This is weieeiiiird.
- untitled
- myurder
- warrior
- Game Town Hub
- 2064:ROM and Music
- Underhero and Obscurity
- Viscera Cleanup Detail and Subversion
- exposition
- head hole
- three shadows
- rigged
- teeth hoard
- DA NOOS: Why is Necrodancer so Difficult?
- DA NOOS: VTubers
- The New Potential of Element Users
- old man cyoa
- The land rejected me, so I became one with the waves.
- fuck me whats up
- one more for the road
- DONT TOUCH THAT OH DEAR
- eyyy fuggedaboutit
- philosophically speaking...
- what is a book, but a man?
- mystery
- invention
"Nice place."
The crystal specked beach lay under a breezing sun, near the dawn of day. A gangly man wearing a hat several times his size stood, slightly sinking into the sand. His skin was unevenly tanned and peeling in places, unused to the tropical climate. Once, he proved that the government owned several shell corporations to launder money for fun. Of course, he never released this information, and he's never revealed this paper trail to anyone. A unique sort of nutcase. As he hopped in place, the sand searing into his soles, he rambled by himself.
"Secret CIA project? Ancient Egyptian aliens? The long lost Sarengeti assassin homeworld?!"
"Cut the crap, Moe." A shorter, potbellied man flopped off the boat, a natural adventure type, even if he didn't look the part. Sporting a tacky Hawaiian print button up and cheap plastic tourist camera, he was constantly shedding cigar scraps like a stereotypical oil baron, pre-talkies. Not to mention he was funding this operation. Mr. Garbagle was a curious, but detached sort of millionaire.
"Do you remember why I hired you?" Mr. Garbagle coughed violently, before depositing a sizable spitball.
"Of course!" Moe made a small zip gesture across his mouth, before running off, probably to test some makeshift conspiracy.
Mr. Garbagle motioned the rest of the boat crew to stay on, with the exception of his ever present bodyguards. It's unknown what this man did in the past to make money, most likely illegal in nature.
And the last man, he stood tall and wide, his body well clothed with old, ceremonial rags. His face was hidden, masked, his eyes barely visible. Despite the ever growing heat as the day progressed, the man drew his blackened robes tighter, as if protecting himself. He stood out in the open, watched them arrive and walk out to shore, and set up camp.
They don't notice him.
The island wasn't all that unusual, physically. In fact, it was quite boring. In terms of geological finesse, a child with access to a crayon can probably draw its likeness. The beaches rounded out, encircling an outcropping of rocks. An aerial view of the island revealed no living creatures, no plant life, no signs of human activity whatsoever.
It was unremarkable, save for a few key exceptions.
"Mr. Garbagle!"
Talking about games are a somewhat dismal fanfare. And perhaps, you're here for that exact reason.
You're tired of shallow praises about shooting people and gimmicky mechanics. You've read hundreds of articles that rarely develop further than a fraction that arbitrarily indicates quality and a single line of faux witty review. You know what I mean.
"Masterful!" - Circlejerk Enterprise
"A new, subtle experience." - Old Men United
3.9/5 - IGN
Now, games are so diluted in get-rich-quick schemes and the oversight of multibillion dollar corporations that we forget games weren't originally the property of a few faceless suits looking to make a little bit of money. Games were, and still are, a way for people to get together, to have fun, and it's been like this since the inception of culture. Indeed, every culture, in every era, has invented and reinvented the ballgame, which says quite a bit about our love for pass times.
The modern age has done more than redefine our understanding of games. Blips on a screen and buttons to press, gaming is no longer limited to the strong and hardy, vying for control in physical combat. Games push the boundaries of art and expression, allowing for experimentation and storytelling.
And that's what we're here for.
Game Town is a self indulgent exploration of theme and purpose in video games, and perhaps more to come.
Although I may not be the smartest kid on the block, or the most eloquent, or even the most qualified, I am willing to write, and I do hope you stick around. Thank you for your time.
1-1: Viscera Cleanup Detail and Subversion
1-2: Crypt of the Necrodancer and Difficulty
1-3: Underhero and Obscurity
2-1: Who knows?
2-2: Cause I don't.
Underhero is about an underhero.
You play as the gold grubbing minion of an evil overlord, a masked lackey that just managed to kill the chosen hero.
For those of you who don't know what Viscera Cleanup Detail is, it's a game where you explore various space stations and other high intensity action sequences, delving into the aftermath of a crazy sci-fi adventure… as a sanitation worker.
Yes, you are a glorified janitor, cleaning up after the protagonists messes, long, long after shit went down.
The premise is stunningly innocuous. Rather than being a flashy shoot-em-up that most games opt for nowadays, you play as the hapless janitor. While protagonists of the same game would be able to shrug off bullets with their chiseled chests, our janitors can die if you hit them with a mop long enough.
Anyways, that's besides the point. Let me walk you through my story, pretend as if you were playing the game alongside me.
Instead of a long, scrolling view of the landscape, we're immediately shoved into the facility itself. No sightseeing here, just get to work.
Immediately, the chaos is apparent. Somehow, mutated plants, or evil magic tomes, or a generic alien attacks have broken out, lots of people die, and a hero rises to the challenge, leaving a mess for you to clear up.
