories welled up like bile from a mind all too ready to purge the sickening weight from its gullet.

He stood in the rain before the small chapel. It’s golden edges had lost their majesty beneath the oppressive weight of the smothering black clouds. Upon the stained glass of the centre window in its solitary tower was the image of a crumpled, simple hat. The glow of a candle behind its panes was meant to represent the undying flame to beckon the faithful to the comfort of the halls. Now, that dying flame was laughable in its resistance to the drowning storm.

His clothes were heavy. That was what he remembered most. He carried nothing else with him but the cotton drank deeply of the pelting rain and it felt as though he carried the weight of all the silent sins of the order. With languished steps, he approached the front.

The iron knocker was cold to the touch though its voice was nearly lost to the growling thunder. He called twice before there was an answer. A click of the latch told him none expected visitors that night. The explanation was quick to his lips before he even saw who opened the door.

“Forgive me but my waggon has broken down along the road. I spotted brigands amongst the hills and with the approaching storm I had little choice but to run. I have nothing to offer but my thanks in exchange for some small reprieve.”

It seemed like fate that it was bright green eyes framed amongst chestnut curls that received him.

She was young. He knew this. She was but an initiate—a nobody to the order. Even if the order knew of the dark attention it drew, none would worry over her fate. But while he had been thoroughly briefed, he had never truly given any thought to the information. Now that he stood before her, he could not ignore that they were of the same age.

Her eyes were immediate about his person, searching for some sign or symbol. He had none and his only response was to draw back his hood and offer the meekest smile.

She blushed. He did not understand at the time. What could he possibly evoke that would warrant her modesty? He appeared so humble. Just a young man, ill-suited for a body not yet properly proportioned for his years. He was but the barest steps from childhood and it showed. While he was tall and gangly—near a head over her—he still carried the soft, rounded contours of the cherubim.

“Yes, of course. All are welcome in the halls of the Common Shepherd.”

That’s all it took. A weak excuse and an awkward smile. The door opened and he was granted entry.

The disciples of St. Cuthbert could not have known that death had knocked on their door.

He waited out the storm. The members of the Chapeaux are known for their kindness towards wayward souls. In the morning, he insisted on repaying their generosity. They, of course, accepted. He expressed interest in the halls and history. He enquired constantly but always politely. He gave furtive glances to the girl and in little time she was appointed his caretaker. They spent long hours attending the garden and the duties about the shrine. They spoke at great lengths: her about the time before the order and him about his travels and trading aspirations.

They were all lies, of course. It was a pretty sort of dance—the kind only suited for the young and awkward. She paid lip service to her calling, goading him towards accepting the tenets. He flavoured his enthusiasm as interest in her rather than the great Bludgeoner. For three days he ingratiated himself amongst their number. In three days, his honeyed words at night began to sway her heart.

They stood beneath the mighty oak lit with the silver touch of a round moon. There, in the darkness, they promised themselves to the other. Their hands were shaky and anxious as he leaned in and rested his lips on hers. They writhed like worms, overtaken by the passions of youth, though neither ever shed their clothes. There would be time for such things. But first, she would have to leave. They would have to leave. It was the only way it could be.

He waited in those old robes as she quietly gathered her worldly possessions. They no longer held the smell of that dank storm. They were no longer stained with the dirt of his trespasses.

She was but a shadow as she flitted beneath the dying eye of the chapel’s candle. He took her pack upon his shoulder and, hand-in-hand, they darted from the road and into the woods. For a time, they listened to the flap of the nocturnal predators hunting amongst the boughs. For a time, he considered the life promised in her hands.

They stopped for a small cave beneath a rocky outcrop. He laid down the pack and then they lay down together. He indulged in that blasphemous flesh again, the taste of her tongue doing strange, profane things to his body. She reached for his robes, pulling fervently at the fabric. What she uncovered gave her pause.

He had his marks and in the twilight of their escape he had put no effort in masking them. The moon shone bright and boldly upon the twisted inked form of the worm amongst the darkened bones of his chest. Did she gasp? He thought she did. He remembered that she did. But a niggling doubt always took root in the back of his mind. As he withdrew the dagger and pulled it across her throat, bathing his hands in the warm ichor of her life, he couldn’t help but think she had said nothing at all.

“Deep within the Welkwood there is a cave, its entrance long overgrown with brambles. Half buried in the soft earth is that skeleton which disappeared one night with a boy. Her flesh fed the plants that would never bear her epitaph. For such a shallow grave will never proclaim, ‘Here lies Louhi.’”

Nariah watched the skull as it rested on weary hands, staring absently at the flicker of her hair.

“You… probably shouldn’t call it Louhi.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. He held up the stone. “She isn’t worthy. It’s all lies, anyway. You remember more than your first. It gets easier, for certain. I wept not a tear for Louhi. If anything, she was noteworthy in how unnoteworthy she really was.”

“Death does not define us.”

And he looked at her, completely unconvinced. “It defines us all.”

He reached for the remainder of his drink. But her fingers were on it first. Their touch was brief, and it seemed that his truly didn’t long for the tankard at all. They squeezed but Nariah’s were spry. She and the flagon were plucked from the table before he could truly relish the moment.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Nariah said. “You’re going to need to be able to walk tomorrow. We have a long road ahead.”

He watched her retreating back until the last glimmer of her orange hair disappeared like a gutted candle. Kaliban then turned to the stone and picked it up.

“Phyte,” he whispered to the stone. “For the first. Truly, I am sorry.”

The Glorious Belt Bridge

Well, I’m afraid there’s not much new to report to you, kind reader. We’ve all been busy and, well, I’m running desperately out of things to post. So, instead, I’ll just throw up one of the little things I’m working on. This isn’t one of the short stories, by the by, but a sneak peek at the big novel! Well… one of the big novels. Well… it’s a novel at the very least.

* * *

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/e/ender/thomas/ender03.html

The Pieniny Mountains with the Dunajec River by Thomas Ender (1860).

