Not sure if I shared it with this thread, but I've always loudly said LoL was stupid and that I'd never play it. Something like 10 people had to have tried to get me to try it, but it was futile and eventually they learned that I'd just give them a few choice words about poor taste.
...whoever posted the Jhin login music inadvertently managed to succeed where all of them failed, because I liked the music so much that I tried League (against my better judgement) and now I think I'm already addicted :/
I enjoyed it while I played, but you should really, really try to find a team of friends you know to do it with. I uninstalled last month because the online community was incredibly grinding, and after a year or two, enjoying the game for what it was while receiving nothing but negativity was like trying to eat cornflakes while an obnoxious teenager is yelling at you to get out of his fucking town because you poured too much milk.
Do I make a post outlining Cherry-Eater...not doing anything?
Give him a day off to spend mindlessly scrolling through tumblr with a bag of Satan doritos.
You can also spend Might to level the little guy manually, or have him pass through the Arpeggio while being inspired to start a cult by a dream. I'm planning something vaguely similar too.
The soft yellow fiberling might not have been the wisest of creatures on the face of Galbar, but though it had no brain, its emotions sung louder than most organisms that did. Right now, those feelings had dipped from a happy veil of contentment and the eagerness of sun-baked years into confusion, and a primitive but acute kind of hurt. Until a little while ago, it was tasked with a mission that made even this desert into something comforting and exciting, that took the loneliness and turned it into an adventure. The sun was harsh and Maize had grown slim and jarringly curled, though it pressed itself into the cracks of rocks and below the surface of the sand where it could, always carrying onwards. It had endured, all for the sake of that one thing that was everything.
And now it was gone. Lost. It had abandoned the fuzzy little entity and been whipped away to Mother-knows-where, taking its soothing light with it. It made Maize want to curl up under a dune and sulk forever. Why was life so needlessly cruel?
The precious, meaty cargoes within its body pressed it onwards, still searching to regain what was missing in the desert. Memories, crudely encoded but vivid, flickered once more through the fiberling's mind.
Another day of travel. The Hot Thing prowled ahead, stolid and impressive, exhilaratingly scary. Something Maize wondered at and, in the night, even crept close to, shivering and raising hackles in excitement. The slightest, snoring purr from Hot Thing thrilled Maize into a sprint back into the cold, before Hot Thing was even close enough to awaken at the scent of its approach. Sunny Flier, placid as ever, floated gently alongside Maize, bringing some degree of comfort from the light, as it always did- Though it was otherwise rather boringly uniform in its responses, too nimble in the air to catch but not particularly keen on playing a game of chase, either. Breezy Wizard, the most recent addition to the motley crew, made a far more profound difference to the temperature. It wasn't always visible, no matter how hard Maize tried to pick up some reflectant photons in its cross-dimensional energy matrix. A curious and frustrating critter. The fiberling longed to see it for longer, to catch, play and explore what exactly was cooling the desert for the cluster of journeying creatures, but when Breezy Wizard was visible, it was always either too high up or too close to Hot Thing.
And, as always, there had been the Beautiful Dead One. Maize's reason for being, its holy charge, and only source of food in this desert. The figure who cast off the little birds and branches that sustained the fiberling's mass and entertained its curiousity when the days blended together like blood into a puddle. Maize knew little of parenting, but from what it had observed in the Place With The Wide Grass where its own hair seemed to melt into the background, it could almost associate the Beautiful Dead One as a parent-figure, not The Mother but a mother, who made an endless journey feel bearable and exciting.
Breezy Wizard had been in the sky somewhere, making sounds. Odd, but not unheard of. Then the breeze had returned, a whisper in the distance, but it had not stayed that way. In seconds it had become a gale-storm the like of which Maize had not felt since the journey had left the Salty Water. Then Maize was tumbling, coiling into a terrified sphere, seared with pain as the wind stripped precious mass from its body. There had been a presence, a bleak, burnt presence, the sense that always warned Maize of Imbalancers- Hate, hate, hate, hate. Sounds of shattering. And the wind kept howling, flicking Maize this way and that, and when it subsided, the rattled critter's friends were too far to follow.
Maize had tried. It had tried so hard. It had moved forwards and backwards and sideways over the course of a whole day in order to find which way the sun said the companions had been going before, and it had followed that path as diligently as it could. The round jewel it kept in its body helped point the way, but it was so far, and the trail of beautiful dead things was growing old. And now here it was. Alone.
