The deal was struck, the bargain made, and Rukiya followed Hyleastus Asidi out of the Trade House. The Light Above had vanished and dusk blanketed Clashwind town, pushed back only by the now burning metal torches that rose along the street. The cloud-sea was high that evening, the swirling gray mists curling over the edge of the island and drifting upwards to meet with the curtain of clouds that was the sky.

Greedy Hyleastus Asidi took Rukiya to the great stone walls of Clashwind town, down dark and shadowy streets until they reached a small wooden door. Here he knocked three times, like this. The door opened, and Rukiya could hear whispering. The sound of clinking metal reached her ears, and then Hyleastus Asidi bid her follow him through the door.

On the other side of the wall was a guard and a horse. Hyleastus Asidi mounted the horse, and pulled Rukiya up after him. Taking a lantern from the guard’s offered hand, he kicked his heels against the horses flank, and the two of them rode off down the hill towards the edge of the island.

Now I must tell you of the Eroseans, once a proud people, who traveled from their distant island to many a land in the great cloud-sea. They knew the art of trade and built an empire of coin to whet the lips of the most greedy of men. There are few Eroseans who can withstand the lure of money, and so across the many islands they traded food and fur, silks and perfume, jewels and steel, animals and stories of heathen nations.

But the Eroseans were no savages, and so they had learned the secrets of the Trade House.

Rukiya had not understood the Trade House, because it was a very Two-chin idea; to have an entire building devoted to offering goods and accepting bonds. For the Orenda people, it was their way to swear one’s word and the deal was done. For the Two-chins, one’s word was not enough; you also had to be in the right place.

Now you should know that Rukiya had left her village many times. There was not a span of Oleni or Orem that she had not felt under her feet. Yet today she journeyed alone, without adult or gathering of children. She had never wandered far from home before, alone.

Poor Rukiya, she had expected a sense of thrill or delight, traveling for the first time by herself. Now she was a woman, free from the firm grip of her father; but she felt no joy, no happiness.

Why not?

Who knows? Perhaps her mind was so worried about her uncertain future, she could feel no joy. Or perhaps she would not let herself rejoice while Old Wana lay sick. Or perhaps Rukiya had learned well the secrets of men, and so thought that to be brave was to walk with grim determination down the long and winding path. The day was young, and the light had only just begun to bathe the land in a misty glow. Young quayla darted out and back from the forests, plucking fallen seeds and grains once hidden by the frosts, and preparing once more to fly free in the cloud-sea, high above and below the floating islands like fish in a river.

Hearken and hear the tale of Rukiya, she of Puddle Tears, wise woman of Lergos, caller of storms, Phalamili, scourge of the empire, midwife of the Wailing Hour, Ada, shackle-breaker, she most fortunate, mother, daughter, and friend; But before she earned her many names, before the scars and wrinkles covered her skin like the bark of a tree, before legends were whispered of her among the many floating islands of the cloud-sea, her only name was Rukiya.

She only had one name? Why?

Because it was the way of the many tribes of Lergos, who called themselves the People, to give only a single name to their children. From the nomadic Onwatomi to the steadfast and bloodthirsty Biret, there was never a need for a second name; Rukiya was Rukiya, and she was of the Orenda people.

Ah, colonialism.

Anti-colonial texts are hard to write, especially when you yourself are a colonialist. In a very real way, anti-colonialism is not my wheelhouse. It is the purview and right of the colonized to write powerful and sweeping tales of overcoming colonialism, patriarchy, and religious bigotry.

Of course, it is hardly exclusively the duty of the colonized to do all the heavy lifting. Allies must share and uplift the voices of the persecuted, not subsume or claim their words as one’s own.

And naturally, it’s all a spectrum. And boy howdy did I hit the wrong end of the spectrum on my first draft of The Stormcallers.

Brindlewood Bay is a game that, to quote the website, “…combines Murder, She Wrote with H.P. Lovecraft.” You play the roles of a elderly women book-club, who regularly meet to discuss their favorite murder-mystery series of books. As de-facto mystery experts, the gang is constantly drawn into (or push their noses into) the murders that strike their quiet little New England town.

The H.P. Lovecraft part comes in with the Dark Conspiracy; a secret and occult plot that is behind every murder, and threatens to destroy the community if the players don’t thwart it. Along with all the clues you collect for each mystery, you sometimes find a “dark clue” — a sigil, a dagger, a note scrawled in an unfamiliar language — that brings the mysterious and evil plot more into focus.

Titles are an interested etymological study.

Consider that we use the word “human” to describe our species as a whole, “woman” to describe the female of the species, and “man” to describe the male. Wouldn’t it make more sense to say “man” is our whole species, while “woman” is female and “human” is male?

That was how it was done in Old English: “man” was separated into the words “wereman” and “wifman.” (Note that I’m being general, here. This is not a detailed explanation, nor is it meant to be precise. If you want a longer and more detailed/accurate explanation of old english words, please go to a primary source, or a work dedicated to the subject.) to designate male and female. Wifman became the word “wife,” and wereman became…well, at some point we dropped the idea that males needed to be defined seperately from the species. “Man” became both non-gendered and gendered, depending on context.

Think about what this does. It implies that “male” is the default, that “man-kind” is the baseline expectation, and that being a “wo-man” is to be different from a “normal-man,” or a man. This encourages viewing females as an “other,” a being that requires special treatment of some kind, leading the way to thinking women shouldn’t read or study, be given the right to vote for how the world is run, or be allowed to speak their mind with benefit of the doubt.

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press. The following is a list of the card draws and rolls taken during play that resulted in the transcribed narrative:

A relatively simple game, Caveat Emptor has a lovely aesthetic and game-play hook. Playing the devil who twists mortal’s wishes and desires with cursed trinkets is a staple of old tales and legends. Simple doesn’t mean easy, however, and rolling a 5+ on 3d6 happened less often than on a 2d6 for this game. A statistical outlier, sure, but it made for an interesting dynamic. I felt the same confusion Ohog did when what should have been an easier sell turned out poorly, and a tricky roll turned out well.

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

“Well, today wasn’t so bad.”

Ohog didn’t answer. The raven hopped from one foot to the other in discomfort. He wasn’t one for placation — wisdom and guidance were supposed to be solutions in themselves — but something in Ohog’s dark and plaintive mood was drawing a new and painful emotion out of the bird. Whatever it was Ohog was feeling, he wanted them to stop.

“Really, if you tell Mephistopheles what’s going on, you might get a promotion!” The Raven clacked its beak in optimistic support. “Think about it. How many years have they been sending devils here, ordering them to keep a low profile and sell subtly?”

“Over a decade…”

“Right…” the raven cocked its head. He wasn’t entirely sure Ohog had intended to answer his question, but… “Right. Think of all that wasted effort! Now you can drop your human disguise and sell openly! Why, you could even make the curses selling-points! More people might show up if they knew what curses they might get. This could be the start of a whole new market!”

This story was made using the solo RPG Caveat Emptor, by Exeunt Press.

The next day had started off bright, warm, and perfect to go shopping. Ohog had unlocked the shop with a spring in their cloven step, and a whistle on their infernal lips. They had woven their human disguise about themself with an extra flourish for fun, and waited patiently for their first customer. They had felt good for the first time in some time, and they didn’t know why. Somehow, they were certain that good things were headed their way. (Not in the moral sense, of course; they’d have been depressed if that were the case.)

It only took a few minutes before the door opened, and Ulrich Monau the Elder stepped into the store. Ohog was nearly giddy with delight, as the man’s deepest desire spilled out in front of him. Lucifer bless the Lutherans, he thought as he beckoned the man inside. “Welcome, welcome, such a wonderful day, isn’t it? Quite wonderful!”

Ulrich’s seething fury was not even chipped by Ohog’s sunny disposition. “Is it? It must be so by Satan’s hand, to mock us all.”

Could very well be, Ohog tapped a finger to their chin. “Why good sir, I can see you are in a foul mood; I hope you are not in some trouble?”