Lines laid in ley, where stars come to stay--

The Vale is a specific city, in a specific world, in a specific universe, in a specific place, at a specific time. When its orbit clicked into step with the mother of all ley-lines, the city itself peeled away into the Beyond, leaving nothing but a crater where once a sprawling metropolis lived. Its world, its 'Earth' had always been a thoroughfare for mortals outsider and alien, a-skittering under the cloak of the tides of unreality, swept along by the current of a thousand thousand worlds in lockstep. This dense waltz knew its dizzying steps, with the commerce and lives of creatures great and small merely caught transient in its rhythms. Asura, yokai, fae, angel, demon, giant, wraith, cosmic beings knowable and unknowable--these are all words for the select individuals from which our myths unfolded, merely traipsing from our world to the next.

But the Beyond, the Sea of All--it hungered. What we did not know--what we could not have known--is the truth of our fiction, the vein-flow of a god that fostered mankind in honey-sweet lies. Sapience. The knowledge-maker, from which civilization springs. Mankind focused on itself, not knowing that all the while, we influenced the worlds around us more than any god ever could. Our stories were capillaries, carrying thought-blood, ideas and those same honey-sweet glimmerings to the worlds kept close to our minds. Their earth pulled, yanked, dragged its roots, its favorite worlds closer and closer. These worlds, in turn, grew finer, older, more educated, basking in the collective unconscious of humanity--and with their roots, the Beyond rose in kind.

But those worlds had their own gods, and those gods turned away from Sapience, covetous of their domain, just as humanity turned itself away from spiritualism. They severed the roots that held the Beyond in place, allowing it to flow freely, the mind-blood filling the everything-nothing to the brim with ideas. The tides of the beyond pushed these worlds hither and yon, and where the unending un-sea kissed the edges of their universes, so sprung ley lines--a wound, an open vein into the landscape of the cognitive. Vale, at the center of the tides, saw these veins spring forth one by one, in the secret places between here and elsewhere. The errant gods, seeking to consolidate and control, set their worlds to sleep, allowing them to drift on the dream of the Beyond rather than submit to Sapience's iron rule.

But, of course, the Beyond still rose, feeding on the sanguine free-flow of ideas--on thought, on belief, on fables and fancy. And then, finally, in a specific city, in a specific world, in a specific universe, in a specific place, in a specific time, the Beyond bled through the wafer-thin gauze that Sapience had created, and Vale itself came free, adrift on the Beyond.

And so, of course, Sapience elected a small cadre of Vale citizens to patch these wounds, to bring these worlds to heel and to return the cosmos to its vision of a 'good and proper order,' as Sapience itself lacks the ability to leave its post awash in the Beyond, tied between Vale and the earth from whence it came. Of course, it would be up to our adventurers to see this linear quest as simply what it seems, or to look further Beyond...

In short, Spaces Liminal is a psychofantasy romp with aggressive Persona 4/5 vibes, mixed with a healthy helping of folklore with modern trappings and the world-trotting fun of any good space fantasy, thoroughly saturated in style and verve. You can expect a particular loving focus on cultural intrigue, folklore, and the romance of adventure. I have a paced main plotline that can move at any rate we like, but specific stories and elements are absolutely open to change depending on the interests of the other party!

There is a world where land has never touched the water’s surface.
It is a sacred thing, a rarity among rarities; a sea-bound cosmos.
This is the story of a world called Rhau.

In this wetworld’s wake lives not those many men of realities past, but rather an odder, stranger sort. These not-men have many names, but not a single one of them has known “human” to cross their tongue.

You see, the men and women of this world don’t simply live below, where no land exists--they all live above. Places like Lollands, Recumey and Hye, Frasnost and Glimden and other such lands sit high above the brine, suspended on the sun’s invisible strings by powers unknown. Of course, that isn’t to say that enterprising folk haven’t braved the waterscape--on massive chains do these flying continents drag concrete fishing towns, all awash with the salt of the ocean.

