Various Stuff

“Oh my GOD,” she shouts, bats screeching at her echoes in the cave. “You are out of your mind. Yes, Bruce, I did that just to piss you off.”

The rest of the family pretends not to be listening, but they are. Bruce’s arms are crossed, a stance of stubbornness and promised retribution. But Stephanie is just getting started.

“I took the time out of my week, as a dual major college student (with a workload coming out of my nose), working a part time job at a clinic,” she rants, “with YOUR former guardian, all the while trying to manage a social life. That’s exactly what I did.”

Someone winces in the background. Bruce opens his mouth.

“NOT TO MENTION,” Stephanie shrieks, “being a vigilante working with the world’s biggest asshole. Oh, I must have done it purposely, because, if not, then the world doesn’t revolve around YOU!” She throws her arms up in the air. “Which we ALLLLLLL know it does!” She pantomimes holding a mic up to her mouth. “Breaking news! Science proved wrong, heliocentrism is a lie. Turns out the earth revolves around one! middle aged! man! More at ten.” She drops the mic, meeting Bruce’s eyes.

The bat are still screeching. The kids are silent.

Bruce narrows his eyes at her. Then he turns on his heel and leaves. (Normally he’d order her out, but he can sense the direction of the wind. His kids would cause an uproar if he tried to regain the upper hand in unfair measures now.)

The cave is mostly silent, but several moments after he leaves a batkid approaches Stephanie.

“Hey.” They look awkward. All the kids do. Constantly apologizing for Bruce without completely apologizing, because that’s how it is. “I just want you to know that we don’t all think that. Bruce was out of line there, you wouldn’t really—”

“Do something specifically to piss him off?” she asks. “Thank you, but I did.”

“what”

“I did do it. On purpose. I planned it.”

The child is left blinking. “But—how would you have time—”

“Oh,” she waves a hand, “I always have time to piss off Bruce.”

“Damn,” someone mutters.

“Good thing he confronted me in front of all of you,” she muses, finger pressed to her chin. She smiles. “Now he can’t ever say something like that again! Without looking crazy, I mean.” She starts to get ready for patrol.

They look at her. She notices their gaze, then looks up at them.

I was driving through Vermont with a friend, and we pulled over at a tiny shop offering Maple Items. We were on the state highway, not the interstate, so "pulling over" meant "squeezing my tiny car into a parking bay the size of a broad highway shoulder."

As we got out of the car, an older woman emerged from behind the building where she had been pruning her roses. She introduced herself as Tammy.

Her shop offered the promised variety of Maple, but also a number of small antiques and a plethora of dog figurines, plaques, and clearly-hand-stitched garden flags.

A huge purple ribbon hung on the wall behind the register, along with many pictures of small dogs. This was no county fair ribbon. It was the size of my torso. The material had the soft sheen of actual silk.

As I placed my purchases on the counter, I asked, "Do you... Breed dogs?"

Yes. She does. She has bred Yorkies for the last 40 years. Her mother bred Yorkies before her. The purple ribbon was from her national championship winning Yorkie.

You may be expecting that the infodump was going to be about Yorkies.

It was not.

It was about 40 years of drama in the Yorkie breeding community. Where – you must understand – the judging at shows is often about who you're in with, not about the dogs. This is especially true when Tammy's opponents win anything.

And Tammy's mother! Well. Phyllis has been on the Yorkie scene since Yorkies were invented. Because of this, many women of equally venerable age hold deep grudges against Phyllis. The sort of grudges that result in episodes of Midsommar Murders.

This led to deep injustices against Phyllis on the part of judges and prevented her dogs from winning so often she retired from the scene. Judging is all about who you're friends with, after all.

After 20 years in hiding, Phyllis – the One True Queen of Yorkie Breeding – hatched a plot. She may have been out of the show circuit, but she was still breeding dogs. She entered an absolutely perfect bitch in the national competition, but sent her with a handler rather than go in person.

None of the usurpers knew who this dog belonged to, and in dog-breeding circles this Does Not Happen. This could have resulted in further injustices, but Phyllis was crafty. She knew this tournament was being judged by a man from the UK, who knew naught of the drama in the US Yorkie Empire.

With these advantages – and being the best dog there – Phyllis's bitch won the highest honor at the show.

Incensed by this insult to their ill-gotten supremacy, the other owners descended on the handler after the show, demanding to know for whom he was working.

"Phyllis," said he.

The name of the overthrown queen evoked horror in the usurpers.

"PHYLLIS!? She's still ALIVE!???"

