(incredibly tired) what if there was a really big laser

The Trees The Trees are ancient powers—vast and vital and viridescent. They are the eternal taproot from which all lesser trees are sprung, the archetypal forms that pattern each green and growing thing. Their branches scrape the sky. Their roots bind the earth. The dew that falls from their leaves is the rain, and it is the force of their rushing sap that drives the sun’s passage and the seasons’ turn. All life sprang from beneath the shelter of their leaves. And so the elders teach—in sacred groves and secret glades, in prayers and songs and cultic rites, from here to the distant sea.

Common knowledge: Their names and natures are unchanging, but how they are beheld and regarded varies from cult to cult across the Cantref: Flush Birch, the First Tree—who bids all the world come awake in spring. Stern Yew, the Prison-Tree—who stands as judge and warden. Kind Hazel, the Healer’s Tree—who is mender and tender to all ills. Rueful Willow, the Weeping Tree—who cradles the dead and grieving. Brash Alder, the Tree of Omen—who gives dire warning and consequence. Fickle Holly, the Changing Tree—who is a trickster and teacher both. Stray Elder, the Crossroad Tree—who is a traveller and guide on every road. Steadfast Oak, the Tree Undying—who will outlive us and remembers all. In their eighth summer, each youth is sealed to a patron Tree. Villages differ as to why—for blessings they have, for futures they seek, for virtues they sorely need… Each Tree has its own cults, rituals, and mysteries. Their sacred groves are tended and offerings made by communities, not by lonely priests. The Trees made plants, beasts and humankind, but also the protean ceraint who blend traits of all three. Each of these ceraint is singular—a unique child of a particular Tree. The ceraint haunt the wild places, age as slowly as forests, and care little for mortalkind. Most folk think they’re nothing but fairytales.

What stories might be told of Flush Birch? How Birch Grew Among The Molten Sorcerous Wastes, a creation myth. A dormant seed, hope, loneliness, a titan’s tears, passage through fire. “In the ancient days of sorcery, when all the world was fire and terror...” How Life Blossomed With The First Spring, an origin myth. Unbroken snow, eight of every animal, the shelter of roots, daffodils, dawn without end. “Without the ashen titans, cold sunk deep into the earth’s marrow and froze its molten blood…” How People Were Given Language (or Why You Can’t Talk With A Horse), a fable. A girl raised by badgers, sap wine, a swan bride, blood money, a poem strong as armour. “In those days, people bleated at sheep and sang to the birds, and each understood the other just fine…” The Walking Tree & The Hurried Boy, a cautionary tale. An impossible birth, eternal wandering, a birch-bark contract, regret, too-fast growth. “There once was an old man who wanted a son more than youth, but had waited too long and wasted his chance…” How The Forest Swallowed The White Valley, a ghost story. The hate of trees, obstinance, ceraint’s blood, a night with no moon, a murdered guest. “The White Valley was thrice-famous: its soil grew turnips as big as your head, its cows gave milk sweet as honey, and its cliffs shone like a beacon each dawn…”

Afrwym (they/them), child of Flush Birch A lovely, lively youth caught in the throes of adolescence—but bent, twisted, changed. The lacquered cocoon of womb-like bark that cradled their rebirth now cages them. Crushes them. Its remnants force a crook in their graceful neck, half-seal their mouth, bind a tortured fist whose new fingers have never spread wide, and pin one sad bunched wing upon their back. And how glorious the other wing—twin-lobed as a moth, tiled with broad, spade-like leaves, sticky with pollen-dusted sap. Slick with sap as their naked form is slick, skin and hair still damp with the afterbirth of their metamorphosis decades ago. They strain against the confines of the cocoon they never shed—stifled, smothered—and seethe to look around and see mankind’s own struggle to shed its juvenile ways. They want…to see all that mortals might achieve, for good and for ill. To discover what they could become, if let off the Trees’ leash. To put magic back into mortals’ hands—all of it—and see what they will do with it. To discover what they would choose to make of freedom. They need…to be set free of their prison, the cocoon, which is slowly killing them. The body outside grows, the limbs within atrophy, and it bites into the flesh where they meet more painfully with every passing year. They mourn…cowardice, reluctance, restraint. Opportunities wasted. They weep to see mortals believe the old lies—“I cannot”, “I dare not”, “I should not”—and meekly accept those shackles. They might: Offer solidarity to a person who feels trapped or stuck Rouse people’s animal passions—fear, anger, delight Rail against their misfortune Use the cocoon’s hardened shards as club or shield Speed childhood into puberty, or puberty into adulthood Take flight, halting and ungainly

finally back to work on Tales from the Low Cantref (with gratitude to my coworking partner), fleshing out the setting into a set of inviting, delightful, highly-gameable jigsaw pieces that tables can interpret and make their own, including lots of example troubles for MCs.

this week's job: religion

Me standing in Barnes & Noble with a copy of my game “High Tide” in my hands!

It really hits something different when you can see and feel your game in a store! ✨

I never imagined I’d hit this point—now with many more games on the way!

Never expected my “unpublishable” abstract game would soar this far. You never know who else will fall in love with a simple idea! 🌊

2 months ago 😵‍💫 time flies

i think i saw rob write a thread a while ago but idk if it was here or xwitter

new pastime apparently: every time someone self-identifies as a certain label (like, "likes TTRPGs" or "watches marvel movies" or "is totally frog #9 in a tag yourself meme"), reply with "i can see it"

That said, every time I read a manifesto, I assume there's some degree of kayfabe—its a great way to convey an idea.

