The Way of All Flesh - Toward a Viable Spiritual Science

During the darkest years of the Ultra-War, a young researcher, Joshua Eschenbach, encountered an old volume on the topic of Spiritual Science by Rudolf Steiner which survived the destruction of a public library in New Orleans. As his interests were both scientific and spiritual this paper gave him a great deal to think about. He discussed it at length with several members of his Thought-Squad, and the following paper was the result.

It is known by historians that this paper became the basis for later developments in the field of Neurophenomenology, which is a separate branch of Mystical Science from that of the Mentarian Order whose origins date back to the ancient Sumerians. This paper was published three years after the end of the Ultra-War and adopted by the new "Spiritual Science Department" of Federation Command. Its methodology was rudimentary when compared with later refinements, but on the basis of the principals and methods enumerated therein, the Spiritual Science Department was able to produce small but effective teams of Spiritual Scientists who went on to engage in the little understood Cosmogenic War, but now with better and more efficient weapons and armor that could be developed through stringent training and dedication. The paper as originally published is as follows:

Conan vs Sticky Notes

The dawn was a thin red smear on the horizon, like hot blood wiped across a steel blade. Towers of glass and concrete rose on either side, their windows catching the first light giving the impression the city watched him with a thousand unblinking crimson eyes.  Once again, due to circumstances beyond his control, Conan was late for work.

He took the on-ramp as if it were the narrow causeway to a besieged keep, fast, wheels squealing, engine coughing and wheezing. The highway yawned before him, six wide rivers of asphalt, each one choked with cars and trucks that moved faster than his pickup could manage, each guided by men and women who trusted in the painted lines as if they were runes of protection, nearly oblivious to the dangers whizzing around them.

Conan’s pickup grumbled, faithful as an old worn out warhorse. He gripped the worn leather wheel until his knuckles blanched. In his ear, a small voice from the dashboard whispered directions in a ridiculously pleasant tone, like a sorcerer’s charm meant to lull the wary.  Not few were the crashes that occurred because that sweetly intoned voice periodically gave false directions. Conan ignored it.  There was no time to pay attention to Judy, his name for the dear machine.  The roads were littered with the results of her occasional hallucinations.

A gap opened in the far lane. Conan signaled, and began to merge. The traffic surged and hissed around him, like a herd of wild beasts, with horns blaring, and tires screeching. And then, as if conjured by the spite of the road, the youth appeared.

He was scarcely more than a boy, beard still patchy, cap backwards like some tribal mark. His machine was low, bright, and absurdly loud.  He came darting through the lanes, cutting between the sedans with the arrogance of a high prince who believed himself immortal. The boy’s face was lit by the pale glow of a screen, his eyes not on the road but on the tiny world in his palm.

Conan’s nostrils flared. He felt the old instinct in his bones, older than cities, older than law. Not quite mysticism, perhaps, but close.  Danger, it warned out of the corner of his mind.

The boy swerved, too late, too sharp. His car clipped the rear corner of a lumbering van. The van fishtailed like a wounded ox. A chain of horns erupted, red lights flaring across the spectrum, a cacophony of outrage and fear. Tires screamed. Metal struck metal with a sound like shields splitting.

The van spun. A smaller car struck it and crumpled, folding and cracking as if made of plastic. A black sedan lurched across the lanes, sliding into the side of a jeep. Cars began crisscrossing lanes in a panic. The herd stampeded.  

Conan did not pray. He did not panic. He glanced to the left and right for a brief calculating moment, and then moved.

He wrenched the wheel, not with the delicate corrections of a timid driver, but with the brutal certainty of a man steering a stallion through a battlefield. He watched the angles, the momentum, the blind spots where death hid. His foot hammered the brake, then eased up, and then hammered again, as if he were taming a beast with heel and rein.

A sedan slid sideways in front of him, its driver’s eyes wide and empty, mouth shaping a sound that never became a word. Conan slipped behind it by inches, the way a knife hisses as it slices the air without hitting the flesh. A puff of smoke curled from someone’s tires like incense from a brazier.  To almost everyone the scene was a blur.  Everyone except Conan.  

For one heartbeat, the world narrowed to the width of a spear-shaft. Conan’s truck shuddered as something heavy struck the road behind him; debris, perhaps, or only the echo of a disaster further down the line. Then the space opened, and he was through and surged away from the wreckage behind him.

In his mirror, the boy’s bright car skittered to a stop, unharmed, as if the gods favored fools. The boy raised his hands in outrage at the ruins around him, as though the carnage were an inconvenience inflicted upon him by lesser men.  He was furious at all those damn stupid cows that made this happen.

Conan growled low in his throat, a sound that might have been laughter if it contained any mirth.  It didn't.

“Civilization,” he muttered. “Aye. A fine gleaming civilization you have here.  Well done.”

He drove on. He was late and needed to make up for lost time.

The steel-and-glass fortress of his employment rose from the city like a polished tomb. Conan parked his pickup among the other vehicles.  There were rows upon rows of them, packed so tightly that a man could scarcely squeeze between their flanks. Jeremy Williams and Tod Roberts were rolling in too, both carrying their satchels like men shouldering shields, faces already drawn with the weariness of an endless siege.

Inside, the air was bone-chilling cold.  It was summer, so that was expected. Conan grit his teeth as he passed the security gate.  He presented his badge and entered the gray maze of cubicles. The walls were low, the ceilings high, a landscape designed to make a man feel both exposed and insignificant at the same time.  The decor was bleak with gray artwork and fluorescent bulbs.

He reached his own cell and stopped.

His cubicle wall had been… adorned.  Again.  As usual.

Bright square sticky notes in a dozen colors clung to the fabric like exotic fungi. Some were scrawled with imperatives: ASAP, blocker, urgent!!! Others bore strange commands: “Circle back,” “quick win,” “ship it.” A few had been slapped on at odd angles, overlapping, as if the scribe had been drunk or possessed.

And pinned at the center, like a trophy taken from a dead enemy, was a printed notice:

“Wrike Project Management System is being decommissioned as of this morning.  Please refer to management for project details.”

Conan stared at the words, feeling a coldness in his gut that no air-conditioning could explain.

Jeremy leaned over the cubicle wall, eyes hollow. “They killed it,” he said. “Upper management. Said the system was ‘too complex’, but we can translate that to 'too expensive', most likely.”

Tod appeared behind him, clutching a coffee like a man clinging to the last warm ember in winter. “They want us to do the project off the wall,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might summon something.

Conan touched a sticky note. It peeled away too easily, like dead skin.

“A council of imbeciles,” Conan said slowly, “who throw away the map in the midst of war.”

Jeremy gave a humorless laugh. “They said it promotes collaboration.”

Conan looked at the wall again. The notes fluttered faintly in the draft from a vent above, shifting, trembling, as if alive. He felt the faintest prickling at the back of his neck, the same sensation he’d felt on the highway a moment before steel began to fly. It was absurd, of course. A man could not be wounded by a mere piece of paper.  Could he?

And yet…

He imagined, with sudden clarity, how the day would go: a note falling unseen to the floor; a task forgotten; a deadline missed; an executive’s wrath descending like an axe. He imagined the project, a mission-critical enterprise system, collapsing under its own weight, not from lack of skill, but from lack of order, like an army routed because its generals preferred feasting to strategizing.

He sat down heavily into his creaking swivel chair.  Screens glowed to life, vomiting fresh plagues: servers buckling, permissions stripped, programs gone mad. The ticketing system, the new Task Master of this age, spat demands at him in endless succession.

And now, above it all, the sticky-note wall loomed like a crude shrine.  In between putting out technical fires, he was to work on Project Mohawk's absurdly complicated infrastructure based on whatever he could surmise from the sticky-note parade.  Great.  

Conan fought as he always fought. He did not wince or complain. He did not plead. He hunted the miscreant code through tangled lines, strangled it, and threw its corpse to the void. He patched one breach only to see three more open. He spoke calmly into meetings where management argued about feelings instead of outcomes.  His tone never wavered.  And when his advice was ignored, as ever it was, he went back to his desk and kept up the slog.

At midday, sent out on a simple errand for provisions, Conan stepped into the parking lot and found another combat zone.

The sun beat down on black asphalt that shimmered in the heat. Vehicles prowled the lanes between rows, moving with the stealth of predators. Some did not roar at all but were silent machines that glided without warning, like ghosts.  The electric car. Silent and dangerous, like a viper of glass and steel. He paused for an instant.

A woman backed her massive SUV out of a space without looking, trusting her tiny screen and a beeping charm to save her. The beast surged toward him with a sudden lurch.

Conan sprang aside, boots scraping gravel, and slapped a palm against the vehicle’s rear quarter with the casual force of a man stopping a door. The driver’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Sorry!” she mouthed, though her lips formed it as an afterthought, and the word was forgotten as soon as it was formed. 

Then, a low-wheeled shopping cart, loose and rattling, slipped out of the grasp of an aged shopper and began rolling downhill with malicious purpose toward a row of parked cars next to Conan. Without a thought he lunged, caught it by the handle, and wrenched it around before it could strike. The cart shuddered, resisting, as if it possessed a will of its own. Conan cursed it, and rattled it with two hands until it stopped moving.  The elder came and took the cart from the giant's paws, muttered a minuscule gratitude and continued his rattling journey down the lot.

A gust of wind swirled grit and plastic wrappers across the asphalt in a spiraling dance. Conan watched the trash whirl like a tiny storm and felt again that faint prickle, that hint of something watching from the beyond the edges of ordinary things. Perhaps it was only exhaustion. Perhaps it was the city’s way of speaking.  He glanced in the direction but saw nothing but shimmering cars, trash, and... wait.  A crow.  When he spotted it, the crow lifted itself into the air with a single 'Caw' and flew between two cars and vanished.  He raised an eyebrow, grumbled and made his way to the box-store to get the office supplies he needed.

He returned to the fortress with his provisions intact. The sticky notes had shifted.

Had someone moved them? Had the vent done it? Had his mind, worn thin by some strange sorcery, invented the change?

Conan did not know. He only knew that one note, reading "deploy at 4", now hung by a single corner, trembling like a man on the edge of a cliff ready to jump.

He pressed it flat with two fingers and secured it firmly to the cubical with a thumb tack. Then he went back to war.

By the time the sun sank and shadows crawled once more through the canyons of the electronic city, Conan was exhausted. His eyes burned. His throat was hoarse. His hands shook with the after-tremor of a hundred small battles. He rose from his chair like an old soldier rising bloody and broken from mud, and trudged out into the hot twilight. His trusty pickup waited patiently, and grumbled as usual when he started her up.

The neon glow of Ma’s Carbuncle called to him like a hearth-light. The smell of black bread and mystery meat lifted his spirits as he pushed through the front door.

Within the all-hours joint, the air was thick with fumes from iron skillets and bubbling cauldrons. At one booth a grim-faced truck master was speaking of “routes” as if they were raids into hostile territory, and barked orders at the grime covered men sitting with him. At the counter, weary analysts were sniffing at smoky potables.  One was muttering something about an upcoming tax audit.  The others ignored him and were stuffing their churlish faces.

And there she was.  Sonya the server.  She moved through it all with the sharp grace of a blade dancer, ever bright and filled with sardonic vitality. Her copper hair was just catching a ray of crimson sunset, as her bright and amused eyes, like emeralds, settled on Conan as he made his way past the baboons.

He took his regular perch. Sonya arrived as if summoned, sliding a plate before him piled high with dark steaming meat on dry black bread. His favorite. She set down a cup of blackwater that steamed like a cauldron of witch’s brew.  He gazed at it with bemusement.

“Your favorite,” she said, brows flat, lids half lifted. “Let me guess.  Rough day at the office.”

Conan grunted, and tore into the meal as if it had insulted his ancestors. “Technology is but the blade. It is the hands that wield it that doom us.”

Sonya leaned closer, just enough that Conan caught the faint scent of perfume behind the coffee and fryer oil. “What did they do to you this time?”

Conan swallowed, then jerked his head toward an invisible wall only he could see. “They cast away the great ledger of our tasks,” he said. “The one that tracked our battles and our burdens and informs us of where the next battle is to take place. Instead, they are pasting scraps of colored paper on the walls like children making offerings to a rain god.  We're expected to maintain the same level of productivity.  Most cannot.”

Sonya’s lips twitched. “Sticky notes.”

“Aye,” said Conan darkly. “the paper ghosts of productivity lost.”

She laughed, quick, sharp, and controlled, like a woman who would not give the world too much satisfaction. “And you survived, yet again.  Wonderful.”

“I survive,” Conan said. “That is what I do.”

Sonya refilled his blackwater with the casual authority of a queen granting mercy. "You're still my hero, Conan," she said.

“Your words make the darkness a mite brighter,” Conan replied, almost grudgingly, as if the compliment were a coin he did not often spend, and a slight concern that the spirits of malice might hear them and do mischief.

Sonya’s eyes narrowed with practiced suspicion, but the corners of her mouth rose despite herself. “Careful, Conan,” she said. “Talk like that and I might start giving you free refills.”

Conan snorted. “Do not insult me.”

Her whiplike tongue had found its mark, as always. She drifted away to tend to the crowd of miscreants, and fend off some accountants who had mistaken her patience for interest.

Conan ate until the shaking in his hands eased. Outside, the traffic howled and screeched its everlasting cacophony, and the city’s lights flickered awake, filling the skyline with the only stars it knew.

When he finally rose, his body felt heavy with fatigue, his shirt splattered with dark meat-sauce and coffee. He stepped out into the night. The air was cooler now, but it did not feel refreshing.  The drones above buzzed incessantly with their night deliveries, occasionally whirling into buildings and crashing to the ground, or showering sparks for unknown reasons.

He drove home down the lanes of peril, wary as any man crossing a haunted wood. He thought of the boy on the highway, unharmed amid wreckage, mocking the crowd of people whose lives he disrupted, and it made him clench his jaw with righteous indignation.  He thought of the sticky notes trembling on his wall like nervous omens. He thought of the parking lot’s silent chariots and rolling traps.

Perhaps there were mystic powers governing this world. Perhaps there were none. In the end, it mattered little. The danger was real either way.

Conan the Programmer / Analyst arrived at his tiny dwelling-hole gritty and tired, and as he shut the door behind him, he could not help but feel that tomorrow the city would awaken hungry again.  By Crom… it always did.

Outside a crow caw'd in the distance.