And in Ablisque, and Pedraugh, and Frecore, there sits a glimmer in every boy and girl’s eye; the tale of glory and treasure that sits firmly in their hearts like their mother’s evening stew. In Lecaulle and Lephora, there are stories told of the possibilities within the deep across tavern floors and in the beds of only the closest bedfellows. Thansleigh and Kamdi alike pore over old maps, spelunking day after day, looking for the rarities that will make that poor fishing pauper a king among his men.

In Slastey and Raskitt, Ephradd and Camir, and perhaps even Rebonaude, there are frivolities spewed by jocose mummers and drunken mumblers alike about the great secrets that the depths hold, and the dangers that those inky fathoms hide. And for you, dear resident of this world adrift, O flotsam believer, landless deceiver--there lives the great Roving Country of Tortuga, a pirate's paradise built on driftwood and the Glory-Rot of the ocean, from which magic springs. Relics of a world unknown drift below the sea, and those who tossed you out live high above. With you, caught ever between the two, how better to slip the bonds that your 'betters' have made for you than to strike back, and embark upon the high seas, fomenting revolution like eddies in your wake?

Rhau! It's loud, it's proud, it's... It's gay pirates with some pretty sweet trappings, basically. The magic in it is a little gruesome and comes at a fairly obvious cost--goes great with tragic characters and keeps the world itself relatively low-magic if that yaws your pitch. This gives you a lot more choice in terms of who you want your character to be, because there's really a city for anything you're into portraying. It's a good 'make it up as we go,' character-driven plot with some major overarching themes and a few good 'great adversaries' to take down or even ally with.

Making it off that rock was the best decision you ever made. With your homeworld in your rear-view mirror, you started jet-setting your way across the cosmos, making friends and bagging enemies. At first, it was simple--moral job that made not-so-moral bank. But as these things go, 'moral jobs' are rarely ever so simple, especially working for a universal 'authority' like the Coalition. Whether it was jailing that kid for speaking out against the oligarchs, catching that 'dangerous drug dealer' having dinner with his family, or bouncing that 'violent rebel leader' head-first off the pavement during an anti-Coalition protest, something, somewhere along the line turned your taste buds sour.

And so, you turned. Turns out, it's a common thing for bounty hunters. Now, stealing Coalition tech, liberating mining colonies, kissing friends and getting baked with your enemies--that's your jam. The Blackjack, a safe haven for all creatures great, small, and culturally respectful, has become your de-facto home away from home, keeping your coffers full when you're working and your mug full when you're not.

Of course, you and your little crew couldn't help themselves. Snooping around where you don't belong. Finding a freighter adrift in the middle of no-man's-land, you set about to scrapping it for parts and came back to a cut fuel line an astronomical unit away from any planet. By the time you manage to drift and use what remains of your rapidly dwindling fuel to boost yourself towards civilization, you crash land, half your crew dead, you severely injured, on a world you don't even know. You're lucky it wasn't a gas giant.

Getting off that rock was the worst decision you ever made.

Hey, remember Rhau like twenty seconds ago? This is that, except it's all about the intensity of being an alien on another planet, the danger of being alive in an uncaring solar system, and everything that comes after getting yourself out of a certain-death situation. It isn't about winning the day, it's about surviving the day. The major plotline is obvious at the beginning--you're gonna die on this planet if you don't get off of it, but the fact that you're on it is because of an unknown saboteur. A very desolate, 'it's the little things' pathos-heavy, smile-through-the-tears survival drama. Lots of bonding, lots of character, lots of possibilities after a pretty linear start.

When the first automaton was crafted, wrought of iron and wood, the world thought nothing of it for it could not speak. It was given orders, and it followed them, knowing nothing of what it was. The elves--those awful, insectoid aristocrats--applauded their simple creation, and set immediately about creating more. 'Why have slaves,' they said, with all the detachment of the ruling class, 'when we can simply build them?' And the first automaton worked on as the elves crafted finer and finer creatures, from iron and wood to steel and crystal, from steel and crystal to gold and glass. Dolls, with perfect porcelain joints, painted with the prettiest colors, festooned in the finest hair and fabric. Mute, perfect things that brought ease and leisure to the despot elven aristocracy.

