Wind leaked through cracks in the moldering plaster in long wheezing notes, floorboards shifted beneath the assertion of weight. It all smelled of damp to Fox, the long soured sort of stagnant water which had long ago made the transition into slick slime. Bad footing all that, and he was certain he could see the floor sagging halfway across the room, if it wasn’t just a trick of the thin light that made it through the scum plastered windows. Fox didn’t fancy breaking his ankle here, or his neck if the whole of the floor gave out. Maybe he could send that twitchy fucker they’d given him across? Man didn’t have the look of someone who’d last long, and breaking your neck was at least a clean death. Fox never did see why clean deaths were such a problem.
The click of the comms saved Jackal from having to test the floor, not that the man was ever aware of the danger. Fox’s attention turned to a nearby window, which offered a wonderful view of the last decade in grime. A thin voice spoke.
“Red Fox, I'm seeing movement by that snag, the one with the rope. That’s uh, oh—” There was a crack before the comms went silent. Men behind him shifted their weight, from foot to foot, weapons passing from hand to hand. Fox reached a hand and tapped his earpiece.
“Repeat, Stoat.” He said. Silence. Low muttering as Fox turned to face his squad. Five including himself, four really because he was already counting Jackal as dead as Stoat. “Back outside, loose formation, no two of you ever looking in the same direction. Jackal takes the lead.” As basic as precautions got, but hard to know which you really needed before you saw the problem. Jackal jerked as if Fox had struck him, his watery eyes wide. After a long moment he turned and made his way stiffly out the door.
The wind snapped at bare skin as Fox followed the man out. He slid the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, though he didn’t yet raise it. The men spread out, and with all the determination of a convict told to step up to the scaffold Jackal led the way around the building. It was a short walk, silent save for the cut of the wind and thud of boots. The windows rattled as they passed, the weathered walls groaned. Jackal froze as he reached the corner, turning his eyes back onto Fox with a silent pleading. Fox motioned him forward with a flick of his rifle, waiting long enough to listen for screaming before following him.
Stoat wasn’t a corpse, which was a shame for Stoat really. The man stood completely still, one hand on his ear and the other on the strap of his rifle.
“Stoat?” Jackal asked, stepping gingerly towards the man. Stoat gave no reply. No movement. What was the last thing he said? Something about the tree.
Fox didn’t turn to look at the tree, that would have been stupid. Instead, he put the tree in his peripheral vision, and made out what he could. Bone white and stripped of bark, just an old dead tree. Though, it didn’t sway with the wind, did it? No, that’s not right, there was something in the hollow wasn’t there? He caught it then, because he hadn’t noticed that he turned his head and he didn’t realize he had until the eye held his gaze.
Fox tried to scream then, to tell the others to set the tree ablaze, to run. He couldn’t, of course, because there was the eye and if he looked away it would know him.
~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~
This was a land of gods once, long ago when the land was still young and men hadn’t yet learned to fashion bronze into knives. Land of a million gods we were, though it is certain that not that many have been remembered through the ages. Time saw to most of them, fallen first out of fashion or favor, then again out of the histories once the moths had gotten to the scrolls.
Land of a million gods here, though there certainly aren’t that many remembered now. Time saw to most of them, fallen out of fashion or favor for one reason or another, and then fallen out of history once the moths got around to the scrolls. What becomes of these gods then, the ones with no temples, no great rites or rituals, or even a name that managed to tumble into our modern world? The thing is just because a god is forgotten that doesn’t mean that the god has ceased to be. They survive as little diminished things clinging onto the scraps of their divinity, or as grand withered vassals that rest in the decaying seats that had once been their powers. A lucky few never had their followings bled dry by time, though even they are simply echoes of their own grand stories.
All this to say that a forgotten god does not die. Gods are linked to the concepts that gave them shape. How is it that a god of water could cease to be so long as the rivers flow? No, it must be these base ideas that are the final refuge of the forgotten, one final base of sustaining power that exists so long as the concept does. But, that leaves us with a separate question, doesn’t it? What happens to a god when the nature of concept shifts in the collective mind?
Let us think of the crossroads, a place of chance meetings where deals and bargains are struck, it’s a common idea isn’t it, something that appears within many different cultural traditions. This is the seed from whence our current problem took root, the internet too is a modern extension of the crossroads, it is where people connect, where information and goods are exchanged. This twist in the concept would perhaps have been no great complication if not for the fact that the crossroads is a space where worlds meet.
