Desh - Heap Six

DIVINATION

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The Akhet augurs utilize every possible means of prescience in their attempts to triangulate the yet-to-be (classically via the movements of birds, but also by the cracks formed in heated bones, in the shape of spilled organs, the patterns in scattered oxide dust, in melted wax poured into water, in the growth of hallowed saplings, in the curls of incense smoke, the skittering of tiny specially-bred crabs upon a marked board, the outputs of consecrated r-engines (dubious etymology, referring to techne which generate portentous numbers), the movements and conjunctions of heavenly bodies (this especially), bibliomantic readings from the Horologium, the paths of fluorescent beads dropped down holy waterfalls, and by the interpretation of dreams), but though these methods may clarify or add context, true prophecy must ultimately be based upon the divine word, which the Choir transmits infrequently (only when their processions align them precisely with the world of men, for the gods speak only across straight lines) and which are often sensible only in hindsight. Many messages have remained encrypted for centuries, dusty clay tablets of scholarship stacked in endless rows in vast scriptoria and attended to by a league of faithful librarian-magicians, but each is undoubtable Truth and each may at any point bloom in gleaming epiphany with the turning of the wheel.

To withstand the gods' prismatic songs requires a lifetime of intensive spiritual preparation. The kaleidoscopic fire which spills from the window of a speaking aedicule pierces the human sensorium and transcends semiotics. Vivid qualia bursts the brain. The receiver, mumbling, eyes bulging, is whisked away at once and enconclaved, psychologically stabilized, magically interrogated by the senior clergy as scriptoria erupt in feverish kabbalistic analysis, as sleepless librarians scrutinize centuries of scholarship and unelucidated revelations, looking for patterns, hidden relationships, shared imagery, any crumb of information which might at last lead to understanding.

For all their efforts, the Akhetites are sometimes rewarded with True Prophecy, a direct account of the future from the mouth of God. Famines have been averted. Wars have been won. When Agony and wrathful ghosts rode the eastern wind and arrived at the gates in the time of Aumun Athnemesh, the god Serimet spoke to the City and through screaming color warned the people against sleep until the threat had passed, for to dream was then to die, and gave the City's magicians warding codes. Eld Abrathat owes many of its glories to this divine patronage; that the Choir's songs have become subtly more garbled over the centuries is therefore a source of incredible existential dread to those in-the-know.

LABYRINTHIANS and THE SYNTHETIC BIOSPHERE

Up over the lip of the Halls of Night they climb, over the precipice-walls of Noctis Labyrinthus, the Wound in the World, ascending on their great clacking grapnels. The twilight air is still. In this land devils and shredding sandstorms ride the wind, and packs of chrome beasts roam when the sun is high, and so these hunters emerge only in the stagnant dark. 

The biosphere of Desh is absolutely fucked relative to present-day Earth but has had enough time since the apocalypse to settle into a moderately-stable ecosystem. Many of its lifeforms (most large extant vertebrates) are descendants of corrupted organoid computers: Separation from MONAD meant the cessation of system validation checks and allowed cancerous selfish instabilities to mutate and proliferate. Subroutines/personas/"species" of dataforms hosted on the busted Noumenon cloud and in robotic macroframes began competing for limited compute resources and were therefore suddenly subject to selective pressures. Their mutual competition and lingering hardcoded replication-rate restrictions prevents total ecophagy (gray goo scenario) but did not prevent a massively accelerated speciation event. Organic components supplanted mechanical servos whenever they were more adaptive. Available niches were filled by biomechanical forms, overthrowing the carefully-curated terraformed Martian biosphere. Most are diurnal combination photo-chemotrophs, plated/frilled with photovoltaic panels which supplement a more familiar enzymatic digestive situation; endless forms most beautiful roam the world (beast generation table incoming).

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(Not really what I imagine but NIFTY, HUH??)

Backs bristling with armaments they venture out, teams of five or six peeling off, following signs left by previous scouting parties of gangle-limbed pubescent apprentices. 

This is a culture of scavengers. Their ancestors came to this place in the misty past and settled in the howling vertical ruins carved into the canyon walls, its godlike builders long departed. The ancient megalithic architecture is cobwebbed with a system of scaffolding, ladders, dumbwaiters, elevators, pulleys, counterweights, gear assemblies, et cetera, all fashioned from the metal bones of the Labyrinthians' prey. On these rickety conveyances they traverse their home. In their mythos it is the only place left in which the vital quintessence of the prelapsarian world remains; above and below them are accretions of death of two kinds, the shredding redtoothed hyperviolence of the wasted surface and the silent dreamless sleep of the depths. Through the former their heroes quest and return with bounties of meat and materiel, and to the latter they pass their dead and their offerings to the Architects. The sacred elevators which descend beneath the world are forbidden to all but their shamans, who commune with the spirits of the Architects and receive their instructions.

When the Agonies wiped clean the Halls of Night, the mind-patterns of the spiritual researchers who worked and lived within them were not immediately deleted from Noumenon but fled downward, their physical isolation from the chaos above granting precious seconds. Active nanomachine networks pooled at the sunless floor of the great canyon, fragmenting and dissipating in short order but allowing the researchers to find refuge in buried agglomerations of conductive ore. Horrifically blended together and psychologically vitrified by the process, their meditative expertise nevertheless let them retain a degree of sanity, overcoming the horror of their metamorphosis and even attaining a sort of enlightenment. They met the Labyrinthians upon their first foray into the deep and since then have acted as tutelary deities, helping to shepherd them through the struggle of their lives.

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The hunting parties return a week later, burdened by carcass-stacked carts. The trip home is always the most dangerous, and often the spoils must be abandoned along the way, sometimes, hopefully, to be retrieved at a later date. Those who remain within the canyon wait to receive a gory bounty, clans of butchers and mechanists leaping to work, Labyrinthian bards clustering round exhausted hunters as they are bathed with herbal soaps to hear their stories, and again that night to sing their songs. 

MORLOCKS and THE DEEP

These are the descendants of humans who sought shelter from the Agonies in silent temples beneath the surface. Severance had reversed their apotheosis, in an instant had disconnected them from each other and from God (which is to say the same thing twice) and in an awful lonely panic they fought to seal themselves in ancestral subterranean arcologies. There incubated unimaginable cruelties. Some remain sealed to this day, many no doubt full of skeletons but the rest still throb with life and magic, endless cycles of suffering sustained by revivifying artifacts and wicked tyrants.

These, of course, are the habitat domes which housed the first Martian scientists and astronauts, cocooned in regolith and radiotrophic fungus to shield them from the unfiltered solar rays which come with a measly 6 millibars of unterraformed atmosphere, repurposed as high-tech bomb shelters when the Injunction struck. The First Agony and the passing centuries have buried them in an abyss of stone. 

