This story was made using the solo RPG Last Dispatch, by Symbolic City.

Yoli pressed play on their hand-comp again, replaying the speech from the beginning. It was a bothersome chore, but Yoli had heard enough political speeches that they had learned how to quickly pick out the important clues from seas of platitudes.

And there were a lot of platitudes. The newly elected Chief of the Lifeboat Corp, Henne Loann, had used their victory speech to express their intended manifesto for the future of Tethys Station, and it had not gone over well.

Most of what she said had been the same banal assertions of maintaining the station and fulfilling their duties to all who lived on it, but some fool on her team had ignored the political situation. Any other year, the speech might have flown; this year, her constant reminders of the importance of the Lifeboat Corp read as condescending.

This story was made using the solo RPG Last Dispatch, by Symbolic City.

“Mr. Holss?”

The pepper-haired man looked up from his meal, setting down his knife and fork. “Yes, Ms…Yoli, was it? Have a seat.”

Yoli sat down, making sure their hand-comp was in full view of Mr. Holss. “I wondered if I could talk with you about —”

“Professor Morliss and her protests?” Holss nodded his head. “Certainly, certainly. I think she’s fear-mongering, of course. both myself personally and Fresh-Co officially denies her suppositions as baseless at best and absurd at worst.”

Yoli gave a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose you would. Actually, I’m here on a more recent matter. A source has informed me that you were officially replaced as Regional CEO of Fresh-Co at the last board-meeting. Any comments?”

It was said that across the Five Worlds of the Empire of Ever and Always, that there were over a Thousand Houses, each given their own seal and dictum by the Ever Lord Himself. They each had their own ways, their own codes, and their own customs. Some ate large meals of meat and wine when the sun hung overhead. Others sat down at dusk to eat large stews of nuts and vegetable. Some devoured raw fish, others charred roots.

All who resided in the Ever Palace ate at the same time. It didn’t matter which House they belonged to or what customs they practiced, the largest meal of the day was always served at Eve’nBell. There was not a soul allowed out of doors while the evening meal was eaten, nor after, until the dawn broke the next day.

Lippothalus, personal Hand-servant to the Archduchen Belah Tharghem, knew better.

The law of the Ever Lord was universal, yes, but too did it need to be selective. While the curfew was strictly enforced, it was impossible for the nobility of the Empire to remain still and silent. Messages were slid under doors, meetings were held under cover of darkness, all with the security of honor and title.

The perfect irony of the Ever Lord’s curfew: those who had more reason to defy it had the least to fear from its enforcement. Night was not when the Empire slept, simply when it closed its eyes.

And what happened with eyes tightly shut, well…

This story was made using the solo RPG Last Dispatch, by Symbolic City.

Yoli’s head throbbed. Their eyelids struggled to remain open as they stared at the glowing comp-screen, the words blurring together in a mash of nouns and verbs. It was garbage, all of it. They wanted so desperately to trash the whole file and start again — properly, this time — but they had a deadline, and important things were happening. It didn’t take Yoli’s usual clever nose for news to smell that.

Tethys Station was one of the most important Megastations from the old era. Its history was fascinating, its culture complex, and its daily life a drudgery of monotonous ritual. There was good reason for that; Megastations were carefully balanced ecosystems. All stations were, but the Megastations were at a crucial tipping point: not so robust that they could withstand sustained damage, nor so fragile that they couldn’t support untrained personnel.

Gouli-Fen is one of the more difficult places to reach in Eddling, largely because of the regions’ steadfast resistance to infrastructure. Tourists would do best to find a train or bus to nearby Proosh, and then charter a carriage to Kch’lori’s Rest, a small outpost on the edge of Gouli-Fen. There, you will be able to find guides, carts, and Murkmuckers who will be willing to ferry you throughout the region.

Please beware! The locals know the region far better than any foreigner; it may be alluring to hike out into the wild to travel between some of the closer towns, but this is an incredibly risky choice to make. Even when paths are well signed and supported by wooden planks or even stone bridges, the swamps of Gouli-Fen are harsh and unforgiving to novices. Even people who have lived most of their lives in the swamps can fall prey to the shifting bogs.

Mura adjusted her grip on her rifle.

She was one of four in her family who had taken to the art, the rest had made do with bows, swords, and spears. Even accounting for her natural talent, she had wished she had been given more opportunity to practice; but they had limited ammunition and getting more was both complicated and dangerous.

Mura’s eyes narrowed as she saw the marching soldiers break over the distant hill, pushing against the windstorm. She fought the urge to press herself down behind the barn rooftop where she lay; hiding would do no good now, and she needed to watch them approach.

Two years. Two years of banditry, as a family outside the Empire. Two years since they had killed a Knight of House Noonan, and was cast out of the Empire as heretics and bandits. Two years of waiting for the day when the Baroner’s soldiers would march down the road with weapons gleaming and deadly to either kill or imprison them all.

Two years of silence.

This story was made using the solo RPG Bright and Terrible, by Rose on Mars.

Bright and Terrible succeeds mostly through its simplicity. All in all, there are only three aspects to each crisis: two factions, one object of desire, and a twist. From there, the player is free to construct whatever challenge or story they see fit. While there is no rule that only one roll can be made for each crisis, I felt it fit well in the confines of an episodic narrative.

I’ve spoken before about my struggle between writing the story either during or after playing the whole game, and in this case I did a kind of hybrid: I rolled up the situation and wrote it down, leading the Exile to their climactic action. Once I had decided what they would do, I rolled the dice and wrote the chapter’s conclusion. I think this process worked well, as it gave me the chance to play with the situation before I knew whether I was writing a successful action or a failure.

As time passed, Atlantis continued to die.

I sank deeper and deeper into the depths. What mattered the Laws of the Firmament if there were no Shining Towers to uphold them? What sense was there in the Ways of the Spiral if there were no dancers to herald them? Who cared for the Honor of Being when there were no people to celebrate them?

Time continued to kill Atlantis, as I, the only one who remembered their great and terrible beauty, slowly felt the images fade in my mind. The Dance of the Spheres became blurry in my memory. The Morning Songs sung by the Avian Choir turned muted. The murals made by painting colored lights in the sky, mere shadows.

Seated once more on my throne, listening to the whispers of my trapped heretic, I spoke again with the Ophidian Sisters. I condemned them for their actions, and demanded recompense. As ever, they laughed and shook their scaly hair.

“Retribution for what, dear sibling? For giving you the spark of fire you needed to solve your dilemma? For giving you the strength to bend the Pirates to your will? For allowing you to end an ancient curse long since past its use? All has come to pass as the Mother-of-Serpents claimed it would.”

Heim Outwater was not a particularly handsome boy. Neither was he especially strong or clever. He was not known as a particularly skilled farmer nor tender of animals, he was a passing flue-player and could dance no better than any of the other awkward boys his age.

Mura was grateful for his lack of special skills, as it made him well suited to be House Outwater’s messenger boy. He traveled often between the farms of the Barony of Noonan, gathering and sharing news as he could. Mura didn’t doubt that House Ashtree was not the only House that saw him less as an Outwater and more as a wandering vagabond, accepting a meal and warm bed for his service.

He was still sleeping in that bed when Mura had woken up to start her morning chores. She didn’t begrudge his exhaustion; He had arrived late last night on his tired horse, bearing the news from the other farms.

Mura had given Heim a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. This made him first blush most furiously, and then stagger when Oklan slapped him heartily on the back with a laugh. It was a welcome moment of levity, considering the news he had brought.

I spent many a day and night with the rock salt pillar. Inside was the mind of a heretic, a villain who had been cast out of Atlantis for crimes greater than any mortal could fathom. I should have been repulsed by it, shunned its mad ramblings and distant thoughts, but by the Shining Towers of Apazil, I could not find disgust in my heart.

I did not feel pity; I was not so far removed from Atlantis that I had forgotten myself. At most I felt regret for myself, that I had come so close to another Atlantean — Oh! — only to find nothing but this eroding soul, a mockery of a companion.

In my lonely madness, I even tried speaking to it. I do not know why I tried; perhaps I imagined the process was not irreversible, that I could bring this heathen back to lucid thoughts. Surely, if any could, it would be I, master of the hammer, diplomat, and changer-of-minds. But no, such dreams were folly, and I soon quit my efforts.

Yet I did not quit my madness; the pillar remained beside my throne, and the whispers of the trapped soul came to my mind every day. I knew not if it soothed my mind or made my loneliness worse, but I was compelled. I turned away servant and petitioner for many a month, consumed with thoughts both terrible and divine.