A god of the Crossroads was twisted by the internet, and in turn that god gifted that distortion to all that it could reach. In this twisting the new ideas and concepts of the internet found fertile grounds within the hollow hearts of starving divinities. Is a god of the sea with no name truly so different from a story of a fake seaside ritual spread on an online forum as a lark? At least with the story someone remembers that it exists.
Perhaps you can see how this problem has taken root?
—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—
11th Hour Media began its life as a studio in the latter half of the 1980s, funding a series of production companies making cheesy horror flicks and other supernatural thrillers. It was in the nineties that the media group acquired Deadline News, which provided the public a mix of current events as well as weekly segments about various pop culture topics. There’s more history to it than that, but we aren’t here to discuss the cover for the cabal, are we? Now, the cover has its uses to be certain, perception influences the gods, and the tools we can use against them.
Papillion, as any secret organization worth its salt, answers to no formal government and is well funded by a variety of shady and entirely above the board dealings. Secret societies, you know the deal, a finger in every pot, an eye at every back. This one has its two wings, its two ways of joining, to be touched by a god or to be so damned that no one notices when you vanish off the rolls of the condemned.
For the first, to know a god is to be known by a god, and these are starving divinities, they will not leave you once they are aware of you. They will come for you in time, the corrupted gods, and the only way for you to live anything close to the life you have before is to join Papillion, and if you allow it to be your choice then the organization will provide you some liberties. If you must be conscripted, well, you’ll have time to prove your worth. Still, there are opportunities in being known by a god, deals that can be struck to gain a handful of their dusted divinity in exchange for following that god’s faded structures. Gods always have demands for their worshipers, but something so hungry can be bargained with.
To the second, well, there are plenty of prisons in the world aren’t there? Plenty of bodies there to provide a choice, to join for a chance at freedom or to remain behind bars until justice grinds out its inextricable conclusion. Papillion always needs fresh flesh to put towards its work, and it is pleased to have some that can be spent so freely. If you survive long enough then perhaps you can make a deal with a willing god and make yourself too valuable to have your blood be expended cheaply.
—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—
CS
Name:
Callsign:
Age:
Gender:
Conscript or Volunteer?:
Did you come into this by choice or force?
Inmate, Godtouched or Hunter?:
Were you drawn from the prison population, touched by a god in your day to day life, or were you once an independent hunter?
Equipment and Concepts:
What tools do you use? What concepts allow them to be used against the gods?
Powers granted by god:
Have you made a contract or deal with a god? What does their blessing grant you?
Strictures:
What does god require of you in exchange?
Biography:
Tell all you wish to be known
Description:
The click of the comms saved Jackal from having to test the floor, not that the man was ever aware of the danger. Fox’s attention turned to a nearby window, which offered a wonderful view of the last decade in grime. A thin voice spoke.
“Red Fox, I'm seeing movement by that snag, the one with the rope. That’s uh, oh—” There was a crack before the comms went silent. Men behind him shifted their weight, from foot to foot, weapons passing from hand to hand. Fox reached a hand and tapped his earpiece.
“Repeat, Stoat.” He said. Silence. Low muttering as Fox turned to face his squad. Five including himself, four really because he was already counting Jackal as dead as Stoat. “Back outside, loose formation, no two of you ever looking in the same direction. Jackal takes the lead.” As basic as precautions got, but hard to know which you really needed before you saw the problem. Jackal jerked as if Fox had struck him, his watery eyes wide. After a long moment he turned and made his way stiffly out the door.
The wind snapped at bare skin as Fox followed the man out. He slid the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, though he didn’t yet raise it. The men spread out, and with all the determination of a convict told to step up to the scaffold Jackal led the way around the building. It was a short walk, silent save for the cut of the wind and thud of boots. The windows rattled as they passed, the weathered walls groaned. Jackal froze as he reached the corner, turning his eyes back onto Fox with a silent pleading. Fox motioned him forward with a flick of his rifle, waiting long enough to listen for screaming before following him.
Stoat wasn’t a corpse, which was a shame for Stoat really. The man stood completely still, one hand on his ear and the other on the strap of his rifle.
“Stoat?” Jackal asked, stepping gingerly towards the man. Stoat gave no reply. No movement. What was the last thing he said? Something about the tree.
Fox didn’t turn to look at the tree, that would have been stupid. Instead, he put the tree in his peripheral vision, and made out what he could. Bone white and stripped of bark, just an old dead tree. Though, it didn’t sway with the wind, did it? No, that’s not right, there was something in the hollow wasn’t there? He caught it then, because he hadn’t noticed that he turned his head and he didn’t realize he had until the eye held his gaze.