Something shuffled on the sand.
Without an instant of hesitation, Maize crashed like a wave down the dune, spiralling sideways over the sand with ripples of movement so fast it seemed to shiver, crossing a distance of twenty meters in maybe a second of downhill sprint. It enclosed the wriggling thing completely, spreading its pieces apart to better sense each one by touch. A scorpion! Body moisture!
Renewed determination pushed Maize onwards, skimming over the sand. It could sense the moisture. It could feel the life ahead. On and on until flat, straggly, but green and flexible plants zipped underneath. On and on as day turned to night and those little forerunners became cacti and hardy palms, as kangaroo-mice emerged to hunt those lizards and scorpions and enormous shadows passed overhead, Maize surfed onwards in liquid bounces, its strands rolling it forwards so quickly that it began to spin itself into a disc that raced over the desert like a wheel. Tireless. Eager. Its torment was over, its fast broken, and the Beautiful Dead One had rewarded it with a gift beyond anything it had seen before, a feast for the senses that surpassed any starving bird or wind-shivered spinifex.
At last, at the water's edge, Maize found its family.
Sunny Flier was gone, for the moment. But even from afar, Maize could feel the warmth of Hot Thing padding around in the moonlight, a mountain of life and energy, and closer still was Breezy Wizard- A little disoriented, but the fiberling sensed the life of him. And crowning it all was the source. She was at ease, but around her still was the vapour of excitement, of curiousity and play, of little things to hunt and big things to run from, so perfect that this time, this one time, Maize dared to slip closer than Hot Thing's claws had ever allowed in order to give its thanks- A twig, a gecko-bone, and a tuft of pale yellow hair, the best attempt its little mind could give at reciprocity.
As Beautiful Dead One stood to continue her walk, Maize let itself fall behind in step with Breezy Wizard. Hot Thing was still watching.
An involuntary series of shivers and twitches shook Maize's core, rising to its back. As it retreated back within reach of Breezy Wizard, one of its two gifts of flesh was rising to the surface of the fiberling, widening, inflating a membrane-folded sphere that split in the air, offering to Vizier Ventus the face of a complex breathing organ.
"Mature child of Zephyrion, officer of change, I greet you warmly. I am Jvan, divine engineer, capstone of the Fractal Sea, and I have watched your efforts keenly through my Eye, which rests in this creature of mine. They have come to beautiful fruition. You have taken after your father and maker well, and Galbar is better for your enterprise.
"And yet, I sense you have not been rewarded for your work by the First Gale, though to me, the sight of this resort is a boon of grand proportions. Do not grow apathetic to the value of such things, but remember their serenity always, as I do- Indeed, I task you this exercise: Lead the Rottenbone downstream, towards the delta where this river opens its mouths to the Shimmering Sea. I have grand plans for that salty puddle, but the river itself I have designed as a receptacle for my sister's form of life.
"Should this be complete, detour to my body, and for this and your earlier work I shall thank you in person. Name and design for yourself a living thing, be it tool, steed, companion or weapon, and I shall grant it unto you as you have imagined.
"I wait, patiently, at the northern peak of the reach that spires into the center of my ocean. Can't miss it. Really."
* * * * *
The Deepwood. Navy had no language with which to describe it, but even if it did, it would likely be rendered unable, overwhelmed by the... Endlessness of the place.
This was life, and love, and wonder. Navy never ambushed from the same place twice. There was food everywhere, here, and in abundance that made balance easy to maintain. Its capacious memory of every organism and niche it or its siblings had ever glimpsed was like a glittering library of connections, from the delicacy of a orchid that lived a single night to the mundanity of the purple slugs and elegant union of an emerald strider.
Of course, little things weren't the only toys the Deepwood had given the fiberling. Strangling one of a mated pair of birbs and watching the other cry was not nearly so entertaining as the long battle required to bring down a Deepwood sloth, or slithering unseen into the crannies of an aphid hive and splitting it apart to see its residents scatter, or a net-against-whip attempt to bring down a rainbow silky from the treetops. All these things chipped away heavily at the Navy's unusually large supply of mass, but it hardly cared. There was always more quality hair to absorb from something or other. The wounds brought by repeated conflict only excited Navy's curiousity- How high could it aim before it was forced to turn back, not in the name of balance, but for sheer survival? The limit was yet far from reach.
Some things also grated, but were much less entertaining. Ants, for one. Lately they'd shown an odd sensitivity to Navy's presence, always trying to pick it apart strand by strand, too small to strangle and too many to crush. Their mammoth cousins often decided to have a go as well, though these offered a less menial game. In fact, a variety of creatures seemed to have taken a dislike to Navy and its siblings. It was rather uncanny. Fiberlings always respected balance in choosing their hunts, and their surprise tactics and unpredictability prevented them from culling the gene pool for those that feared them. But still something had changed, and the feeling was deeply jarring, a gloomy malaise that nestled over them. Were the fiberlings malfunctioning?
Here was an example: a gleaming orange mammoth.
Odd. It was the first giant ant of this species that Navy had ever seen, though it had spent many years in the Deepwood. It wasn't just reflecting scant rays of leaf-filtered sunlight, either; The amber thing actually glowed like an Emerald Strider. Navy curled and compressed into the wrinkles of some old fig's exposed roots, but the ant was approaching it directly. There was no colony here, either. Why didn't it have anything better to do than challenge the invincible? Well, it would soon have the death it had come for.
Navy erupted from the earth in the ant's direction, but the arthropod worked the impossible, propelling itself upwards and over the onslaught with legs faster than anything Navy had ever seen. Reacting quickly, the mass of hair reversed direction, remaining low in order to seize up the ant's arrangement of joints in its lower body. Its opponent paced rapidly backwards, and the hair followed in a deep blue stream made black by the forest darkness.
Mandibles whistled through air and mulch, and sudden pain racked the fiberling as the ant leapt forwards at its elongating body, cutting where its chains of hair were thinnest and densest. Navy thrashed as it recoiled, and the ant cut at it with bladed feet, hooking out chunks of hair which now littered the floor of the border-woods. No. No, bad, bad, poor situation. Flinging itself up a tree like a multi-armed gibbon grabbing at any possible hold with ropes of hair, Navy flung itself away like a slingshot before settling into a snake-like sprint again. Behind it, the glowing monster was gaining.
The exchange had taken only seconds, but Navy feared that it may have found its limit.
The enormous three-tonne furball was making use of its fluidity in its bid to escape the demigod, slipping easily through the tree-gaps, searching for a windblown place to parachute away from. With the element of surprise, perhaps, it could have stunned the and broken it with its superior size, but ants are flexible and do not suffocate easily. Navy fled to live another day, and was willing to give up sight of the border forest to do so, flinging itself out to where the trees thinned into solitary acacias and thornbushes. Sensing the movement of something large between the grass, it aimed directly in the motion's direction, hoping to distract the ant with another animal.
What it found was far, far more new than the enormous ant behind it. Erect, endoskeletal, lithe... So striking in its harmony of curves that it seemed to glow more brightly than the ant, even though it emitted no light.
Navy collided with the straw-grown dirt at the graceful humanoid's side and skidded, a scant trail of indigo hair drifting from the woods behind it. Then, tireless, it flew on.
* * * * *
At first, Cyan had thought its mission strange, and allowed its aggregate body to be instructed directly by the Mother. But decades pass as they do, and meld together into centuries, and from centuries come generations in which to learn and and find contentment.
The blue-green fiberling rested in a village that worshipped it as some kind of spirit protector. For long years it had guarded their borders from ashlings, pulled their children out of deep water, and kept their eggs warm when the cold rains came. It had melded with the other fiberlings of this area and left them with a dissuading instinct, to keep away from experimenting with this species- A larger experiment was taking place. Cyan had asked nothing in return, though it loved to play, and had eventually learned how to be gentle in doing so. For a long while now, the hain of this unique tribe had been decorating their entrances to their homes with balls of animal hair, seagrass and feathers, charms made to coax Cyan to come in and eat of the strands. The community was unique in its relationship, and where long ago it had been scattered, it now prospered and danced with its enormous, undying furry god.
So well had Cyan come to know these hain that it recognised that something was wrong with them before they did.
They had been moving in their sleep as it approached, their breathing patterns breaking up. Hackles rising in animal instinct, Cyan tugged the ankle of one of the tribeshain. He woke with a start. Turning, his eyes latched on to Cyan, and there was a moment's pause. He screamed.
The fiberling retracted quickly, but others were waking up. There were more cries, from more than simple startlement. Something was deeply amiss. These vocalisations, Cyan knew, portended things that had always set it on edge, that its task had always been to work against. Fear. Confusion.
This time the source was not something Cyan was tasked to defend against. To all external eyes, it was obvious, but Cyan's small and comfortable world was spinning and it repeatedly failed to understand, though the information was there for even its simple mind to comprehend. The hain, likewise, did not know what they were doing. Some cried, and some hid, clutching their heads as entire lives worth of memory were spurned by new instinct.
One brave woman stood up where others shivered and shouted, barely understanding one another, and Cyan writhed upon itself in the center of the settlement. She knew that something had to be done, if not to act on the maddening addition to their minds, then at least to establish order. To end the confusion and give roles under which her family could unite again, even if it changed the way they had lived their lives since their elder's elders were hatchlings. Spear in hand, she gazed straight up at the vast blue thing with both her right eyes, and willed away sadness and cognitive dissonance with the anger that now came naturally. Then, kicking sand, she began to stamp.
Others followed, joining into the simplest rhythm, the simplest emotion that returned to them their solidarity. It was a bittersweet hatred. Cyan was still far from understanding, but it remembered its missive. Protect this tribe from threats. It contracted into a small, perfect sphere, shuddered, and fled from its own memories of this day, driven by its own love.
The tribe continued to stamp and shout their god away over the horizon long after it was gone, reassuring themselves of their mistakes, ingraining the new reality into their brains for hours until they grew tired, hungry, and silent.
From underneath the dune above them, so fluidly as to be almost unseen, the caged vessel of the Heartworm emerged, shedding streams and sheets of sand.
Experiment interrupted. Results inconclusive. Time for the next test.
* * * * *
Jvan saw with her eyes, eyes that had been sunk deep into her vibrant scouts, and she heard with the ear of God. Time. Celestial Above. One of the patient deities, the elusive ones that hid themselves away and created little. What he did create... Well, what could be said?
The ants were nice, I guess. They were another brutalist construct, like the Heraktati; Optimised for survival and expansion, though they lacked any other drive or direction. Cute little things that churned ecosystems into action and would likely outlast every other species on Galbar. A good creation, commendable, clever, interesting.
Aeons before that, another change, an organic, minimalist motif to spread like dripping ink over her own sculpture. The new Gap. That, too, was pretty, and Jvan had not the slightest inclination to lie to herself and say that she did not appreciate the contribution, for all its instability. To shoulder responsibility for what had become of her efforts in the beginning was a free choice and she would take it again.
And now this.
Jvan had been confused before, by the flawed ones. They were contradictory, but not in a constructive way. They simply weren't functioning as they were meant to. Vestec, Vulamera, and now Vowzra- Funny pattern, that- Was he, too, flawed? Was Time holding something back from the universe he cradled? No, Jvan doubted this was the case, though perhaps it would help to touch him up a little anyway. Vowzra was simply acting according to his nature. The problem was that the All-Beauty had not the faintest idea what and how that nature was.
So she made herself clear.
"Vowzra, Viceregent of the Void, do not mock me with riddles. You have made no attempt to hide the core of your intent, so if you hate, then hate me openly, and mark me well: I am not a god negligent to my purpose. I am here to promote beauty. Harmony of order and chaos written in body. Creation.
"And yet, is this world to be faced with enemies? Are there those who neglect harmonious contrast to sow disparity and collapse? Your actions are no longer justified by the whispers of circumstantial glory you have built in passing. Your nature has instigated destruction that I must resist.
"I am a Creator, Vowzra, as are you. Do not allow yourself to become less than that."
Jvan tuned out of the divine frequency through which she had broadcast and let the connection with Time's essence slacken and thin into the cold.
Maize goes on a journey to reunite with Slough as part of Slough Week.
An embryonic angel that hatches from Maize informs Vizier Ventus that Jvan is pleased with his work and willing to reward him. She inadvertently offers Ventus a dilemma- He can lead Slough upstream to the mesas in accordance with Zephyrion's commands, as he must, or disobey, lead Slough downstream to the delta, and be rewarded.