Every art movement worth a damn has some theater. I don't want to read a manifesto that spends half its time hedging. Tell me bullet points are The Fall of Rome. I want to feel it.

people who say this act like if they weren't at the airport they'd be at home curing cancer. what exactly are your big plans for your extra 45 minutes at home you fuckin loser

shoutout to cartoonists.

My friend's abuser is now taking away her crucial possessions, causing my friend financial and emotional harm at this already fragile time as she is attempting to sort options to leave. PLEASE keep supporting her via shares and donations. Keep it up. Don't forget about her. She needs us.
🫀🌸🙏

the big thing is that its easy to overcorrect and say “art isn’t supposed to only make you feel good it’s supposed to xyz” when in actuality art isn’t “supposed” to do anything. art is nothing until it’s something and everyone has their own ideas about what they Want it to be

CITIZEN, PLEASE STATE GENDER. FAILURE TO OBEY ACTIVATES DESTRUCTION PROTOCOL. YOU HAVE TWO DAYS TO COMPLY.

God damnit chill FedEx, it’s a T-shirt.

I’ve had the same editor since 1967. Many times he has said to me over the years or asked me, Why would you use a semicolon instead of a colon? And many times over the years I have said to him things like: I will never speak to you again. Forever. Goodbye. That is it. Thank you very much. And I leave. Then I read the piece and I think of his suggestions. I send him a telegram that says, OK, so you’re right. So what? Don’t ever mention this to me again. If you do, I will never speak to you again

Maya Angelou on the joys of being edited

extremely intricate private larps

The illustration of Thursday's story for Frog and Rabbit: they are in a dusty attic, with damaged things all around. They are back to back with candles in their hands and are not looking very reassured!

Text from the beginning of this story: "Thursday: FROG AND RABBIT LOOK FOR A GHOST This story takes place at Frog or Rabbit’s home, who invited their best friend to spend the night. What did they have for dinner? What did they talk about? What did they do at the start of the evening? What do their pajamas look like? Ghosts aren’t real, but there still is something inside the house that is the source of strange noises, threatening shadows, scary shapes…"

Most stories in "A week with Frog and Rabbit", my next TTRPG which starts crowdfunding on May 7, talk of ordinary things in the daily life of the two friends... But sometimes they have almost extraordinary adventures!

www.backerkit.com/call_to_acti...

#TTRPG #Backerkit

Suffer the Little Trans Mascs Why are we so obsessed with (sexual) victimization?

why do trans mascs obsess over rates of sexual victimization as a political gotcha? i have some thoughts

thetransdandy.substack.com/p/suffer-the...

Unhappy to report the phishing one is quickly becoming a real problem now. Why go to the trouble of social engineering when people will just give up their ID, financial info, biometrics, etc. to an AV portal? There's no standards so how can you differentiate a fake one from a real one?

Dead Renaissance - The Waves of the OSR | Snow Get more from Snow on Patreon

Just posted this essay about the OSR, but more so about how TTRPGs have created their own genres and these things we consider cliques or movements are actually greater extensions of what TTRPGs have done unique from other mediums.

www.patreon.com/posts/155858133

I've been saying "Physics engine stuff/game" for years now for the cases where there IS serious modelling going on, and avoiding "realism", because it always seemed to have weird reverberations.

This sums up those reverberations pretty well.

The truth about the woods is that that is where the trees are

*sliding a puzzle box over to a delicious blend of eggplant, rahini, lemon juice, and olive oil* BABA GHANOUSH is YOU

(awakening to find myself turned into a deliciously seasoned skewer of minced meat) this is so koftaesque

sometimes people use the word "verisimilitude" to describe conforming to realism. i dont care for this word: it implies theres a measurable quality of realism-performance, as opposed to an arbitrary aesthetic preference

the 21c realism aesthetic is a mainly white one. it is masculine although not necessarily male. it is hegemonic in part because it is *expensive* — its hard to make art that matches the aesthetic without a massive budget and, on occasion, USA war dept contracts

a thread on "realism" as a category defined by core, strong bureaucratic nations, and "irrealism" as the actual lived experience of more zemiperipheral peoples.
1.
@jdragsky.bsky.social

21c realism tends to be used to tell stories about powerful men brooding over their power and isolation. women are either plot devices, gambling chips, or "badasses" — standing out because they can wield power like men while still being conventionally attractive

21c realism is defined by muted/washed out color palettes, brutal violence (both physical and sexual), "tactical" clothing, and mixed live action and animation visuals (with the animation intended to supplement and engulf the live action performance)

21c realism is an arbitrary aesthetic. the aesthetic family of resemblance is determined by comparing it to other works deemed suitably realistic, which are also themselves divorced from reality.

21st century realism is an aesthetic — it literally doesnt matter how connected to historical record or scientific research it is, what matters is that it *conforms to* "realistic." basically all chud hypocrisy around realism gets resolved through understanding this

I'm about to spend the weekend playing seven part pact with @jdragsky.bsky.social and SJ and I feel unbelievably lucky to not only get to play games with my friends, but to have friends whose work I admire so much. Being a fan of my friends is such a gift from the universe.