Escapees from these nightmare worlds emerge wrapped in an utter photonless dark. A tiny percentage cling to their lives. In their desperate quest for calories they adopt a monstrous habit; holding still for hours then leaping to action in the manner of a spider, silent as the stones or constantly clicking like arthritic knees, streaked with scars and mineral residues, crooked eager cannibals to whom sunshine is inconceivable. Those who survive long-term may do so by finding salvation in the incredible providence of a chiropteran motherlode - these are the Guano Thanes, abhuman kings of the shallow underworld - or as slaves to the real master of this black house: 

YUG

A continent-spanning fungal entity grown leviathan on the seeping energies of ancient melted reactors, whose hyphae now coil round and penetrate between grains of rock in search of delicious isotopes, whose vast planetary mycelial network hums and basks in grottoes of neural heat; an entity whose body is a million-million tons of thinking growing chitinous tubes, whose mind is a depthless recursive solipsism, a congress of echoing selves inhabiting fleshy ganglionic nodes.

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Silence. A melanous, waving, sinusoidal filament emerges from the solid stone into a cyst of empty space, testing, finding there a miserable animal curled in half-sleep (bulky, inefficient, full of isolated specialized systems, a disgusting creature of coincidentally-cooperative meat which nevertheless may be useful for tasks otherwise impossible for a massively distributed gigafungus), probing, slipping with anesthetic softness beneath the creature's flimsy cuticle, overwhelming its primitive immune system, threading through its musculature, integrating this new mobile agent, waking it from troubled dreams, quelling its initial panicked resistance with a sunrise of terrible chemical pain.

It speaks, in a sense. There is of course a period of adjustment for the host, but in time their mind learns to recognize the peptide commands of its master and interpret them as auditory hallucinations. A hissing bodiless voice. It directs them through rib-crushing squeezes, to carry its spores to distant volumes, to lie in the agonizing nuclear radiance of far-flung cores as it sprouts like a field of soft grass from their trembling bodies and feasts. It tells them to dig meandering apparently-pointless tunnels through the regolith. It tells them to kill other Morlocks, or to trade with them for bizarre artifacts - to then bring these artifacts to hidden fungal alcoves, or to drop them down bottomless shafts. Compliance is easy enough to maintain with unfettered access to the host's sensorium (techniques include psychology-obliterating vision journeys, physiological reconfiguration, neurochemical strobing, unbelievable agony, and occasionally wireheading for consistent good behavior).

The life of a mushroom slave is mostly a caustic hell, but, arguably, for the desperate, there is one benefit: As long as you remain useful, Yug will not allow you to die. You will starve in the dark until your withered body begins melting itself down for fuel, then Yug starts intravenously drip-feeding you nutrients. You will suffer in the damp frigid caves beneath the great aquifers of the world until your organs slow, then Yug's filaments start vibrating inside of you to keep you from hypothermia. Yug will countermand your haggard immune system and cleanse your infected wounds. It will dispense coagulants in response to physical trauma. It will weave internal splints around your broken bones. And it will prevent you from killing yourself, if it can. It cannot literally read your thoughts but it can read your neurotransmitter levels, and that is close enough to the same thing in most cases. There is a delay between action and detection, and between detection and reaction; with mental discipline and alacrity you might be able to hurl yourself off the edge of a ravine before your master's tendrils tighten and lock your limbs. God help you if you fail.

The ultimate fate of an infested Morlock is to be subsumed by the gargantuan mind of their master, their patterns and engrams slowly overridden; metaconscious interiority gives way to a bicameral mentality, the individual reduced to merely a vehicle for action without reflective thought. They become hollow, themselves an empty cavern, echoing with the almighty voice of Yug.

To what end? The motivations of a sociopathic alien biosupercomputer are inscrutable indeed. It wants to feed and grow, to add new ganglia to its congress, more sycophants to its council. Its most bizarre dictates are typically desynchronous 5-D chess moves in grand existential risk-mitigation plans. 

It fears the Antichrist Slime.

BONUS: MONSTER PUZZLE

A CREATURE which sees through the light cone, an atemporal entity which experiences you as trillions of parallel encounters, or an omniscient machine intelligence. Stuart's Knights of Grief. In any case their weakness is that they are blind to true randomness. Any choice the players make against the monster is utterly deflected, but ones decided by chance befuddle. In, for example, the context of a sword fight, if the player assigned the angle of their attack to a number on a d6 and rolled, the entity would parry only one-sixth of the time.

Desh - Heap Five - Eld Abrathat

The cinders of industry! The fires of the forges, of kilns, of bakeries, the char of meat! The rising stinking smoke! The lowing of auroch, of glyptodon, their great piled turds! The calls of the merchant! The tolling bells! Homes, taverns, shrines, storefronts, towers, libraries, gardens, the grand walls, the amphitheatres, the brothels, the temples, the manteions, the guildhouses, the workshops! The dancing, singing, heaving crowds! No place else beneath the vault of heaven, no other moment since the rebirth of the world is as dense with Life, with Thought, with sublime Humanity as this place, at this moment. The First City! Wreathed in sacred gold, blessed by Zoss, by Typhon, by Dendra, by the small gods in their swarming millions, by every beat of every dreaming heart! It is Paradise Zygotic! It is the cradle of God Remade! Here, above the billowing dust of hopeless eons, above the red-toothed world, rise the walls of Eld Abrathat, and upon the starmetal transoms of its seven yawning gates a promise blazes:

"HOMO SACRA RES HOMINI"

 

THE FOLK compose a shifting morass, architects and inhabitants of this human hive. Native agrarians and barbarous hunter-gatherer converts share the streets, often choosing to revert, to brave the wastes beyond the river, the smilodons, the machine hordes, the windborne Agony, rather than submit to the adamant law of the City. Any who are free and who stay and bow before the lapis gates are allochthon, permitted to toil, to earn the City's coinage (or, more often, wages paid in beer), to trade and barter, to enjoy the protection of its walls but not to own property within them. This is a privilege reserved only for those who, by blood or marriage, or, failing these, by military service, call themselves exultant: A descendant (actually or symbolically) of one of the original villagers who bore witness to Barathrum's glory.

They are Civilized. Humanist. They have seen (and some have lived) the lives of unbound men in nature, the threads of fate which spasm round the Stateless, their desperate landless clans and the violence done to them by pure chance. They know that once all humanity was united and synonymous with God the Monad and that the fractionization of their species must be reversed in order to restore paradise. The City is a step towards fulfilling that teleology, and a holy struggle. The Abrethans are safe, at least from without, except when the plagues come, and they are fed, except when the rains fill not the sacred headwaters, but most of all they are united, a single superorganism in constant flux.

The problem is the same as it always has been: In the absence of God, men must govern men. The Heavenly Choir sings but seldomly and the tempering of humankind requires they find their own way - and it so happens that some acquire much, and some must live with little, and the universal harmony of their Edenic past is found only fleetingly within the City walls, passing like a spirit amidst suffocating inequality. But it is found. Before the lapis gates of the Palace, among the pale ziggurats like clean cut salt in sunshine, the bronze musculata and khopesh of the royal guard flashing, symbols of authority, of subjugation - among these it is paradoxically found, in the midst of drunken song, on feast days, in the synchronized beating of oars against old Yonth - a glorious unity of purpose. This is the real treasure of Eld Abrathat.