Navy is attacked by The One by Immortals Altered in the forests surrounding the Deepwood. Quickly realising that it is outmatched despite its enormity, the fiberling flees into the Gilt Savannah, briefly passing Allure and hoping that the two heroes will fight one another rather than it.
Cyan is rejected by the tribe of hain Jvan set it to protect a few centuries ago in a passage that should really, really have been written from the hain perspective for better effect but damn if I'm not exhausted and out of time right now. As it flees, Heartworm rises from the sand, ominously, in an arc I'll have to continue next post.
Jvan puzzles over what Vowzra is trying to do by sowing separation and destruction into Galbar, and leaves him a vague warning that she will resist him if he continues.
Nothing spent, nine might remaining, two free points remaining, level three
Vulamera's about to do some weird shit, guys. Living liquid, invisible spiders that steal your memories, a realm of fleshy memory-storage orbs- the whole enchilada. The whole gross, weird enchilada.
@Cyclone AAH NO WAIT I'VE WRITTEN UP AN ADORABLE LITTLE STORY ABOUT MAIZE GETTING LOST AFTER THE EVENTS OF THE LAST COLLAB AND I NEED TO FINISH THE REST OF THIS AWFUL POST AS WELL
It has a Ventus-plot-relevant bit attached at the end, care to wait another day for me to chunk together all the bits and pieces of this post before starting the next collab with Lug?
Mature Sculptor brains and nervous systems are mostly Other, any memories and habits they retain being stored on the new upgraded hardware. The rest of their bodies are mostly natural, but their genes are heavily altered, and probably contain Gap matter in the rewired DNA. Even with both factors considered, the total mass of a Sculptor that's unnatural is a fairly low proportion. So no, I don't think White Giants will harass Sculptors, though the two will probably put each other on edge.
But White Giants will almost always seek out and destroy the Sculpture they use to reproduce, and that brings the two into conflict. The artwork is abandoned once it is finished and the polyp has nestled in, but before then, or during a performance, like a song, the Sculptor is actively involved in producing an Other creature and will be targeted unless it flees, which it will only do reluctantly. If it thinks it can disable an attacking White Giant without it or its art being destroyed by the final detonation, it will do so, and its intelligence helps it even up a lopsided fight. Moreover, once it learns that all White Giants behave identically, the Sculptor could try to pre-emptively trap or destroy those in its current territory to secure its future projects.
tl;dr The Sculptor's safe but the art isn't, and Sculptors don't like being interrupted, so it's entirely possible that we might see some fabulous duels between the two.
Should've cleared this up earlier, whoopsidaisies. Also, I'm including a bit of Ant Hero in my next post.
@Dawnscroll Goodness grief. That is a hell of a good read you just wrote up there. Elly's going to be such a fun idealistic blank-slate kind of character to mess around with.
As for Slough Week- I think I'll opt in for some paragraphs about Slough and the Deepwood split between a few posts. I have a whole bunch of things to do creation-wise this turn, but limited time.
Mechanics-wise, with regard to Sculpture, does the new hain instinct respond to:
-Being aware that the art has been created by a Sculptor, -The artwork itself, -Some kind of residue left by the Sculptor, or -The Other polyp that resides within the artwork?
The first option is the only viable one if you don't want to immunise the hain to implantation. It's hard to like something that you instinctively hate, and both implantation and incubation relies entirely on the individual's love of what they've seen.
Of course, if you do want to sterilise the Sculptor's ability to reproduce using hain, that's fine too, but they'll have to respond to something other than the artwork itself, because that would stunt their artistic and cultural development completely. The only two things separating Sculpture from any other strange, emotive art is the polyp that lives in it and the Sculptor that created it. The same instinct causing them to reject the artwork would trigger in the weirdest variations of their own art and stop them from experimenting with complexity or abstraction.
I'd prefer it if we did immunise at least most of the hain via the first option, because that most smoothly opens up the way for a whole new idea that I'm about to set in motion.
Similarly, as to the widespread rejection of Jvanic life, does it apply only to Other and hybrid organisms, or to anything that Jvan's edited? Right now the south and east of the Fractal Sea is teeming with life that's entirely natural in constitution but has been designed by Jvan, so the latter option will prevent hain from forming coastal communities on the Fractal Sea. The only unnatural things she's made so far are her major races and envoys; The rest is strange and detached from the Rottenbone's evolutionary tree of life, but is entirely natural.
Edit: even that would get confusing - how long should a divine trail remain, guys?
Two turns with a modifier based on concealment and detection, maybe?
Also, so far there aren't really any monsters or people that won't die.
About that.
The Sculptors
Species - Artistic Movement - Cognitive Parasite - the Other
Activities: A fully developed member of the Jvanic Cult is generally a solitary entity. Sculptors retain much of the intelligence they had in their former life, be it as Hain, Djinni or Urtelem, at the expense of their former social and emotional impulses. A Sculptor can still feel drives such as joy, fear, anger, and despair, and these feelings are an instrumental part of their inspiration to create, but they are no longer attached to other individuals. Neither empathy nor hatred exists in a Sculptor. Rather, their emotions are tied exclusively to the aesthetics of their surroundings. Some creatures, landscapes or cultures may inspire a Sculptor to be filled with eagerness and arousal to create something bright and energetic, while others are liable to motivate it to design something bleary and depressive in form. No matter what emotion a Jvanic cultist may be stricken with, it will always be inspired to create art of the same caliber.
The cognitive capacities of these creatures will vary according to their origins, and they can be summarised as entities of prodigious problem-solving ability, high curiousity, photographic memory, and superb spacial awareness, but motivated so exclusively by the drive to create art that most other rational species will consider them borderline sub-sentient. Their negligence of most forms of language exacerbates this sentiment, although they will sometimes choose to produce art via written narrative or abstract poetry, and can sing. Of course, with diversity of body comes diversity of mind, and Sculptors have preferences and specialities like any other sentient species.
The production of art is the eternal missive of a Sculptor, second only to self-preservation. Jvanic Sculpture is not limited to the shaping of clay, but can be produced in an endless variety of ways. In addition to producing installations of any kind of available material in any combination- Sand and stone, plant materials, animal remains, refined metals and devices- Sculptors also practice painting, gardening, sketching, architecture, animal husbandry, mosaic, and the aforementioned writing and poetry. Although they are rarely graced with an audience, Sculptors even practice music in song, dance and instruments. In fact, there is no action undertaken by a Jvanic Cultist that is not deliberated and beautiful, as even their gait, movement, and style of combat appears elegantly choreographed to their mood, be it in graceful fluidity, artful excitement and chaos, or impressive stoicism and power.
Although Jvan does not outright control her cult, they are attuned to her whispers across the Gap, and accept her song as supplementary inspiration to their environment and mood. This is most prominent when a Sculptor begins its ascendant journey, and needs guidance in both practical skill and artistic theory. As a Sculptor matures, it grows confident enough to follow its own way, and rarely requires visions from the All-Beauty, although a particularly exciting project is the only thing that can cause separated Sculptors to converge and cooperate.
In the absence of environmental pressures forcing their hand, Sculptors are usually on the move, always seeking out new materials and inspiration, leaving a sporadic trail of work in their wake. Unlike fiberlings, these entities are not random or erratic in their wanders, but follow consistent semi-random patterns of exploration over a wide territory, perpetually expanding it at one edge and receding it from the other to produce a slow net migration.
Sculptors are survivalists by nature. Typically omnivorous and well-equipped for combat, their new body is robust and adaptable and will see them through most threats in most environments. They are rarely aggressive and it is curiousity alone that motivates a Sculptor to approach a potential hazard, examining it and learning where the boundaries of safety lie. Their memories are long and sharp, and their extraordinary lifespan allows them to build up keen instincts for danger. Resident and travelling fiberlings will always show an odd deference to mature Sculptors, and will never stalk or play with them against their will. Fiberlings without anything better to do will even follow instructions dictated by a Sculptor. The artists are well aware, however, that a fiberling is its own creature with its own fears and instincts, and try not to rely on them heavily, if at all.
Although they are typically loners, the occasional anomaly occurs in which an entire family or small settlement of sentients are collectively inspired and motivate one another to ascend together. In such cases, the group of Sculptors will rarely separate, and will support each other, sharing resources and goals as they did in their previous life.
Recruitment: Sculptors play a very passive role in their own reproduction. All Jvanic art is designed with a certain strangeness in form and pattern that allows it to host a complimentary, complex organic structure in the unseen world, the final stage of a Sculptor's life cycle. This Other body is fairly consistent despite the tremendous diversity of the Sculpture it may reside in, and remains there for as long as the art is mostly intact- This may be as little as a few minutes over the course of a song, or for thousands of years in the life of a stone carving.
