Ummyeasureok

You must wear exactly as many garments as you have hit points. Take them off and on as you lose and gain hp. If you play a 20 Constitution Barbarian you might want to invest in a lot of socks.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

Clippet or “Clippy” is the eldritch entity that resides in the Office Plane, a demiplane that takes the form of an infinitely tall office building filled with cubicles. Each cubicle houses a damned soul bound by chains of paper clips as they perform mundane paperwork for the lower planes as their eternal torment. The demiplane is reachable through the door of a brutalistic building in the city of Dis on Baator. Clippy does not profit from his work but simply enjoys helping others at the expense of his eternally damned employees. He will often seek out warlocks to aid in hopes that they will seek business with him in the afterlife.

Clippy Patron Warlock Features

Assistance: At 1st level, you can use your action to focus on one humanoid creature of your choice other than yourself within 30 ft. of you. Using your concentration, you provide aid to that creature. That creature may add 1d6 to any one damage roll of their choice during each of their turns.

Desktop Divination: Also at 1st level, you can automatically detect when a creature within 300 ft. of you is writing something and the nature of the inscription, but not its precise contents. For instance, you can determine that someone is writing a letter but not the contents of the letter or to whom the letter is addressed. You instantly learn the direction and distance to each writer in range relative to you.

Template: At 6th level, you can create templates of your spells to easily replicate them. Each time you complete a short or long rest, you may instantly create a spell scroll of any one spell from your list of spells known called a template. Any creature can use the template to use the spell scroll, even if they cannot normally cast spells. You can only have one template created at a time but you can change the spell stored in the template whenever you finish a rest.

Save Your Changes: Starting at 10th level, when you cast a spell with a duration of 1 minute or longer, you may immediately take 5 points of psychic damage to double the duration of that spell (up to a maximum of 1 hour).

Don’t Show Me This Tip Again: At 14th level, you can use your action to attempt to banish a creature. You target a living creature with an Intelligence score 4 or greater using your action. That creature must make an INT saving throw. On a failed save, the creature vanishes and reappears in the Office Plane (the home of your arcane patron). The creature remains there as long as you maintain concentration up to 1 minute. While banished in this way, the creature takes 3d10 psychic damage at the start of each of their turns. The target can attempt a new saving throw at the end of each of their turns, escaping on a success. During each of your turns, you can use your action to impose disadvantage on the creature’s next saving throw. If the creature is reduced to 0 hit points while banished or if they are banished for an entire minute, the creature becomes eternally trapped on the Office Plane where they are slowly transformed into a paper clip, one of the many that form the endless paper clip chains that weigh down the souls of the damned. Once you use this ability you must finish a long rest before using it again.

Spells

Chains of the Office Plane

3rd level conjuration

Casting Time: 1 Action

Range: 120 ft.

Duration: Concentration, up to 1 minute

Components: V, S

You call upon the paper clip chains of Clippy to bind your foes. You choose up to five large or smaller creatures within range, each no more than 10 ft. apart from at least one other target. The creatures become linked to one another in one long chain. Each creatures becomes linked to the nearest other target. If two targets are the same distance from one another, you choose which ones are linked and how, as long as it produces one unbroken chain. All linked creatures move at once when one target moves and cannot move more than 10 ft. away from a target they are linked to. This unique movement expends the movement speed of all creatures in the chain until their next turn. An affected creature can attempt a STR saving throw using their action during their turn to break themselves free from the chain. On a successful saving throw, all creatures linked to that creature are no longer linked to that creature.

Conjure Office Supplies

Conjuration cantrip

Casting Time: 1 Action

Range: 5 ft.

Duration: 1 hour

Components: V, S

You summon your choice of either Calligrapher’s Supplies, Cartographer’s Tools, or a Forgery Kit. You also conjure a writing desk in a space within range. Only one set of tools and one desk can be summoned using this spell at a time. You may dismiss the summoned objects using a bonus action.

Clippet’s Magnificent Cubicle

7th level conjuration

Casting Time: 1 minute

Range: 5 ft.

Duration: 8 hours plus half an hour for lunch

Components: V, S

You create an extradimensional doorway to a cubicle of Clippy’s Office Plane. The door will only open for creatures that speak the passphrase you determine as you cast the spell. The doorway leads to a 10 ft. by 10 ft. room. The room contains an ordinary desk with plenty of paper and writing implements. A medium sized humanoid employee wearing a collared shirt and khakis and the paper clip chains of the damned also appears in the room. The employee follows your commands to the letter, but at half the speed of a regular person. There are also various magical tools available which allow you to do one of the following:

Shred any one paper or parchment using your action.

Make a copy of any paper or parchment using your action .

Bind up to 100 pieces of paper or parchment together into a book using your action.

Cast Scrying (save DC 17) on a crystal cube located on the desk.

Invocations

Clippy’s Binding Blade: (Clippy Patron, Pact of the Blade feature) You can summon a pact weapon that takes the appearance of sharpened paper clip with a hilt. Whenever you deal damage to a creature using this pact weapon, the creature must make a STR saving throw against your spell save DC or become restrained until the start of your next turn and take an additional 1d6 bludgeoning damage from the attack. Summoning this weapon takes a warlock spell slot and lasts for 10 minutes.

Paper Clip Familiar: (Clippy Patron, Pact of the Chain feature) You can summon an avatar of Clippy for your familiar when you cast Find Familiar. The avatar takes the form of a paper clip with eyeballs riding a floating sheet of paper. The familiar has the same statistics as an Imp but also grants you a +2 bonus to all INT, WIS, and CHA ability checks while it remains within 5 ft. of you as it provides you with useful assistance.

After mass protests, the President of Pakistan was forced to resign, along with many other members of the ruling party.

Worldwide, hundreds of people – many rich and powerful – were arrested.

Billions in stolen assets were returned to the people.

And 82 countries changed their laws to crack down on the wealth hoarding the papers revealed.

(Source here)

To say the Panama Papers accomplished nothing is an insult to Daphne Galizia’s memory. Her work, and the work of the hundreds of other journalists who contributed to the Papers, changed the world.

Disinformation like this is designed to discourage you, to make you feel you’re powerless against the monsters of the world. They want you to feel that way, because they are terrified of your power to make change.

FINAL BRAIN CELL

Kitty waking up