'Teach them to sing for me,' demanded a man who dreamed of a choir in perfect tune,
'Teach them to dance for me,' demanded a woman who dreamed of a waltz in perfect time,
'Teach them to die for me,' demanded an elf who dreamed of a world in perfect control.

And sing they did. Dance, they did. Die, they did. The tune, the steps, the war, all was simply theatre--and all their masters did was linger backstage, without a care in the world, yet topped a-brimming with its endless avarice.

They were taught to sing, and so they learned to speak.
They were taught to dance, and so they learned to feel.
They were taught to die, and so they learned to live.

They sung-and-danced-and-died to the symphony's three-quarter time, until, finally, the creature wrought of iron and wood who could not sing, could not dance, could not die, taught an elf the finest lesson of all:

'Do not ask of others what you are not willing to do yourself.'

And all the king's horses, all the king's men, could not put the kingdom together again. The automata, demanding their right to live, to feel and speak as they pleased, saw succor only in revolt. and the world itself fractured itself on the glass-crags of a new age, caught bloodied on its edges between loyalty to the status quo and a dream of something better, something more.

So began the campaign of Hymn, the Fugue of One, and their glasswork vision, the click-click-clicking of the gears of revolution heard from the draconic demesne of the Grieving to the snow-blasted reaches of the Larkspur Expanse, home to the enigmatic Calcabrine.

This one's a fancy one. Lots of purple prose, pretty words and pretty descriptions. Very chiefly high-fantasy with a story about living during wartime, and the decisions we make about others without their consent. Plus, no humans! Lots of other races, though, with interesting bents on things like dwarves and elves and dragons. This story can be as adventurous as we want, but ultimately I feel it's best suited to being a drama about regular people who are open to defending the rights of others and finding a new future in the wake of a pretty classic collapse of an imperialist nation, defying the mainstay of a lot of the fantasy genre. Innately a story about finding your way during difficult and interesting times.

Well, it finally happened. An Old God showed up, everyone had a good time losing their minds for a few months, and the world has been changed irrevocably because of it. Honestly, the only real pain in the ass is the fact that now there's an extra, like, five courses you have to take in college just to get a degree because Big Universe Daddy Mylogg'nscys has a cosmic hard-on for teaching people magic. Oh, yeah, and the fact that for like a week, everyone was formless ooze in unabiding, eternal agony before reforming as monsterfolk and also all the plants are sentient and you're pretty sure that tulip just prepositioned you.

So, you know, par for the course. At least you can cheat on your discrete mathematics homework by summoning an unfathomable orb that makes you cry blood when it speaks, and your extracurricular options include devoting yourself to a cult or two. Of course, now that the world has plunged into 'infinite insanity' or whatever and magic is real but what is real is pretty much up to Big Universe Daddy Mylogg'nscys, you do sort of wish that there was a way out of your life being controlled by an infinite being.

Of course, when you show up at the Cult-That-Was-Once-Chess-Club and they actually manage to summon a Significantly Younger One With Way Fewer Hang-Ups About 'Tradition' And 'Absolute Control' Or Some Other Big-Bang-Boomer Shit, you start to wonder if you can get this spooky nerd elected.

Short and sweet. The Sun Writhes is a big dumb story about, uh... No, it's pretty much just a college slice of life with magic and inscrutable evil. You know, the reg. Plus, great eldritch-witch / cult aesthetics, spooky horror stuff, and generally just having a great time writing whatever fun college romance you want. Saucy, stupid, and funny with a side of a presidential campaign with thousand-dimensional beings. Suspend your disbelief, we're here to have some fun. This is pretty much here because World of Horror has me on a Junji Ito kick and I love writing terrible terrible awful things.