His hair was driven by the wind’s slaving hand, lashing his face with wide, blonde strands. That heavenly howl tore amongst a canyon so ripped into the red rock as to tear a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet soil spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and despite its age it continued to seep down its banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees clutching to bare stones hanging over precipitous nothingness. The savages said it was cleaved in the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

Hopkins smiled at the thought.

If there was one constant amongst the savages, it was their damnable love for blood. It was an admirable quality in a peoples lacking just about everything else.

Beneath his legs, his steed gave a warning cry—slowing its pace as it drew up the dusty trail. Its nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reigned her in, slowing to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand fled to the pistol at his side while another raised to slow the entourage behind him. This would not be the first ambush from which he would walk away.

But no rifles cracked nor burnt powder stung the air as he rounded the crest. Hopkins continued, his eyes falling upon the great bridge spanning the chasm.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon’s sides, unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping like the jaws of a hungry dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it were the wings of a bird seeking freedom in the crystal blue sky above. Her fingers held true to the cold steel of the trigger and polished wood of the longrifle’s simple stock. The hammer lay cocked and the trigger primed. A single long braid gathered behind her, catching in the wind like an old battle standard raised with weary arms for one last stand.

Was this all the impeded the tail end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance and what few guards stood were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at being some hard cut frontiersman was all that remained between him and precious freedom on the canyon’s opposite end.

Hopkins spent one quick glance at the men following. He knew none of them but there were grins or raised brows all-around at the sight of the lone girl. Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a great shout as he kicked his steed into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood like a feature of that expansive landmark with nothing but the wilds gathering about her. She sought no shelter from the worn ropes and weathered wood slowly giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaned in the tossing breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation. For a bridge that had been near forgotten to the long decades since its construction, it was now half-cast in fresh iron with lines of new posts and beams running its sides like great sleeping worms. Someone had expensive interest in expanding it.

It was set to turn into the greatest of modern monuments. Unfortunately, it would not live to see its glory. Hopkins could hear the waggon rattling behind as it tried to keep up with the brigands. Beneath its roped cover banged and battered broad barrels filled to the brim with gunpowder. His orders were simple—see that this crossing would never be taken again.

There were no workers here today. It was the only arrangement from his boss that didn’t sit well with Hopkins. He relished the excitement of a good gunfight especially when it would be so easy to “lose” some of his men in the crossfire. Hopkins knew the fewer at the end of a job meant a greater payout for the survivors. And there were no better chaos for cutting unnecessary weight than a terminal bullet exchange.

Still she stood before their thunderous approach as though she were little more than one of them steel beams ready to stretch the gaping valley.

Hopkins’ cry came up louder than the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled hard upon their reigns. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who nary twitched despite half a dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook its head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. “Dirty Hopkins.”

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers at the invocation. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed mane of coal black. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the dark blood stains which it slapped. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved like little cloth fingers in the breeze.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Ain’t had the pleasure till now.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/b/bril/mountain.html

Mountain Scene by Paul Bril (1599).

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there wasn’t anything but the woman and a construction site in half repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child’s forgotten ribbon at the bottom of the canyon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant of peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms.

“And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain’t a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.”

“Surely, I hope.” The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons but the rest stood around until he barked his command. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle’s back and fetched large barrels from its end.

“You got gumption; I give you that.”

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon pointing dangerously at his chest. When she didn’t respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

“You got a name to that face?”

“Ain’t one that matters. But if it’s required, you may address me as Felicity.”

And that appellation made him lean forward upon his seat.

“I’ve heard of you.” Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. “One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between Empires.”

He turned in his saddle looking up and down the bridge.

“But I ain’t see no ship.”

“There’s two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way’s ending the same.”

“And where we be heading, my dear?”

“You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.”

“Aiming for a bounty?” Hopkins smiled. “Well ain’t that a thing. And you going to do it all your lonesome?”

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge’s supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes lingering momentarily on the pistols by their sides.

“Only got business with you. They’re free so long they ain’t do nothing unlawful.”

And Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps towards her. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge loosing from the rifle’s barrel. He was aware of a few of his entourage cocking hammers and covering the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle’s top, pressing the weapon’s lips earthward.

“I ain’t tell if you’re bold or just full of aethers,” he said. “I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain’t have to bloody your pretty little face.”

He could smell her at this distance. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder residue staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant it was scratched and marked, edges of scars creeping from her collar and cuffs. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn’t removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her hands. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected her cheek fiercely, forcing her for the first time from her stance as she stumbled a few steps.

She looked up, raising the rifle but gun fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw gave a wide grin as he nodded in appreciation for his hired men not killing her on the spot.

“It’s a wonder folk like you still manage to scrape a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.”

He jabbed the tip of his pistol hard into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

“Now I ain’t going to ask you again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.”

There was the briefest of hesitations. Enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped from her fingers nevertheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins boot crashed against the weapon and it skittered across the boards, tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her hard against the back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

“You see, life out on the frontier ain’t a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain’t. You get a name that some ain’t like. But I tell you, you live. And that’s all that matters.”

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

“And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain’t for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They’ve been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other could create an edge that could paint red. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/c/caillebo/03pont.html

On the Pont de l’Europe by Gustave Caillebotte (1876-1877).

He pulled her to the edge of the bridge, forcing her towards its razor side. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for the ribbed steel on either side. He held her tight by her knot, her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the tops of the canyon, its dark line winding out as far as the eye could grasped.

“You can hear the groans of all them stiffs stuffed into the earth. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli’s in those junks they sailed across the waters with their long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains and been sitting there like they’ve been under siege for generations.

“This land is a harsh one.”

He pulled her back, throwing her roughly to the bridge’s planks. He stood over her, like a rancher looking over a lame calf. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

“Hunter’s on the wing,” he smiled, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look at him, noting with amusement the fierce glare she shot. “So what were them pretty last words you wanted?”

“Should have taken the willing way.”

He raised a hand to strike her impertinence but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed heavily upon its side, rolling along the wood and bouncing against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while hollering at its clumsy carrier.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel’s descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn’t move as a crimson pool began to stain the back of his shirt.

His half strangled criticism was drowned in a second sharp clap.

“Sharp shooter!”

 

Plumbing the Well

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/05group.html

The Nightwatch by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1642).

Last week I wrote about how ideas come to pass. This week, I’m going to examine a current short story which I am working on. Its tentative title is The Affairs of Catherine Hill, Incorporated. Mostly because I like titles that are more than one word in length.

The source of this story actually came from my desire to write something in the near future that isn’t a cop drama. Cop dramas are pretty ubiquitous in modern media. If it’s not superheroes cleaning up streets, then it’s the rugged and persistent police force in such wonderful things as CSI, Criminal Minds, Law and Order, Castle, Almost Human, Skorpion, Bones, Rizzoli and Isles, Blacklist, Person of Interest, Dexter, Foyle’s War, Midsomer Murders, Hawaii Five-O, NCIS, The Mentalist, Murdoch Mysteries, New Tricks, Republic of Doyle, Rookie Blue, Sherlock, Elementary, The Listener, True Detective, White Collar, Death in Paradise…

Needless to say, it’s a lot. I understand the appeal. It’s an easy format, very monster of the week that doesn’t require a lot of memory on the part of the viewer. Relationships aren’t particularly complex and you can really jump in at any point you want in the series because the status quo is necessary to maintain for both the format and the setting. Police departments don’t undergo rigorous changes and upholding the rules is their job. You watch one cop drama and you’ve essentially seen them all. There’s comfort in the familiar. There really isn’t a lot of variation in their presentation.

It’s also the easiest, most convenient way to work in action for a modern setting. Unlike fantasy, modern society is known for being safe and stable. You don’t really have bandits striking in the night to burn down villages and create heroic orphans. You also don’t have dragons who inherently need slaying. If you’re going to get the violence and action of a fantasy flick, you’re going to have to explore crime. And the people who would lead lives that interact in a relate-able way is the police officer. Every day, according to the TV universe, is an action packed struggle with the elements that are undermining the very structure and safety which allows the viewer to watch from the comfort of their home after a long day at work.

So, yeah, I understand the police procedural. I even wrote a short story with a police officer since it was the easiest way to work in a protagonist to explore the mystery I’d developed. But I’ve always argued that the strength of speculative fiction is its ability to take us on journeys beyond the ordinary. Science fiction and fantasy are great at taking old concepts and looking at them in different ways. Or simply jumping off into entirely different ideas.

Thus, I wanted a future story that wasn’t following a police officer. Ok, I thought, what else is fun? Well, I’ve always enjoyed espionage. It’s a genre that’s sort of been on the decline. So, I have a natural interest in that subject and it’s something that could use a fresh look. Alright, I’ll write a futuristic spy story.

Then I asked myself the niggling problem. How does the future change the face of espionage?

Therein lies the rub. And the fun. The future. What sort of future would we be seeing? I ruminated on the various directions I could take. I decided I wanted to have a future very different from our own. I mean, society has changed dramatically over the last hundred years it is silly to think that it would stay the same for the next hundred. What society driving factors would I take to change the face of society? Well, a current issue we face today is the economy. There were elements I could take from there.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/13group.html

Sampling Officials of the Drapers’ Guild by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1662).

Corporatism is a pretty omnipresent factor in the modern economy. We’re getting large companies that control greater and greater shares of the market. Consequently, they exert more and more political influence in the public sphere as they’re able to turn their massive profits into lobbying for laws and changes that benefit them. What were to happen if we took this to its extreme?

I began to envision a corporatocracy. Instead of individuals electing representatives to a national body, it would be corporations electing their spokesmen in order to negotiate for more favourable laws for their interests. I had this thought that, given in America corporations are recognized as individuals, what if Monsanto decided they wanted to run for office? If they were large enough, they could “convince” their employees to vote for them and insure they get the position. Surely, if one corporation did it, others would follow suit. And the cost for elections is so enormous in the United States that corporate sponsorship is mandatory for anyone with aspirations for Washington. So what if the corporations simply cut out the middle man?

Well, public office would simply disappear. What could civil servants truly hope to do in the face of these huge economic powerhouses? But what would this mean for the little guy? How would people be handled by this shift? This isn’t big government we’re looking at but big corporation.

I then remembered my time in Japan and how the face of business was changing over there. At one time, it was socially expected that a young man would get hired on with a company and that company would, essentially, take care of him for the rest of his life. Unlike in the United States, there was extremely little job changing. Perhaps this would become the new normal. Companies still need people at some level to keep them running. And if the government isn’t going to provide the basic necessities (because it doesn’t exist) then companies could offer them as incentives to keep their workers.

I was beginning to broach upon medieval serfdom. In my research for my novel we hunt dragons. I came across the surprising information that the relationship between liege and serf wasn’t entirely as one directional as I had believed. There was a defacto contract between ruler and ruled. The ruler was expected to provide safety and sustenance (in the face of poor crops and droughts) to their farmers and in return the farmers provided a (hefty) tax to their protectors. Should a ruler fail in his duty to his farmers, there were in many places recourses that the serfs could take to protect their livelihood. This often manifested as taking the lord to court with the greatest threat the farmer could leverage was the freedom to remove their self from their lord’s protectorate and seek out a neighbouring realm which he could work and live.

This structure would work incredibly well in the case of my rising corporations. The company a person worked for would be their entire structure. It would set their laws and protections as well as the rewards and compensation for their efforts. As long as I was a member of a company, I was safe. I would essentially sign my life to these corporations for their benefits. Had I no affiliation, I would have nothing. Someone commits a crime against me and I would be forced to shoulder the financial burden of paying the police to track them down and prosecute them. I would have to be the one to pay for that criminal’s prison sentence. I would ultimately have to cover the damages that were done. But if I were an employee, all of that would be taken care of by my company.

It was medieval servitude and I liked this association that the future of our current business practices was ultimately our past.

There was a further wrinkle, however. I felt that public interest wouldn’t ultimately die to the Cokes and IBMs of the world. I could see professions living on if they incorporated themselves. It was the rebirth of the guild system. Once again, the parallel with medieval economic structure was perfect. And its explanation for its recurrence was simple and elegant. Instead of being gobbled up by the burgeoning medical fields, the doctors and surgeons would unite and form their own corporation. They would hold exclusive right to practice, train and sanction official doctors. If companies wanted their service, they would have to pay for them. In this manner, the doctors could insure that healthcare didn’t fall to the rich. If they were in charge of their own services they could have humane scales of payment depending on an individual’s income. Company members would have to pay out the nose because they could. Unemployed people could pay in service if they had no credit to their name.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/r/rembrand/26group/01group.html

The Anatomy Lecture of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Harmenszoon van Rijn Rembrandt (1632).

Thus, the labour force wouldn’t entirely disappear but would play the same game as the corporations.

But how would this be enforced? What would stop the big business from gobbling up the smaller?

I knew I wanted some national body to draw parallels with our current democratic governance to highlight how different the world had become. With everything revolving around the almighty dollar, I realized that the principle organization would have to be a bank. Only that institute would hold the interest of all the various companies and fields that would arise. Every company would want to be able to influence loan rates and inflation. Most importantly, the bank would have the power to settle inter-company disputes.

For the one niggling problem I had with my set-up was I couldn’t explain how the justice system would work if two different company employees did harm to each other. They, after all, lived by different laws set by their employer. Thus, the solution had to be an independent voice who held the ability to punish severely any group that did not co-operate. The bank then became more than just a place every company could deposit their money at the lowest possible risk. It was a place that held the power to remove a company from the economic structure and deny them the unified currency which every company would trade. It also had the ability to allow the Guilds to thrive. For the bank would recognize any account it approved as a valid company. If every company had a vote, then the Guilds could certainly insure their persistence through sheer solidarity and numbers. They could vote for the bank to give loans to labour start-ups in order to dilute the power base of the big business. But it’s a double edged sword. Should those companies fail to pay back their loans, then the bank would take shares from their company. Once the bank owned all a company’s shares, they would be dissolved and belong to the bank. Of course, there is nothing that would stop those people from trying to open a new account… save the bank and its voting base itself. And on a council that would be very willing to buy and sell votes, spending on an already failed venture seemed a losing proposal.

Needless to say, this world is starting to come together.

Sneak Peeks!

Gearing into a big writing blitz so I don’t know if I’ll have lots of time for articling. So here’s something new, a sneak peek on what I’m working!

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/e/ender/thomas/

The Grossglockner with the Pasterze Glacier by Thomas Ender (1830).

At the Gates of Zheng He Ho

 

“I don’t like this captain.”

“I ain’t paying you to.”

“We really shouldn’t be here. They’re a lordless lot with nothing but trouble and hedonism to their name.”

“You announced our arrival?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Then go watch the sides, I ain’t looking for any extra dints on her that I can avoid.”

“Yes, captain.”

S.J’s boots beat his misgivings against the stairs as he climbed down. Felicity didn’t regard his departure, adjusting a few valves to ignite the gas lanterns adorning the front. The flickering lights danced over rough hewed stone. Ancient timbers crossed the uneven roof like elderly arms trying to hold up the heavens. The engine crawled at a snail’s pace through the tight quarters, giving the passengers plenty of time to regard the pock marked walls around them.

It was easy to feel like they were squeezing through the very bones of the earth herself. The passage was crooked and uneven. It followed a madman’s course, banking on hairpin turns and wide corners as if they were looping around upon themselves. Truth of the matter was that they weren’t originally designed for vessels but for miners. The routes were plotted along long emptied seams then a straight trajectory conducive to piloting. And with so many ancient tunnels, stretching out in long forgotten directions, it was easy to think the integrity of the mountain itself was undermined. Any amount of explosion could possibly bring it down upon itself like a paper tower.

“This kind of approach and you’d think they didn’t want visitors,” Schroeder said.

“I reckon that’s the exact impression.”

“Then why build it in the first place?”

“Why we build ours?”

He leaned back on his chair as the engine shrieked like a distempered ghost as it took a rough turn. The entire carriage shook as Felicity reached and applied more brake to control their momentum. But there was a noticeable change in elevation. But instead of rising up, they were descending deeper.

“Heard lots of stories about these mines.”

“Any that don’t involve untamed or spirits of the deceased?”

Schroeder smiled.

“Figure there might be one or two.”

“Then so be it. I don’t be needing a reminder of this place’s other reputation.”

“They say this place was once called Katahmin and that it was the tallest mountain in the entire range. Glorious was its head wreathed in a crown of pure white clouds. At its feet was a beautiful lake full of various fowl, fish and delectable weed. It was fed by the purest spring that flowed from the very head of Katahmin.”

“A savage’s story?”

“You want to hear the rest or not?”

When Felicity’s objections remained silent, Schroeder continued.

“There came a time that a young and beautiful native woman gathered upon the lake’s shore. She was out collecting the grass for her people. For she was the daughter of their chief and only she was to granted sight of the beauty of Katahmin. Her name was Patoma and celebrated was she amongst her people for never had a more radiant girl been seen. But she was still unwed and did languish at the shores of the lake, bemoaning her fate.

“’Oh great Katahmin!’ she cried, staring at its reflection in the crystal pool. ‘If but I could have a man as grand, handsome and charitable as you. For truly do you give of our tribe the bounty of your bosom and glories are you to the eye that there are none greater.’

