The Turning of the Stew - Nessa - 5th April
Apr 10, 2022 14:58:59 GMT
Velania Kalugina, Andy D, and 2 more like this
Post by Nessa al-Kiram on Apr 10, 2022 14:58:59 GMT
Meeting evil is complicated. I shouldn’t say that, obviously. I arrive with the radiant light of all creation literally flowing through my veins. The only reason I don’t smite with it is that it’s so paladin to smite and paladins are kids who take things too far at school.
You know when you get the home work, drawing angles or something, and some kid comes in with carefully plotted 3D shapes made from balsa wood. That kid? Born paladin.
Paladins think they can smell evil. But really, there’s no such thing. Certainly not for its own sake. All evil is motivated – even fiends. The torturer, the tyrant, the murderer, the consummate fabricator of fibs – they’re all doing it for something, even if it’s just pleasure.
What amazes me is how amateur evildoers are. Summoning a devil, for instance. You don’t ‘summon’ a devil like a fucking butler. The fact that you’re trying means one might visit you because they’re interested in having direct dealings with you. And no matter how steeped in the blood of innocents you think you are, you really better hope you never come to their attention. Because you honestly have no idea.
What I don’t get is why devils make Hell so unpleasant. Which do you think would annoy the gods of light more? Souls in Hell suffering and wishing they’d been Good? Or souls in Hell partying and thinking, ‘Thank fuck I didn’t bother with all that morally sound behaviour crap?’
I despair sometimes, I really do.
Now, if I was to run a level of Hell…
Hmmmm…. This may not be fruitful line of thought. Celestials have a habit of asking questions like this now and then and it rarely ends well.
I’ll move on to hags.
Horrible witches of wicked intent and ancient origin whose foul magic and mysterious malevolence make them the material plane’s leading representatives of malice and malignancy, they are so in love with corruption that they look… well, awful.
Obviously I’m a tiny bit biased, but… why? Where is the fun in that?
Here’s a case in point. I’d just managed to stop every nerve ending squealing at the top of its voice and, after an interesting conversation with a born again fallen woman, had foresworn sex before even trying it as I suspected I’d explode, when I found myself in the Anvil and Almiraj quietly scorching my innards with some raw homebrewed moonshine.
As a side note, I’m aware I need to get this under control. The blessed Moonmaiden’s ineffable purpose will no doubt be revealed to me, and I strongly suspect it does not involve hooch for breakfast.
Awkwardly, Velania from the temple trips into the establishment and I switch rapidly to tea, joining her at the table and discovering her, Marto from before with the island and the fire and all that unpleasantness, a character called Fog who managed to be both burly and slight at the same and this absolute scene of a male called Kavel whose muscles made Apollo look like a middle aged farmer.
I asked a few polite questions – he was a thick boy, he said. I wondered at this, until he corrected me. “No, not thick boy, thick boy,” he said gently.
That’s what I said, I told him. Thick boy. “No listen,” he said. “Thick boy.”
I tried again. He looked pained.
I did my best. I tried regional accents, stressed different syllables, I even sang it. Finally, Kavel wrote it down – thicc boi.
In my defence, the i sounded a lot like a country twang although I admit the c was a straight fail.
Turns out they were off to a place to do a thing. Now, I didn’t want to seem like I had an alcohol problem, and I am here to do good work, so I didn’t correct their assumption that I was part of the team. Is that a lie? I might need to do some research.
Anyway, what followed was food. Velania had cakes – blueberry in everything but you can’t have too much blueberry in my opinion. Soft and sweet but with a hint of acid, you bite down on one and there’s a burst of juice that’s similar to a mix of red and green grapes mixed together. I was lost.
This elf in dungarees took us to this valley where they had stew. The stew. Oh my sainted days, the stew. The problem with good food, good eating, is that it’s all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals.
Madeleine O’Sheenan knew this. She knew that meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that are charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself. And stew may not be the answer to world peace but it’s a start.
Then in the morning we went into a cave and killed a hag.
By the time we got back to the house, she had reheated the stew. In fact, it was so much better the second day. She’d cooled the stew down in an ice bath overnight then after we’d slain the creature, she heated and served with a few boiled potatoes.
And then Marto gave me a sackful of cash - his share of the pay for the job. It's funny, the seven heavenly virtues of prudence, justice, temperance, fortitude, faith, hope and charity... did you notice what they're missing? Kindness. Generosity.
Also, temperance isn't all that if you ask me.
I don't think I thanked him enough.
There's another one missing. Gratitude.
On the way back, full of stew, I sang one of the old songs. Or maybe it wasn't that old. I’m not sure.
"I've got a sheet for my bed and a pillow for my head
I've got a pencil full of lead and some left over bread
I got water for my throat I've got buttons for my coat
I met a chick who devotes and a magic antidote
I got money in the bag and a beaten down hag
I got a shelf full of books and stew from a cook
I got food in my belly and tho Shar’s getting Hell-y
Nothing's gonna bring me down"
There’s bits of that song you won’t quite understand, I realise. Stuff happened in the cave with hag. But the stew… honestly, if I can just get you to cook a proper beef bourguignon I suspect a tiny bit of my work here is done.