Mythos Machine vs World Anvil

Worldbuilding software has become increasingly important for writers, game masters, and indie creators who want to organize large amounts of setting information without losing track of the details. Two tools that stand out in this space are World Anvil and Mythos Machine, but they are not trying to solve exactly the same problem. Both help creators develop fictional worlds, yet they differ in philosophy, structure, and intended use.

World Anvil is best understood as a broad, flexible worldbuilding and publishing platform. It is designed for users who want to create rich lore, structure that lore into articles and reference pages, and present the result in a polished, accessible format. Mythos Machine, by contrast, is more than a worldbuilding tool in the traditional sense. It is a genre-neutral world creation system tightly integrated with the Elthos RPG rules, allowing creators to build worlds, define their own setting elements, and immediately use those creations in play.

That difference shapes nearly every aspect of how the two systems feel. World Anvil excels as a general-purpose environment for writers, game masters, and hobbyists who want a strong organizational framework for fiction or campaign material. Mythos Machine is built around a more unified workflow: create the world, define the game content, organize the campaign, and run the RPG inside the same system. In other words, World Anvil is primarily about documenting and presenting a world, while Mythos Machine is about building a world that can be played as a game.

One of the most important distinctions is how each system handles structure. World Anvil gives users tools to create articles, timelines, maps, characters, organizations, and other worldbuilding assets in a highly modular way. It is well suited for people who want flexibility in how they organize information. Mythos Machine uses a more explicit hierarchy, where worlds can contain places, campaigns, adventures, events, and experience gains. That structure is especially useful for game masters who want their worldbuilding to connect directly to campaign flow and gameplay progression.

Mythos Machine goes even further by integrating character generation and management into the same system. It allows the GM to create custom races, classes, skills, mystic powers, armors, weapons, and equipment, then organize them into stores that can be made available based on location and other conditions. This makes the tool feel like a living game system rather than a static reference database. World Anvil certainly supports campaign management and character notes, but its core focus is not on being the rules engine that drives play.

Another major difference is genre support. World Anvil is broadly genre-agnostic in the sense that it can be used for fantasy, science fiction, horror, historical settings, and more, but it is fundamentally a flexible content organization tool rather than a rules framework. Mythos Machine is also genre-neutral, but in a more integrated way. The user can define the elements needed for any genre — whether that means new weapons, armor, races, classes, or powers — and those elements are built to fit naturally into the Elthos rules system. That means a GM can create a completely original setting in almost any genre and begin playing it immediately without translating the world into another format.

Publishing is another area where Mythos Machine distinguishes itself. Beyond internal world creation and gameplay support, it also includes a world publishing model that functions as a marketplace. GMs can create complete worlds and offer them for sale through the system, and buyers receive the entire world package, including campaigns, weapons, armors, characters, history, and other linked elements. It also includes a Print World option, allowing users to export parts or all of a world as PDFs suitable for publishing on DriveThruRPG. That makes Mythos Machine not just a creation tool, but also a distribution and productization platform.

World Anvil has its own publishing strengths, especially in terms of presenting a world publicly and making lore readable and attractive. It is very much designed for sharing. But its model is different. World Anvil is about publishing world content as a reference, archive, or immersive setting guide. Mythos Machine is about publishing a world as a complete, playable product. That distinction matters for creators who want to sell a finished RPG world rather than simply showcase their setting.

The practical choice between the two depends on the creator’s goals. Someone writing a novel, developing an encyclopedia of lore, or building a campaign reference site may find World Anvil the better fit because of its polish, flexibility, and broad appeal. Someone who wants a fully integrated RPG environment, where worldbuilding, mechanics, character creation, campaign structure, and publishing all work together, may find Mythos Machine much more compelling. It is especially attractive for GMs who want a direct path from concept to playable campaign.

In that sense, the two tools represent different philosophies. World Anvil is a worldbuilding platform first, with campaign support as part of a larger creative toolkit. Mythos Machine is a world-to-game system first, with worldbuilding as the foundation of a complete roleplaying ecosystem. Neither is inherently better in every situation, but they serve different creative priorities.

For many creators, the question is not which tool is objectively superior, but which one matches the way they work. If the goal is to organize and present a setting with maximum flexibility, World Anvil is a strong choice. If the goal is to create an original world and immediately transform it into a playable RPG using built-in rules and content structures, Mythos Machine offers a more integrated solution. The distinction is subtle at first, but once understood, it becomes clear that these tools are aimed at different parts of the worldbuilding process.

WoAF - Game Session 65

Captain "Sam" Samwise stared out the Mech's forward window into the blackness of space. In the distance, towards the brilliantly shining quarter moon, a thin yellow-orange plasma streak betrayed the presence of the Mech that Lexi had hijacked two hours earlier. Below them, the Earth's atmosphere was illuminated along the horizon, with wide streaks of space debris glinting above dark clouds of brown and gray. Several intertwining streams of iridescent light flickered with lightning as they flowed across the upper atmosphere like serpents. Sam's attention, however, was on the space-faring Mech far ahead of them. It had at least two hour's head start and was cruising at maximum speed. He contemplated Lexi's previous explanation as to why he had commandeered the Mech, and he found the explanation less than satisfactory. 

His problem was that he was not at all convinced that the molecular cloud threat was real. He suspected Lexi had ulterior motives and he wanted to know what they were. But the good Captain was not in a position to extract any information that Lexi was unwilling to provide. They were separated by thousands of miles of space, and it would be impossible for them to catch up with Lexi unless he slowed his ship down. He glanced out the port window to check Major Sekston's flight path. Her Mech, gleaming blue, white and chrome, was still glowing around the head and shoulders from the atmospheric friction.  The plasma trail behind her blazed fiercely as she throttled to maximum power as she sought to catch up with Sam. He then glanced over at Fred, who had picked a piece of macaroni out of his pocket and was dusting it off, presumably with the intent of eating it. Samwise quickly turned away to look out the forward window again.  The long orange-red plasma trail of Lexi's Mech vanishing into the distance frustrated him.

He wasn't exactly a Molecular Cloud Denier, but he had never thought of it as being an actual problem. And certainly not one that required the immediate attention of the world's first Positronic-Brain enabled android. And besides, above all else, Samwise wished to put Lexi's new brain to good use determining if it would be possible to resolve the Cat's Paw Dilemma of the incredible Ultra-Drug, a tiny sample of which had been given to him by Doctor Danger earlier that morning. If they could solve that problem, then the rag-tag human armies of North America could raise a new legion of Ultra-Warriors, and quite plausibly defeat the Black Manticore's Lizardman Force that had issued forth from Las Vegas in a tsunami of war.  Sam also suspected he might be able to use a refined version of Ultra to create a new Bio-Augmentation for himself. One that through extensive genetic, cellular and neurological enhancement could vastly exceed normal human capabilities and physiology. It was a dream of his. But it required the help of Lexi's Positronic-Brain. And consequently Sam had a vested interest, and because of this was inclined to disbelieve and dismiss Lexi's story.

Captain Samwise flipped the switch on the console to activate his microphone.

"Lexi," he said, "I'm confused. We've travelled together since we left Federation Command at Kitt Peak, almost a month ago. And just now you're bringing this molecular cloud issue up?"

"It should have been brought up a long time ago, sir," replied Lexi calmly, his voice crackling with static over the speaker.

"What made you aware that this is a priority?" asked Sam.

"I was exploring a historical archive on the topic. In the 1990's the question of the molecular cloud had been raised by astrophysicists, and research had been ongoing for some time, but the Ultra-War caused all research on this question to be abandoned. Now, it must be picked up again. And there is no time to lose.  This should have been done a decade ago."