Fox tried to scream then, to tell the others to set the tree ablaze, to run. He couldn’t, of course, because there was the eye and if he looked away it would know him.
~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~
This was a land of gods once, long ago when the land was still young and men hadn’t yet learned to fashion bronze into knives. Land of a million gods we were, though it is certain that not that many have been remembered through the ages. Time saw to most of them, fallen first out of fashion or favor, then again out of the histories once the moths had gotten to the scrolls.
Land of a million gods here, though there certainly aren’t that many remembered now. Time saw to most of them, fallen out of fashion or favor for one reason or another, and then fallen out of history once the moths got around to the scrolls. What becomes of these gods then, the ones with no temples, no great rites or rituals, or even a name that managed to tumble into our modern world? The thing is just because a god is forgotten that doesn’t mean that the god has ceased to be. They survive as little diminished things clinging onto the scraps of their divinity, or as grand withered vassals that rest in the decaying seats that had once been their powers. A lucky few never had their followings bled dry by time, though even they are simply echoes of their own grand stories.
All this to say that a forgotten god does not die. Gods are linked to the concepts that gave them shape. How is it that a god of water could cease to be so long as the rivers flow? No, it must be these base ideas that are the final refuge of the forgotten, one final base of sustaining power that exists so long as the concept does. But, that leaves us with a separate question, doesn’t it? What happens to a god when the nature of concept shifts in the collective mind?
Let us think of the crossroads, a place of chance meetings where deals and bargains are struck, it’s a common idea isn’t it, something that appears within many different cultural traditions. This is the seed from whence our current problem took root, the internet too is a modern extension of the crossroads, it is where people connect, where information and goods are exchanged. This twist in the concept would perhaps have been no great complication if not for the fact that the crossroads is a space where worlds meet.
A god of the Crossroads was twisted by the internet, and in turn that god gifted that distortion to all that it could reach. In this twisting the new ideas and concepts of the internet found fertile grounds within the hollow hearts of starving divinities. Is a god of the sea with no name truly so different from a story of a fake seaside ritual spread on an online forum as a lark? At least with the story someone remembers that it exists.
Perhaps you can see how this problem has taken root?
—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—
11th Hour Media began its life as a studio in the latter half of the 1980s, funding a series of production companies making cheesy horror flicks and other supernatural thrillers. It was in the nineties that the media group acquired Deadline News, which provided the public a mix of current events as well as weekly segments about various pop culture topics. There’s more history to it than that, but we aren’t here to discuss the cover for the cabal, are we? Now, the cover has its uses to be certain, perception influences the gods, and the tools we can use against them.
Papillion, as any secret organization worth its salt, answers to no formal government and is well funded by a variety of shady and entirely above the board dealings. Secret societies, you know the deal, a finger in every pot, an eye at every back. This one has its two wings, its two ways of joining, to be touched by a god or to be so damned that no one notices when you vanish off the rolls of the condemned.
For the first, to know a god is to be known by a god, and these are starving divinities, they will not leave you once they are aware of you. They will come for you in time, the corrupted gods, and the only way for you to live anything close to the life you have before is to join Papillion, and if you allow it to be your choice then the organization will provide you some liberties. If you must be conscripted, well, you’ll have time to prove your worth. Still, there are opportunities in being known by a god, deals that can be struck to gain a handful of their dusted divinity in exchange for following that god’s faded structures. Gods always have demands for their worshipers, but something so hungry can be bargained with.
To the second, well, there are plenty of prisons in the world aren’t there? Plenty of bodies there to provide a choice, to join for a chance at freedom or to remain behind bars until justice grinds out its inextricable conclusion. Papillion always needs fresh flesh to put towards its work, and it is pleased to have some that can be spent so freely. If you survive long enough then perhaps you can make a deal with a willing god and make yourself too valuable to have your blood be expended cheaply.
—~~—~~—~~—~~—~~—
CS
Name:
Callsign:
Age:
Gender:
Conscript or Volunteer?:
Did you come into this by choice or force?
Inmate, Godtouched or Hunter?:
Were you drawn from the prison population, touched by a god in your day to day life, or were you once an independent hunter?
Equipment and Concepts:
What tools do you use? What concepts allow them to be used against the gods?
Powers granted by god:
Have you made a contract or deal with a god? What does their blessing grant you?
Strictures:
What does god require of you in exchange?
Biography:
Tell all you wish to be known
Description: