#consuming shadow

[mandatoryshorts]

Genuinely curious if y'all would want a Chzo Mythos Community on Tumblr

(This is what a Community is btw)

Chzo Mythos Community?

I like the Chzo Mythos and I would join

I like the Chzo Mythos and I would NOT join

Infinitely more nuanced answer that I will put in a comment

I don't know what the Chzo Mythos is and I want to click a button

Voting ended onMay 30, 2024

Reblog for more exposure pls

[rabbithub]

Warm up page Feat. Agent Bloom (and a Doppio cameo)

One of my headcanons on werewolves in the Consuming Shadow/Differently Morpheus verse is they are usually smart in wolf form but if someone is a late bloomer in regards to Lycanthropy or is bitten by a werewolf later in life, they're more likely to be in thrall to their instincts and emotions- meaning they can be violent or (especially in Bloom's case) just really big humanoid huskies.

[harmless-offering]

It's too early to stop. I've only been driving for-- hours. A lot of hours. But still only *hours*. 

Still too soon, still too close. Have to get further away. I know how the Ministry works-- I was *part* of it for so long I couldn't forget even if I *wanted* to-- and as much as it would be nice to think they will be helpless without my guidance, that's not true. 

The first place they're going to look is Stonehenge, and I'm not far enough away yet. Maybe there isn't such a *thing* as too far away-- but I'm hoping, I'd be praying if I thought it would do any good, that they'll be too busy dealing with the fall-out, dealing with the after-effects of my efforts, to tighten the noose so quickly.

I don't know where I'm going, and I hope that helps my evasion. They can't track me if *I* don't know what I'm doing, can they. It is then, examining my logic, I sigh.

It would be inconvenient to be found now, but I am still only human-- for all my actions to the contrary, I am nothing more, and I *did* just banish an ancient god. That's the kind of thing that takes a toll on you, it seems.

So I stop. With my eyes burning and my head throbbing and my limbs aching, I risk to stop. Even as the car idles in the lot, I think-- *I could go on*, but that's a lie. Even just pulling in here I almost flipped off the road, and what would E think if I destroyed her car? I'm not a monster. I can't sleep, no matter how much I want to-- what happened last time is still too fresh in my mind, and my eyes refuse to close. Instead, I find a diner-- it's not much, it's bland and empty this early with the sun barely risen, but the waitress greets me with a smile.

*Early riser?* she asks, making small talk-- I know how it works, and I squash down the alarm bells in the back of mind. She's still smiling at me, with that smile that she must give to *everyone*, and that's more important than my paranoia.

I nod to her, not answering the question and not denying it-- I don't tell her I've been driving all night. The less she knows the better. Can't hurt her, can't hurt me. *Coffee* I request, and she grins wider-- she has been expecting this, no doubt, and brings over the pot. My throat is sore and my voice raspy-- I haven't spoken, I realise, since the chamber. It feels like an eternity ago. The coffee thick and hot and bitter, burning my throat and souring my tongue as I swallow. I down the first cup in short order, and she refills it, hovering as I gulp, already pouring a third before I am forced to speak again. *Anything else?* she asks, and before I can decline-- already the tingling is beginning on the back of my neck, warning me to move on before they find me, swearing that they already *have*-- my stomach growls. I sigh. I glance out the window, but the lot remains empty. There are no enemies lurking just out of sight, and no allies come to attempt a rescue. I order-- she recommends the bacon and eggs, and I can think of nothing more appealing. I can think of nothing at *all*, as soon as the smells drift out, and I regret not stopping sooner. She brings the food, and more coffee-- I don't even remember downing that cup. She tends to her duties as I eat, slowly, trying not to wolf it down and look suspicious-- any *more* suspicious than I already do, in my battered suit and battered hat, dusty and beaten. I sip this cup, making it last. It is comfortable there, in the corner booth of the diner, with the birds chirping faintly and the world continuing on without my further interference. It feels safe, where I sit, and the knowledge unnerves me. I have lingered too long already. But the waitress doesn't seem bothered. Whenever she catches my eye she smiles and looks away quickly-- at first I assume because she's embarrassed to be caught staring, and then, when the next customer enters, I am made aware of the difference.