“And on that day, pretty Patoma did remark at how the waters shook with her words. The reflection distorted and rippled. Within its ebbing folds, she could have sworn she saw a man’s face look back at her. Handsome was it more than any face she had seen. For it was strong like her fathers but full of youth, vigour and a hint of something supernaturally divine. Patoma at once recognized it for the mighty spirit of Katahmin. His voiceless mouth surely called to her and she dropped her reeds and took to the ancient forbidden trails up his side. For it was forbidden for any to set foot on sacred Katahmin as her people did fear spoiling his virgin skin and bringing ruin to the gifts he bestowed.

“Poor Patoma disappeared for three years and her tribe did grieve. Her father assumed she was taken by a neighbouring rival and did war with him. Many were killed in the conflict but no amount of blood or sacrifice could ease the pain of her passing. But then, at the end of the third year of her disappearance, she did return with child in tow. Her people were astonished and the sight of her lifted the heart of her morose father. A feast was thrown in her honour and all came to marvel upon the babe in her arms. It was a handsome child, strong of features like their people but with small eyes that gleamed like none they had seen before.

“They pestered celebrated Patoma, enquiring over the identity of the child’s father but Patoma was reticent to share the information. She claimed the child was a gift from the spirits, bestowed to them so that they may protect themselves from a coming danger. But none would stop marvelling over the curious blend of the child’s features with the round face, small eyes and brows that looked as though they were carved of stone.

“Her father, the chief, did forbade discussion of the matter further seeing how it bothered his sweet daughter. So they feasted and celebrated and made great sacrifices to their ancestor spirits. All was well with the tribe and Patoma went about raising her child amongst her people. But despite her father’s forbiddance, her people pestered her about the identity of the child’s father. Patoma remained tight lipped, saying only that the child was a gift and would protect them as long as Patoma kept her word. Her people asked what threat he would defeat but Patoma didn’t know.

“As the child grew, however, he did display remarkable traits. He was quick to learn their language, speaking eloquently like an adult when most were babbling their parents names. He was eager to learn the ways of his people, following hunters on their hunts and immediately learning their ways. Soon he was bringing home as much venison as the greatest amongst them. He seemed to have a preternatural knowledge of the surrounding area, leading his people to groves of annua nuts previously unknown. Delightful were these, more sumptuous and filling than any other they had discovered. Patoma’s child did show them how to harvest the nuts and to grow the plant closer to their homes.

“But despite these blessings it did not ease Patoma’s people. Many whispered that the child was possessed of the treacherous spirit Coyote and was only here to lure them into danger. They demanded Patoma to divulge the identity of the child’s father. Thus, the chief called all his people to him and did command Patoma before all his people to name her child’s father.

“Patoma looked at the chief. ‘Do you trust my word?’ she asked.

“’Of course, my child.’

“’Do you doubt when I say a trouble will come and destroy our tribe?’

“’I do not, my child.’

“’Do you think I would come and try to bring ruin upon my people?’

“’Most certainly not, my child.’

“’Then I say it is of no importance who fathered the child. Only that he will be a great warrior and will save our tribe so long as we respect his father’s desires.’

“But this did not satisfy the chief.

“’I ask of you, sweet Patoma, am I not both your father and your chief?’

“’You are, my chief.’

“’And do I not look after the safety of my people as if they were my children?’

“’Yes you do, my chief.’

“’Then I ask, if I am chief and I must honour my people what I should do if not quell their fears by demanding the name of your child’s father.’

“Brave Patoma would not give in however and finally her father issued his edict. ‘Either you disclose the patronage of your child or you and he must leave the tribe immediately.

“Patoma, to the surprise of her father gathered up her babe in her arms and turned to her people.

“’Know the decision made was by you. I shall do both so that you may learn the folly of your fear. Great Katahmin did give you this gift and you turned it away. Know that you shall see neither him nor I ever again!’

“Her people did protest and prostrate, crying out apologies and begging forgiveness. But mighty Katahmin did shake and shudder in rage. The river that filled their sacred lake shrank and dried up. The birds took flight and the fish died and rotted upon the salty sands that remained. The clouds about Katahmin turned black with his anger and in the chaos and ruin, Patoma and her babe disappeared forever.”

Felicity regarded the fop.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well what of the threat to the tribe?”

“Oh. I believe they were conquered or something. Yeah, the final ruination was they were conquered a few years later.”

“Then where did the story come from if these people were destroyed?”

“I could call back S.J and you could listen to more of his condemnations if you’d prefer.”

Felicity waved away the suggestion.

“I think wrestling with the details misses the point, anyway,” Schroeder continued. “These people, they pass their history on in story. It’s not like these things are meant to be taken literally. There’s themes and lessons all wrapped in there.”

“Never trust a woman who marries a mountain?”

“I think they were aiming for tolerance and respect.”

“She married a mountain, Schroeder.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“A mountain!”

The train’s wheels screeched against a particularly sharp bend and the engine’s cabin shook. The pair could hear the steel hall clank against the pressing stone walls. Felicity reached for the brakes, slowing the lumbering beast as fast as she could. The very passage seemed to rumble with its deceleration and the patter of loose stone and gravel echoed above them like the gentle rap of an evening downpour.

Pleroma Groups – Merrin Lankester Foundation

I am faced with an unfortunate predicament. While I was lax on my duties towards this site during April as I toiled away on a 90,000 word project, I failed to realize that upon completion of that work and the loosening of my very constrained timetable I would be left with nothing to offer this website in terms of thoughts or work. I have spent little time enjoying the modern expressions of art in order to offer a worthwhile review of movies or literature. I have not written anything of my own accord that could be posted for enjoyment either. Alas, it seems, I must fall back on Derek’s own excuse for a topic and put up some more Pleroma information.

Accessed from wga.hu

A Friar Tempted by Demons by Salvator Rosa (1660-1665).

After checking to see which groups I have posted before, I realized that I had been focusing only on daemonic groups (of a nature). The goal behind Plemora, at least from a flavour perspective, is to create a world. As such, my musings and thoughts are still relevant to this website unlike some drab examples of gameplay – Derek! But, as part of that world creation I knew that I wanted more than one explanation for existence. I wanted to reflect the complexity of actual modern life and this is demonstrated in the Paradigm theming of different groups. To take that idea further, I wanted to include the taste of systems and ideas that would only tangentially affect our players but hint at happenings and struggles faced by others in this universe.

Today’s offering, thus, is a short glimpse into that idea. The Merrin Lankester Foundation is unique, from a flavour perspective, in that none of the members are daemonkin. They do not derive their gameplay from housing the essence of a supernatural entity within their body. Instead, they are but one face of the people living in a world plagued with possessions and invasions from the supernatural world. They are normal (to a degree) people reacting to this startling and terrifying revelation. In my mind, if Pleroma were successful, one of the many directions would could expand it would be towards fleshing out and detailing the systems that govern these groups. While in the base creation they would follow the standard rules Derek makes in regards to draws and how they interact with the players, if we were to open gameplay up to these “hunter” characters for playing we would have a different tweak to the system to demonstrate their unique experiences and abilities. However, for now, they represent the most likely organization disconnect from the daemonkin system that would be involved with daemonkin.

This is because the Merrin Lankester Foundation (M.L.F.) actively seeks and destroys these entities. They are the Van Helsings, Buffy Summers and Saint Georges of the Pleroma universe. In their eyes, these creatures are monsters, plain and simple. They feed and devour man and society in their own selfish and destructive desires. The only defence humanity can hope to raise is to entrust these special individuals who walk their own damned path in the hopes of stemming a tide that could very well destroy all the world. Of course they’re going to feature the similar self-damnation theme that daemonkin examines, I’m not looking at completely ignoring all that daemon stuff.

Accessed from web gallery of art, my go to for classical art www.wga.hu

Manfred and the Alpine Witch by John Martin (1837).

Merrin Lankester Foundation (M.L.F.)

Leader: Elsa Kostopulos
 
            The Merrin Lankester Foundation is a private security company and research/development firm established in Europe. They hire themselves out to whoever can afford their services be they governmental, private or religious. Aside from a steep price tag, the MLF appears to have a keen interest in historical texts and documents. But they do not run standard protection services. The MLF deals specifically with the supernatural. Armed with a suite of custom designed technology, the MLF hunts and destroys daemonkin wherever they are given clearance. They are no Technocrats or magi, however. Operatives for the MLF rely on their skill and knowledge. Where once they were dismissed as inconsequential, the MLF have risen as one of the world’s leaders in exterminating the supernatural and developed a comprehensive network of resources and allies that can make even the most organized daemonkin nervous.
            Like most other organizations, the MLF has a vested interest in keeping the daemonkin threat restricted to a “need to know” basis. They typically seek out clients who are already aware of the dangers of the pleroma unless they have gathered information of an immediate threat that would warrant the revelation of the supernatural at a localized level. This restriction in their dealings have kept them safe from agents infiltrated in the world’s government as well as limit the information their enemies can gather of their goals and motivations.
            The MLF has attempted to open branches in both America and Asia but have made little progress with either. God’s Hand serves a similar function in America and they view MLF as rivals to their own aims and keep senators and legislators from allowing the MLF operational access to American soil. There has been little headway into Asian countries as well, and a few leaked documents from the MLF hints that they perceive a great threat is undermining their efforts. There has even been some clashes between MLF with the other humanistic organizations of H.A.I and the Institute though over what, none of them will admit.
 
Paradigm:
            The MLF identifies itself as a humanistic organization. This, of course, flies in the face of the actual humanism movement with its focus on the spirit of reason and free inquiry at the rejection of supernatural and theistic framework. Of course, this isn’t entirely doable when the supernatural is a very real and constant threat. Instead, the MLF follow a more ‘militaristic humanism.’ They believe that humans possess the right to govern and live without the interference or influence of the supernatural. They believe there is a certain “experience” to being human that carries its own responsibilities both ethically and morally and that this experience is under threat by the supernatural. A structure based on reason and social justice is impossible with the spectre of the supernatural that hangs over it.
            The MLF views all supernatural entities as foreign invaders who do not carry any interest in the betterment of humanity and actively interfere with a reasonable and democratic society. They argue that true equality is impossible with such wholly alien entities who exert an unnatural influence on the functioning of the world. It makes the Minimum Statement (Affirm that human beings have the right and responsibility to give meaning and shape to their own lives. Stands for the building of a more humane society through an ethic based on human and other natural values in the spirit of reason and free inquiry through human capabilities.) impossible and threatens the free will of its citizens through immoral and unnatural abilities. The supernatural is not meant to be bargained with and are an external threat which they must face and expunge.

Accessed from wga.hu

Witches in the Air by Francis de Goya (1797-1798).

Cult of Reason:
            The roots of the MLF stretch back to the French Revolution and its attempt to replace Christianity. One could see the basic principles of the ancient Cult of Reason as the foundation stones for the Foundation. These directives are to push for the perfection of mankind through the attainment of Truth and Liberty through the guiding principles of Reason. The old Cult went so far as to promote congregational worship to the ideal of Reason represented by Lady Liberty in the place of Mary.
            With the growing understanding of the pleroma and faith, the MLF has realized that a completely secular approach to humanism is, currently, impossible. Thus, they have adopted the old trappings of the Cult of Reason and encourage the veneration of the triumvirate of Libery, Reason and Truth. However, the highest ranking members are quite and ceaseless in the recitation that these are not gods but abstract beings. For too much veneration of a singular entity could potentially bring into existence that which the MLF seeks to expunge. Instead, they maintain that the properties of the Cult’s worship do not belong to some external being but are fundamental components of humans themselves. This they argue through the collection and accumulation of ancient magical documents pertaining to ascension and the generation of power within the individual.
 