"What archive did you research this in? You were captured by Brain V, and then returned back to mission, and at no time did you indicate any other emergencies that needed to be taken care of."

"Sir, that is quite true," replied Lexi. "When I was reconstructed by Brain V, I was given the rare and wonderful opportunity to access and store a rather fascinating Scientific Data Archive. I have been steadily going through since I left the Black Wind V facility. When I came across this item it piqued my interest, and so I started looking into it more deeply. I came to my conclusion early this morning."

"I'm sorry, Lexi," Sam countered, "but the timing doesn't quite make sense. If you found out about this while you were with Brain V and you were able to bring the Mechs to us, why didn't you just go to the molecular cloud straight away?"

"I wasn't aware of the issue, yet," replied Lexi calmly, "as I had not accessed that part of the archive until this morning at 2:47am."

"And why did you not inform us of the seriousness of this issue before rushing off? Why did you lie to Major Sexton in order to commandeer the Mech?"

"Technically, I didn't lie, sir," replied Lexi. "What I told Major Sexton was that I have a new mission and I needed the Mech. Both of those statements are factually true."

"If I might say, Captain, yes," Major Sexton broke in, "I apologize for the confusion, but that is what Lexi actually said. I assumed he meant a new mission from Federation Command... but he didn't explicitly say that.  I should have been more discerning."

Lexi went on.

"Captain Samwise, I understand that you might feel that my statements were a bit deceptive, perhaps. To tell you the truth, I was concerned that if I reported my reasoning, Federation Command would have hampered the initiative, and I honestly believe that this is the most important thing that can and must be done at this time.  We are already late in the game on the molecular cloud, and it could be too late as it is. And so I didn't want to take the risk that the deliberation process among Federation officials would get bogged down in a bureaucratic snafu. That is why I took the Mech without informing you in advance. This mission is too urgent to delay.  I had planned to inform you after the fact, from space, once I began the mission and had some hard data to report back."

"So you believe that if your analysis concludes what you suspect about the molecular cloud, that you can actually effect a change in the cloud? That you can prevent it from affecting the Earth?"

"I won't know that until I conduct the analysis, sir," replied Lexi.  "But it is possible."

"But based on your research, and the knowledge and technology that you have on hand, how do you even imagine that you could affect a solution without the Federation's help? With just one Mech?"

"In fact," replied Lexi, "I should point out that the Mechs were not only designed by Brain V as instruments of science, but they are also quite advanced instruments of engineering. With this Mech, given sufficient time, I believe I could utilize the resources in space to conduct whatever operations may be necessary. And since I do not need food or water, or sleep, I am perfectly capable of bringing the Mech's considerable powers to bear on the problem, even if it should take what you as a human might feel is a great deal of time.  So the answer to your question is, yes."

"Alright," replied Sam, realizing that arguing with Lexi was not likely to result in the course of action he wanted.  He paused to think about what Lexi had said. 

"I see your point, Lexi. Had you informed me early on of this plan, there is a good chance I would have stopped you, yes. And it is also likely that a bureaucratic process to evaluate your idea would have then been initiated, and it may have turned into a snafu. This is also true. I won't deny that."

"In fact," replied Lexi, "there is an 81.7% chance that you would have engaged me in a bureaucratic process, which would have had a 94.3% chance of been bogged down in political debate. Given the slow communications between you and Federation Command, there was too great a risk of an unwarranted and unacceptable delay. No offense intended."

"None taken," replied Sam quietly. "Well, Lexi, I have another problem with you running off by yourself."

"You do, sir?"

"I have just received a sample of the Ultra-Drug," said Sam, pausing there for emphasis.

"The Ultra-Drug?" asked Lexi with a surprised tone. "It was my understanding that no such samples should exist."

"It was a surprise to me, also," replied Sam. "I was hoping to get your assistance in analyzing the samples I received to find a way to synthesize a safer version.  If we can resolve the Cat's Paw Dilemma then --"

At that moment a brilliant white light blazed through the front windows of every vessel in the vicinity. Fortunately the Mech's all responded by instantly deploying Radiance-Shielding across every window, otherwise the crews would have likely been permanently blinded, if not worse. As it was the blindness was temporary, and in a few moments they could see again. The Mech's shielding absorbs high energy light, but allows lower frequencies to pass harmlessly through. Hence they were able to see what was happening outside through the front windows after a few moments.

And what they saw was beyond shocking. The entire north pole of the moon had suddenly been engulfed in an enormous nuclear explosion. A huge plume of white hot gas and dust was rising over the surface of the moon.  The instrument panels on the vessel's dashboards had all lit up with warnings and alarms across multiple spectrums.

"What the HELL was that?!" exclaimed Captain Samwise. They tried zooming in with the Vizi-Screens, but they had been rendered temporarily inoperable, and showed only a frazzled white static across their view-plates. Samwise tried to remain calm as he considered the implications of this astonishing event.

Fred, who had earlier take a few green and purple pills, was in a daze. But this woke him up.

"What the FUCK was that?!!" he sputtered as he stared out the window. "That's impossible! What was it? An asteroid? It must have been monster-sized! That needs to be checked out!"

"Major Sekston," Sam barked into his mic, "can you read me?"

"I can, Captain," she replied over a thoroughly static-filled radio wave.

"What do you think could have caused that?" he asked.

"That was the largest nuclear blast I have ever seen," she reported.

"Yes," replied Sam. "It needs to be checked out."

Lexi's voice came over the speakers, crackling and static-laden. "I am picking up a significant amount of radiation from the blast, Captain Samwise. By the size of the explosion, I estimate it was somewhere in the 500 megaton range.  I do not believe bombs of this size were ever contemplated in any military command I have knowledge of.  Even the largest bomb ever tested, the Soviet Tsar Bombe, was only 50 megatons."

"Could someone even have launched a nuclear missile from the Earth at the moon?" asked Fred, furiously calculating on his keypad.

"It is possible that an ICBM was launched and struck the moon," said Lexi, "but I see no evidence of such a launch so far."

The Mechs could move at twenty-five thousand miles per hour, and so could get to the moon in nine and a half hours at maximum speed.

"Lexi," asked Fred, "Would you be willing to meet us at the moon, if we go to investigate?"

"Under the circumstances," replied Lexi, "I have no objections.  However, you would not want to get too close to the site.  Radiation intensity is extremely high."

"How far out would we need to stay?" asked Fred.

"I would say that by the time we get there, at least 80 miles," answered Lexi.

"We appreciate your coming with us," said Fred. "We could use your Positronic-Brain to figure this one out."

"I will be happy to be of assistance, if I can," replied Lexi.

And so the two Mechs directed themselves towards the moon.

"Captain Samwise," said Lexi after about five minutes of transitioning trajectories.

"Yes, Lexi?"

"My forward sensors are picking up a radiating source in near-space. It is a relatively weak signal. I am forwarding the our Vizi-Screen view to your onboard system."

Samwise switched the Vizi-screen from Forward Sensor Array Mode to pick up the transmission, and plotted the exact coordinates into the navigation control system. He saw once again the same blips they'd seen earlier but forgotten about. They appeared much more clearly now, as Lexi's Mech was two hours ahead, and the view from his ship much closer in. It was a set of fifty static blocks, and then another set of blocks outlined in red, about a thousand yards from the first set, and set in a single line. Whatever this was, Samwise had no idea.

Meanwhile, on Shadow Hawk, at this time, our heroes had dispatched the terrible Moon-Entity, and Vallnam had just finished Mind-Probing the technicians to validate their mental states, with results he found quite acceptable.

"So," said Captain Samwise, "we just witnessed a massive nuclear explosion on the moon, and now we are seeing a string of radioactive signatures seventy-five thousand miles off of Earth's orbital plane. Very interesting. I suspect these two things may well be linked.  I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that if what happened on the moon just now also happened on Earth, that would be the end of civilization right there. We need to find out what those blips are, and we need to find out yesterday."

"It should take us about two and a half hours to get to where the blips are located," said Major Sekston, "while Lexi should be there in approximately a half hour at his current speed."

~~~ *** ~~~

Meanwhile on Shadow Hawk, Vallnam was pleased to know that the technicians were safe to bring to Earth. They were still observing the moon, the north pole of which was covered with a fierce red glow. Jacob left Nikola Tesla with the technicians on the UFO while he teleported back to the deck of Shadow Hawk to confer with Ling and Vallnam. For their part, the technicians were awed and amazed to see Nikola alive, and were quite effusive in their exclamations of admiration and joy. He was probably the third most famous person in Eisenhelm, and was considered the primary architect of the fortress, and the inventor of many of it's most advanced designs and mechanisms. It was he, in fact, who had created the Red-Mercury Plasma-Vortex engines for the UFOs, created their navigational control systems, the stealth technology, the metallic tape computer array systems, and a host of other equally fantastic inventions. He was the most esteemed technician of them all, until the Regime had turned on him, and imprisoned him for so-called "insubordination". They fawned all over the poor man, fed him whatever crackers and tidbits they could muster, and brought him a cup of hot tea.  He was pleased to see he hadn't been forgotten, and accepted their accolades without demure.  Fortunately, he'd had the foresight to equip the UFOs with Blackout-Glass, a material that acted in a similar fashion to the Mech's Radiance-Shields, and consequently the crews of both ships had been spared permanent blindness as well, but in their case it would be hours before they could see through their portholes again.

The three Shadow Hawk heroes were debating their next course of action. Although aware of the Mechs, they had not yet noticed the change in trajectory they'd taken. They were still seventy-five thousand miles away, and not of immediate concern.  A yellow indicator light on the control panel alerted Ling as to the change in the Mech's status.  She had other fish to fry at the moment, and so turned back to Vallnam who was still speaking.

"I think our next step is to rid the solar system of the remaining Cobalt bombs," he was saying. "I think, Ling, you were going to go to Earth with the technicians and introduce them to Federation Command."

"What's the status of the Giant Robots?" asked Ling.

"They have not been activated, yet," replied Jacob. "Once they're activated they will be able to fly themselves down to the surface of the Earth. They can't really fly around at will, because they weren't designed for that, but they should be able to land, at least."

"Alright," said Ling. "We need to finalize our plan. It's a given that we want to keep Shadow Hawk a secret. The UFOs are in Stealth Mode, so they're safe from detection at this point."

"Ling, you can take the fifty Robots, eighteen technicians, and two UFO's to Earth with Nikola, while Vallnam and I head out of the Solar System with remaining forty-nine Cobalt bombs," said Jacob as he tabulated trajectories, weights and speeds on his arm-mounted analyzer.

"I think I would need Jacob to help with bringing the Robots down to Earth," said Ling. "I'd like a backup since I'm going to be busy introducing the technicians to Federation Command."

"That would leave just me to fly the forty-nine bombs out into deep space beyond the solar system... alone... eh?"

"I don't know," said Jacob, "To be honest, Vallnam isn't the best pilot in the world, as you might recall."

"Maybe," replied Vallnam, annoyed by the aspersion to his skill, despite it's veracity, "but if you need a Tarot Reading, who you going to go to?"

"Anyway," interrupted Ling, "We haven't been listening in on what's going on with the Mechs.  I see they changed course.  Let's tune in and find out what's going on."

And with that they switched back to listening in on the radio frequency of the Mechs.  They noted the confusion and alarm among the Mech's crews, that they'd changed course, and noted that the lead ship would arrive shortly at their location. They had to make a move.

"They won't be able to detect Shadow Hawk, or the UFOs in stealth mode, but what about the Giant Robots and the bombs?"

"I don't see why they wouldn't be able to detect that giant radioactive junk pile," replied Jacob flatly.

"And the Giant Robots?" asked Ling.

"It's not as if those giant hunks of metal are exactly stealthy or anything," he said.

"This could be a good case of kill a few birds with one stone," offered Vallnam. "We can contact them from the UFOs, which they already know about, and explain what happened on the moon."

"So who is doing what in what order?" asked Jacob.

"You and I are going to go with the UFOs to meet the Mechs," replied Ling, "and introduce the technicians as 'people we rescued from the moon', while Vallnam flies the bombs away in Shadow Hawk. That way they won't have a chance to see Shadow Hawk. Once we explain to Sam what happened, he won't need to go to the moon to investigate, and we can bring everyone back down to Earth."

"What if Vallnam runs into trouble on his way out of the solar system?" asked Jacob. "I mean what if he runs into a meteor storm, or aliens, or anything unexpected?"

"I am assuming that I can put Shadow Hawk on auto-pilot and it will know what to do," replied Vallnam.

"Well, no," said Ling. "I don't think so. Shadow Hawk relies on us to provide directions.  She can do amazing things, but we have to tell her what to do.  I don't think she will do anything of her own volition.  But maybe we can help from afar since we'll be wearing our Shadow Hawk suits and those are in some way linked to the main ship, anyway?"

"Well, I'm not so sure, but there's a lot of unknowns," replied Jacob. "No one has ever gone out of the Solar System. This isn't a little thing we are going to do. We plan to take the bombs outside the Oort Belt. No one has ever done anything like this before. We have no idea what to expect. And no, I don't think Shadow Hawk is going to make any decisions for us. We need to tell her exactly what we want her to do. I think we should be treating this more like a major adventure, not just a quick little Sunday jaunt to the country. I'm pretty sure that leaving the Solar System is going to be kind of a big deal. Sending Vallnam flying off with forty-nine 500 megaton Cobalt bombs out into the depths of space by himself just sets off all kinds of red alerts in my head, you know."

"Well, now that you put it that way," said Ling, "I suppose you're right. You and Jacob can take Shadow Hawk out, while I head to Earth with the crew out there. That does make sense, after all. I'll manage with the Robots. It's fine."

Jacob and Vallnam both knew that this was like your girlfriend says, "No, no, it's okay. You go out with the guys and have fun tonight, and I'll just stay home by myself and watch TV. It's fine.  Really."

Nothing about that is going to be fine. No sir.  No way.

"My regards to Lt. Brisbane," said Jacob with a little smile.

"Yeah, definitely, me too," added Vallnam, twiddling his fingers.

"I know you won't forget, Ling," said Jacob, "that when you meet your dad, there's no need to say anything about Shadow Hawk. But what are we going to tell him when we come back? I mean like, do we have a cover story to explain where we just disappeared to for twenty-two hours?  I'm pretty sure he's going to wonder."

"Well, you don't need to come down to the planet," suggested Ling. "You guys could just pick me up when you get back, and we can take it from there."

"Oh that's right. We don't really even need to go back to Earth, do we?" said Vallnam.

"Maybe you can touch base with Linda when you're down there," suggested Jacob.

"Yes, I haven't seen her in a long time," replied Ling. "I hope she's doing okay." 

"From what I recall," said Vallnam, "Pita is like a superhero. I'm sure she's doing extremely well."

Jacob narrowed his eyes and said, "Hmmm... you and Pita have a thing, don't you?"

"Well you would too, if you hung out with him more," replied Vallnam with a laugh.

"It must be that gleaming smile of his," said Jacob with a dry smirk.

"Oh yes, and that twinkle in his eye," answered Vallnam enthusiastically.

"Ok, so I think we have a plan," said Jacob. "Vallnam and I will take the bombs and you'll go to Earth. But what are you going to say to Sam if he tries to commandeer you for Federation Command missions, and stuff?"

"What rank is he?" asked Ling.

"I believe Lexi is still referring to him as a captain," said Jacob.

"Fine.  He can't pull rank on me, as I'm a captain, too," she said, "And I'll just defer to my father if he tries.  I'm sure I won't have any trouble with Captain Samwise."

And with that, they settled on the plan.

 

And that is where we left things that night.

WoAF - Game Session 59

Dr. Capek

Having defeated the four Nazi UFOs, our heroes had begun their journey back to Earth.  Not far behind them were the eighteen Nazi technicians manning the two UFOs that they had managed to repair before escaping the smoldering ruins of the super-secret Nazi Moon-Fortress, Eisenhelm.  Far below them, a thin cloud of gray smoke slowly wafted over the moon's surface from the burning wreckage of that once mighty Moon-Bastion of Nazi Totalitarianism, the first and last of its kind... and good riddance, thought our heroes as they sped away.   

It should be noted that the last UFO that Team Purple hurtled into Eisenhelm's Hanger C caused a massive explosion, killing many Nazi soldiers who had been preparing their next assault on another Nazi faction from that location.  Yet, the explosion failed to eliminate Hanna Schiller, who was a bit too far underground on Level C3, having taken refuge with a certain Doctor Karel Capek, the chief Roboticist of General Hertling's military command hierarchy.  But our story leaves her and Capek to their fate, and follows our heroes on their journey back to Earth.

Not far from the moon, Shadow Hawk and the two UFOs trailing behind her, encountered the derelict space armada known as the "The Phalanx", floating towards Earth.  The armada was composed of fifty Giant Nuclear Missile Robots, each of which had been programmed to fly to a major Earth capital and explode its 500 megaton cobalt bomb.  Due to the incredible power, and extremely lethal radioactive footprint of this type of bomb, this event would have certainly exterminated all life on the surface of the planet.  

Fortunately, at the last, Ling, Vallnam and Jacab had managed to disable The Phalanx during the Eisenhelm Civil War that they had so craftily caused.  And so, now they had arrived at The Phalanx, its fifty monstrous robot emissaries of doom completely inert.  Not a light blinked, nor gear moved among the great fifty.  The robots were immobile, free floating, and entirely harmless.  However, they also happened to be on a trajectory towards Earth and it didn't take the three more than a few moments to realize that left to their current course, the robots would continue on to Earth, and one at a time, fall through the atmosphere and hit whatever was before them.  There was a reasonable probability that the impact alone would cause little harm, however they also conjectured that such an impact could detonate the nuclear weapons inside.  Perhaps not all of them, but even a few of the fifty exploded, it would bring incredible destructive force to their already badly wounded world.  They still faced a potential extinction level event. They decided to act.  

The technicians they rescued from Eisenhelm were eager to help.  After all, they were on a one way trip to The Mother World, and they felt it incumbent upon them not to see it destroyed.  They proposed removing the bombs, detonating them in space, and then reprogramming the robots to convert them into useful powerhouses of machinery, capable of taking orders and performing fantastic feats of strength and construction.  An ideal gift for the bustling new civilization of Earth, indeed.  They hoped to bequeath them to the new Earth Government, so that their arrival would prove beneficial to Earth, and give them a chance to present themselves as something other than mere lunar refuges, and potential enemies.  This idea struck a chord with Ling and the others, and so they agreed.  Vallnam directed them to try one robot, and if that worked, they could proceed with the others, provided the first one didn't take so long that the total time needed exceeded the time it would take for the robots to begin falling into Earth's atmosphere.  That gave them seven days.  The technicians were optimistic they could do it.  They got to work on the first one, flying their UFO to it, depositing two of their best on the giant machine, with the remainder flying off to a safe distance of about eight hundred miles along side Shadow Hawk and the other UFO.   

The two technicians got busy.  After grueling, diligent effort they were able to delicately disengage the bomb, and floated it outside the robot into space.  However, as it turned out, removing the bomb was the easy part.  The greater challenge was in the reprogramming of the robot's computer core.  In fact, it was protected by an impenetrable cypher-encryption mechanism that if tampered with incorrectly would cause an enormous amount of trouble.  If they didn't get this right, once re-activated, the Robot was capable of taking actions that could revive the entire armada, and put them all back on their original mission plan.  That would be a terrible outcome, of course, so they were being very careful.  They tried delicately three times, and each time they had to back away.  The tinkering with the cypher-block was simply beyond their skill.  And so the two technicians gave up on this attempt and had their UFO come pick them up.  Once together with their team, they began serious deliberations on how to overcome the blocking encryption.  

"If only Nick had made it with us!  He could have disarmed it without a second thought!" they bemoaned.

Meanwhile, as the technicians brought all their mental powers to bear on the discussion, in the rear of their UFO one member, a certain Dietrich Keller, son of the late Captain Keller, was suffering with some unknown ailment.  They had been so busy, the technicians had all but forgotten about him.  But now, it became evident that his suffering was something they could no longer ignore, and so they alerted Team Purple as to the situation.  Inquiries were made.  

It seemed that he had been injured as the technicians had fled Eisenhelm.  As one of the technicians described to Vallnam, Keller had been the last one aboard.  It had been his responsibility to disconnect the power couplings from the UFOs before takeoff.  He had been operating the Power Coupling Station on the western wall of Hanger B when everyone clambered aboard the UFO.  At the last moment, as soon as the ship had as fully charged its power banks as time would allow, he de-coupled the power cable, and turned to make his run for the UFO.  As he disabled the power coupling and turned to run, however, he suddenly lurched, cried out, and staggered forward clutching his neck.  With no time to spare, several technicians ran out and grabbed him, hustling him into the ship. They took off right behind the first UFO just before an explosion rocked Hanger B, and brought the rocky ceiling down.

Keller was not doing well.  He was suffering from a nasty looking red welt on his neck, they said, and explained that they had laid him down on a bench with a blanket, and then went to work flying the UFO, which was difficult in those cramped conditions, given that none of them had any actual piloting experience.  The two UFOs wobbled their way behind Shadow Hawk, and soon everyone had more or less forgotten about technician Keller, being busy manning the ship, and helping to guide it into space.

Ling thought it best that they take a look at Keller.  She asked Vallnam and Jacob to suit up in their Shadow Hawk armors and go to the UFO to see what could be done for the poor fellow.  And so the two heroes found themselves once again flying on the magnetic waves towards the Nazi UFO.

The UFOs are very bizarre ships, by the way.  On the outside they look like what you would think of as a "normal" flying saucer, with a burnished silvery exterior, domed top, and three distinctive small domes on the lower belly of the vessel.  The three domes comprised its weapons array.  On the inside, however, they were quite strikingly different than any ships found on Earth.  They were filled with glowing vacuum tubes, shiny bronze controls, bronze-plated meter dials of various sizes and a slick metallic monitoring screen on the dome.  They had three (rather uncomfortable) chairs, each facing one of the small thickly-glassed port holes.  The air was filled with crackling and buzzing noises at all times.  At the center of the vessel was the engine, encased in a bell shaped device known as "Die Glocke," which contained the top secret Red-Mercury Vortex Engine, that was responsible for creating the anti-gravity field, and maintaining the Stasis-Field within the ship's confines.  The ship could move at a maximum of 30,000 miles per hour, and could, at lower speeds, within the Earth's atmosphere, make hairpin turns without significantly effecting the crew.  Each came with a battery of three weapons:  The Lightning Cannon, Plasma Beam, and the Liquid-Metal Cannon.  The armor of the ship was an alloy created by Science Center 5, known as Titanhaltbar-236, sufficient to repel most forms of kinetic attack.  Vallnam and Jacob sailed to the ship, and attained the airlock.

Once inside, they found the huddled technicians, trying to find a space to stand, or crouch, or lay down.  Three of them were in the Command-Chairs at their regular stations:  Pilot, Navigator and Weapons.  The rest had to make due as best they could.  The UFOs were really designed for a three man crew, so nine in each ship was a terrible squeeze. The air was stifling, while lack of space and protruding electronics hindered their movements, and the noise incessant. Nevertheless, they made do, and were earnestly pursuing their deliberations regarding the cypher-block.  Vallnam and Jacob went to the rear and examined Keller.

Jacob had some medical training, and so made a careful examination.  Keller lay on the bench wrapped in a woolen blanket, now stained with blood and thin streaks of grey puss.  He was staring, his eyes glaring as they tried to see through his chin to his neck.  He was breathing heavily, his face a mask of agony.  He could only manage to move his lips, but not speak.  Jacob drew closer and examined the wound.  What had been described to him as a red welt was no longer merely that.  It had apparently transformed into an open wound, from which protruded a small thorn like object, perhaps a quarter inch in length, dark red, and bristling with thin branches that appeared to extend into the flesh of his neck.  Jacob turned on the bio-scanner of his suit, and with careful tuning was able to trace the tendrils from the thorn using its FLIR-like imagery system.  The tendrils became microscopic, and penetrated all the way into Keller's nervous system.  And it appeared they were growing.  Jacob noted that the flesh around the tendrils was being affected as well, turning from normal tissue into a kind of puss-filled lumpy gray mass.  It was pretty disgusting, actually, but a true veteran, he managed to control his gag reflex.

Jacob urgently reported his findings back to Ling and Jacob via their telepathic link.  The thing in his neck appeared to be extending tiny tendrils into the poor man's nervous system.  He decided to cast a Narcoleptic Beam on the thing to see if it might inhibit its growth.  The effect was to put Keller into a deep dreamless sleep, which was a mercy, but it had no effect on the thorn at all.

"Whatever is afflicting Keller, it is not normal.  At all.  Very far from it," said Jacob.

They had to do something, and quickly.  The three heroes began to discuss their options, and sought for advice and capabilities that might be latent within Shadow Hawk, the Modroni spaceship that had already provided them with so many amazing surprises.  What their inquiries revealed on this occasion was that the ship had been equipped with a Short Range Teleporter, and more interestingly, a Shrink/Grow Ray.  These could be used in conjunction with each other to deposit large specimens, or equipment, at tiny sizes into a specially constructed "Container Jar", which sat in a hidden alcove somewhere further back in the ship.  But exactly what do do with it, if anything, under these circumstances was something to be debated.  And so they did. 

Meanwhile, a certain dark amorphous dog-like cloud hovered somewhere near UFO-T1, observing from a distance with keen anticipation...   

What is a Homebrew RPG?

There I was enjoying a nice warm cup of java the other morning when the topic of Homebrew came up in conversation, as it often does. Some people were saying that they homebrewed their game by altering the rules of a popular RPG. After spewing some java out my nose, I let out an anguished cry. How can that be what you mean by Homebrew?! I asked incredulously. I was offered a few quips in reply, but nothing that was said assuaged my feeling that this really was not the right word for what they meant. So I'd like to clarify what I mean when I say "Homebrew" in relation to RPGs.

I started GMing in 1978 with my first World, and first rules system, both going by the name of Elthos RPG. The rules I created after a skim-reading of "Men & Magic", the first volume of the original three (and highly magical) D&D booklets. My rules system had a couple of design goals. One was to eliminate the odd zig-zag math used by OD&D. I wanted even charts with easy to remember values. The second goal was to centralize (what later became known as) Conflict Resolution. I created one centralized chart that pits Difficulty Level vs Skill Level for all possible skills. In this way I wanted to avoid the need for endless additional charts for all of the doodads I might want to add to Elthos over time. The goal was to create a Homebrew system that I could rely on to only change in ways that make sense for me as the GM, and to avoid being tethered to rules systems that would inevitably alter the nature of the world itself. Thus I would be able to maintain my world for a long time exactly the way I envision it, and my world's history would not be subject to the whims of TSR's rules editions over time.

These two design decisions resulted in a system that has served me well for 40+ years.

The second leg of Homebrew is the Setting. My world is my own creation. Sure, of course I borrow ideas from many sources, historical and literary, but there is no tether that is tied to any of them. As such my world's only cannon is it's own history. The reason I wanted it this way is to keep my players from being "in the know" about things in the world that would be much more entertaining as surprises, than facts they encountered elsewhere. To me this is much more fun for everyone.

So for me, the word "Homebrew" suggests a creation from more or less whole cloth by the Gamemaster. Filled with surprises and idiosyncrasies that make sense to their creators, and are not beholden or tied to some corporate behemoth. It is the freedom and versatility of Homebrew that attracts my ardor. I think from a creativity perspective Homebrew is definitely the way to go.

As for what I think the correct word for what was mentioned by my buddy online the other morning is "House Rule". Homebrew and House Rule are two different things. There is some overlap, of course, but they are really quite distinct in my mind.

What do you think? Am I right about this? What's your definition of Homebrew?

Chaos and Horror in the World of Impius Malum

So last week I found myself assaulting the mortal world with three posts in which I described my ghastly idea of the World of Death starting with a post titled The Rays of Un-Life. Mostly what you can take away from those three posts is that the World of Death is unrelenting, all-destroying, and without the least bit of joy, or sorrow, fun, or in fact any emotion at all, with the sole exception being ... a horrible and insatiable hunger to devour all life. The World of Death Incarnate. There's nothing fun in that world at all. It is pure unadulterated horror. An infinite dried up dusty darkness centered and powered by the Remorseless Will-of-Death.

So, this week I want to make up for that bit of moroseness by discussing something much more fun! The Chaos and Horror of the World of Impius Malum. Of course I should probably preface this post with some sort of caveat about how this is Fantasy, and not a reflection at all of my views of reality in any way whatsoever, least my friends and neighbors begin to worry about about the state of my mind. But that should, naturally, go without saying, so I'll just breeze on down the road, and leave it at that.

Compared with the World of Death, the World of Impius Malum is sheer Wicked-Evil Joy. And horror. And perpetually entangling, agonizing, soul-shattering Chaos. But lots of fun... Depending, of course, on who you are. Unlike the World of Death where it makes absolutely no difference whatsoever at all, the World of Impius Malum as all about who you are.

If who you are happens to be Diabolically Evil, and you've gained status and power among the demons of the infernal World, why then you, too, can have lots of fun in the World of Impius Malum! Provided, of course, that your sanity lasts more than half a second, and you manage to maintain your (infinitely precarious) position of Power. And that you manage to avoid running into anyone who happens to be even the slightest bit more powerful than you. Which of course, isn't very likely at all... or even possible. Impius Malum just doesn't work that way, you see. Once there, it's almost a guarantee that while you can horrendously lord yourself over the Pathetic Miserables beneath your august and magnificent self, and as heinously as you can possibly imagine to the absolute nth degree, ... you will never be able to escape the same horrific fate from those monstrous devils above you. You'll see. It is the Wheel of Fortune Incarnate!

And of course, if you don't happen to be a Noteworthy Person of Power, and are merely one of the countless souls who dragged yourself through life as a poor miserable schlub, an ordinary human being who might be only modestly evil, or pretty damn evil, but not quite Exquisitely Horrendously Evil enough... well, then the World of Impius Malum really isn't ever so much fun for you at all. Such people are only the playthings of those wicked Powers that wildly dance, frolic, cavort, shrilly laughing, and gorging their bellies to bursting in riotous feasts, those who spend themselves indulging in every sensual pleasure imaginable... all while the Miserati loathsomely groan and suffer, endlessly humiliated, tricked, bedazzled, and terrified out of their wits Forever! Actually, for the vast majority of people, Impius Malum is a tremendous drag. A non-stop and wild-eyed game of deadly, horrifying, agonizing and humiliating tricks and traps, one after the other in a constant, incessant, ceaseless, and relentless progression. Every trick is unique, every trap shocking and disturbing, every combination mind-blistering in its terrifically ingenious terror! It's a World designed to entertain and delight those who are Truly Diabolically Evil via the mechanism of ceaseless torture and soul-searing terror. It is a Pandemonium of Evil Chaos. So fun! Well, compared with the World of Death, it definitely is. No seriously. Compared with that, it's a joy.

Welcome to the Wondrous World of Impius Malum!

The Wondrous World of Impius Malum

The Bosch painting above gives a wonderful depiction of a tiny little itty bitty speck of a spot within the greater World of Impius Malum... which happens to be just like this across its entire infinite domain, though every inch of it is completely, mind-warpingly, unique. No two horrors are the same, and every single nightmare is tailored specifically to accentuate and focus the mind on the specific and peculiar sins, fears, foibles, and once-upon-a-time hopes and dreams of the damned souls who happen to wind up trapped there. It is an incredibly personal place!  Very unlike the World of Death, it is. Indeed.  Let's take a quick jaunt through the insanity, shall we?

Above you will find... a green suited monster with tree-twig hands fondling a despairing, yet beautiful naked blond women with some sort of black toad-like thing on her chest, reclining limply next to a grinning black mule. Above and behind her a Bird-headed man-thing wearing green jars on his feet and a large copper kettle on his head, sitting on a tall golden toilet while devouring a bird-and-fire farting Miserati whole, from the head down. Beneath this bizarre yet elegant and beautiful looking creature is a large blue bubble-droplet of toilet water into which a man is descending from the bum of the Bird-man, while another man, already trapped in the hideous droplet, is half immersed from the groin up and dangling over an open pit in the ground, into which a grey skinned nun is forcing one man to vomit brown turds while another person poops white blobs from the shadows. Meanwhile, the languishing woman is staring listlessly over at horn blowing, and rather adorable looking, sado-rabbit who happens to be carrying half a man upside-down on a pole-arm over his shoulder, while the woman next to him, another naked and beautiful blond, is furtively reaching for a weasel faced monster's sword with one hand while incongruously holding both a burning candle and a white vase in her other hand. By the contortions of her face you can see her mind has entirely snapped. Before her is a gambling table that has been overturned by a riot of hapless humans being violently mauled by a variety of animal and insect devils. AND SO ON! IT IS ENDLESS!

Such is the World of Impius Malus. A place of perpetual delights and terrors.

Fortunately for those Characters that dwell in the normal World of Elthos, the World of Impius Malum is very, very far away, and quite imaginary, like a dreadful bit of fairy tale designed to terrorize little children into behaving themselves when the adults aren't watching them. One quip about Impius Malum is enough to set most children of Elthos straight in an instant! In fact, actually, most Player Characters in Elthos really have no idea at all that there even is such a place as Impius Malum. Not the faintest idea. They never even heard of the place. This is because we usually breeze over their Character's childhood, and so I never go into what Elthosian Fairytales are like.  Ha ha... they have no clue.  Seriously. I have only once alluded to it in the 40+ years or so I've been playing the World of Elthos. Impius Malum a very far off land, indeed!

Which isn't to say that it isn't real. Oh it's definitely real alright. In fact, the Player Characters recently (well, not so recently anymore, but in the last major Elthos Campaign) brushed up against a distant reflection of Impius Malum when they came to the township of Whitewode. I describe that place in some detail (and very little of it, in fact!) in a previous post titled "The Overly Ambitious Campaign Design!", so I won't go into it again in this post. That one was long enough on that topic! But I will say that if you read that post, and get an inkling of the endless convolutions and intrigues among the Witches of Whitewode, you'll have some idea of what the World of Impius Malum is like. Now I should say that the Witches of Whitewode were absolute amateurs at the game of Impius Malum, though they believed with a dreadful certainty otherwise. Scarparelli, I'd like to mention, knew exactly what tremendous fools Sylvia, Jennifer, Johnathan, Muttmaw and the rest of their coven were, and he never let on for a single second, nor did his demonic minion Nicholas Blair. They strung the jolly bunch along for centuries before allowing them to haplessly fall into the Horrors of Doom that they had spent so long crafting for themselves. This is what the World of Impius Malum is like. Only, incredibly, far worse than that!

The World of Impius Malum is on the far side of the axis of Evil. Whereas Death is Lawful Evil, Impius Malum is Chaotic Evil. And as such they share that one trait in common ... they are really, seriously, Evil.

Who rules Impius Malum? Some say it's the Devil himself. But this is actually not correct. The Devil rules over Hell. And Impius Malum isn't actually Hell. It is its own place. So who? Some say it is The Elkron of War, Mars, or his Celestial Sire, Ares, the Lord of All Evil Chaos. And that would be correct. If you are aware of the Elthos Tarot Deck, then at this point you'd realize that Death is Ruled by Pluto, or his Celestial Sire, Scorpio. You can check that on the Elthos Tarot Deck Backface card here...

So the World of Death and the World of Impius Malum are the two extremes of Evil along the Metaphysical Axis of the Celestial Island Cosmological Map.  If you want to find the World of Death, head East, and veer slightly South, and keep going.  If you want to find the World of Impius Malum, head West, and veer slightly South, and keep going.  You'll find them.  They're there. Very, very far away ... but there.

Such is the backdrop of the World of Elthos.

Maybe at some point I'll chat a bit about other, lighter and happier realms of the Celestial Island.  Perhaps.

To learn more about my Elthos Project, please visit my site at Elthos.com. And if you're feeling generous, please make a contribution. Thanks!