Something is immediately apparent. The both of us, we dread to see what kind of environmental storytelling is in store. Every bullet, every blood splatter, everything placed to tell a story has been perverted, almost entirely cursed.
These elements aren't inherently bad, in fact, they're incredibly core to every other action game out there. What kind of game would Happy Wheels be if you couldn't dismember yourself at the slightest force? Or every war game if you couldn't see the shell casing pop out after every gunshot?
I'm sure you're a very literate person and noticed that this will be talking about subversion, but for those of you who don't know, let me pull up a dictionary definition of the word.
sub·ver·sion
/səbˈvərZH(ə)n,səbˈvərSH(ə)n/noun
the undermining of the power and authority of an established system or institution
Subversion is a useful tool for making effective and impactful media. For example, in a writing community such as this, subversion is most useful for breaking preestablished ideas of where a story is going, surprising the reader and creating new potentials for storytelling.
Unlike plot twists, where you create impact via the addition of new information, subversion is taking old information and breaking it over your knee. This is as difficult as you may expect.
So let's discuss VCD.
In VCD, you play as a sanitation worker, cleaning up space stations after an alien outbreak. Firstly, before anything else, we must establish the fact that our sanitation worker, the character we play as, is the main character. That way, we draw parallels between you, the sanitation worker, and the other you, the badass, gun toting, muscle brawling, beefcake that destroys enemies with their pinkies.
This isn't something that you're thinking consciously, but is a result of past experience influencing what you're doing now.
As you begin sweeping up bullet casings, mopping away explosion smudges and alien goo, tossing out pieces of dead bodies, you begin to feel lethargic. The pools of blood seem endless, what was once several glorious kills end up being about twenty minutes of running back and forth, retrieving dirty buckets of water and tossing it out into an incinerator.
What would have been a huge, new room to explore is now a chore. You deeply dread opening up those large, sliding doors and finding a new room full of bullet holes to patch, ripped up corpses to burn, and piles of boxes to stack. What would have been a room full of ammo refills, health packs, and equipment upgrades is now filled with alien guts and sadness.
Let's say you play Enter the Gungeon, or a similar shoot-em-up. Those exact same mechanics, that which makes up the core of the game, that which defines the game, all of them only bring pain to you.
This is subversion. The exact same mechanics that make the game so exciting makes VCD miserable. Every single bullet fired off at a press of a button creates at least four different things you need to clean up. The bullet casing, the bullet hole, the blood splatter, and the dead body.
My most fond memory of the Fallout Series was the ability to target specific body parts and blow them off. You can do this exact thing in VCD, but the same action has been perverted. You handle bodies with care, hoping to god that it doesn't accidentally break apart and spread even more blood everywhere. You avoid pools of blood in order to not track footprints everywhere, creating more work for you.
As you walk among the facilities, incinerating large and anatomically improbable aliens, you begin to think to yourself.
This facility, these sequence of rooms, would take you two or three hours to clean, maybe more. But as the strong protagonist, it would take about ten minutes to recreate the very same mess.
The monotonous cleaning gives you time to self reflect, to think back on what happened, who caused the mess, and how to clean up even more stuff.
It felt a dull thumping in the skull. Not it, he. He felt a dull thumping in his skull.
He groggily begins to feel around, using a faraway pulsing red light to guide his hands. He feels concrete, the corner of the wall, and dusted rust. Not rust, dried blood. Instinctively, he begins to poke at his body, searching for the wound. The thumping in his skull begins to reverberate, causing him to double over, dry heaving. After a tinnitus-like pain fades away, his stomach wanes, vomitous in anxious anticipation. His hands go from his chest, to his mouth, to a jagged edge just over his right eye.
His fingers curl inwards. He scratches at dried blood and slightly wet meat. A sudden memory flicks across his eyes, a medical report about a woman who suffered a headshot wound and survived. At one point in time, she coughed a little bit too hard, and some of her brain matter slid out of her wound. Of course, it was only a matter of time before she died.
He decides to stuff his fist into the hole.
Slowly, steadily, he regains energy in his body, willing it to rise. The joints in his legs and spine creak, lack of use rotting the ligaments, and nearly falls over. He slams against the cold wall, feeling what's left of his insides slosh, and begins to walk forward, following wherever the building led him. He ignored the decidedly human silhouettes, intermittently spread against the ground. Black and blue paint smudges have been imprinted across the hallways, always within indentation, as if the paint pushed itself into the ground. Bullet holes littered the ceiling and the floor, but never the walls.
He leans against a metal hydraulic door, pried from the hinges, bent inwards, partially melted. It's difficult to tell exactly what happened to the vault, other the decidedly large brush marks. He trips over a misplaced deadlatch, and comes face to face with a long scaffolding. Fighting vertigo, he grabs onto the ledge and sees a broken structure. It mimiced the shell of a rubber band ball, made of bronze and silver. Such a structure was made even more curious, as part of the ball was pulled outward, the echo of a prison break, made permanent.
It was too much to think about. He had to move on.
He arrives at an office, or a lab. The glass windows that lined the room had been shattered, leaving behind convenient doorways, albeit littered with shards. He spots a couch, and collapses into it. He doesn't notice the armed guard that was draped across it. Long dead, the man was clearly a strong, healthy individual. What was left of his muscles indicated a passion for fitness, and his equipment was still in peak condition. He lifts up his visor, perhaps out of curiosity, or sick respect.
Yes, he was long dead.
The man was too heavy to thoroughly flit through, so he grabbed the only thing that was of use to him, the radio. He scrolled through the channels, carefully listening for any sign of life. Static.
He keeps flipping through, until he gets to the last channel, where he hears the impression of a faint whisper, yelling for help. The exact contents, he can't quite make out, but it reads of desperation and hope. He struggles to get out of the couch, and walks towards the sound.
"Barricade is coming down!"
Cake was desperately putting the finishing touches on a recent project of hers, tying up a stump that used to be a foot. The man who used to own said foot was firing back at the anomaly, too hopped up on painkillers and genetic mutation to feel the loss. He cracks open the head of a lynx with a hammer, while a hyena breaks through the steel gridding, tearing off skin and muscle, frothing at the mouth. More animals follow suit.
"Medic! Get Missile up! Move back!"
Cake knew she was in a terrible position, stuck between gunfire and psycho fauna. She heaves Missile onto her shoulders and begins plodding down the hallway, sticking to the right as the guards shoot to her left, the sound of meat shredding following the shots.
As she drops to the floor, she can see bloody red as the fastest anomaly bites into her leg. Her heavyset frame usually helps, but in the face of animals addicted to human flesh…
She whips around and finds a dog, a half rotting nonentity, gnawing at her leg. She fumbles her surgical saw and begins hacking away at the snout, hopelessly attempting to dissuade its progress. For a split second, she considers cutting her own leg off, when the dog's face is kicked away, and she feels a tug. She's suddenly pulled by her collar, and instinctively began tying up her leg, for the sake of efficiency.
"I thought we evac'ed everyone! Sir, what are you doing here?" Cake, in the safety of the recontainment squad, returns to Missile, and listens in on the squad lead and the new face.
"Pe- my god! Medic!" She turns to the yelling, and sees that the new face had a gaping hole in it.
"N- no… this 's fine." His voice was barely perceptible over the gunfire and animal screams. Ignoring his protests, Cake sits him down and begins to bandage his head, analyzing the wound. Cranial wound severity depends on type of damage. Single entrance, no exit wound, but does not look like a gunshot wound. He'll be fine. Probably. Cake peeks into the wound, notes a lack of bullet shrapnel and bleeding, and hurriedly covers the wound. She notices the layer of dust, caking his fraying lab coat, and his missing ID card. He looks half starved, and confused.
"Who are you?" She momentarily forgets her position, and fumbles a small sir afterwards. He remains silent.
"Okay, it's not safe here. Head down the hallway, turn right, and follow the red signs. Sir." Cake quickly points at a red arrow, before returning to the fray. The man sits, stunned, before pushing off the ground and limping away.
As the skirmish begins to fade away, and the adrenaline begins to wane, he is left with a single thought.
Who are you?
Who am I? Away from the carnage, his fatigue begins to catch up to him. Every movement feels like moving through thick soup, and the thought of food summoned his stomach, which begins to protest from neglect.
He forces himself to move, mostly to forget about the hunger and exhaustion, but also to ignore his lack of identity. Who am I?
After an eternity of empty hallways and echoing footsteps, he arrives at a solid checkpoint. The concrete and scanners, imposing and high security, stood firm. He touches the cold rock, and begins to dink around, trying to find a way to unlock the checkpoint.
Suddenly, the checkpoint hisses at him, making him fall backwards. The interlocked mechanisms hidden behind the concrete slowly unlock, meticulously unwinding, revealing several white clad individuals. They seem to watch him in curious anticipation, rushing out to pick him up. They lend him their shoulders, and they take him inside, closing the checkpoint behind him.
He slowly loses consciousness, somehow comforted by their presence.
Description: SCP-X is a female humanoid. Physical details are obscured
Description: SCP-X is an genetic tampering clinic disguised as a pharmacological history museum, illegally operating out of the City of Three Portlands. SCP-X has been
Special Containment Procedures:
Description: SCP-X is a sociocultural meme present in most Western civilizations, affecting most of the human population. Currently, this meme is viewed as teeeth
Welcome to my corner of the internet! This is where I talk about things relevant to my perssonal interests, and depending on what I'm feeling like, I write about different things. So long as it's interesting, it'll stay up! Right? …right?
Today, I wanna talk about a recent obsession of mine, Crypt of the Necrodancer. CotN is a rhythm roguelike videogame dedicated to killing monsters and exploring dungeons. The pixelated graphics are wonderfully animated, the soundtrack is fantastically diverse (or if you're not into it, you can always include your own music), and game design is dynamic. Not to mention the replayability factor is through the roof.
The base concept of the game is also incredibly simple. Every item and enemy in the game can be boiled down to a pattern, and will never deviate from that pattern. With the exception of a select number of entities, there is very little RNG involved.
But… if the game is so simple, why is it so damn difficult?
To better exemplify how notoriously difficult CotN is, let's take another hallmark game famous for its difficulty, Dark Souls. In order to measure "difficulty", a somewhat reliable way to measure this is by comparing the achievements of each game to each other and draw comparisons. In Dark Souls, particularly the Remastered version, the most elusive achievement is called The Dark Soul. In order to get it, you need to achieve every single other achievement.
A quick read tells me you need to play and beat the game at least twice in order to get the two separate endings, collect every single rare weapon in the game, upgrade a weapon to max level in four different ways, and collect all magics. Among other things.
It's no wonder The Dark Soul achievement is so difficult to get, with only 3.7% of the playerbase getting this achievement. But how does it compare to CotN?
CotN features a campaign with three separate playable characters, excluding the DLC. The three characters in order are Cadence, Melody, and Aria, and each of them have an achievement upon beating their campaign.
Character Name | Basic Gameplay Description | Achievement Name | ||
Cadence | The starting character. Starts with a base Dagger. Serves as the basic introduction to the game and has no gameplay changes. | So Hardcore! | ||
Melody | Difficulty tweak. Starts with less health and a special weapon, the Golden Lute. Cannot switch out this weapon. | Lute that Loot | ||
Aria | Massive difficulty tweak. You're not allowed to switch out your base Dagger, you have minimal health and cannot heal or gain additional health, you cannot miss a beat or you die, and you have to start from Zone 5, descending. | You Don't Miss a Beat, Do You? |
Alright, so Aria is definitely difficult to beat. The achievement for accomplishing such a feat has a grand total of 0.5% completion rate. Right. So what about Cadence and Melody? They're nowhere near as difficult as Aria!
4.1% and 2.5%. Keep in mind that we're comparing the basic CotN campaign completion with the endgame achievement of Dark Souls, at a 3.7%, and you get the idea.
While comparing the two games is like comparing apples to oranges, there is still something to be said about the difficulty of CotN. Why is it so difficult?
As probably the first person to tackle this question, I will probably be making some mistakes, so do correct me if I do.
As I had mentioned previously, CotN is rhythm roguelike. Maybe you saw that and rolled your eyes. It's such a strange combination of gameplay elements, kind of like a walking simulator shoot 'em up. Maybe you've seen your fair share of gimmicky features, and were turned off by the possibility of a poor game.
So rest assured, this game is wonderfully cohesive. Instead of selling the idea of a rhythm roguelike, CotN is a rhythm roguelike, and it's very possible that there won't be another game of it's type and caliber forever. However, with that creative boon, comes a minor drawback.
Firstly, its mechanics
Welcome to my corner of the internet! This is where I talk about things relevant to my personal interests, and also acts as a way to spread the love. Or in this case, VTubers.
For the average person, strolling through the vast online landscape, perhaps you've stumbled upon a series of Japanese animations, commonly referred to as anime. Before you leave in a fit of disgust, please
Throughout prehistory and history, conscious thought sought to better explain the world around them. As the first civilizations began tinkering with the fundamentals of creation and applying said principals to their own inventions, they needed a way to better classify the world around them. Similar to cardinal direction, deriving the constants of cardinality from the North, ancient peoples had to use what was available to them to determine the possible building blocks of reality. As such, they most often derived Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.
The advent of the Spiritual Revolution, coinciding with the Industrial Revolution, has brought new understanding to these areas of expertise, spinning new meaning from preexisting notions, not to mention the Scientific Revolution, bringing about modern conceptions of reality, and superseding all previous conceptual ideas regarding the four elements. It is unfortunate still that modern element users are still able to practice their abilities to still greater heights.
Let me introduce you to Mr. Arendell. A modest philosopher and part-time waiter, he is an amateur practitioner of the elemental arts, the successor to the Ignis, the cafe his father and his father's father owned, located in the Library. As many of you may know, Ignis is a coffee shop, most famous for its liberal application of the elemental arts. To beans are grown from stimulated earthen mounds, taking in sunlight from an artificial sun. Boiling water is procured from the same star, and their wind is a subtle beckoner of guests, wafting fresh ground coffee through the many halls of the Library.
So it comes as a surprise when Mr. Arendell challenged his family's long time practices.
"If you would allow me to clarify, challenge is a strong word." Today, I, Dr. Mr. Cnl. Bixby, had the good fortune of interviewing Mr. Arendell.
"I'm not challenging my family's work. If anything, I'm curious."
He explains that with many advances in scientific study, he notes that despite violating many standards established by conventional science, his family is still able to carry out their work as their ancestors did, thousands of years ago. Quite the conundrum, isn't it?
"See, modern science are very, very thorough about their work. They're all about reverence, getting to the heart of the issue, same as my parents. They just approach it in very different ways."
Let's begin with a short overview. Their are typically four core elements, Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Earth is often considered the most physical of the elements, the easiest to master and the most powerful. After all, you can just bend down, scoop out a bowl of dirt, and study it, enticing the element with your will. It's the reason why there are more Earth benders than, say, an Air bender, commonly considered the most difficult to master art.
However, we must not forget the technical limitations of an Earth bender. While they're free to bend dirt everyday, true practitioners, a subdivision of Earth Benders, Metal benders, can bend objects such as concrete, iron, and other modern materials for construction. Dirt is, by definition, a mixture of crushed rocks, water, dead things, and plants. If anything, it would be much more accurate to call the Metal benders, Earth benders, and Earth benders, necromancers, for the disturbance of both living and dead creatures.
What about the element Water? Water is historically considered the most pure element. After all, Water is very simply made up of, well, water. No random elements like Earth.
But there's always a catch. What about Ice? Written records indicate very few instances of Ice benders, but the ones that do exist always end up as the arctic version of Alexander the Great. Mahuala, Rend of Finnis, and Franklin Marshall III were all Ice benders of massive cultural importance, leading by distinction and pure vigor. But what separates a Water bender and an Ice bender?
Even the small, frozen tribes of the Arctic knew that ice was merely cold water. The distinction is semantic.
And so, we return to Mr. Arendell, where he introduces us to a brand new movement.
"Gosh, it's difficult to imagine me being so important."
"Good sir! We're calling you the Einstein of the elemental arts!" We both chuckle at the thought. Although…
"You're saying too much!" Abashed, he decides to move forward with introducing his revolutionary concept.
"So I haven't come up with a name just yet. I'm hoping some English teacher can introduce me to a fitting word. But to put it simply, I maintain that element benders aren't bending elements, per se. Imagine being told your entire life that you can do things one way, and one way only. It's not ignorance, mind you. They… simply never learned it any other way, doing what always worked. If it ain't broke, don't, don't fix it."
"So, I thought to myself, why is it that my family can bend all the elements? My family was brought up separately, they learned about element bending in the Library, always have. We… looked at, read all the books about bending, so we learned about all the stuff, and their limitations. We were held up in the same way those ancient civilizations were held up, unable to practice elements outside of what we've learned, er, taught ourselves."
"Which led me to this conclusion, that element bending was tied to our personal ability to believe. Ancient civilizations thought that dirt was Earth, but not rocks. Wind benders are the most elusive because wind isn't a physical object, unless we're thinking about oxygen and the like. It's why they couldn't pump the air into people's lungs, the way scientists know how to do it… today."
Did you know about the Element's Prophecy?
There are several different versions available, and you're free to believe any one of them you want. The Wush Hollander believed that a snake would consume/steal each element, before spitting it out, producing a new element unknown to man. The Forgotten Islanders said that the island itself would rise out of the sea in a horrifying typhoon to stem the tide of Gro, the local volcano. Ultimately, despite social and cultural differences, each nation produced a story detailing an entity that will change the world.
My money is on Mr. Arendell.
Old man walks into room, santa claus shitter
you're a docent
As respect is a measure for the lengths at which one can bring themselves to remember these stories, the legend of which follows shall not be relegated such. Speak of it behind closed doors and only with those you believe shall hold their tongue, for the one bespoken has written of himself.
What ink stains this page is a petty myth dirtying one of the most beloved creation stories, crass workings which besmirches the holy names of Terra'aphel and Aqua'tel by the sacrilege of primal accounts. Were it not for the aspect of pen, this should have been cast out, to be forgotten forever.
As context is required, the beginnings have been provided. If you wish to lay waste to holy scripture, read the derivative work.
I begin by saying this. The principles of life are primordial, the land beneath of which has existed long before our own. Are you ready to hear the origin of all?
Good, good. Please, sit.
We begin with what we have, for that is what they are. Bring me those bowls. Careful, don't spill.
Now, I carry with me two bowls. Can you tell me what's inside?
Simple dirt and simple liquid. I carry these bowls as the balance between land and sea. See how I stand? One in each hand. I am the life that these two bowls have brought together.
This is what life is.
These two bowls have names. Terra'aphel and Aqua'tel. These are names they have been blessed with, these are the names that they gave unto themselves as they appeared in the great nothing, when they became Gods of Land and Sea.
What did they look like? They're right in front of you.
Their image isn't like us, you see. While they were powerful, they were not formed with body in mind. They were pure essence, but lost their bodies in exchange. So they sought out life.
Terra'aphel began sculpting creatures of all sizes, of all shapes, out of the material she was made of. These creatures were strong, but soon realized that her creations were too stiff and dry, and broke underneath their own mass.
Aqua'tel copied Terra'aphel, forming creatures out of liquid. These creatures were much more intelligent and fast, though she too realized her creations were flawed.
For ten thousand years, they kept on building, birthing all the creatures that we know today. The floating Finna is a result of Aqua'tel heating an old Monkfish, letting it steam and collect in an alcove. The grand Elefant was made by Terra'aphel, as majestic as the day it was hewn out of stone. But while they lived, they weren't perfect.
Hm? Where do we come in?
Patience, I was nearly there. Out of frustration, Terra'aphel struck Aqua'tel and fled. Aqua'tel, heartbroken, kept the pieces that broke when she was struck. In a flash of inspiration, she began forming the pieces with her own power. She called back Terra'aphel, and together, they began working for one thousand years. Finally, they brought us into existence.
As we began learning, they truly began to work and trust each other. Since we could not see, they formed Fir'fel, who began gathering heat to form the sun. Terra'aphel formed Forey'yel, who began by bringing and growing green to the world. As they continued to form more Gods, they began shaping the world into as it is now.
So you see, these bowls are more than just bowls filled with dirt and liquid.
They are your benefactors, your parents. As one should respect those who brought you to being, we respect Terra'aphel and Aqua'tel by worshiping them and tending to them.
Right now. So stop being lazy and go!
The following is the derivative work. Exercise caution.
Once upon a time, there was nothing.
And then, Terra'aphel, Aqua'tel, and Mera'leer was brought into existence.
Terra'aphel was the God of the land. She was magnificent and curvy. Aqua'tel was the God of the sea, immensely intelligent and has a great personality. Mera'leer was the God of life, blessing the land with the qualities in which we relish ourselves in. Hearts, souls, minds, they were made in his reflection. Also, he was blessed with infinite muscle and girth.
However, blessings were given hand in hand with misfortune, for he fell in love with Terra'aphel. While he was the only eligible bachelor, she refused him, irreversibly breaking his heart.
"Why?" said Mera'leer.
"You are not perfect." she replied. "I long for a being far more wealthy and handsome. Someone like Fir'fel."
Mournful of his luck, he sought refuge within Aqua'tel, Terra'aphel's sister, out of pity for him and Aqua'tel. But even then, his heart was still on Terra'aphel. So he buried himself, deeper and deeper into Aqua'tel.
Procuring a ring meant to fit Terra'aphel, he offered it to Aqua'tel, and was forever lost to Aqua'tel.
"You can't be serious."
Anton stared, mouth gaping, at a particularly boring row of shelves. As it stood, however, the shelve contained stacks of SCP documents, unredacted, unexpunged, totally top level. Which is some shit.
He understood that the library contained millions of written works, a good portion of which will never be written, so the library holding mundane documents weren't at all far fetched. Anton fetched a paper, poring over each letter with intensifying ferocity.
Item #: SCP-4803
Object Class: Euclid
Oh shit, Anton thought to himself.
Here is John. By all measures, he's a normal guy. He goes to a regular nine to five job, of which is an office job. He's got a white collar, complete with a resplendent black suit and case. He is apathetic towards all pop music, but listens to the radio nonetheless. He is exactly five foot nine inches tall, and weighs exactly a hundred and fifty pounds. Black hair, brown eyes, straight teeth. He's got no curves, and no angles. By all means, he's a normal guy.
So why the hell is he reading this document?
This letter currently only exists in the Library, nexus of Ways, beautiful winding shelves full of literature, stuffed to the brim of the magical and impossible. So why is ordinary Joe here, reading this? Are you special? Do you have magical powers? Can you shapeshift? Well, no, cause I just described you. You average person.
How did you get here? When? Where? Why?
Um.
If it isn't obvious, I want you to write here. This is one of the rare books, an interactive one. One you can write in. The Librarians know you can write in this book. They won't hurt you for it. Trust me.
For the sake of time, here's the sparknotes.
We have Devin, a lead researcher of pataphysics for the Foundation.
Somehow, she wound up in the Wanderer's Library, reading this exact piece of literature.
She knows that this is a bit of metaphysical irony at play, for I am currently writing about her reading this story in the Wanderer's Library, while she is being chased by a guy named Jax who volunteers at the Serpent's Hand. Jax is currently turning the corner. You have no time. Get the fuck outta here.
After an undisclosed amount of time, you, Devin, are hidden from watchful eyes. You are safe for now. Take my word for it.
Jax, on the other hand, is being ratted on by the Hand because he was technically about to hurt someone without due cause. You never had a clear connection
Located at the top of a twenty story spiraling staircase, lay a small platform with three wooden stands placed around it, concentric. Atop each wooden stand lay a bound paper book, each with a unique board. One was leather bound, not incredibly unusual. One was made out of the wrappings for cigars, the kind that black and white mafia members used to smoke. The last was bound with newspaper clippings, belonging to a small newsie from an olden time.
Quite often, these books grow in length. These three books in particular seem to have the exact same content. They speak of conversation and dealings, sadistic ways to gain power and finances, the abuse and irreverence of the thaumatic ways.
And one last thing. The Librarians seem to want to leave these books alone. As with all books, they must be opened and read. However, these books cannot be taken. That goes for the rest of us as well.
Every so often, there will appear a new book, but not in the form we identify it as. Such is the case with the bust of David.
This bust is the exact replica of the carving Michelangelo made during the Renaissance, made of the same marble dust Michelangelo himself handled. However, there is life in its eyes. Some of the patrons claim that it is made of blood and heart. There is color in its eyes, movement, it breathes just as we do.
If you look long enough, you will be granted a line of dialogue as well as a vision. It contains the work of every artist in existence, as well as their beliefs regarding their work. Somehow, through the grace of the unknown,
The study of the base principles that make up the Wanderers' Library is a recent academic phenomenon explored by entrepreneurial philosophers, the name of which has escaped easy purchase. It seeks to expose the system in which the Library functions, and how it has come into being. While other studies, such as those from the realm of mundanity, can be examined from a fundamental standpoint, the Library does not share the same property. The following excerpts are particularly popular sentiments, but are not considered verified truth. As such, they serve as the origin point in the event that the study becomes legitimate.
Regarding
- Vargoth II, Son of Yvette Vargoth, 1st Edition Wibology
Vargoth II is the first philosopher to publish a study regarding the true nature of the Library. Wibology is an example of a poorly received designation for the field of study. This will be a constant trend and a vulnerable target of dismay for cynics.
What the book1?
Said the thirty-first of the top 100 greatest True Universe philosophers2, Pauperwurthomen, Defiler of the Fundamental Dearth3. This question resounded in the minds of the philosophical world for millennia to come, and shall most likely continue to resound so long as the Library exists, for that is the very nature in which the Library deals in. Debate over this topic continue to ring strident, concerning the relationship between life and literature, the subjective qualifications of a book, and whether a book can be called a book if it were declared no longer able to produce children.
The following excerpts are mere surface dwelling topics for the newly introduced, and should serve as a fine start for the average intellectual, or perhaps, casual dinner conversation. We hope to gather more scholars on the topic to better our understanding of the strange world the Ways bound us to.
Regarding the nature of the book4, we could apply a reductionist formula to better get to the heart of books. We begin with a natural book, a cover sandwiching a collection of parchment, of which conveys meaning through the written word. In our first run through, we decided to be rid of its physical attachments. The text was rendered incomprehensible and the pages were placed through a fine strainer with milk.
Understandably, this ceases to be a book. Therefore, the book cannot be called a book if it were not for the intrinsic value we thrust unto it through form and text. That is to say, the book needs a form and a place of which we inscribe text. Outside of that, it ceases to be a book.
- Vargoth II, Son of Yvette Vargoth, 1st Edition Book on Books audiobook voiced by Ronald Reagan
Vargoth II is the first philosopher to publish a study regarding the nature of books. It is the first of many poorly received additions in the series due to its crude stabs at humor, better relegated to adolescents.
You can go fuck yourself, pretentious goth boy5! If it were a book at one point in time, and it was readable at that point in time, it will and shall always be a book.
No amount of rip and tear will ever devoid that book of the intellectual property it had.
And yes, I understand I'm omnipotent, and are naturally superior to the common mortal, but that doesn't detract from the value of a book, demonstrated clearly in your theoretical experiment. You small minded bloodling.
- Genevari, Seven Time Winner of the Time God Competitive, public improvised speech
Genevari was an avid reader, as he was witness to the discovery of pleasure as a fundamental resource in thaumatic text, developing an addiction to maintaining temporal convalescence at the creation of magical scripts. Since then, he has lost much of his popularity, although he is still able to rig the Time God Competitive in his favor.
Of note, Genevari made this speech approximately three hundred years before Vargoth was born.
What?
- John J. Lo, Killer of Cucumbers, secondhand witness
In a particularly slow section of the library, a Librarian accidentally dropped a book unto John's head in an act of divine providence, as Librarians aren't capable of making clumsy mistakes. As it turns out, the book in question was a limited, one of a kind book, as it was not shaped like a book at all. Instead, it was a Bust of David, a fifth dimensional object capable of being interacted with and read like a book, detailing the history of vaporwave and its undeniable importance to modern hand to hand combat. John was posthumously declared the discoverer of this book.
I do hope that this has been an enlightening experience for you, dear reader. Not many will pursue the path of Wibology6. It is an archaic field, fractured with plagiarism7 and homicide. Not everyone is pleased with the our findings, though they are the truth.
But nonetheless, I have found my place in Wibology.
- Steven Pruitt
TAKEN FROM THE ARCHIVED LIFETIME OF DAVEY LUTE AND MELINA LUTE
It was 1899, and the paramilitary might that was the Parmenite Rebellion was on the doorstep of the Fir Democatic. The Fir Democatic, a profitable city with a population of 260,000, known for its glorious location, situated atop a scenic seaside cliff, was well protected by rocky shores and the Fishtail, a long, winding river vaguely resembling its maiden name. Now, it's more lovingly referred to as "the goddamn bastard enemy camp".
In the summer of 1891, the neighboring country of Parmen was suffering from a decade long drought following a century long rule under a greedy occupation, and in that time, Bo Danga Ram cleverly sieved the governing force, removing key politicians from blocking his advance to power through a chain of "unfortunate incidents". In a mere year, Ram managed to consolidate a permanent dictatorship through political and military prowess, thoroughly impressing his people and his countrymen, with a slight tint of fear. However, he feared that his power was unstable, that it lacked the critical component that caused he himself to rise to the challenge.
The land he controlled was wrecked from poor farming practices forced upon them by a century old occupier, Tauri Empire, and the drought has turned the forest once rivaling Eden's Point into a desert plateau. So what is one to do? In the winter of 1892, in a secret room hidden within a maze of sewage systems, Ram gathered up 21 generals to discuss war plans.
In the same winter, 1892, Davey Julette, as he was previously known, arrived at Fir Democatic in good company. Transported in a newfangled steam wagon, along with a group of circus fellows, drunkards, and young pioneers hoping to make a good living at the promised capital of trade. It seemed that money flowed like wine through the streets of Fir Democatic, and in a way, it did. The richest and most successful would walk through town, followed by every person imaginable, flaunting wealth via a rain of paper gold. Bottles were smashed, shops were stocked and bought out like hotcakes, and every inventor had a brand new gimmick, ready for the rights to be sold off to the highest bidder.
And here, Davey Julette, would become legend.
1893, Melina
Davey Julette woke up in the arms of five strangers, with his mouth full of glitter and the bitter aftertaste of vomit induced alcohol. He slowly unwound the tangle of limbs, and tripped over a pile of bodies to the end of the wagon, just in time to heave a healthy helping of half digested Tusked Soup, a local specialty made from boar tusks and mushrooms. As his eyes got used to the harsh sunlight, he remembers traveling with a group of drunkards and circus fellows, which would explain his glitter based hangover.
Someone hands him another bowl of soup, and he downs the concoction, the fat gelled from the cold night, making for a retching wake up call. Thoroughly horrified and awake, he chokes down the rest of the meal, and hopes to die.
"Sorry about that. If we had one o' those mobile stoves, we could cook while we've bin moving."
He waves the voice away, silently thanking them for the nutrition.
"Look on the brigh'side. We're here."
Julette sits for a while, urging his body to move, before hunching over the wagon to peer at his destination.
Inbetween the canopy of trees, he spots the fortified walls of Fir Democatic, an inventive city. The tall, shiny walls are marred by giant, interlocking gears, ceaselessly toiling for the profit of its citizenship. The body of skyscrapers stand far above the castle walls, looking out over the many rivers intersecting the archipelago. As the wagon crosses a long, stone tucked bridge to the gates, Julette waited for a signal.
He carefully scans the bridge before jumping down, wheezing from exertion.
"Oi, where are you goin'?"
"Don't wanna be drunk when I get there. First impressions, new life…" He trails off, and leans against the banister, taking in the ocean air. When the wagon was far enough, he leaped over the banister and grabbed an overhang, and started climbing down. The wind seems to quiet down for just this moment, easing the decent. His legs dangle, before he finally slammed belly first onto a platform, a thoroughly off limits area. Hoping the noise didn't attract any guards, he gingerly picks himself off the ground, and starts scanning doorways for a certain metal plague.
"4-19, 4-19…" Finally, he finds the doorway, crudely carved with the numbers. He puts his head on the door, hears nothing, and slowly tilts open the door handle. The door squeals ear piercingly loud, before laying to rest, deceptively inviting. He peeks inside a well lit room, and enters.
The metal lined walls contain hundreds of paper documents and graphs. Detailed maps with dozens of colored push pins decorate the table in neat, cluttered complexity. As he slowly peruses the room, he notices a pair of shoes, still worn, slightly hidden behind a wooden table. He crosses over, and finds a sharp dressed woman, napping away, in a neat pose that reminded him of an open casket funeral. Julette inspects her uniform and finds some meaningful proof that she belongs to the Democatic Military, so he locates a glass of dusty water and promptly pours it onto her face.
She sputters awake, and stands at attention, instincts taking over from military academy.
"At ease." She relaxes, before noticing her mistake.
"What the fuck? Who are- how did you get in here?" She fumbles through her uniform, looking for a missing pistol.
"Inappropriate workplace behavior, missing beret, failure to keep this shithole clean, I'd have you scrubbing toilets!"
She flinches, before responding. "Uh- ahem, sir! May I speak-"
"If this is on account of my attire, than you would have to excuse me! If it distracts you, than you should close your damn eyes! Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir."
He looks around the room, before speaking to the woman again.
"Name and rank?"
"Melina Lute, lieutenant of the 2nd division."
"No wonder, damn paper soldiers. You lack discipline." He gestures to the makeshift bedding. "Don't let me catch you slacking off again, or you're in deep shit."
He continues questioning as she hurriedly put away loose pencils and papers. "Where is your squad?"
"Don't know, sir!"
"What do you do here?"
"I don't know, sir!"
He massages his forehead, easing a leftover migraine. Fucking bureaucrats.
"Let me tell you your fucking job! You are not to leave this place in open view of anyone! You do not tell people what you do here, under pain of torture and death! Your job is more important than your life, and god willing, you will do it right!"
He slams his fist on a desk.
"I put in a requisition for a team of highly skilled soldiers to perform high risk reconnaissance, and all I got was a pencil pusher! That was what was on the fucking request, so tell me, Lute, what are you doing here?" His rage was barely contained by throbbing veins and clenched fists, and Melina felt that her next sentence could very well end her life.
She pursed her lips in meek silence. "I'm a better shot than you."
The pressure in the room felt deafening, and Melina audibly thought about whether she had made a will before she joined the military. As she was thinking about making a run for it, the air in the room lightened as Julette seemed to deflate, the miasma of wrath vanishing from his face.
"Is that so?" He seemed to chuckle to himself, silently. "Alright them, Lieutenant, let's see you shoot. Go get your gun." Incredulous, she finally registers his command and runs off.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
As the sounds of gunpowder faded away, Julette inspected the target dummy. Three shots all landed in a triangle in the dummy's head, forming a