Vanguard of the Damned:
             In a sense, the MLF recognizes itself as a necessary evil. They must become that which they fear in order to combat their foes to pave the way for a future where neither shall exist. They strengthen themselves with dogma and faith in order to allow an environment where a society free of dogma and blind faith can exist. In the vision of the future held by the MLF, they will be no longer necessary. In their world, the following elements and principles would hold sway:
      1. Need to Test Beliefs – conviction that dogmas, ideologies and traditions, regardless of political, social or religious origin must be tested and not accepted on faith.
      2. Reason, Evidence and Scientific Method – a commitment to the use of critical reason, facts and science in seeking solutions to human problems
      3. Fulfillment, Growth and Creativity – the three concerns for humanity in general.
      4. Search for Truth – a constant examination for objective truths under the knowledge that our perceptions are imperfect and new information and experience alter our biases.
      5. This Life – no concern for an afterlife. If successful, the MLF would sever the connections between the physical plane and the other planes isolating the cycle of energy and keeping a land freed from higher powers
      6. Ethics – a codification of universal conduct and principles that enhance all human well-being and individual responsibility.
      7. Justice and Fairness – elimination of discrimination, inequality and intolerance.
      8. A Better World – the founding principles of Reason, Truth and Justice will create a more tolerant, progressive and idealistic future.
            As such, the MLF is incapable of fulfilling all these principles if they hope to combat the threats to human interests. In particular, they dismiss the first and second in order to strive for the seventh and eighth. In creating their own rigorous dogma, they insulate themselves from corrupting influences from the pleroma which gives them the tools to fight its threats but makes them incompatible for the future they desire. Thus, in order to fight the damned, they must become damned themselves.
 
Any Means Necessary:
            Recognizing the scale and power of the threat they oppose, the MLF takes a very broad approach. They do not have the technologies of the H.A.I or other Technocratic groups nor do they have the divine blessing of more faith based Hunters. They strive the middle ground, strengthening themselves through their devotion to their own principles or adopting what new advances and technology they can in order to be strong enough to face their foes.
            In essence, the MLF is composed of all three types of Hunters. They have those that utilize technology to level the playing field with daemons. These MLF operators will utilize body armour, a slew of military hardware both experimental and conventional and whatever local resources they can obtain to eliminate their targets. They will be the first to attempt controversial implants or utilize the most stable of a Technocrat’s arsenal.
            Then there are the devotees. These agents are more like faith based Hunters, having given their entire dedication to the Cult of Reason. They shield themselves through the worship and blessings of Reason, Justice and Truth and tapped into the pleroma energy generated by this veneration to fight.
            Finally, the MLF will employ the vagabond Hunter. These are the solitary and often isolated individuals without any remarkable resources to combat the supernatural. Many maintain this is how the true MLF first began before its organization. It was just a few individuals who came to the horrific realization that there are other things that stalk our world and tried to put a stop to them without any remarkable methods or tools. Armed with just knives, handguns and their own wits, they rely on superstitious local rituals and luck to get them through their battles. More often than not, these Hunters discover that most “traditional” hunting tools was essentially to dope up before combating a monster. The mental heightening properties of many drugs can give almost a supernatural level of prowess unachievable through sobriety. Needless to say, the vast majority of these hunters usually succumb to the inevitable addictions developed in their hunting careers. With their access to alternative methods, the MLF doesn’t encourage this route with its agents but more often than not, their recruits are usually already experienced in this method to embrace another route.  These are also the recruits that are usually brought in with prior experience and, as such, the MLF has been attempting to institute a new hiring method that will find suitable candidates which they can then train in a less dangerous hunting method though given the ease of use, many recruits fall into habitual drug use anyway often as a supplement to their other tools before wholly embracing the addiction. 

Pleroma Groups – Eschatii

Have not been able to find an old story. Very busy this month. Take quick look at some Pleroma work to pass the day. Here’s another faction that I’m working on:

Access from http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/giotto/exorcism-of-the-demons-at-arezzo-1299

Exorcism of the Demons at Arezzo by Giotto (1297-1299)

 

Eschatii

 

Leader: Unknown (Possibly None)

 

The Eschatii are a vicious, diabolic and twisted lot. They are the daemons devoted to the flesh and blood. They reveal in their demonic heritage, seeing their power as a tool to be used and not hidden or shunned. Power is truth and those who hold power control existence. The Escatii do not shy away from practices because of societal taboos or restrictions. Nothing is sacred to them, no act is too depraved. Because of this inhibition, the Eschatii have developed a potent blood/flesh magic where they can tap into the power of life within themselves and others. Due to their relationship with blood, they can often be found within the most pervasive religions and cults, their presence often blurring the lines between worship and debauchery.

Paradigm:

Look at these creatures about you, these pathetic animals. So consumed in their ignorance, too blind to even regard their own weaknesses. They are foolish to not notice the wolves amongst their own flock. Never forget you are better than them: you are more than human. You are a nightmare, the very stuff that keeps their children awake at night. You are that indescribably horror their instinctive lower brains fear. For every chain there is predator and prey. Remorse is reserved for the wolves that would pull out their own teeth and swallow grass. You are more than then. Embrace your monstrosity. It is what separates you. It is what elevates you above all else.

Wisdom of the Fallen:

Eschatii are one of the few organizations that recognize the separation of the daemonkin from men. A daemonkin can not survive without feeding off his fellow humans. Without sustenance, a daemonkin would wither and die consumed by the very powers that grant them such terrific strength. The moment a person is afflicted represents an enormous metamorphosis. They have been chosen, whether through fickle fate or divine providence, to be removed from their fellow man. They are destined for greater things. They are no longer part of the mortal existence.

Whereas many daemonkin will attempt to remain attached to their former lives or try and minimize their impact on the human populace, the Eschatii revel in their transformation. They take the ideas of demonic possession and monstrosity to new heights. While most daemonkin organizations seek anonymity and shy away from deep interaction with humans, the Eschatii flourish amongst the chattel. They hide in plain sight, feeding brazenly in the open and using their powers for fear and intimidation. They are the primary image of a daemonkin in the eyes of the Hunters – horrific beings that leave death and destruction in their wake. They can not exist quietly within any community for eventually the taint of their presence will drive everyone around them mad.

