After the fall of Aegos, Poleon instructed his people, who had been vagabonds since the razing of Keros, and the destruction of their mythical homeland before that, take over the lands formally ruled directly by the Minotaur; the isle where Aegos once stood, and the larger surrounding island. They used the rubble to construct the city that would give the people their name; Naxos. The first buildings were built with whatever was on hand, but over time, where replaced by the iconic white marble and grey granite that defines Naxian construction.     With city construction in full swing, Poleon sought to reward his allies. Despots, the lords of whole islands, were named-- including the Leoi, who were named as Despots of Mykonos. For the Satyr and Centaur, however, less favorable terms were given. As they had initially been allies of the Minotaur, and fought against his people, they were both offered amnesty, but nothing more. Many satyr accepted this, but many more joined the centaur

      For a time, the Naxians grew and flourished, and began to resemble what would be recognized as Naxian. For the Minotaur, however, their success was alarming. They feared that unless something was done, that the humans would overrun the islands. So they set their enslaved Leoi warriors upon them, to cull.     The Leoi were set upon the Naxians in the night, and slaughtered many of them. After many nights of this onslaught, Naxian fighters and hunters tracked and slew the Leoi in turn, taking their hides as trophies, and warning against any future attacks. Believing this to be an attack made by the Leoi, of their own volition, they secretly sailed to Mykonos to retaliate. Instead, they found the true and sad life of the Leoi left on their home island; starving, and nearly all men taken as slaves. It was then and there that they learned of the true origin of the treachery they suffered; the Minotaur.     This revelation was brought back to Keros, and the outrage was immense. They be

      As written, confirmed history is concerned, the people who came to be known as Naxians are an amalgamation of various peoples who were blown off course into the archipelago that lies in the Central Ocean. But even labelling that as confirmed is stretching it, as this is what is supported by archeological evidence-- these migrations occurred before the advent of writing by humanity, and other peoples were unconcerned with the goings-on with them.     That said, the oral tradition tells a much more concise story. The hailed from a northern land that once stood near what is now Thrace. They lived in idyllic pastoral hills, and worshipped the bountiful Sun and its children, who lived as demigods amongst them.     But one day the Sun demanded more and more from its supplicants; more than what could be provided. For this, the Sun grew red and angry, and its children lashed out until there was nothing but jagged stones jutting out from the sea. Those who survived built simple ships, and

 Hey everyone! Spooktober is done, long live Spooktober. Diving into a specific event of Port Astor history, one I actually first thought of like 4 years ago, was a neat experience, but it left me wanting to explore more worldbuilding projects. Which is neat, because worldbuilding was how I initially got into writing in the first place. I think the first time I did anything resembling it was way back in 4th grade, when we had to draw a fictional map, and a short story or history about it. I've been hooked on it ever since. All that is to say that I am going to share some world building work that I have been... working on! Originally conceived as a setting for a TTRPG campaign I am either already running, or hoping to run in the future; The Duchy of Naxos! It's a Greco-Roman city-state set on an archipelago. We'll be starting from early origins and history, and then covering up to what passes as modern for the setting, culture, and nearly everything else! I look forward to s

 This is part three, and the finale, of this year's mini series! You can read part two here .                Anton dropped his bag down the shaft. After jimmying the outside doors, evading city employees and security, and going in a general downward direction, he had found it; the Plague Tunnels of Port Astor. He then dropped down himself, kicking up dust that hasn’t seen the light of day in nearly a century. Anton turned on his headlamp, which only stubbornly obliged. It revealed where he was; in the alley way between two buildings. As he stepped out into the forgotten street, he could make out one of the ancient signs; “ARTHUR’S IMPORTS & RARE BOOKS”. He cleared some of the dust from the window, which hung in the heavy air.                 He shined a light into the store, and as he did, an immense clamor was heard from within. Anton jumped back, and would have screamed if he hadn’t stifled it. He was, after all, trespassing. The shop door was still in place, and secured wi

  This is part 2 of this year's 3 part mini series! You can read part 1 here if you missed it. October 10 th , 1929 It’s with great resignation that I begin this diary, in the hopes that I can one day look back upon it in happier times. I have lost my employment as an accountant, as the clients I oversaw have themselves gone out of business. With fewer and fewer accounts, the firm of Fuchs & Royce chose to let me go, as I am was a junior member. Tomorrow, with great vigor, I will begin hunting for new work.   November 29 th , 1929 I went to my cousin Edith’s this holiday, out in Fields across the Channel. I thought that perhaps some time out in the country with family would do me some good, and perhaps it did. I had a wonderful series of conversations with her, about family history no less! It was curious as the topic had never garnered such interest from me before, but with so little else in my life at this moment, I suppose that it just struck the right nerve at the

                      In 1930, a mysterious disease overtook the western city of Port Astor, in the state of Jefferson. During its run, it killed one in five; nearly one-hundred thousand. Where it came from and how it started are hotly debated topics by local historians, but the official story is that it came via ship from the Far East. During that time, however, there were no similar outbreaks in the ports of East Asia. The situation garnered national attention when federal forces, sent to the city to enforce a quarantine, opened fire, and shelled the John Astor Bridge, killing dozens and maiming hundreds, when they tried to flee the city.                 The most affected area was the neighborhood of John’s Landing. One of the oldest parts of the city, it featured tight, narrow and twisting streets. After the plague, much of the neighborhood was abandoned, and buildings condemned due to damage, or fear of the disease that might linger; a haunting warren of brick and cobblestone.

  Hello everyone! Welcome to spooky season! We made it back here again, after a surprisingly mild Summer here in the Pacific Northwest. I know that a good chunk of the country cannot say the same, but I hope that it has mostly passed by now. I wanted to do something a little different this year, since I was still fairly new at this last Autumn, still getting my legs wet with running a blog, and so I didn’t have much material for this season; pretty silly for someone who calls themselves a horror writer. That’s why I’m happy to announce that for this Spooktober that I’ll be starting what I hope to be a regular tradition of The Plague of ’30; in 1930, Port Astor was ravaged by a mysterious disease that force the entire city into quarantine. No one knows where it came from, at least officially. In that year, and the follow years to some extent, Port Astor was a scene of unspeakable dread and terror as people struggled to survive, mortal and supernatural alike. Each year will focus o

       You can see them from the inner banks of the Athabaskan, a million small flames that shimmer like dying stars just beyond the water. They exist apart from the angry red-lit city of Port Astor, and still in its shadow. They are campfires of the great diaspora that clings to the edges of civilization, holding onto the last vestiges of the world they know. Beyond them, the unyielding wilds holding the unknown. The tents do not move on, and may never do so, forever in a stasis. Decaying tents, ever-expanding middens, and debris of their humanity for them to stew in. They camp alone, together. Not a single force, but a patch-work quilt of desperate vignettes; unable to afford proper housing, lost jobs and futures, those fleeing abuse only to find more over the horizon, and those suffering form their own abuses. They are drawn here, to this place, like they heed an unheard call. A dread horn that calls to those who have known misery in their heart, and cannot dream of better tomorrows

  “ Hello caller, you are on the air. ” “I took this job about 6 months ago, and it’s been tough going. I worked security back east for years before moving out here to the West Coast; apartments, scrap yards, abandoned buildings owned by some investment company that is nervous that someone might have the audacity to go into an empty building. My ops manager said something about ‘liability concerns’, but honestly I chalk it up to old dudes in pinstripes being stingy assholes.” “When I first came here, though, to my new site in town, I knew that there was something wrong here. They got me watching out at a waste dump; you know, like where shit flies outta the water system? It stinks, literally, hah! Slow work; easy work. At first. My first thoughts were that this was another warm-body site at another industrial zone where no one in there right mind, or their little brother’s, would ever think about fooling around. My first clue that this might not be true was in the post orders, whic

               The black, oozing mass undulated out of the crate, with horrid intent palpable in its writhing. Leonard, the clerk of this location of Astor Star 24, screamed in a low moaning fashion, and ran out of the store room, slamming the heavy door shut with force, panting and sweating. In front of him, an older woman, with glassy doe-eyes and clad in pink sportswear with text reading “PINK”.             “H-hello ther-“ he stammered before being cut off.              “I want smokes” the lady interjected sharply.             “Oh, oh” Leonard began, and walked behind the counter.             “W-wh-which—” “What?!” the lady exclaimed sharply, “Speak up!”    Leonard attempted to recompose himself, “Wh-w” he gulped “Whi-which—”   “Stop stuttering!” she shrieked, “I can’t understand you; and speak up!”                 Leonard, red in the face and sweating, tried his best to not overtly glare at the customer, gritting his teeth. His eyes shifted over to the store room do

  “Hello caller, you are on the air.” “Whenever I get on the bus, I get nervous. Am I on the right bus? We’ve all done it—think we are boarding one line, and actually get on another. It sucks! It adds time, stress, and just messes with your entire morning. The worst part is the stares you get from others as you get more and more nervous. You  can always feel their eyes on me, and then the moisture starts, clothes cling, and they just stare. You try to notify the driver, but they just ignore you. Some of the more passive-aggressive drivers even tap the “no talking to the driver while in motion” sign. You just stand there. And panic.” “Sitting there, you think that you can pull the cord, and get off at the next stop. Sure, it’s nowhere near where you are going, where you started, or anywhere else, but it stops you from going farther away. You pull the cord… and nothing. The bus keeps going. You keep pulling the cord, and it keeps making that stupid little ‘ding’, and everything just

 “ Hello caller, you are on the air. ” “I have lived here for about a year now, fleeing the outrageous rent in the Bay area down south. Port Astor? Oh yeah, it’s affordable, but the rent is four-hundred dollars for a fuckin’ reason, pal. This city ain’t right. You ever look at the eyes of people from here? Most of them glassy-eyed, and dead. They wander aimlessly. And the ones that ain’t? There’s something really wrong with them. You got the ones that’ll dome you for looking at them too long, or the real friendly ones. Like, even in the South they’d be pushing it. But here? They stick out like red wine on a wedding dress. I avoid those the most. The angry ones want to attack you, but I don’t know what the hell the smiling ones want.” “Then, once in a while, you get someone that could pass as normal. I don’t get it. There’s nothing remarkable about them, which is what makes them remarkable. Their normality is abnormal. What the fuck is it? I’m driving down the street, and past the usual

                    After some time, he’d lost track, Leon was let out of convalescence. He was not the same as he was when he was put in, nor had he been since he woken up in the first place; his hands would still sometimes shake involuntarily—an after effect of the electrical torture he had endured when he was initially taken prisoner. Pain would randomly shock his body for a moment, and then suddenly pass. His eyes were deepened into their sockets, and cheeks bony and gaunt. He felt as he thought he probably looked; a member of the living dead. After a few more days of observation in a separate cell, which he figured was for checking if he had any sort of communicable diseases, he was released into general population. The prison here, less than a formal penitentiary, was a work camp of some sort. It’s primary purpose was the refinement of various ores mined up by prisoners sent to the mines as a form of execution. Thankfully, although that is only said relatively, Leon had been plac

                  Encounters are the staples of any form of storytelling, interactive or not. They are quite literally what happens, and a story without events probably doesn’t exist. That said, there are many ways that titles found in games have approached encounters, for better or worse. What counts as an encounter in gaming? They can run the gamut, but most revolve around combat, either set-piece and bespoke, or randomly generated in this current age of proc-gen design, which can allow for more dynamic encounters. Here we are going to look specifically at two examples of games that used the two methods above, and why they weren’t necessarily the best approaches for either design reasons, or by their nature.                 The first game we are looking at here is Dead Space 3, which released in 2013, and was developed by Visceral Studios (r.i.p.), and published by EA. Dead Space 3 comes at the end of a development arc which I often call the horror-to-action pipeline, most probabl