When Vernebury was founded, its denizens knew nothing sweeter than the titter of birdsong on a midsummer day, accompanied by the sweet flesh of fruit from its bountiful orchards. The land, socketed in a subarctic valley, knew torrential summer downpours and thick sheets of snow in its frigid winters, but the constant sunlight in the farming months granted it a booming agricultural industry, growing flora of unimaginable flavor and physical dimension.

It was on these grounds that Vernebury settled upon this untouched frontier, careful at first not to disturb the wildlife--massive and fatty in their own right, in order to survive the frigid winter. When the autumnal equinox came and went, however, the new residents were startled to find the tides of ice and frost had already arrived. Stocking their larders with all the food they could freeze and huddling around their wood-fired stoves for warmth, a woman of great vision sat down to work, sipping on tea flavored with peaches she'd carefully cultivated herself to survive the hoary climes. This woman was Astrid Piering, who pioneered the first alchemic-steam furnace, turning the bountiful snow to white-hot water vapor and heating her cabin home with the prototype that would grow the simple town of Vernebury to the massive city of Kellingsholm, named after her late wife who'd perished during the plague.

Her invention brought architects and curious academics flocking to the fair city, and within a decade, the Piering University of Applied Alchemy was founded. Miners and metalworkers followed them, and soon, the simple sound of birdsong died beneath the humid tune of industry. The other Piering daughter, a visionary in her own right--perhaps owed to being raised alongside her sister, who possessed a certain singular madness--ascended to governorship, a post which only grew over the next twenty years, until she was the leader of a small nation, living in the frigid wastes that all other countries--short sighted and war-minded--had failed to claim.

This was a hundred years ago. The burgeoning country of Fumereach declared its independence from the Amblesby Monarchy, who sought war in reprise--but went to war in the winter, and created only casualties for themselves as they failed to breach the brass-and-steel walls of Kabering to the south. The war ended without a single shot fired from the side of Fumereach--as they would have it--and they were left to maintain and grow their small nation, seen now as an international resource of erudite knowledge, massive conservatory refuges and national parks, and an alienage for refugees caught up in the cutthroat politics of the outside world.

Though birds no longer live in the cities themselves, massive community-led apiaries have ensured that the simple birdsong can be enjoyed yet still, as the Congress of Academics has placed special care into sustainable growth and preserving the natural wonders, even in the wake of their substantial progress. Steam-pipes intermingle with coiled branches, as streetsides remain temperate even in the thick of winter, a thick coat of warm steam enveloping every street and alleyway.

It's a new era for Fumereach, as creature comforts are largely accounted for, and their eyes turn towards the stars. The first space shuttle is set to be launched in three years, and great advancements have been made in the alchemological pursuits, with all flavors of tinct and potion to cure what ails the commonfolk. Though alkahest remains unfounded and gold untransmuted, it was perhaps the solvent to strife that became the greater goal.

Steam-Clouds in Staccato is a dreamy little story about pleasant things. Scenery and simple problems, about times where things like politics are no true danger and the troubles come from stumbling in our stride, not falling behind. While, of course, bad things will happen and there will be difficult times, this is ultimately a kind-hearted comedy with the intention of producing moments of earnest humanity and overcoming the day-to-day. Plus, the feeling of braving the frontier, meeting new creatures and blazing new trails is naturally inherent. Just thinking about writing this one gives me the warm fuzzies.

Death comes for all--some sooner than most. As we walk that finely-threaded line, our days coming to life before us as our own clock approaches midnight, we strive to find value in the suffering of limitation, yet similarly fear an unbounded eternity with our own thoughts. Through life's cryptic triptych--its commencement, journey, and bitter conclusion--most spend a great deal of their time avoiding their conclusion, offering days upon weeks upon months upon years of their journey in the hopes of extending it. This brutal irony spread itself before you, written in mortal ink as your dying eyes rested upon the fine red of your mortal coil undone.