They come quickly, like locusts swarming-- a mass exodus from their homes to a land of pancakes and bitter coffee. Soon, the diner is busy. She smiles at all of them, too, but she smiles at me more often-- she finds time, even now, to make me feel noticed. She watches me more. It occurs to me that this is probably not because she finds me suspicious, and there is a certain amusement to this understanding. I think back to being trapped in my office, of scribbling words in a notebook, and feel a pang of regret. I hope that this doesn't sour her optimism too badly. When her back is turned next I place some bills on the table-- enough to cover the meal, though I can no longer sit and wait for the cheque; my skin buzzes and tingles and I have to *leave*-- and slip out the door, the bell jingling in my wake. My notebook is heavy in my pocket, and there is nothing else I need. E's car sits in the lot, where I left it, on the left-- I move to it, glance around, and turn to the car parked beside mine. At first I think-- another chance to test my superior lock-picking skills in the field! But this is a small town diner, a *comfortable* town, and the door is not even locked. I hope this doesn't sour the car owner's optimism too badly, either-- but I am less worried about them. They are faceless, and did not smile at me so happily.

I make a point not to look back as I drive away-- but I do, telling myself it's to check for pursuers, and knowing that's a terrible, terrible lie. As I turn onto the road, another car turns into the lot. It might be nothing. It might be no-one. It's *probably* just another local, going for the coffee and pancakes. But I speed up, just a little, as my neck tingles. Paranoia or not, I know, it's not worth the risk. And the noose tightens, just a little, as I head out of town in my stolen car.

[rabbithub]

Ngl, Bloom would describe the DEDA as the 'MiB, but British' out of context to potential recruits.

[harmless-offering]

It's the silence that gets you, he thinks. No matter how prepared you are for the monsters to leap out of the shadows, no matter how resolved you are that if you have to die in the line of duty to save the world you will, no matter how tightly you're gripping the trigger of what is, when all is said and done, a very *mundane* gun when you're going up against an army of invading monstrosities-- all that aside, the silence is something *else*.

The silence is heavy and thick and leaves a bitter taste in its wake; it creeps and waits and even if you swing the light around, even if you force it back to the corners of the room, it never leaves. He can feel it, an almost tangible presence nipping at his heels, tugging at his sleeves and coiling through his hair. He knows this is a ridiculous notion-- this silence is no different from the silence he's *always* lived with, that everyone has always lived with, right? It's just like taking a lazy walk down a dark street-- you might *look* alone, you might even feel it, but there's life there, just out of sight, just out of reach. Nothing to worry about. It's just this dark street happens to be thick with forgotten ghosts and half-remembered indications that life *used* to exist here-- there's photos on the shelves (just don't look too closely don't see the faces), mirrors smashed on the walls (smashed to pieces the pieces gone careful where you tread lest they figured out how to lay traps). Room after room after room, only slightly off and slightly *untidy*, barely even indicating a rushed exit let alone a vicious slaughter, and even the wallpaper is undamaged and cheerful, step after step after silent step-- right up until he comes across one of those runes, scrawled in something not quite like blood, and he's yanked back to reality, where all of this is what *used* to be and no longer is. Visions of dancing children and laughing parents dissipate into smoke and there's only him again, stepping over a discarded box and trying not to breathe in. There's only him, rifling through drawers and hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of a stained page, hidden by someone who could never have guessed what was to come-- his arms aching from the strain, his hand cramping around the gun, his eyes throbbing in time with his heartbeat, still trying to peer through the gloom that he can never seem to shake, even in the light. He's walking through the house of a dead man, he thinks every time-- and every time, the full understanding of this makes him stumble.

But all the same, when he pushes the key into the locked door and pauses, listening, and hears something skittering back and away-- when he hears that, it's not fear he feels at the inevitable confrontation.

It's *relief*.

He's not alone after all.

[harmless-offering]

It's not so bad, he finds. Dying isn't as bad as he thought it would be. 