You know when you get the home work, drawing angles or something, and some kid comes in with carefully plotted 3D shapes made from balsa wood. That kid? Born paladin.
Paladins think they can smell evil. But really, there’s no such thing. Certainly not for its own sake. All evil is motivated – even fiends. The torturer, the tyrant, the murderer, the consummate fabricator of fibs – they’re all doing it for something, even if it’s just pleasure.
What amazes me is how amateur evildoers are. Summoning a devil, for instance. You don’t ‘summon’ a devil like a fucking butler. The fact that you’re trying means one might visit you because they’re interested in having direct dealings with you. And no matter how steeped in the blood of innocents you think you are, you really better hope you never come to their attention. Because you honestly have no idea.
What I don’t get is why devils make Hell so unpleasant. Which do you think would annoy the gods of light more? Souls in Hell suffering and wishing they’d been Good? Or souls in Hell partying and thinking, ‘Thank fuck I didn’t bother with all that morally sound behaviour crap?’
I despair sometimes, I really do.
Now, if I was to run a level of Hell…
Hmmmm…. This may not be fruitful line of thought. Celestials have a habit of asking questions like this now and then and it rarely ends well.
I’ll move on to hags.
Horrible witches of wicked intent and ancient origin whose foul magic and mysterious malevolence make them the material plane’s leading representatives of malice and malignancy, they are so in love with corruption that they look… well, awful.
Obviously I’m a tiny bit biased, but… why? Where is the fun in that?
Here’s a case in point. I’d just managed to stop every nerve ending squealing at the top of its voice and, after an interesting conversation with a born again fallen woman, had foresworn sex before even trying it as I suspected I’d explode, when I found myself in the Anvil and Almiraj quietly scorching my innards with some raw homebrewed moonshine.
As a side note, I’m aware I need to get this under control. The blessed Moonmaiden’s ineffable purpose will no doubt be revealed to me, and I strongly suspect it does not involve hooch for breakfast.
Awkwardly, Velania from the temple trips into the establishment and I switch rapidly to tea, joining her at the table and discovering her, Marto from before with the island and the fire and all that unpleasantness, a character called Fog who managed to be both burly and slight at the same and this absolute scene of a male called Kavel whose muscles made Apollo look like a middle aged farmer.
I asked a few polite questions – he was a thick boy, he said. I wondered at this, until he corrected me. “No, not thick boy, thick boy,” he said gently.
That’s what I said, I told him. Thick boy. “No listen,” he said. “Thick boy.”
I tried again. He looked pained.
I did my best. I tried regional accents, stressed different syllables, I even sang it. Finally, Kavel wrote it down – thicc boi.
In my defence, the i sounded a lot like a country twang although I admit the c was a straight fail.
Turns out they were off to a place to do a thing. Now, I didn’t want to seem like I had an alcohol problem, and I am here to do good work, so I didn’t correct their assumption that I was part of the team. Is that a lie? I might need to do some research.
Anyway, what followed was food. Velania had cakes – blueberry in everything but you can’t have too much blueberry in my opinion. Soft and sweet but with a hint of acid, you bite down on one and there’s a burst of juice that’s similar to a mix of red and green grapes mixed together. I was lost.
This elf in dungarees took us to this valley where they had stew. The stew. Oh my sainted days, the stew. The problem with good food, good eating, is that it’s all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay. It’s about sodium-loaded pork fat, stinky triple-cream cheeses, the tender thymus glands and distended livers of young animals.
Madeleine O’Sheenan knew this. She knew that meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that are charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself. And stew may not be the answer to world peace but it’s a start.
Then in the morning we went into a cave and killed a hag.
By the time we got back to the house, she had reheated the stew. In fact, it was so much better the second day. She’d cooled the stew down in an ice bath overnight then after we’d slain the creature, she heated and served with a few boiled potatoes.
And then Marto gave me a sackful of cash - his share of the pay for the job. It's funny, the seven heavenly virtues of prudence, justice, temperance, fortitude, faith, hope and charity... did you notice what they're missing? Kindness. Generosity.
Also, temperance isn't all that if you ask me.
I don't think I thanked him enough.
There's another one missing. Gratitude.
On the way back, full of stew, I sang one of the old songs. Or maybe it wasn't that old. I’m not sure.
"I've got a sheet for my bed and a pillow for my head
I've got a pencil full of lead and some left over bread
I got water for my throat I've got buttons for my coat
I met a chick who devotes and a magic antidote
I got money in the bag and a beaten down hag
I got a shelf full of books and stew from a cook
I got food in my belly and tho Shar’s getting Hell-y
Nothing's gonna bring me down"
There’s bits of that song you won’t quite understand, I realise. Stuff happened in the cave with hag. But the stew… honestly, if I can just get you to cook a proper beef bourguignon I suspect a tiny bit of my work here is done.