Yes, Phyllis yet lived, and this bitch – the dog, not the woman – went on to mother Tammy's current dogs. One of whom, Lucy-Fur, is the reincarnation of Tammy's sister (also Lucy). This is certain for two reasons.

Firstly, Sister Lucy absolutely went straight to Hell upon her death, and Lucy-Fur the dog is positively as evil as Sister Lucy was.

Described by legendary fight choreographer and Olympic fencer Bob Anderson as “the best swordsman I’ve ever trained”, and insisted on using a real steel sword to get the movement right. Actually bonded with the horses he rode and worked with over the course of filming. Was noted by cast members as being the natural leader of the actors when they were together. Went hiking and fishing in full costume for the sake of authenticity, even repairing damage to the costumes himself to better convey the life of a self-reliant ranger. Actually learned Sindarin, and speaks it more frequently in the films than any other character including the elves. Is an actual polyglot, speaking four languages fluently and having a passing knowledge of six more. Personally composed and performed music for the soundtrack.

During the fight with the orcs at the end of Fellowship, one of the orcs is meant to throw a knife at Aragorn. There was a mix-up with the props and the orc actor threw an actual knife instead of the blunt prop. Mortensen casually managed to block it with his sword anyway.

As well as hand-repairing his costume, he also was the one who suggested Aragorn have a small bow for hunting, since he lived in the wilderness and would need one. No one else had thought of it.

It was also his suggestion to take Boromir's arm guards and make everyone cry.

Grace: Hey, uh, Rocky…

Rocky: You have a question, Grace my best friend Grace?

Grace: yeah. um. Why does everyone else wear clothes and you. Don’t.

Rocky: oh. That’s because they’re mostly from 🎵🎵🎵 and people are weird about clothes there.

Grace: what

Rocky: in 🎵🎵🎵 they think it’s wrong to have your carapace uncovered in public. Which is stupid. It’s a CARAPACE who cares if your carapace is out. We all have one. My country understands this. I can’t help it if the space program was primarily organized by the 🎵🎵🎵 government because they’re the ones with power and resources so everyone who works at the space elevator thinks they need to wear clothes even when they don’t actually have to.

Grace: Rocky are you a nudist

Rocky: don’t know word. I’m 🎶🎵🎶 and also the Savior of Erid so the 🎵🎵🎵 guys can’t tell me I have to wear a shirt anymore. SUCK IT

Happy Black Fae Day!

I did this as part of a collaboration post with many other wonderful black creatives over on IG. My theme was Warrior Fairy.

Creative Direction and editing by me

It's rude. You're making someone take their time to read something you couldn't bother to write. You're telling them they were so unimportant you couldn't be bothered to actually take the time to say something yourself. And frankly, you're lying about it while you're at it.

That's one of those question where the answer hovers somewhere between "no, with a couple of massive caveats" and "yes, but not in the way most people think".

A lot of AD&D 1st Edition's GMing practices are pretty hardass by modern standards; however, they need to be understood in the context that the game's authors were writing for a target audience who mainly played the game in college wargaming clubs, where players would frequently transfer between groups and group sizes tended to be very large – six players per GM was considered a bare minimum, and up to a dozen player characters in a single party was by no means unheard of!

In particular, players would often bring their character sheets with them when hopping between groups, and it was considered a faux pas for a GM to reject an incoming player's existing character or request any substantive changes be made, so managing expectations could be quite challenging; even as late as 2nd Edition, the Dungeon Master's Guide contains extensive discussion of how to gracefully handle players bringing existing characters with them who aren't necessarily a good fit for the present game's tone or resource economy.

The upshot is that the culture of play these iterations of Dungeons & Dragons are targeting inherently obliges the GM to take a much firmer hand to keep things on track than a pickup game that draws players exclusively from within the GM's established friend group might – and to be sure, some GMs abused these expectations to act like petty tyrants, but some contemporary GMs do that, too.

A big part of the modern perception that 1E and 2E were extraordinarily player hostile, meanwhile, has nothing to do with the previously discussed GMing practices; rather, it emerges from the transition away from that culture of play in a slightly unexpected way.

In brief, back when D&D was mainly played by wargaming clubs, it was fashionable to run pre-written adventure modules competitively at conventions; the competition wasn't between players, but between parties, with multiple groups running the same adventure in parallel to contend for prizes. Tournament play sometimes chose its winners based on the fastest real-time completion of the module in question, or set specific objectives within the module which would award points when completed, a bit like speed-running or achievement-hunting in a video game (though neither practice existed yet at the time).