It was worse in his dreams-- there, it took so *long*, and it was so painful, and the full weight of his failures crashed down and around, grinding any flicker of a peaceful end into the dirt. *There*, he saw in stark detail how it ended-- each and every time, with no room for confusion or doubt. But here-- not so much. He didn't even see it coming-- there was a hideous moan from behind him and before he could even turn around, that was it. He *thinks* he remembers a sharp pain at his neck, the *thud!* of something connecting, but it's hard to be sure. He should have paid more attention, he supposes. The static at the edges of his vision, the shambling shapes that disappeared when he got too close, the sounds that were never really there-- he should have been able to tell the difference between what was only in his head and what was in front of him, right? But he couldn't. So he just ignored it all, and now, here he was. Which was... was... Where *was* this? He can't remember much of anything anymore, and he can feel even less. Everything is just sort of-- numb, tolerable, forgettable. His thoughts flit around, sluggish and slippery, dripping through his fingers before he can capture them. He feels there was something *important* he was meant to do, but the idea he might have been able to save the world is laughable, in retrospect-- what was he meant to *do*? Quote obscure facts at an ancient god and bore it to death? Maybe he was. He would laugh, if he could figure out how to make his face move. Instead he only makes a noise, low in his throat. He should care more, he thinks-- this is it, the end, the *final chapter*, and what does it matter? All his successes, all his failures, it all ends the same way-- lying there on the cold, hard ground, his cheek pressed against the floor and his eyes gazing towards the opposite wall, unable to see anything past the spots and the creeping darkness. There's shuffling behind him, but it seems so far away, so much a danger for someone who *isn't* him. He just doesn't care anymore. What would be the point? He's failed, in the most spectacularly terrible way imaginable. But... it was worse in his dreams. In his dreams, he died alone-- collapsed, in agony, in darkness, *afraid*. At least here, at least now, he has his memories. The shuffling is closer now, and he lets out a sigh-- it's all he *can* do. He couldn't move even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have the energy even if he *needed* it-- and one could argue that now, with the cold hand slapping closer and closer, with the stench getting stronger and stronger, he *does* need to, now. But he doesn't. He lies there, helpless and resigned. In the darkness, he sees his daughter, sitting on a box and kicking her legs back and forth. He knows she's not really there, that it's just his imagination, because she's *smiling*-- if she was really here, she wouldn't be at ease. She wouldn't be giggling and tilting her head up towards a sun that isn't there, her hair wouldn't be dancing in a breeze he couldn't feel. It's just an illusion. It's not *real*. He finds he doesn't care. He smiles back-- in his thoughts, at least, if not in person. Even when the creature touches him, even when it finally reaches him, still he smiles. And unlike in his dreams, the scholar doesn't die alone.

[harmless-offering]

There's something about a locked door that fascinates me. I can only assume this is left from my days of less than legal activities-- I thought I had escaped the siren call entirely, locked for so long into bureaucracy and responsibilities, and yet... ...and yet, here we are, right back at that start again. My hand is on the handle, but it meets resistance not even half-way around the turn, jamming and locked fast. 

There is skittering in the distance, but the dark is disorientating-- is it coming from behind me, or above me, or behind the door or behind the walls? I roll the torch around in a circle, inspecting the room I am currently lurking in, but I remain alone. Well, alone except for the limp corpse just outside the doorway to my left-- all that remains of the creature that tried to warn me of the perils of continuing. In true fashion, I refused to listen to what was undoubtedly sound advice. And I continued to ignore it, even now. The pick was smooth in my hand, slipping into position like an old friend. I cast the torch around the room again, well aware of the stupidity of what I was considering. The door was *right there*. There was absolutely no possibility that wouldn't come back and be relevant in the very, very near future-- and I hardly had *time* for games such as these, or the inclination to play with my life over something so trivial. But what if it *wasn't* trivial? Locked doors were rarely locked for no reason. And yet... ...and yet, here I was, crouching to get a better view at the lock and shining the light into it. There was a little corrosive damage-- as was to be expected, considering the nature of the creatures inhabiting the very next room, through a doorway that held no door-- but it didn't *appear* to be enough to prevent my goal from being achieved. No, what *would* be enough was turning my back on an open doorway and focusing all my attention on the lock. And yet... ...and yet, that was exactly what I was doing. I clasped the torch between my teeth, angling my neck uncomfortably to hold it in position as I slipped the pick into the lock, then nudging it against my shoulder until I hit the switch. The room was plunged into darkness, then, and for a moment I panicked. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears and all I could see were monsters in every shadow, and the full weight of my stupidity crashed down. But the moment passed and I was simply alone again, crouching in front of the door. The sound of blood pounding was replaced by faint ringing-- a faint buzz of utter silence-- but if I strained hard enough, I could still hear the faint skittering. It was nothing if not a subtle prompting that I could ill afford to waste my time.