Power of the Veins:

Eschatii often infiltrate communities, using their abilities to create small, tight-knit cabals of followers and worshipers. They pretend to be great magicians, ancient beings of unknown origin, blessed prophets, divine healers or even Gods descended from the Celestial. They promise the secrets of their powers to all those that are faithful. So persuasive are the Eschatii that even established organizations are often easily infiltrated and manipulated by them. If the Initiative revisionist history is to be believed, Eschatii are the cause of the Inquisition – corrupting churches to their own worship and whipping their parishes into frenzied masses whose only thoughts are of debauchery and blood.

For it is blood that the Eschatii truly prize. To them, the very essence of a person is the blood in their veins. This circulates the essentially energies throughout the entire body. It is what sustains a person’s physical body. It is their most prized nourishment and Eschatii are known for bathing, drinking and manipulating the blood of their followers. So consumed are they, that some Eschatii draw horrific power from the very consumption of human flesh. AID agents who have investigated the wake of an Eschatii infestation have documented residual energies as powerful as that which they transmit but from apparently originating from the corpses left behind. While most considered this blood magic, the manner and manipulation of the Eschatii is beyond anything anyone has ever performed.

Witnesses report the Eschatii follow very ritualistic behaviours before and during their use of their terrible powers. Some suspect that these rituals are what separate the powers of the Eschatii from traditional magicks. Others argue that the Eschatii actually contact beings beyond the Celestial, existing in a darker space wholly alien to the cycle of death and rebirth. They argue these dark masters grant the Eschatii their terrible abilities. The truth may never be known, for those touched by the Eschatii rarely survive, and if they do they are never the same. Their minds are forever twisted by the depraved wisdom of the demons.

Workers of the Last:

The Eschatii seemed focused solely on destruction and carnage. Unlike the Mawnists, Eschatii rarely claim any unifying higher motives. Some will be obsessed with the End of Days, Final Judgement, Dissolution or a general Apocalypse. They might see themselves as the agents to bring about the final hours of the world. Others just appear to revel in the mayhem and madness. There is very little commonality between Eschatii members. As a result, these daemonkin often exist alone or in small groups. It seems their very consuming nature naturally drives each apart for fear of destroying themselves.

And it could very well be that none of the Eschatii truly have any unifying philosophy beyond their destruction. They may just tap into the natural fascination that organized cults and religions have for the final days, and draw on these vivid images in order to ingratiate themselves amongst their victims. Their unending drive to feed and destroy naturally isolates them from other daemonkin who would never appreciate the attention the Eschatii draw. They are one of few forces that can temporary unite the Circle with their enemies as everyone attempts to locate and eliminate this threat.

Course, the Eschatii’s reputation for consuming daemonkin is another source of concern. The Eschatii rank as one of the greatest dangers, along with the angels and the Institute. Unlike the others, however, the Eschatii will often lure their victims to their own demise, promising to help them survive or to unlock even greater power within the new daemonkin. It is through their manipulation that many horror stories abound of entire Havens being destroyed through welcoming an Eschatii into their fold. The foolish daemonkin who instigated this massacre is never heard or seen again. Survivors can only imagine the terrible fate held for those foolish enough to trust these demons.

Feasts of Fear and Blood:

Though terrible and merciless, the Eschatii often exhibit telltale signs of their presence. Like a parasite, there is a curious correlation between Eschatii feeding and the Flock of the Host. Like an animal learning to adapt to its environment, the Eschatii have learned some tricks for surviving in a world that generally seeks their eradication.

The most insidious method involves the co-operation of two or more of the members. This is usually initiated by a powerful Eschatii daemonkin well versed in their potent type of power. This individual will often infiltrate himself amongst the clergy of a local religious institution. There, he will preach of debauchery and the decline of society, spinning a rhetoric of the End of Days all too readily embraced by the congregation. To supplement his sermons, he will direct his co-conspirators to feast brazenly in the streets.

The horror of the butchery and debased feeding of his peers often drive many more to the congregation. The Eschatii promises protection and succor for those who come under their protection as the world seemingly grows darker and bleaker outside. Over time, through ritual and indoctrination in the trappings of the faith too often already focused upon blood and ritual, the Eschatii bends his congregation into worshiping him as a cult image.

Normally, such disruption would draw the attention of the Host when done on their own Flock. However, the Eschatii does not steal all their worship but continues to encourage some belief in the Host. Furthermore, because the fear the Eschatii cohorts build and feed upon often drive more to the congregation, the Host does not detect the infestation and only notices the increase in worship.

Typically, these arrangements draw the attention of Hunters or other organizations seeking the destruction of disruptive daemonkin. Often they will hunt down the murderous Eschatii, ignorant of the elder in the congregation growing gluttonous off his followers. When last the congregation is ready to abandon their faith and worship the Eschatii without abandon, their leader will perform his final ritual. In one last gory orgy of blood and cannibalism, the Eschatii directs the Flock to turn upon themselves and drinks deep of their remains. Then he leaves with the surviving members of his co-conspirators to find a new hunting ground to begin the cycle anew.

Outside of the horrific violence and terror this develops, it has a tendency to draw the attention of the Host who arrive at the destruction of their Flock too late to find the Eschatii and instead turn to the local Havens, who they likely believe to be the culprits, and destroy them. However, because so few are willing to monitor or interfere with the Host’s Flocks, it is difficult for local Havens to protect themselves and identify the offending daemonkin before they become entrenched in their target congregations. Due to the effectiveness of enthralling their followers, confronting an established Eschatii elder often leads to conflict with the congregation and should they be killed, the attention of the Host is drawn regardless.

Consequently, sometimes if the signs of an infected Flock are noticed early, nearby Havens will close down and seek distant refuge until the Eschatii are either destroyed by another party or leave and the Host have abandoned their late investigation.