I’m not entirely sure what this is… it’s a mix of meta-gaming and in-character. Based on Pyrol of Jongg being play-tested here.
That means something different after arguing with gods.
“You ain’t from ’round these parts.”
That’s a common comment.
No matter how many times you walk the horizon, no matter how long you live some residue remains stuck to your soul. (If you believe in that sort of thing.) Most people rarely leave the city they’re born in, whereas you flit across planes. Seeing things most people won’t encounter in their worst nightmares or most grandiose dreams.
Just another day for you.
You’ll dine with demons and make deals with dragons.
Never accept a dragon’s offer of a light, but always offer him a smoke.
Oh and one axiom that holds true everywhere; never enter into negotiations with a nymph.
The only time you’ll find me down on the farm, or in some shadowy dive is when needs require me to go there. Or it’s the Dog’s Bollocks… everyone’s gotta have a local.
I deal with kings and gods, undines and conqueors, devils, manifest dreams and occasionally a sprite or golem. Damn dirty golems.
If I am amongst the common people I’m likely chasing down a rampaging, petulant godling, wrestling an ice elemental back into some frozen abode or gone to ground because this time, THIS TIME my response to the Goddess of Bone went a step too far, despite my resplendent garb and perfect genuflections.
Better a year eating boiled turnips than a night with the Goddess of Bone and her bone jugglers. (Well, almost – I strongly dislike turnips.)
These people look to a mountain, spy a plume of smoke and debate what the portends mean. Me? I know that cocky, coulee deity hopes to make inroads here and it’s up to me to go inform them why that’s such a poorly conceived notion, since Raethulow rules this chunk of rock and has been known to torment immortal trespassers for an aeon or four.
But hey, welcome to the neighbourhood if you want to stake your claim.
And those are the common amaranthine beings.
There are the stranger creatures – the stuff of myth, legend and terror.
I revel in it.
So should you. Few get the chance to walk the soft horizon. Embrace the power, the opulence, the soaring heights of depravity and the tragic depths of beauty.
Left to their own devices, their machinations, their inter-progeny rivalries and contests the worlds as we know them would crumble into dust, or lava or the ether of contemplation.
(Some gods are truly weird.)
Snatch up your walking stick, don your pith helmet, mount your winged bantuu and aim just left of the last rays of a dying sun.
If you’re lucky and the Jezabel of Nazor winks, we just might see the morrow.
If not? It’s only a thousand days backwards across the surface of the Unctuous Lord’s pestilence-nurturing belly.
Pack a lunch… and your assegai.
We leave when the Red Duchess laughs.