So I didn't. I set to work immediately. The damage was greater than I anticipated, and the pick slipped almost instantly. I swore under my breath, almost silently, and adjusted my position, trying again. A skittering to my left and I spun, grabbing for my gun, but nothing was there-- I froze as a shuffle past the doorway indicated there was something very much *there*, although not in my immediate vicinity, and as it moved away, I remembered how to breathe. This was *not* my smartest decision, but-- irrationally, against all common sense-- my resolve was only strengthened. I turned my attention back to the lock, groping in the darkness until I touched the pick again, and resumed my efforts. Once past the initial damage, it moved quickly, smoothly, easily-- so much so I could hardly believe I had ever *forgotten* this feeling. When the tumbler turned and the lock clicked open I froze again, the sound seeming to echo in the silence, but nothing came flying out from the shadows to feast upon my marrow. Nothing came skittering, either, or lurching and moaning. It seemed my efforts had passed by unnoticed. Perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult to complete this mission, if everything was as unobservant as those in the next room. I chose not to think that I would most likely have to fight my way *through* them on the way out, and instead stood, my bones aching with the effort of straightening-- I was struck, suddenly, with the unwanted realization that I was out of practice in more than just this, and pushed the thought away. I pushed the handle, easing the door open, and left it ajar as I rolled the flashlight in one hand, and felt the familiar weight of my pistol in the other. There was nothing to do, now, but see my actions through. I stepped through the door. === The flashlight beam pierced the darkness-- the walls, the floor, the ceiling. I stabbed it about with no concern for what I might find-- only with the desire to find *something*. There was nothing. I frowned, and stepped forward again, but it was hardly necessary-- the room was empty, devoid of *anything*, even boxes. The shelves contained nothing but an empty Snickers wrapper, and there wasn't even a telling bloodstain on the floor in the corner. It was empty. The room was *empty*. Even the skittering was fainter-- proving that, indeed, there was nothing here that could justify the time I had wasted on this endeavour. But it wasn't the weight of despair that I felt on my shoulders, but the weight of *irritation*. I frowned there, alone, and shone the light around once more-- just in case something untoward had materialised in my wake, when my back was turned, but there was nothing. I remained alone, in an empty room, behind a locked door. I only had myself to blame, but I found it rather easy to blade the Shadow for this waste. It made me feel better, too. Turning, I stepped back through the door, glancing over my shoulder as I pulled it shut. I considered leaving it open as a warning for anyone else who may pass this way-- but what was the point? It would end up infested, if it was ever found again, and at least this way there was the *possibility* of a safe haven. A foolish thought, to be sure, but hope springs eternal. Too late, I remembered the open doorway-- and too late, only when I heard the *clank-clank*clank* at the far end of the room, attracted by the light, heading towards me, did I realise that my efforts had not, in fact, gone unnoticed. That *I* had not gone unnoticed, despite all evidence to the contrary. I felt a smile ghost across my lips as I raised my gun, well aware of how to deal with *this*, although I felt no glee at the prospect. And yet... ...and yet, I was somehow much more at ease now, in the heat of it, as I pulled the trigger and a muzzle flash sparked against the shadows, stopping the rattling staccato in its tracks-- now, as I stood there, readying myself again, I felt *relieved*. Perhaps, in time, I would have the opportunity to examine this personality trait. But for now, there was only the task that lay ahead, in the distance, and the creature in my way. It was not a difficult problem to solve.

[tarakaybee]

Differently Morphous, Second Read Rant

I wrote a similar post when I read it for the first time last year, but I'm re-listening to Yahtzee Croshaw's book Differently Morphous.

I want to like this book more than I do, I like the fantasy elements and the comedy and the mystery parts of the book, and it has my favourite of his characters, but by god is the book's political messaging absolute dogwater. Yahtzee seems like a clever guy, but so much of this book and its sequel is Yahtzee very loudly having the most nothing political opinion you could possibly have. The plot of part of the book is that the existence of the supernatural has become public knowledge, and the supernatural elements of possession, magical superpowers and alien creatures have become a political hot button, and SJWs are being really annoying about it. That's something that Yahtzee spends two books saying over and over again in between the actually good parts of the story involving magic and mysteries and fishes out of water, on the one hand the government oppresses minorities, and on the other hand some people are very annoying about bringing it up, so who's to say which perspective is more valid? There is a character in the book whose job it is to be the embodiment of the SJW voice that Yahtzee disdains so much, and her job in the plot is to say perfectly reasonable things, but be needlessly hostile about it, and in the audiobook we get the added bonus of Yahtzee doing the most excruciating "annoying person who's always whining" voice acting possible every time the character appears. I don't recommend listening to the audiobooks, Yahtzee is a lot of things but a good voice actor is not one of them. Yahtzee's voice acting is the audio equivalent of a political cartoon, there is truly no nuance to it, even the characters who aren't strawmen have exaggerated dull monotones.

I like Yahtzee's reviews, even when I disagree with him I think most of the time he has interesting perspectives, though he's not immune to his own biases. He's also a world class indie game developer, his game The Consuming Shadow is one of my absolute favourites on Steam and I've played it for so many hours. I also think he is a very strong novellist, but the issue I run into is that his comedy stylings of comedy based on misery become extremely insufferable over the course of a ten hour audiobook, so reading them makes me depressed because I'm trapped in the brain of the most insufferably bitter character in the story. In the Jacques McKeown trilogy, the books are written in first person and depicts the protagonist's inner monologue, and the protagonist is an unlikable bastard who I badly wanted to die and didn't find funny. The DEDA Files books are my favourites because they're told in third person, and most of the recurring characters are a bit more rounded and not basically caricatures and living mouthpieces designed to either give clever put-downs or be strawman characters. The main protagonist Allison is disparaged by the narration and by Yahtzee's out of book descriptions of her as being stupid, which isn't borne out by her actions, which more often than not show her to be thoughtful and considerate, just out of her depth and occasionally a little impulsive, but she is the most tolerable of all his protagonists.

The part of Differently Morphous that prompted this post is the appearance of the character of Nita Parvani, who is the prime SJW character of the book, and the very unfortunate section of the book where she accuses the other characters in the scene of being racist against her for being indian unprompted. Ha, good one Yahtzee, you really put British-Indians in their place, it's so annoying when nonewhite people accuse you of being racist, am I right? It's so oppressive for other people to be annoying, perhaps even as oppressive as actual racism. Haha! Fuck off Yahtzee. It's really really suspect that the book's primary SJW character is the only character who is specified to be nonwhite. On the cover of the book, they just sort of invented a black character who isn't in the story to make it seem a lot more diverse, I don't know who this guy is, he doesn't match the physical description of the two main male characters whose appearances I remember.

Ok, what I think the book is going for is that it's unhelpful to social progress to argue semantics on behalf of a group you're not a part of, there's definitely something to said there. The book's title Differently Morphous is a play on the phrase Differently Abled, terminology that was never widely used by actual disabled people and not coined by a disabled person. Unfortunately, the book doesn't work with this angle, the SJW character argues language semantics a few times but mostly she says things like "let's not kill sentient aliens on sight", and we're supposed to not like her because she's being pushy about it. The same opinions are expressed by the protagonist, who isn't treated like a strawman for saying it, so genuinely I think that the book's main argument isn't about anybody's specific opinions, it's just about people having opinions in annoying tones of voice. If the book is supposed to be about social progression being hampered by over-eager know-nothing-know-it-alls spreading misinformation and slowing things down by using the public conversation to constantly argue semantics, which is a great viewpoints to explore, maybe having the SJW character actually be wrong? Don't have the message of the story be that nobody actually harbours any prejudices and people don't need to be making as big a fusses as they are. Like, in the UK, the biggest goal in the way of trans rights isn't that trans SJWs are being loud and annoying, it's that a load of transphobic people are in power and are using the public conversation to grab the attention of idiots to distract from more pertinent issues and other mistakes being made. And I'm not making this comparison idly and projecting issues relevant to me onto a fantasy story, the book itself verbally mentions trans rights as a comparable issue, it's not even subtext. Or alternatively, have her be a career politician who is happy to abandon the cause when it suits her like my MP did, which isn't an impression I got from the character.

The most politically relevant book that Yahtzee has written isn't any of these books, it's his most recent novel Will Leave the Galaxy for Good, which rails against AI art as being theft against artists and used by corporations to make money while cutting creatives out of the picture. It seems when artists are the ones being oppressed he knows exactly who to blame, but when it's a group he's not a part of he couldn't give two flying shits and genuinely positions "annoying people" as a greater societal evil. Even the Zero Punctuation / Fully Ramblomatic reviews have more of a political stance than these books, he loves to rail against corporate culture and hold the big game developers to task for buying and then shutting down independent studios, and he's right to do so! Like, I hate to say it but, if Yahtzee's definition of an SJW is somebody that loudly makes a stink about an issue in an annoying way, then Yahtzee is by definition an SJW.