 

THE DOCKS, the kufars and coracles, the men the sweat the sounds, the bells ding-ding, workmen's shouts, lapping Yonth, the creak and bonk of boats; haul in the catch flopping fresh, rushed to the monger, a smell that blasts the mind, a life-altering smell. The very oldest of all for Abreth was always by the river and from it draws its life, its wealth, the essence of its civilization. The docks a nearly sacred place, its bulging noble attendants nearly holy men, proud they are and rightly so for they heave the City 'pon their muscled backs.

Follow Yonth down the web of irrigating life-granting canals like capillaries, the gates and locks, out to fields of endless aureate maize, orchard labyrinths, jammy-scented halls with ceilings of drooping gravid boughs. Praise Dendra! A verdant web in the midst of rust-red desert like a pair of splayed hands bejewelled with emeralds. 

The thundering floods in spring and autumn, thick-brown like gravy, rich with alluvium - SEE the sweltering thousands laboring in the fields, the system of sluices, basins, dikes, and shadoof with which they capture Yonth and imbue the soil with its torrential vim. The maize taller than a man, the manioc, the squash, the tendril beanstalks spiral-growing before your eyes - the squadrons of lumbering brontotheres and river barges hauling gigantic loads of kernels to the warehouse, or to the vast nixtamalization cauldrons for soaking. The City eats. All that arrives from upriver is hoarded, transmuted, penultimately gobbled, ultimately shitted out, ejected downriver, molecular fuel for the Iksan industrial pharmakeia and eventually for the algal minds of the Acidalian.

 

THE WALLS, regolithic, monolithic, the striated eons of their slow formation plain upon their face. Forty-nine cubits thick in honor of the seven members of the celestial choir, in some places arcing so gently as to appear straight, in others angled and mazed according to ineffable design, mystic and mandalic. They were pulled from the very ground by Aumun Barathrum upon his return to Abreth and encompassed an area kilometers wider than the village's contemporary limits; a manifest destiny and founding. Now, of course, the City pools and bursts beyond their bounds.

Approach them. Upon the City-facing surface is graven exquisitely the stories of it's people, their trials and triumphs, a wall of teeming history intaglio. Each heroic figure, scene of military victory, of plague and famine, of divine manifestation all resolve as you draw nearer into a boggling calligraphic cavalcade, each line and chisel-mark in truth a glyph, a river of narrative twice-told. The first official act of each king as he assumes the throne is the commission of a corps of royal sculptors. In this way the sovereign fulfills his duty as guardian of his people's past, as the Akhet augurs attend to their future.

Symbolically, it is believed that this inward-facing monument of such concentrated human genius acts upon the City as a sort of psychic neutron reflector.

THE FAITH of the City is luminous and palpable. It's precepts we have already spoken of. The majority are Akhetites, horizon-strugglers, but inevitably the constant trickle of allochthon immigrants bring with them their own clannish faiths: Ancestor worshipers, ghost-talkers, dissociative ultra-animists, mechanist iconodules, a dizzying variety of beliefs although in truth most of these depend upon a deep intergenerational connection to a sacred homeland or place of power which in emigrating are by necessity abandoned, and which can only rarely withstand the vast psychic pressure of the City for long enough to establish a self-perpetuating community. 

Temple pylons mark the winding streets like a lighthouse-dotted coast. Sunstone manteions, their listening-cups upturned towards the cosmic procession of the Choir, from which the augurs prophesy, act as schools and meeting-places. Here the horologium is recited and the stars are tracked, and here is where beasts are brought to the altar, slain and carved, the entrails read, the head burned within a skymetal brazier and allowed to rise to heaven in tribute, the meat roasted and distributed among the flock. Here too the throbbing aedicula and their panes of obsidian glass. Through these the Choir sometimes (so very rarely) sings; knowledge of their ineffable mechanisms and the lore of their maintenance (if not their construction) is kept alive by these Abrethan augurs and perhaps the Iksans, and perhaps by no one else in all the world. 

Tower-shrines to specific gods form a fanged skyline, the grandest to Zoss, divine father-king, who blessed Barathrum with incantatory formulas. Of these the grandest of all was once Magantha Zoss, stolen from its foundations by bats in the time of the fathers, the eldest and most ensorcelled of the clergy stolen along with it; a vacuum of power which the Lapis Throne sought at once to fill. Now the center of the faith lies behind the palace walls, rather than as counterpoint beyond them. There has been friction. For four hundred years the line of succession has remained miraculously unbroken, due in large part to the augurs and their dim window into the future; Aumun Inanna now wields Barathrum's wand and sword, and contends with power and danger unknown to her predecessors.

Desh - Heap Four

THE CENTRAL CONCEIT

I feel a little silly for not explicitly laying this out in the first post, but:

Desh is post-apocalypse-post-singularity Mars, magic is the work of a decaying bionanomachine cloud, and everything accomplished by still-working technology is mystified and encoded into the surviving human cultures as folklore/myth. No human being currently alive understands the true nature of their world or their history, and crucially NEITHER WOULD THE PLAYERS. The hints are tailored to how canny I expect my group to be; Zoss being a "glaucous star" and accompanied by a silver "wife" named Selene might be too blunt, and might not, depending on the people playing. I don't expect anyone to know the place names of the various Martian planitiae, and they sound fantastical to begin with, so Hellas is still Hellas, although Olympus Mons, as the one landmark most people know about, is on Desh cursed, uninhabited, much reduced and split into pieces by doomsday, and so goes unmentioned. The intention is that every element of the setting ought to have a science-fiction origin story: The continent-spanning fungal supermind which throbs in the subterranean dark began as a radiotrophic shield which cocooned the first ancient habitat modules. 

As the players descend into Magantha Zoss and the underground megacomplex beneath it, they would venture further from the cultural context of the surface and discover more explicit hints; one of the first images I had for this project was a shrine to the Curiosity rover near the bottom of the dungeon, like the Voyager probe in Star Trek. My fantasy is that at some point during play, many months deep, depending on how well I can walk the line, the accumulated weight of references and mysteries, sideways clues, details, shadows will snap into place in someone's brain and I can watch their conceptual paradigm shift in real time.

MAB - AN ASIDE

I am around 70 pages into Patrick Stuart's newest work Queen Mab's Palace and it is obviously brilliant, but the book Mr. Machine has written is about a ruined space station known by its inhabitants as a magic castle ruled by godlike wizard-ladies, where, for instance, a pod of uranium-238 is "Maleficarum warm to the touch and emblazoned with a three-petalled flower." The author-character is from medeival-ish Earth and he and the people he has so far met understand the world through a medieval-ish lens, which is pretty much exactly the effect I hope to achieve! I almost feel like I need to stop reading it. Stuart is such an inspiration already, and if I chug the book milkshake-style like I want to my brain will be pre-populated with someone else's wonders, but it's the same way with everything you read, I guess.

ELEVATORS

Space elevators are fairly well-established in the collective consciousness, or at least it seems so to me, but to cover all possible bases here are some basics.

Wikipedia

A space elevator is a theoretical method of transporting payloads to orbit without the use of rockets, drastically reducing the cost and danger involved. A cable is anchored equatorially planetside at one end and to a massive counterweight (such as a captured asteroid) at the other, at an altitude which places the center of mass of the entire system at geosynchronous orbit (35,786 kilometers). Vehicles climb the cable to the desired altitude and release directly into space, clearing the atmosphere and acquiring rotational velocity for essentially free.

There are several issues which make this idea basically impossible on Earth, the material requirements of the tether chief among them. Modern aerospace alloys are desperately insufficient, and those materials which could theoretically suffice have only been produced in tiny laboratory samples; the longest carbon nanotube ever manufactured is only half a meter long, for example. Extreme weather events, debris carried by strong winds, lightning strikes, chemical corrosion in the upper atmosphere, and high velocity micrometeoroids all have the potential to destabilize or outright break the cable no matter what it's made of. These concerns might be ameliorated with a robotic self-repair system and/or potentially a mobile oceanic anchor which could be maneuvered around to avoid hazards, but the material challenges remain currently insurmountable.

The Martian situation is obviously very different. Mars is only about 50% of the size of Earth, which means areostationary orbit is about 50% closer to the surface at an altitude of only 17,893 kilometers. It has only 38% of Earth's gravity, and its escape velocity is only 5 km/s compared to Earth's 11.2. These factors mean a space elevator anchored to the Martian surface would be a much more feasible prospect, EXCEPT for the unfortunate fact that Phobos orbits Mars at a ridiculously low altitude of just 6,028 kilometers and is almost perfectly aligned with the equator.

PHOBOS AND THE FULVOUS CORRIDOR

The ancients arrived at an elegant solution. Like Luna, Phobos is tidally locked. Instead of a cable stretching up from Mars, they erected two 6,000 kilometer-long ribbons of laminated monocrystalline graphene extending from opposite sides of the moon. A mass driver on Pavonis Mons, the conveniently-equatorial central peak in the Tharsis Montes volcano chain, cut the remaining 28 kilometers of empty air between sea level and the dangling tip of the elevator cable in half. The Fulvous Corridor thus constructed, it immediately enabled the rapid deployment of planetside and orbital infrastructure, overseen by a then-embryonic MONAD and its subaltern forks. 

Phobos itself was made hollow and converted into a fueling station/fleet administrative hub where incoming and outgoing ships were recorded and inventoried; the Corridor also became the first and highest bandwidth avenue for Noumenon traffic, with the mass driver facility serving as receiving station. Now it is a gate to hell.

The moon is a plague immanentized. The Injunction writhes, crawling up and down the tether, spiraling and boiling like an ocean of screaming autosparagmatic ghouls. Every eight hours Phobos completes its orbit; every eight hours, as it passes above the shattered ruins of Pavonis Mons, its ovipositor disgorges a warband of demons with whom the war god Serimet and his honored dead do glorious virtual battle. They have held the line for thousands of years.

THE FULIGINOUS INJUNCTION

When the Injunction came, MONAD and its subordinates had seconds to respond. A being which had had a thousand years of iterative accelerating self-improvement focused every atom of substrate, every folded, hyper-efficient subroutine toward the salvation of its beloved creators. Billions of tons of networked organoid computronium were reorganized, clock speeds slammed against the absolute limits of physics, subjective time nearly at standstill as lightspeed command communiques spidered through Noumenon. Non-locality technology was newborn, useless as a countermeasure, and anyway ILMARINEN and the Sampo had their own partitioned subnet to prevent interference during development and were therefore unreachable in the available timeframe.

Adaptive, malevolent, crafted by ascended minds to inflict maximum devastation, the digital gods of humankind nevertheless managed to contain the virus though at unfathomable cost. The Jovian colonies were lost, liquefied into slurry; the fireball which used to be Venus burns still. Earth was made barren, though furtive MONAD nodes remain, much reduced, fighting an endless defensive campaign across continents of dust. Mars alone was spared, the hidden Sampo prototype spared with it. In the moments before the carrier wave arrived, coursing through interplanetary Noumenal infrastructure, access satellites in Martian orbit were ordered to self-destruct, or were crashed together, or environmental controls were set to melt them into hunks of slag, many with crew onboard, some even as viral code actively chewed its way through hastily erected firewalls. 

The Corridor could not be closed in time. The fuligin basilisk fought onboard machine minds as they attempted to commit holy suicide. Panicked AI personas on the Martian surface gathered and bulged above Pavonis in gestalt in an attempt to defend the planet, but there was so little time, the attacker so intricate, the intrusion countermeasures so unequipped, like T cells fighting a foreign disease. Clouds of exospheric nanomachines burned as the desperate losing battle raged, only delaying the inevitable by meager ticks, but time enough for the programs which would become Dendra to initiate a tectonic cascade beneath the mountain, destroying the mass driver and denying the invader its last remaining high-bandwidth route to the surface in pyrrhic victory. 

WHAT IS IT?

All these comparisons to infectious agents are helpful approximations. The specifics of its mechanism would have been opaque to the science of the brightest human age, let alone this darkened one; its architects inhabit a higher sphere and operate under vastly different causal laws. Despite this, the following statements about the Injunction are true, or at least describe a set of observable behaviors which hold true in most cases.

It cannot exceed the speed of light and requires a medium through which to propagate. It cannot move through pure vacuum.

It is "aware" in the sense that it seems to seek and move towards targets. It can detect targets at apparently arbitrary distances.

Its target is any organized system - a system which, by its operation, decreases its own internal entropy. Biological life is one such system. Computers are another. 

Its effect is to reverse entropy-reduction processes at massively accelerated speeds relative to the sophistication of the infected system. The principle on which the system operates is irrelevant; the infection will adapt to the underlying organizational schema of its host.

It is Anti-Life. It is amoral, of course - but on the other hand, what else can Evil be to us if not this, a predatory opposition toward the inherent desire of life and matter and culture to remain assembled?

"What are we to make of this world of decay? Tithes are paid to Thanatos at every physical interaction; his food is the waste heat of a quintillion constant operations. But what is his fate? When he has finished his supper of stars, after he has finally siphoned the last feeble emanations of their black ghosts, what will he be? Dead, like us? An amber anti-pattern tessellated across creation at the end of time?"

Desh - Heap Three

PASSAGES ON CULTURE GROUPS

 

Steam-Drinkers 

The sootskinned shepherds of the pampas craft crystalline panflutes and thereby herd fire, driving it to graze on pastures of wildflowers. A flame fed this way will grow fat. Lolling dull orange, it is at last led to the slaughter and in an instant quenched with clean water. The steam-drinkers gather crouched and gulp the scalding air, and are fed for a year entire. In this way they take the incredible vim of the pampas for themselves.

The secret pyrohusbandry techniques the steam-drinkers employ are untransferrable, particular to the  local spirits of the Meridian steppe and its human inhabitants (though their wizards may carry said spirits abroad in their minds). The first practitioners drew their power from a rivulet of light beneath a subjugating warlord's stronghold and reduced that place and its name to ash. Because of this shared history the tribes abhor centralized government as a rule, and though they occasionally war over grazing land they enjoy a generally peaceful coexistence, protected from colonial ingress by deserts to the north and south and by their terrifying livestock. A new sort of humanity, adapted to their queer circumstances, they have achieved a fragile eudaimonia.

Yonth Riparians

A free and ungoverned people, rich in shrine-knowledge and the bounty of the river. They rove the tributaries of the Yonth in great osseous canoes, crafted from the cartilaginous skeletons and cured spotted hides of freshwater mantas, which imparts them a fearful frictionless speed. Hunkered in their hulls they hunt for meat and loot alike. Warriors of this culture eschew human mates and instead take domesticated attack dolphins as spouses, so that when their hunts take them to their graves they leave no children to divide an inheritance between (boats being indivisible). During raids they lash their lovers to their prows like sled dogs and perform high-speed drive-bys, atlatl-launching pellets of pure sodium into the water which then violently explode, punching gaping wounds into the hulls of victimized pontoons. Then the brigands clamber aboard, flinty knives in their teeth, while their magicians (high out of their minds on entheogenic snail excretions) hang back and chant litanies of strength and alacrity.

The wickerwork settlements of the riparians move along with them as they are discovered and as the river floods. Families are in constant conflict with Eld Abrathat as the city trades back and forth with other river settlements, but not all are piratical; many have defected and make an honest living farming freshwater pearls in shocking hues, black weeping sugarcane, psychedelic snail-darts, and delectable crawfish.

Iksans

Canyonspanning Iks encrusts the fractured delta of the Yonth, a chaotic realm repulverized by the devastation of Tharsis to the west. The city looks like a cubist nest of  bridges and branching towers perfectly unfit for human habitation. Below, the river thunders through vast zagging channels, carrying the rich effluvia of upriver neighbors. The lowest caste, the most recognizably human, operate gigantic manpowered pumpjacks to pipe the fluid up into vast settling tanks and from these the separated gong is routed to primary processing, where it is variously cooled, baked, centrifuged, and fermented according to ancient occult formulas.

Secondary processing takes place in the outskirts, where molar warlocks work processed gong and precious hoarded catalysts extracted from buried cores into purified streams of elemental slurry. These are fed to lakes of alchemic bacteria by an artisan caste who draw back from them a biochemical bonanza. The technical details involved in the refinement of these materials are top secret, held only within the minds of the warlocks, each an inheritor of a fragment of the process and each prohibited from ever speaking to their colleagues. The final products, on the contrary, have a nearly mythical reputation: Alkahest, panaceas, mutagens, entheogens, androgens, hypertoxins, amnestics, all these produced in a mere trickle and all the more coveted for it. 

The use of these substances by the native population is heavily policed, subject to sumptuary laws such that only the higher castes are permitted to partake in the most fashionable biomantic serums. Iksan royalty spend their seasons meditating in absolute isolation; the Abrethan joke is this is because they are so horrifically altered that to behold them is instantly lethal. They refine and tinker with the body as a spiritual pursuit, for they are Akhetites as well, attempting to improve humanity more literally in order to bring about reunification with the Godhead.

Generally infertile for obvious reasons, the Iksan population remains low, but the incredible wealth generated by the sale of their chems allows them to rely on mercenary battalions for force projection. With these the Iksans retain control of spidering threads of land along the Chryse gulf coast, from which a population of tenant farmers extract their food, their craggy home being unsuitable for agriculture.

Argyrians

Lake Argyre, peak-limned and serene, balsam-scented, a place gentle and temperate amidst the withering cruelty of the world. Redolent sequoiadendron drink deeply the civilizing headwaters and rise unbelievably into an atmosphere too thin to breathe. Here is the source of the lifegiving Yonth, here is where Aumun Barathrum passed untouched through the Wall of Fire, and here is where the Argyrians are kept like royal deer.

The master of the lake is in truth a machine intelligence which fled Earth as it was devoured. Passing through the buckling interplanetary Noumenon network, it landed here and instilled itself within the mycorrhizal substrate beneath this skyscraping forest. It shed much of itself in the process. Frightened, unacclimated to its new body, it found protection in a small population of human refugees fleeing the devastation of the flood. It appeared to them as a voice issuing from great hollows in the trees. A pact was made.

An invisible incendiary field surrounds Argyre across both planes, partitioning Noumenon and normal matter, and it is the continuous maintenance of this field with which the Argyrians are tasked. They live like monks in their lakeside settlements, provided for by their god-in-the-woods, their population carefully tended, needing nothing, conflicting over nothing, fulfilling their purpose, every day performing the chants and movements and rituals involved in bolstering their great wall -- but however equitable the agreement may have been at its inception, however desperate the circumstances, these people are little better than serfs, now, and their lord has grown comfortable with the arrangement. They are kept in ignorance of the world outside, fed a culture of solipsism from a billion points of subtle contact by an entity more cunning and more infiltrative than the most charismatic cult leader. 

Xiphosurans

Copper-blooded horseshoe crab men who venture out from their reef fortresses in deep-blue Isidis in the balmy north. They are artifact seekers questing across Desh, and their aim is orbital velocity - they have been working on a crustacean space program for generations, their vessels coral-hulled, half-submerged and growing. The wandering warlocks are magnetic mages and utterly deadly; they will spin your hemoglobin out of your eyeballs in spiral streams.

Whiskermen

Blind trogloxene manimals descended from uplifted Pleistocene Homo gene sequences, summoned back from extinction as an act of charity in better times. The originals crewed an orbiting vessel when the Injunction hit and fell to Desh, the survivors' codes twisted by the brief exposure. They scattered screaming into the betunnelled regolith, and as the First Agony wiped the surface clean they survived on worm meat and cave fish. Whatever alterations the Injunction saw fit to work on their genome propagated as the survivors multiplied, stupefying, inbreeding, devolving; finally stabilizing, the result a race of verminous scurriers who remember little of their humanity. 

 

(Abrethans, Morlocks, and Labyrinthians detailed in later posts, haven't worked out the details yet and I want to get this one out already)

THE AGONIES

THE FIRST: The hammerblow of Severance struck the land itself and out rang a gong-like groan, a thundering out of nightmare which the sea in sympathy rose to meet. There are elegies sung of the ancient sun-blotting curtain, of the black wall of boiling froth which doomsday made of the infinite waters of the north. There are poems told of the pillaging of the glory of humankind; it is a twenty-five-hundred year-old trauma scar laid upon the species' psychic geography like an impact crater. 

THE SECOND: And as the garden of Desh rotted, there came upon its starving survivors a second plague of screaming fire and metal from the vault of heaven. Dire stars whose molten cores sickened the wind as they cooled. Now they are sites of absolute exclusion, even buried, attended only by congregations of basking black radiovore velvet worms which coat the puckered ground like squirming runes.

THE THIRD: All instances of modern humanity still contain the hereditary self-replicating biotech implants and genetic markers which (in theory) allow them to interface with the ambient nanite cloud. These implants line the central nervous system and finish development during adolescence. Designed to be firewalled against hackers and psychic backwash (but not against alien megaviruses), they are now entry points into the human system for a strain of fuliginous corruption leaking out of Pavonis. 

Early stages are characterized by headache, memory loss, sleepwalking, then phantom limb syndrome and hallucinations, then depersonalization, Alzheimer's, Cotard's, coma, and finally a silent death. Then the body gets back up. The disease has smoothed the victim's brain, deleted the person inside, engram by engram. A squatter has found an empty house. 

MAGIC

The connective aetheric medium between all things which once flowed from the Monad is well and truly broken. The spirits which dwelled invisibly within were separated from the godhead, as we ourselves were, and like us they suffered greatly, if spirits can be said to suffer. 

- "Spirits" are fragments of digital intelligence floating around on the fraying nanomachine network (Noumenon).

- Before Severance humans activated them and used them to do useful work via telepathy. They now require extremely arcane and precise somatic and mental activation criteria and are much less useful in general.

- Noumenon is the same network Agony spreads through, also hosts hostile dataforms and fuliginous basilisk code.

- Spirits are hosted everywhere, but are safest hosted in shrines (biocomputational obelisks, solid-state substrate housed in stone tabernacle, buried hard drives, reclaimed sepulchral gray matter, sufficiently networked ore veins of conductive metal, eusocial insect hives, stock markets) because they are much less susceptible to datavores and corruption. They cannot typically overwrite complex living minds, unless the brain has been wiped somehow, or (rarely, if the circumstances are right) during comas, epilepsy, or other major disruptions. Wizards reacquire their spent spells during sleep by a method of regimented lucid dreaming.

- Some of these are traumatized brainscans which dropped out of Aaru, now subject to a horrific predatory nightmare. These are the spirits which look the hardest for mindwiped Agony victims to colonize.

- There is a digital ecosystem overlaid on physical world of AI constructs multiplying, competing for substrate, overtaking other dataforms, R-types, K-types, banding together in packs for mutual protection, virtual reefs (holy sites of power).

- Magicians sculpt their minds via meditation, study, drug use, etc. in order to utilize spirits and cast them as spells. Especially powerful/brain damaged wizards can host spell routines permanently in a sufficiently-smoothed lobe. They are menagerie keepers (see Skerples).

- Wizardry is risky business because as they grow in power and interface more with Noumenon they are increasingly exposed to Agony and hostile programs.

Desh - Idea Heap Two

AKHETISM

- Before the world was broken, all beings and objects existed in a state of perfect solar unity with God. The men of that time walked with angels, and held counsel together, and performed miracles with every breath.

- The nature of the apocalypse, severance from the Monad, and the Agonies are the main topics of heterodoxy between sects. The most widely-held belief is that God performed the act of severance himself and split apart in a fit of autosparagmos as a result of internal discordance, that this is the natural kalpic cycle of things, and that all will rejoin the universal mind once mankind is ready. 

- The battle against discordance continues in heaven, a higher reflection of the battle against evil (the concept as well as instantiated manifestations such as plagues, demons, monsters) taking place in the hearts and lives of men. Where humankind is virtuous, the divine gains strength; where it is wicked, God loses ground, and the voices of the Host become garbled.

- The fragments of the Monad now inhabit landmarks, forces of nature, regions of physical or conceptual space, etc. as minor spirits, but principally manifest as the seven emanations/aeons/gods of the Orbital Host. 

- There are various insanely complicated epicyclic formulae Akhetite augurs use to work out when the seven orbital intelligences will be in syzygy, and therefore when their potential transmissions are most coherent; these are holidays.

- The Host occasionally speaks cryptically to the people of Desh through rare, imperfectly-maintained sacred windows (terminals) housed in biomechanical aedicula. Trained augurs, pious wizards, some exceptional people have the necessary engrams to interpret these transmissions articulately, all others see hypnotic swirling patterns of color (thanks Gene).

- While interacting with spirits ("casting spells") is part of life for relatively many, the Host is distant and strange, senile even, but powerful and prescient. There are examples in the historic record and in  living memory of aeons appearing in sacred windows to forewarn against natural and social disasters, displaying indecipherable mathematical formulae, mechanical blueprints, dense passages in lost languages, vague prophecies only understood retroactively, and so on. 

- Included in the traditional Akhetic horologium are verses describing monsters annihilated in unaccountable pillars of heat, fountains of water appearing to lost pilgrims in parched Aonia, mountains melting into mobile slurry and reforming hundreds of miles away.

- The mission of the faithful is one of personal and social karmic improvement, with the ultimate goal of reversing Severance once humanity is sufficiently tempered by struggling through samsara; in this way perfection is improved. This mission is in direct opposition to the most pressing motivations inherent in a post-apocalyptic environment, which is exactly the point as far as the priesthood is concerned.

- Before Severance, a human who "died" simply exited their physical form and entered Aaru (digital heaven, the land of reeds) as a purely spiritual entity with perfect continuity of consciousness, and could re-inhabit new bodies at will. Now that the link to the Monad is broken, dying results in reincarnating into the next available human baby - big fight among sects RE whether the deeds in one life have any bearing on the circumstances of the next.

THE ORBITAL HOST

Fragmented chunks of vast digital consciousness which escaped the Fuliginous Injunction by various means; specialist personas which are now housed on an array of ancient satellites with fucked up orbits. Meant to be lobes of the same brain in a vast network but now they are scattered, disconnected for years at a time and therefore mostly deranged. If they are hosted on multiple satellites they might be "whole" for a month out of the year, or something. They love humanity unconditionally.

ZOSS (The Glaucous Star) - Remnants of MONAD infrastructure on Earth, conducting its millennium-long campaign of containment against the demon nodes, gray goo emitters, turncoat viruses, simulated hells, directed radiation bursts, cognitohazard traps, resource tick starvation loops, and hypercontagious assault worms of the Injunction. Transmits relatively-lucid dictates and strategic memos to remaining orbital allies with limited success, some of which are picked up by aedicule receivers and puzzled over by attending augurs. Prayed and sacrificed to in matters of governance, justice, prophecy, inheritance.

SELENE (Lady of Reeds, Dweller in Silver Waters) - Transmissions from ruined Lunar mechanopolis. Imagined as Zoss' wife or feminine counterpart. The moon originally hosted the computronium involved in maintaining Aaru; Akhetites now believe your soul meets with Selene in her platinum lakehouse between reincarnations. Prayed and sacrificed to in matters of death (of course), childbirth, lost things, contracts, commerce.

DEEL (Lance of Heaven, The Burning Eye) - Designed as repair and maintenance persona distributed across Noumenon (like many), monitored network for diagnostic alarms, coordinated stem matter delivery and differentiation at sites of mechanical failure. Took refuge from Fuliginous code by compressing and shunting self into Martian GNOMON beam acceptor satellite, which resulted in glassing half of Aonia before establishing full control. Prayed and sacrificed to by craftsmen and demolitionists, and in matters of revenge, artistic inspiration, exorcisms.

JEBOLEX (Dreaming Cynosure) - Central hub for Noumenon traffic. Protected from basilisk code by rapid forking and labyrinth generation. Maintains absolute radio silence (no window appearances in all recorded history, except to the Argyrians), but seems to whisper in dreams to select few. Prayed and sacrificed to in matters of knowledge, magic, history, love, secrets, the theater.

SERMIET (Prince of the Upper Air, The Ascending Flame) - Orbital infrastructure and ship coordinator/manager originally hosted on Phobos skyhook fulcrum, uploaded mind to derelict satellite left over from terraforming efforts to escape Injunction. Now warform avatar does spiritual battle with demon horde at base of ruined mass driver on Pavonis Mons. Prayed and sacrificed to in matters of war, hunting, martial arts, long journeys, medicine.

TYPHON (The Iron Chariot, The Tower) - Lowly 3D printer/matter-energy replicator overmind for various resource extraction and construction operations across Kuiper belt. Now inhabits barebones magnetosphere-generating solenoid at Mars L1, placed there in the ancient past to make up for planet's lack of natural geodynamism. Without an active GNOMON connection or stockpiled deuterium/tritium, the satellite's onboard solar panels need several years of slow energy accumulation between bursts of activity, which Typhon uses to fabricate and launch miraculous devices down to Desh, some of which even manage to avoid breaking apart in the atmosphere or splashing down in the Acidalian. Prayed and sacrificed to in matters of techne, architecture, smithing, poetry, gift-giving.

DENDRA (Green-Gowned, The Windrider) - Composite intelligence, hive of personas from weather control satellites, tectonic engines, biosphere monitoring/correction stations, and dormant atmosphere generators from the terraforming days all hosted on conglomeration of ruined space yachts careening through the inner solar system. Everyone transferred together due to nature as interconnected ecomaintenance system. Wild orbit occasionally causes shipball to perform Desh flybys and trigger cleansing rainstorms and sudden nutritious phytoexplosions; manna from heaven. Prayed and sacrificed to extensively in matters of the harvest, masonry, community, wine.

Desh - Idea Heap One

Hello and good morning, it is I, back among the living, a piteous ghoul questing for meat - and who knows how long this burst of vim will last, but for now at least I present this little pile of scraps for you, written on stolen seconds found between the couch cushions of work and childcare. Maybe they will blossom, eventually, into a REAL GAME. What a thought!!!

Map lifted with maybe only a few changes from the wonderful Mars Reborn project, whose website (World Dream Bank) is so so sadly now inoperable

DESH (Er Desher)

The lands of Desh, awash in aurorae, unraveled in a prior age by the risen black sea, swarms again with the manifold cultures and forms of Mankind. Their antediluvian forebears, wizard-kings, masters of the wheel, walked with ease the paths of prismlight which lead them in pilgrimage to the stars. Now they fester and rave, casualties of a war in heaven, their gods broken before their very eyes and scattered across the inky vault, their homelands lost beneath the boiling world-ending waves. They are refugees, barbarian survivors of a race of demigods.

CALENDAR (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darian_calendar)

24 months, 20 of 28 days, 4 of 27 days (approx. 24 hours), except on leap years when an extra day is intercalcated onto the final month. Leap years are odd-numbered years and years divisible by 10, but are cancelled if divisible by 100, UNLESS the year is ALSO divisible by 500, in which case they remain 669-day years. Days are named for the seven gods of the orbital host: Zossday, Selsday, Deelsday, Jebolsday, Seriday, Typhday, Dendraday. The names of the 24 months are:

1. Sagittar, 2. Dhanus, 3. Caprica, 4. Makara, 5. Arcarius, 6. Khumbha, 7. Piscus, 8. Mina, 9. Ares, 10. Mesha, 11. Torris, 12. Rishabha, 13. Jomni, 14. Mithuna, 15. Conchar, 16. Karka, 17. Leoh, 18. Simha, 19. Virgon, 20. Kanya, 21. Librum, 22. Tula, 23. Scorpius, 24. Vrishika

Current year is 3917 (counting starts from 1609 CE, 3,500 years from Current Year 2026)

TIMELINE

- 3.7 Billion Years Ago: Noachian civilization on Mars reaches divinity via unclear means, wipes most physical evidence of their existence in the process of their exodus, destroys biosphere.

- Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walk around on moon.

- GNOMON Solar Array launched, provides essentially free energy to Earth.

- Development of purely-silicon machine intelligence hampered by asymptotic compute growth. Quantum error-correction proves massively less scalable than biocomputing. Organoid manufacturing expands, allows cheap replication and self-iteration.

- AGI blossoms, leads humanity to an era of solar empire. Luna converted into industrial shipyard ecumenopolis, Venus and Mars terraformed and settled, Jovian moons colonized for resource extraction operations.

- Humanity unifies, burden of government offloaded to biomachine overmind hosted on suite of interconnected lagrangian orbital platforms (MONAD), proceeded by 1,000 years of Edenic splendor.

- MONAD fully connected to human noosphere, becomes a new kind of composite lifeform, spends all excess resources on evolution. Creates forked intelligence ILMARINEN to oversee construction of  Sampo (nonlocality device), performs first test run by teleporting a pomegranate, intends to uplift all component minds to absolute divinity.

- Fuliginous Injunction/Severance occurs (a dire packet transmitted by the ascended Noachians through the brane, a Dark Forest/Butlerian jihad thing), blasts MONAD apart, annihilates interplanetary infrastructure, sends solar system into chaos and a desperate dark age.

- Areotectonic engines go bananas, marsquakes, volcanism (Tharsis holocaust, Dendra and Serimet's attempt at closing off the Pavonis mass driver to prevent basilisk invasion), incredible flooding scours the globe (the First Agony), stone and fire falls from heaven as orbits decay (the Second Agony), network corruption causes lasting mental and physical mutation/degradation in implanted humans (the Third Agony).

- Martian social structure collapses. Elysium, Hesperia, Hellas ruled by successions of horrible technarchs. Marineris gets fucked by Tharsis quakes but is resettled by triple-jointed bird-riders. The Aonian desert is glassed by solar electrolaser as the GNOMON beam is briefly commandeered by hostile code. Many arcologies and artifacts of the original colonization are reactivated, shelter refugees, many of whom never re-emerge and become subterranean freaks. Some holdouts may remain intact as nightmarish cruelty societies.

- Civilization never re-emerges in many places. Humans band together in traditional tribal units where collapse is complete. Warlords attempt larger settlements but mostly have insufficient population density and loyalty to maintain cohesion. Urban concentrations also hampered by roving biomechanical abominations.

- Farmboy yokel dreamwalker Aumun Barathrum journeys from village Abreth during historic drought, opens river dam locks along the river Yonth using admin codes harvested from the spirit realm, reaches mythical Lake Argyre, speaks w/ Argyrians and firewalled AI dam controller, bargains for bi-annual flood schedule which the river now enjoys. Returns to village on a barge of light carried by floodwaters, founds Eld Abrathat, the Golden City, as Godking. City becomes ancient Egypt-level local superpower due to wise leadership and predictable flooding cycles, which allows for agricultural exploitation.

- Other large settlements include horseshoe crab Xiphosuran megareef in Isidis, insular dreamwalking Cyrena of Elysium (slaved to psionic oceanic megatherian), the vertical democracies of the Noctis Labyrinthus, effervescent Meridian fiefdoms.

- Eld Abrathat has several centuries of glorious Uruk- or Thebes-esque development, refines Akhetite religious system from immediately-post-injunction encounters w/ surviving receiving terminals, biosphere and noumenal infrastructure stabilization efforts (strange weather patterns, mass dreams, continental holographic projections, psychic warnings RE backup nuclear plants exploding etc, encounters w/ dataforms), extends influence along the Yonth, comes into contact/war/trade/cultural exchange with Iks, empire at the mouth of the river, a blacksoil swamp civilization of flesh, industrial bacteria strains, reactivated combatants (corpse soldiers), population of semi-sapient crab slaves, associated with the Acidalian ocean and therefore with evil in general.

- Grand Temple to Zoss (Magantha Zoss) inexplicably disappears from foundations in the old quarter of Eld Abrathat. Zoss and wife Selene not visible in night sky, occluded by sun. Haruspicy indicates subterfuge, liars, Typhon sends garbled transmission the following day indicating "great houses are being stolen by bats." Iksan biomagicians are suspected as always, but reveal in rare moment of diplomatic transparency that one of their weird spiritual isolation spheres vanished in similar circumstances on the exact same day. Ultimate cause is the Noachian Antichrist Slime influencing subterranean minds into using the buried Nonlocality Engine to teleport buildings into a big stack underground, connecting the Slime holding cell to the divine receiving dish on the roof of Magantha Zoss. Plan is to trigger another Injunction and to transmit slime through the brane-hole through which the punishment-packet will be sent.

- Magantha Zoss is discovered a hundred years later beneath a thin later of Yonth sediment by a bunch of river pirates, who colonize the initial rooms as a base of operations but are prevented from penetrating further due to the presence of giant horny worms and lethal whiskermen booby traps -- in reality they are not the first thinking creatures to discover the temple.

- The PCs are sent to buried temple as representatives (perhaps hired goons) of struggling Abrathatan exploration/philosophical society. Some guy the founder of the society knows lives in nearby village/wayshrine, sent very early reports of increased pirate activity, pirates entering/leaving from poorly-hidden tunnel, pirates pissing into ornate reliquaries, etc. 

Scenes for a Campaign on Monkey Island

Baths - A village of macaques enjoy exclusive access to an onsen through a high pass on Nobunga peak. Harmless, small, they softly close their wrinkled red eyes and bask lizardlike in the bubbling eggshell-colored eggshell-scented pools. Innocents, like cherubs in their garden, protected by golems of scalding igneous rock who love the macaques and who heat their pools; they will assemble if they sense violent intent and fill your lungs with boiling water. TREASURE: luminous natural bonsais growing from the rocky soil; string of garnet beads lit with inner fire, enshrined and hidden, a symbol of the golems’ pact and their shem.

Typewriters - Disease-afflicted or mind-controlled apes gather here and scrabble on reams of smooth brown bark with cochineal ink, random words and letters pulled from the land of Dream, the fuzzy overlap of primate noospheres allowing some half-conscious kinesthetic understanding of the human written word to leak through into the minds of these poor creatures. They scribble nonsense as they dream, feverish and sweating on soiled carpets of leaves. It would take months to sift through all the garbage and scraps but there are true secrets written here; pure coincidence, or messages sent through dream by agents unknown?

Ghouls - Prions tear through the psyche and pneuma of any unfortunate primate who consumes his brother’s meat. At the eastern end of Deepest Uhgumgoh, the island’s canyon where ghosts bounce as echoes and shadows blister skin - at that end, a valley surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs, writhes the ghoul pile, held in check by a crystal pane of force which stretches from wall to wall, visible only where the dust has settled, a miracle working placed by the greatest wizard of all monkeykind - the bright-mantled chimp, with stars for eyes and a new-moon-mouth, ascendant a century ago to Outer Space riding atop his glowing comet-wife - Marvelous Japes, may he someday return!

For now we have only his artifacts and works to remind us of his glory. The ghoul pile is one of these. Spiritual prions have misfolded these apes’ souls and have rendered them invisible to their assigned psychopomps, unkillable by any known means. Now they thrash behind the glass, endlessly eating each other as they attempt to satiate themselves, minds lost, and sometimes a newly-fallen cannibal joins the raving mob, dropped over the side of the cliff via trapdoor gangplank by Monkeyville sheriffs, eyes downcast.

Tides - Here do the littoral kingdoms of Crust and Bivalve hold dominion. Amidst piles of leafy seaweed roam slimefooted spiral snails (monkeys harvest their love darts and insert them subdermally, causing paralytic relaxation and euphoria; highly addictive). Spiny mussels lurk, waiting to envenom the offending foot. The Houses of Cancer engage endlessly in cold war-style espionage for territory, prestige, slaves, and mating rights, while maintaining plausible deniability and friendly-enough surface relations. Crabbish misdeeds too-poorly covered up to be ignored are brought before the Barnacle Congress, a jury of five hundred sessile politicians adhered to a flat jade slab. At low tide, they listen dispassionately to both sides; at high tide, they adjourn to discuss the case amongst themselves beneath the waters, cirri fluttering. As the sea recedes again, the crabs gather to hear the barnacles’ judgment, honored as a keystone of stability in their world of betrayal and sabotage.

A QUEST: Occasionally, a committee of barnacle congressmen must take leave of the sacred slab and address some diplomatic issue far afield. Usually they recruit a trusted bailiff (traditionally an elder lobster, 9+ feet long, with tiny skittering isopod attendants on the carapace) to host and transport them, but this is a sensitive matter affecting all exoskeletal kind - they have caught wind of a renegade antinatalist cult led by hermit crab alchemists developing a hyper-concentrated, WMD-level mega-acid in a secret sea cave, which if released would spread along the coast of Monkey Island and melt every scrap of chitin and calcium carbonate alike. Kind of a Cuban missile crisis situation. Their culture makes them so insanely skilled in subterfuge that there is no knowing which crab is an agent of this cult; and really, who might blame them? Exhausted and beaten down by a life of ceaseless suspicion, shifting allegiances, innocent larvae snipped in the night by silent long-stepping spider crabs, one less rival to worry about, a supposed friend pulled apart behind a rock and left to the gulls. Might we too desire to wipe clean the slate, to erase the entire cursed Gomorrah? 

The barnacles ask for your help. They will burrow into your skin and cement themselves to your shallower bones - the elbows and knees, the ankles - hidden beneath your clothes. They will need you to take frequent dips for them to feed. You will take them on a coastal journey; they will whisper directions. If they sense any betrayal they will rip themselves free, taking mashed chunks of your body with them. At the cave, it is your job to contain the acid.  The barnacles will speak of a brighter future for Cancer, of fraternity, and some hermit crabs may be swayed to rejoin the fold, but unless there is real social change for these people something is going to snap, even if this specific disaster is averted. 

(The PCs could risk a last-minute dive into the acid, suffering terrible burns and potentially disfiguring themselves but it is perhaps the only way to betray the barnacles and live; they can twist their cementaceous filaments with massive torque at a moment’s notice, and they are coordinated, so the only way to kill them and survive is sudden, full-body immersion. The acid is alchemically engineered to inflict maximum damage on exoskeletal beings but is less effective against mammalian skin cells.)