The Manifesto

I'm about low barriers to entry, where it takes less than 30 minutes to learn the rules.

I'm about story gaming x OSR.

I'm about emotions, performance, telling a story, the players as characters and audience.

I'm about deconstruction, finding the limits of the hobby and pushing on them. I'm about experimentation, breaking the norms of my own manifesto.

I'm about deeply-considered worldbuilding.

I'm about embracing that feeling of strangeness that you encounter when you travel, when your assumptions about how things are are turned upside down.

I'm about undertold stories of underrepresented people, writing in the nooks and crannies between the genre/culture heavyweights.

I'm about anthropology, history, political science, linguistics, comparative psychology, decolonial studies, and maybe a dash of heterodox economics.

I'm about breaking the rules of physics, vernacular architecture, tropical fruit, magical realism, pulling on one thread and seeing how the whole picture changes, honor, horror, relationships, power.

I'm about all those SJW things.

Levity: An Improv Roleplaying Game

This is a GM-less, comedic, collaborative storytelling game for 3-5 people that's heavily inspired by Fiasco. Has been used to run stories of undersea scams, horror in the alpine woods (featuring a llama farmer), a call me by your name knockoff with identical twins ("call me by my brother's name), and the killing of the human embodiment of climate change. 

Will post the Word Lists and Twist Table (necessary for play) later.

No hay tierra para los ancianos

“No hay tierra para los ancianos”, dijo la voz que resonó desde la boca oscura de la puerta grande.

El viejo se encogió de hombros y se alejó de la puerta, escuchando como se cerraba detrás de él. No esperaba nada de esta comunidad. Ser viejo en esta época era un pecado – el robo del aire y agua de los niños que no tenían culpa por el estado del mundo.

En el pasado, él gritaba y maldecía las pisadas de los que lo rechazaban. “Yo no hice nada!” él pisaba y gritaba. El suelo debajo temblaba mientras la ira corría por sus piernas y pies. Las puertas nunca se afectaban por la furia del hombre, y con el tiempo y el viaje, él se convirtió en un viejo y comprendió sus defectos. Su existencia en las épocas anteriores era bastante. Sus años finales en este estado fueron apropiados.

Los escombros en el suelo en esta área eran llanos por los pies de miles de viajeros que pasaban por ellos. El polvo se asentó alrededor de sus dedos de pie, y las espirales y las arrugas estaban negras de la mugre. Pisó fuerte a un afloramiento solitario de piedra lo suficientemente lejos de la puerta y lo consideró. Seria agradable descansar aquí, pensó. Los huesos en los tobillos le dolaron. Pero la piedra parecía irregular e incómoda. Cuando él levantó el pie a ella y la rozó a lo largo de la superficie, sintió los callos desgarran.

Se lamió el dedo y lo aplicó al corte, limpiando las gotas escarlatas. “No es apropiado para descansar aquí”. Continuó su viaje y caminó sobre hueso y cascarilla, carapacho y mierda, todos reducidos al polvo que circundaban sus pies. Recordó la sonríe de su madre cuando era niño y las patas de gallo de su madre cuando era hombre. Recordó los besos que daba a sus hijos en las madrugadas antes de irse al trabajo. Pasó un día, o muchos, y el paisaje baldío no cambió. El cielo no existió, ni la noche. No necesitó comida, y bebió desde el aire; el polvo y el suelo cantaban.

Codicioso hombre codicioso. La culpa, una culpa humana, era un dolor leve en sus huesos. Otras rocas y otras puertas parecían tentadoras, pero nunca se detuvo. Sus pies estuvieron inquietos con los últimos suspiros de vida. El polvo flotó a su alrededor.

Pasaron los años de la misma forma y el viajero viejo y sus surcos se convirtieron en piedra. No se dieron cuenta cuando ocurrió, no es que hubiera importado. Ni las puertas ni el cielo notaron– cuando llegó el momento, se abrieron y cerraron para los jóvenes que regresan y cortejan el verdor.

El anciano de piedra fue abandonado en su rincón, intacta por los años y las cosas que vinieron. Sólo le importó al suelo.

The Old Days

 In the old days, when they told you not to run, you sure as hell didn't. If you ran, your fate would be far worse. They would hoist you up like a feather-light thing, beat you til the word "mama" couldn't cross swollen lips.

I hate violence. Harm inflicted and for what? Not a new opinion, I know.

In the old days, we were violent back. We harmed their weaker, more innocent associates. Like dog eat cat eat bird. Or big fish eat smaller fish eat smallest fish. Or like lifting Johnny up by his collar, the crippled one, and slamming him onto the road until he crunched, or at least his feet did. They got us back for that one, but we couldn't resist. They gave us the anger so we had to give it back.

I hated that part of my life. And the people too. Red nosed cowards, all of them. Boys that the present forgets existed. I ain't complaining. To be honest, I wouldn't mind forgetting it all myself. Now is a dream, an unreality that's nearly, but isn't. Only then feels real. 

When God created Earth, when it was cooling like jelly and unpopulated still, I think he sat there on that abyssal throne of his and thought real hard about entertainment and meaning. God wanted entertainment, meaning he made cruelty. Stay with me here. Got an idea to say. Not all entertainment is cruelty. But some is. And all cruelty is a spectator sport. Violence, perhaps, can be either or, public or private. But cruelty needs an audience.

Anyway. Forget where I was. The worst part was when they brought the dogs. I didn't mind hurting the little boys, but I couldn't hurt a dog. Little boys, at least in those days, were just monsters stuck in their shells and waiting to hatch. But a dog was never cruel, only violent.

One time - feels like only a week ago - they brought the dogs. Caught Bobby and me off guard down the old alley by the docks. They swarmed me, all loud and movement and the boys' laughter echoing in the background behind the snarls. I just stood there. Got a gash from one here, on my forearm. And they took a huge chunk out of my leg. I swore I would die there, be eaten by hounds. Someone heard the screams anyway. Shot the dogs. Or something. I wasn't really present at that point. Drifting in and out. On the ground.

Still hurts, my body. Glad you'll never experience that. That no one will again. The old days, consigned to the dustbin of heaven. Who takes out the bin down there? Bet the old git makes Jesus do it.

Known World #32: The Sideways World

Key characteristics: Time repeats recursively (one month at a time). Timing seems linked to the Homeworld's (HW's) moon's months. The world appears to HWers as tilting sideways at a 35° angle. This is due to little-understood ristetic properties.

Magic barrier: Required, to prevent one's body from imploding sideways.

Climate: Moderate temperatures, moderate light, but very low visibility due to Fargaret's Fog (originally aer from Sominon Fargaret's interplanar travels). No edible food for HWers.

Intelligent species: 1, made of mold (dubbed the Moldeans) that grow from the beginning to end of the month then resets. The status of any given Moldean's identity as an individual or community is unclear. Moldeans feed on Fargaret's Fog (and occasionally HWer flesh). Communicable via aer vacuum-transfer.

Other flora and fauna: Unknown

Notable cities or landmarks:

• Site #40023 "Ship's Death": HW-made, 51 years old, located at MP.32.1. Infinitely repeating site of former HW smugglers' ship crashes. A single ship and crew spawned thousands of duplicates cumulatively (one ship a month). Smugglers would appear with their ship at the beginning of each month and perish within a few days, leaving their bodies and ships to be found next month by a repeating duplicate ship and crew. The Moldeans in the area adapted and began to feed upon HWer flesh. Smugglers were apprehended alive several years ago, ending the cycle. Current carnivorousness of Moldeans is uncertain. Ship clean up required.
• Site #40024 "The Abyss": natural, located at MP.32.2. Only known landscape change. Land suddenly drops down-ish into a vast, sideways pit of unknown size. Seems to correspond ristetically with the Fomian Sea (Site #23306, MP.11.319) on KW11, the Sweeping World. No known explanation for this correspondence.

Concerns: Delicate natural environment, smugglers. Despite incidents over the years of recursive locations, smugglers still take advantage of the relative obscurity of KW32 to evade capture. Used primarily to travel between HW and KW11 through ristetic magic.

Secrecy level: Top Secret

Side Notes for DMs
Gold multiplies
Mold goes into your mouth and nose and suffocates you.
Mold can take over the body and commandeer it.

Winter Sunset Dresses

This is me using the bones of a short story to actually do fashion design. I'm more adept with words than pictures. Originally written for a competition on the Exilian blog.

A Visitor’s Guide to Aeloss (with sections on Triltalepon, the Undergardens, and Da’Lader)

By Lo the Traveler

Welcome to Aeloss, land of proud stonewomen, magical rainforest, cut-throat merchant houses, and a sea-worshiping autocracy. The main settlements and cultural notes on Aeloss will be detailed in this document. Along with Aeloss; Triltalepon, the Undergardens, and the Da’Laderan empire as it operates outside of Da’Lader are also covered in this guidebook. Please buy my other guidebook, a Visitor’s Guide to Da’Lader, to learn more about the homeland of the Da’Laderans.