It was the survival module, however, that quickly emerged as the most popular tournament format. In a survival tournament, each player would provide or was furnished with a binder containing a fixed number of pre-generated character sheets, switching to the next character sheet in the set as each preceding character died; the winning group was the one whose last surviving character's corpse hit the dirt furthest from the dungeon entrance.

Many of 1E's most popular adventure modules, including the infamous Tomb of Horrors, were originally written as survival modules to be run at tournaments in conventions. As such, they were designed to kill off player characters both quickly and efficiently, so as to reduce the likelihood that the tournament would run overtime and get kicked out of the convention venue. When they were later cleanup and repackaged as commercial adventure modules, their text rarely bothered to explain any of this – who doesn't recognise a survival module when they see one?

The answer to that question, of course, is kids who didn't come up through the mentorship system of the college wargaming clubs, but taught themselves how to play D&D from first principles using books they bought at their local hobby stores – and when D&D's popularity unexpectedly exploded in the early 1980s, there were suddenly rather a lot of them!

Why publish survival modules as your primary format of published adventure?

"Because that's what we had -- they were already laid out for publication. Why not publish them and make some money off it?"

Did it ever occur to you at the time that publishing adventures like these would shape the larger D&D culture's expectations of what play was supposed to look like?

"It’s hard to get that context just from reading the original Dungeons and Dragons books. If nine groups learned D&D from the books, they’d end up playing nine different games.

"Mornard told us about an early D&D tournament game – possibly in the first Gen Con in Parkside in 1978? Gary Gygax was DMing nine tournament teams successively through the same module, and whoever got the furthest in the dungeon would win. You’d expect this to take all day, and so Mike was surprised to see Gary, looking shaken, wandering through the hallways at about 2 PM. Mike bought Gary a beer and asked him what had happened – wasn’t he supposed to be DMing right now?

“It’s over!” replied a stunned Gary Gygax.

"Gary described how the first group had fared. Walking down the first staircase into the dungeon, the first rank of fighters suddenly disappeared through a black wall. There was a quiet whoosh, and a quiet thud. The players conferred, and then they sent the second rank forward, who disappeared too. The rest of the players followed.

"The same thing happened to the next tournament team, and the next. Players filed into the unknown, one after another. And they were all killed. The wall was an illusion, and behind it was a pit. Eight out of the nine groups had thrown themselves like lemmings over a cliff; only one group had thought to tap around with a ten foot pole. That group passed the first obstacle, so they won the tournament.

Each of the lyrics comes from an old-time hickory song for fiddles, and is a lyric from that corresponding song.

"Fire on the Mountain" --> "Fire on the Mountain, run boys run"

Fire On The Mountain - Fiddle Player POV

"The House of the Rising Sun" --> "The Devil's in the house of the rising sun"

House of the Rising Sun

"Ida Red" --> "Chicken in the bread pan peckin' out dough"

Ida Red - Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys

"Granny Will Your Dog Bite" --> "Granny does your dog bite? 'No child, no'."

FTC #149 Granny Will Your Dog Bite

And for your furthered education, The Mountain Whipporwill.

in a time before things like radios and record players, every time you heard music was because there was somebody in the room with you playing an instrument. and many, many, many social events involved dancing, which requires music. so, if you're planning any kind of gathering in the american south or appalachia, you need to find a fiddler. and the fiddler's job is to play music that everybody knows and likes and can dance to.

the mistake The Devil makes in his bet with Johnny is that he misinterprets the contest as being about technical ability, so he has this big flashy song. he plays fast and impressively with a band of demons playing unfamiliar instruments in unfamiliar rhythms. he's definitely more skilled at playing than Johnny, and thinks he has it in the bag.

Azulon looked down. His grandson, along with the turtleduck in his arms, looked up.

“This is Agni,” the boy said. “He says you should stop now.”

QUACK, said the duck. It was a strange red-gold. It was glowing. It was staring at him, even through the flames of the throne.

“Stop what?” humored the Fire Lord.

“The war,” the boy said. “It’s killing too many firebenders. Also his sister has been yelling at him, so we should let the waterbenders go, too, and be nice to them from now on so he can get a good night’s sleep and not have her redirecting comets at him any more. Probably we should leave all the other benders alone too because he’s pretty sure it was the air spirits that made him a flightless duck. He says that’s their sense of humor.”

QUACK, said the turtleduck.

“…Guards,” said Azulon.

This proved to be an ill-advised action.

ALTERNATE TAKE THAT WENT NOWHERE AND ISN'T EDITED HAVE FUN WITH THAT: