On the day in question, Edmund was sitting quietly in the Library, working through a curious contradiction in two separate editions of a book on Aqueous Vitaes in the brain, when a voice made of meringue and steel wool broke through the silence.

“Edrum!”

“Edmund,” he reminded Victrola as she bounded through the stacks towards him. “Edmund Moulde.”

“That’s what I said,” Victrola smiled with saccharine glee as she tossed her curly hair behind her ear. “I have wonderful news! I got a ten on my paper on Advanced Acrimony,” pride shone off her pale face. “She said it was inspired!”

“If you say so,” Edmund said. He had thought it a fairly obvious observation.

When Edmund awoke, he knew exactly where he was. This was in direct contradiction to expected behavior of any child thrown into a new world over the course of a single night, but he didn’t have the time for such formalities.

Instead he engaged in his usual morning routine: first, he looked at his notebook.

Sure enough, during the night his sleeping brain had tried to wake him with any number of sudden thoughts, concerns, ideas, and the like; but his hand had caught them all, trapping them in ink before his rest was disturbed.

You have to be careful in the Steamworks. It is a belly filled with brass and steam. Towering pipes twist and turn like yarn through brick walls and floors. Concrete walls and iron doors, bars like a prison. The heat, sweltering and pure, scouring your skin free. It is enough to drive you insane. I thought I was insane, once. That first day, when I had taken the King’s Shilling and become a City Engineer, I crawled through the hole in the ground down the slim ladder with rungs as thick as bottles.

For six hours the train traveled through the countryside, stopping at various towns to pick up and drop off passengers.

Edmund left Moulde Hall on the thirty-first of August. In proper British fashion, it was raining.

Edmund was an orphan from birth, as was fashionable at the time…

A whole new website design!

Yellow. Burning yellow. With a sharp sliver of black dividing the topaz jewel, the cat’s eyes slowly blinked in the flickering firelight. “Patience,” Rufus muttered, half to himself, half to the cat. “Almost there. Almost.” It had become a mantra, a holy psalm that spurred Rufus’s actions ever onward. It kept him going, moving in the dim candlelight when his strength had all but left him. Almost there. Just a few more tests…

With my RPG treatise finally complete (or at least as complete as anything ever is, in my head…) it is time once more to return to the dark and twisted world of Edmund Moulde, and the second book of the Macabre Quadrilogy. In many ways, this book was supposed to be the first book in Edmund’s story. I had imagined a very Rowlingesque (sans bigotry) opening of the odd little Moulde boy being tested after he used the chemicals from his sister’s makeup kit to revivify his dead pet rat.

Wait, wait! Not finished yet, I guess… Call it an errata, if you wish, but the truth is there are simply too many games and too many complex aspects of RPGs to ever really be “finished.” Even in the process of writing this, games have come out that are far better examples of, say, experiments with Game Balance or explorations of real-time than the examples I used. And that’s nothing compared to the subjects I haven’t even broached.