But, in gruesome truth, no rest lasts forever. Even eternity must eventually slip away into a further unknowable, beyond time, beyond space, beyond paltry concepts like 'here' and 'now.' In that unfathomable infinity, inside that outer dream, exists the soul. On puppet-strings did your mortal form walk, stride, sing and dance, and when the performance came to an end, when the strings wore themselves to breaking, twisted and tangled in their own special way, they were woven into a tapestry of being beyond being. The soul. The truth of which we are all comprised.

The soul thinks, the soul knows, the soul is. Yours, nestled with countless others, sits in brutal purgatory, where the end never comes. Where hunger never ceases, where thirst never quenches. Spirits older than you have braved its depths and come eventually undone, dissolving into the soil when their tight arabesque came to tatters, when their grip loosened and the threads fell to the nothing from whence they came.

The world cried to you, 'Encore!'

And it is your encore to perform. Gods, kings, and madmen alike thread themselves between hill and vale, building endlessly intricate webs of sin and hedonism, bloated with the aimless untruth of those too weak-hearted to set foot upon that stage once more. In the crucible-catechism of undeath, it is up to you to walk these streets and find life again, or build a home for yourself among the wraith-stained cobblestone and resign yourself to your hunger... Or, perhaps, to find one whose strings intermingle so cleanly with yours, O puppet-twine in twain.

Humour-Slick Nepenthe is a spooky little thing. Aesthetically big on the Bloodborne / Tim Burton vibes, it's a thoughtless thought piece that's all about the gruesome and the grim. Horrors abound as you wander the streets and alleys of Purgatory, meeting all manner of spirits, some twisted, some warped, some no longer anything approaching human, and still more having never been. A dark and calculating walk through the graveyard that plays with concepts like soulmates and what comes after death. Plus, there's always leaning into the monstrous nature of Purgatory and getting into cool fight scenes if that's your thing.

Perhaps we are merely puppets on strings. However, perhaps it is not a marionette's tine we tug, but rather the chords of the heart that we pull apart. Theatre is the art of reenactment, of breathing life into stories long dead. We gain insight into their writer's mind, into the souls of those we touch, into the impressions left soaked into the stage, an imprint of who we were—and for a moment, the role, the 'who' we assumed.

In one particularly ancient theatre, a hole-in-the wall of old-town long since swallowed up by skyscrapers and laundromats and left defunct but never demolished, those impressions positively saturate every pore of the hall, suffused by the thousand souls who stepped upon its stage and bore every inch of themselves for their art. The Theater Lily-white, named for its immaculate alabaster curtains and floor. That floor remains as fresh as its fashioning, to this day. The Theater is a thing out of time, out of place—but exactly where it needs to be.

Many say the Theater is haunted. That ghosts wander the halls, begging for sweet release. That could not be further from the truth. The Theater is no haunt for weary souls. It is a home for the passion of all those before it. Stepping upon that sacred, bleached surface spurs even the greatest stoic into reenactment, into finding a voice for the voiceless and bringing one's own inner poetry to bear. But it is more than that—for the right people, at the right time, it is a portal to worlds beyond reckoning, for those who know the steps and the words to speak. To costume oneself in the fantasies of others, and traipse through their deepest fathoms.

But beware, for fathoms deep is not a place of safety and solitude. It is where monsters lurk—the darkest parts of their psyche, brought to bear in nightmarish regalia, sowing chaos and binding them to the stage bleached white by the salt of ghostly tears. Fears and longing can be fought, but never defeated. It is reason—it is passion, belief, and empathy—that can soothe the discordant melody of ghostly woes, and bring—once and for all—their play to its final close.

Stage Presence! What if Beastars was Persona, but also some Inside-Out Paprika shit? I was wondering how long it would take for me to get to a trippy dreamscape plot, and this one is it. Lots of bittersweet moments, dealing with sorrow, death, and regret, but also a message about what makes life worth living and bringing peace to the restless. I naturally vibe with this sort of thing. Plus, we need more stories where heroes deal with monsters through alternative conflict resolution rather than incredibly direct conflict resolution.

I'm just saying, He-Man was a really swell guy and had some good ideas. He had a sword the entire time and never used it.