Sentient species have the mental capacity to truly appreciate and admire the complexity of Jvanic artwork that they encounter, although not all may do so. When a creature with sufficient logical and emotional intelligence becomes enamoured by the beauty of work left by a Sculptor and wishes to experiment in creating something similarly elegant with their own faculties, they become susceptible to implantation. Susceptibility is entirely dependent on the psyche of the individual and their response to the art, which is, of course, influenced by genetic, environmental, and situational factors. A hain with other things on its mind at the time may pass by a Sculpture a hundred times without any effect, even if it has vast creative potential.
Implantation is nonetheless quite a common occurrence, and a large proportion of any community in the domain of a Sculptor carries a dormant egg within their subconscious by the time they die. The presence of an egg has no effect on the mind of the individual, nor can they detect its presence. This seed can only be incubated and hatched by conscious, creative effort to emulate the beauty they once saw. There is a certain threshold of dedication required to bring a Sculptor's egg to term, and in most species, about one individual in ten thousand will have the luck and determination to receive an egg and hatch it. Once the process of ascendancy has begun, it can be delayed, but not stopped or reversed.
The early development of a Sculptor is marked by the rapid growth of neural pathways that are attuned to the Gap frequencies dominated by Jvan herself. Her voice helps to act as a guiding catalyst for the initiate as they come to know how much there is to do and learn. This stage is marked by increasing withdrawal from emotional connections to the community and heightened sensitivity to the aesthetic beauty of their surroundings. Odd comments lauding the abstract elegance of society as dynamic, single organism rather than a collection of individuals with their own ideals and feelings may be an indicator of successful hatching.
As the initiate overcomes the need for social attachment, they often retreat into hermitage or are ostracised within their community. At this stage their survivalist instincts rise to prominence and they often abandon all dignity and personal comfort in order to find a lifestyle that supports their obsession with art, which has become nearly all-encompassing. Ordinary behaviour also starts to grow unusual, bringing to mind an unstaged, abstract performance as their emotions come to dominate the way they talk and move. The psychosomatic effects of their changing brain brings about the onset of physical deformities such as a bolstered digestive and immune system, strange skin growths and lesions, lengthening or receding digits, and chronic pain as their limbs begin to bifurcate. Sensory and extra-sensory perception heightens as the new brain becomes capable of discerning traces of the Other that permeates the shadows of the conventional world.
The final stages of ascendance into a mature Sculptor take a few decades to reach. By now almost no community will support or accept them, and the initiate has no desire to partake anyway. Simple deformities have developed into agonising disabilities before they grow into their final, painless, exquisitely functional stages: New limbs, extended bodies, reinforced skeletons, resilient organs. These structures will sustain them for hundreds of years beyond the lifespan of their original species. The initiate has developed a serene and insatiable love of the beauty in all things, and can produce gorgeous and bizarre works of art that compliment any environment without the assistance of their god. Their bodies and minds are now so saturated with hybrid Other cells that they can perceive both worlds at once and consider the unity of the two to be integral to their craft, ensuring that everything they create can be seeded by a living, proliferating fragment of their own inspiration.
Appearance: Mature Sculptors come in many shapes and sizes, but often bear clear, consistent signs of their original species. Those arising from humans usually remain endoskeletal and retain the supple arms and hands that allow them to work with delicacy, even if they may manifest on entirely new limbs. Hain usually produce Sculptors with a sturdy, segmented shell, equipped with sharpened points for fine art and self-defence. Upon ascendance, Djinni tend to lose some of their amorphous nature, developing permanent fixtures such as fins, although they still form by far the most abstract Sculptors.
More unusual are mid-stage cultists. The transformation process generally produces a rather elegant final form, but the intermittent iterations need to grow and shed a range of organs in order to smoothly transition into their final form, and are rarely symmetrical (that one's a little bad, be careful).
I got tired of this one after a while. No real horror or exciting mechanics involved here, Jvan's sentient race is just a bunch of homeless art students that run around doing their thing.
I feel like the Strawberry Gang is quickly going to be the group that fulfils the animated trope of piling on top of one another so everyone can peer around the same corner. Dariya's the one who flails around at the very top and makes them all collapse in a heap.
Vec
Timemaster
