#diegetically

[worddevourer]

I think the perfect set up for a false hydra is actually a party of newer RPG players.

For the unfamiliar: A False Hydra is a monster with a very particular gimmick, namely that it makes itself, and its victims, be forgotten using an enchanting song.. It's essentially 'The DM gets to gaslight the players a bit, as a treat' the monster.

Usually, the setup is the players arrive in a town where things seem peaceful, if quiet, and steadily realize that people that should, by all rights exist, simply aren't there. The innkeeper has a child, but claims she doesn't even know the man in the family portrait. If you press the matter she gets upset. You eat fresh baked bread for dinner, but in the morning, there has simply 'never been' a baker. That kind of thing.

And of course, the classic of 'You wake up. There's an extra bedroll. you don't know why, but the fact that it's empty fills you with dread.'

But of course, implying you had another party member who just got eaten and forgotten kinda fucks over the story you've been telling this whole time. Shouldn't all those fights have gone differently? How are the players going to care about a character who literally exists only as a supposed hole in their memories?

That's why, for this to work, I recommend new players (or just act like you're running a slightly laxer table).

Essentially, figure out what basic utilitarian weaknesses the party has, and then, without any great fanfare, handwave them. Suppose they don't have a wizard. They find a magic item. You say, 'yeah, you get it identified, and it's a ...' Without particularly specifying how or with whom. They're in a dark cave, and the one human of the group is like 'hey, can I even see?' and you tell them, 'oh, yeah, don't worry about it, just pretend you had Darkvision cast on you.'

If they press the issue, you make up a joke, not-actually-real character, who you say is actually doing all this stuff. Blinzki the Narratively Convenient Wizard or whatever. Just a narrative construct, there to grease the wheels of gameplay. (Though, keep score a bit. Remember where things by all rights shouldn't have worked)

And then, they'll get to this town, and you'll feed them a potentially magical item, and they'll ask what it does, and if you're very, very lucky, you'll get an exchange to the tune of

'Do you know anybody who could identify it?'

'We've always been able to identify things before.'

'Yeah. You think about that, and shiver with a sense of wrongness.'

You find the corpse of a wizard. Her journal references people with your names, and she talks about how lucky she's felt to be traveling with you. She's not a great combatant, usually hiding when battle starts, but she's made herself useful with in other ways, casting darkvision on the fighter when they're in a dark cave, and enhancing abilities at opportune moments.

You don't know her.

You're crying at the sight of her corpse.

[destabilizes]

/@diegetically asked: makar smiles thinly, swirling the alcohol in their glass before downing the dregs of it. "you won’t believe me. you've got to see for yourself." they gesture behind them towards the previously occupied crime scene, gloves bright and sterile. "really! i took care of it, no problem, but eh… everyone has a story about the man." /prompt, accepting.

/on the high tables along the windows, a clear glass of water — half empty: royce trails a finger along the rim intently, watching ripples form & collide & form again — changing the arcs of the caustic light that dances in the shadow cast by his moving hand. "oh, sure," absentmindedly, royce agrees to nothing in particular (you won’t believe me; you’ve got to see for yourself), adrift & elsewhere. then, inexplicably, royce's hand slips — his finger misapplies too much pressure, & the glass topples. like blood, water spills onto the table & onto royce's clothes. the glass, as if with a life of its own, rolls toward the edge of the table. the sound it makes as it shatters against the floor is a sparkling sound — reduced instantly into infinitesimal pieces. royce, like a scorned lover, hasn't spared it a glance. from behind the counter, the manager — garte, is it? — shouts something about paying for damages, & royce half-heartedly waves it off. with his focus lost, the nascent theory once cradled by his thoughts loses its seductive power, & his interest dissolves. a clean break. still, a faint trace of frustration lingers as he yanks out a few napkins from the dispenser on the table, swabbing at his coat. royce tosses the wet napkins aside, reaching for more to wipe off the table.  "you took care of the body? finally, it was hanging there for over a week…" a sense of relief. he glances toward makar, toward their pristine & clinical gloves. "—how did you get it down? yesterday, the detectives were having a hard time with it, a real hard time with it. heard a gunshot." he meets the other's gaze, inquisitive, evaluative. he sounds almost flippant about the man's death. "i haven't really followed the whole thing, otherwise. wasn't he one of the mercenaries hired to control the strike? i don't have a story about him. what stories about him does everyone else have?"

[doedipus]

I had originally planned something a bit higher production value for the bonus gag items bit in the neo twewy playthrough, but I got caught legit off guard by having randomly completed a day already and I was like, fuck, well I guess I should try to play this off with what I already have prepped

[destabilizes]

/@diegetically asked: gently, quietly, danja runs a hand along the railing, body leaned over the balcony. his cigarette flicks once, twice, before he exhales softly. "what if you could live forever?" /prompt, accepting.

/royce stares into the distant horizon: the painted sky is a gorgeous shade of peach, accented with thin wisps of white clouds — yon-dale's work, no doubt. slowly, he takes a drag from his own cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers, & spares a glance toward his companion. seconds pass — smoke billows out of his parted lips in lieu of an answer. more seconds pass. royce thinks faintly of grant kendrell & the forlorn determism of their conversations, how grant has always seemed monolithic — like a stone pillar, meaninglessly prevailing against an erosion that has conquered everything else. things would change, then they would change once more — the great shadow of ouroboros looming forever overhead. "well, um, i don't know; i don't quite know." royce finally breaks his ruminative silence to proffer a non-answer, twitching his finger to shake off the excess ash of his cigarette. dunayevsky has always struck him as naive, even childish — perhaps, an unfair judgment, but royce doubts it. "i don't fear death, & nothing i accomplish — nothing i accomplish will have meaning." he sounds matter-of-fact, as if the subject of his words were not him, but some specimen of study — as if he were, instead, an objective point of view. there is no trace of sadness or even resignation in his voice: merely, indifference. "therefore, the prospect of eternal life has no significance to me — no significance at all. but — don't get me wrong," royce pauses to take another drag from his cigarette, exhaling another cloud of smoke, "i would very much like to stay alive for a healthy lifespan, preferably a lengthy one. i would very much like that. but past that, beyond that — to live forever —" he makes air quotes with one hand, "well, i'm not sure the human mind can truly picture the length of eternity, let alone handle it." his dwindling cigarette is barely anything, anymore. he toys with it between his fingers. "try to picture it, daniil, really. just try. eternity — how long is that? see, you can't. no one can."