Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - Turn 10 - Purse and Perceptibility

My dear lady - ressst assssured that I am mosssst eager for ussss to enjoy wedded blissss (and indeed, your apartment isss a sssssubsssstantial improvement over that of my former guardian, who between you and me, sssspent rather too much of hisss time and money on hissss wardrobe).

I do have rather a lot of packing to do, though. Lotssss of… sssscientific equipment which requiressss perssssonal attention. Lt Brummell issss of courssse mosssst distracted with hisss new bride and I have no wishhhh to play goossssseberry any longer than I need. I am counting the dayssss.

With regard to this outrageoussss, sssscurilousss attack on you and the freedom of the presss (a caussse mosssst dear to my heart), you of coursssse have my full ssssuport. We sssshall stand together and prevail againssst this mysssterious adverssssary, who ever they may be. I have my ssssussspisssionsss; pray, let me know how I may help.


A figure follows @Tom_Ratchetcrank as he leaves Leviathan’s, tailing him through the streets. To the casual observer, he seems to be some sort of labourer, but someone a little more skilled might notice a certain lightness of step as he works his way through the crowd, manoeuvring in his heavy work boots almost as if he were wearing sneakers. A hood shields his face from view, but his scarred, battered hands mark him as human. Instinctively, it seems, most citizens – of both the true and pretender varieties – try not to look too closely. This is not the kind of man known for having friends, but rather the kind with surprisingly few enemies. Indeed, one of Weatherby’s more notorious thugs (other than, of course, Tom himself) crosses the street and enters a shop to avoid crossing paths.


Indeed, they offer a marveloussss ssservice, sssso I hear from my nesssst-sssssisssters.



[ Rounder, having just finished his afternoon meditation, sits at his writing desk, pondering the state of the universe while gazing into his crystal ball ]

It’s all so clear to me now. I no longer need those patent medicines. My mind has expanded and encompasses more than just Weatherby. The world is within me and I am the world. Everything is nothing is everything is eternal is all is… ahem I should probably write this down at some point.

In the meantime, I must spread the word! There’s too much magic to keep this all to myself…

Eighth, dear, I’m going out for a bit, be back later!


[ Dick woke up in a strange new place wearing a strange new uniform ]







Time keeps on ticking toward future moments. Be sure that those future moments represent your will and desires! Specifically, I note:


are yet mulling their choices in the matter. Starting a zip! family unit is always a bold decision and I have every assurance that your ruminations will benefit your household. But note! Twenty four hours remain to record your intentions in the Public Ledger.



The first step of in-processing for the Distinguished Appointment to Commission in the Academy (DACA) is to preserve the lineage of the cadet. As Space Naval Life can be quite detrimental to one’s corporeal form, the United Federation of Oceans and Seas (UFOS) capture each new cadet’s pristine genetic information at the time of Officer Commission to serve as a “save-point” in the event that any aberrant happenstance occurs during the course of training.

As witnessed by Bartlebot the Scriventer (@Bartlebot), new Cadet Richard Oomingmak Ticklebot Liversnaps-Grayson (@liversnaps-grayson) has chosen of his own free will to replicate as a [Space Canoid].

According to our records, the local genetic processing firm to which Dick’s fur sample has been submitted is Hair Today, Heir Tomorrow a subsidiary of M.W.A-H.A-H.A. Incorporated.

Please join me in congratulating Cadet Liversnaps-Grayson on his appointment.

Cmdr. William T. Piker
United Federations of Oceans and Seas

Child Richard Oomingmak Ticklebot Liversnaps-Grayson Mark II, Space Canoid. A.k.a. Robin2
Legacy 4 - Establish Military Service as a viable alternative to securing Ranks and Privileges historically reserved for True Citizens
hire nanny - The UFOS provide for the best in spawncare, natch!


A mysterious cloaked figure drops a bundle of newsmagazines in the alley outside The Leviathan Club. A binding string is cut, and a few copies are permitted to blow down the street in the midnight breeze.

By the time the morning stimulants have been consumed, nearly every civilized eye in Weatherby has had occasion to glimpse the opinion page of one of the more popular broadsheets from the heart of Charybdis, the Clarion-Picayune.

Text of the editorial follows:


New Prussia v. Weatherby: Tempest in a Backwater Teapot, or Desperate Cause to Ignite Charybdian Conflagration?

Weatherby. It is a modestly notable capital city, with a serviceable spaceport, some no-doubt-locally-important industry, a few quaintly hierarchical social customs, a two-headed Governor, and a lot of sandfish.

Weatherby is also a kingdom, or, to be more specifically accurate, recently become a queendom. It is also a planet, home to both aforesaid queendom and capital city. It might not surprise the Reader to learn that Weatherby is apparently also the name of the star ‘round which that name-impoverished planet revolves, and in fact, due to the absence of any other celestial bodies of any particular note in that out-of-the-way sector of Charybdis, most star charts, when forced to acknowledge its existence at all, denote that area of the map as the Weatherby sector.

So why haven’t you, O Reader, ever heard of any of these iterations of that name?

Because until now, there has been no reason for you to have. Now, however, trouble brews in, on, and around Weatherby. The system has attracted the rapacious attention of the New Prussian Navy, and oh my goodness, is it going to get ugly. You have certainly heard of New Prussia, O Reader. Having adopted the old ICUP’s shiny uniforms, crisp salutes, throat-shaped bootheels, and short patience for unorthodox paperwork, and coupled them with a clipped accent and a penchant for scorched earths, the New Prussians are never a threat to take lightly.

And now the New Prussian spear is poised at the Weatherbean breast.

“Swell,” sayeth our Reader? “Better them than us,” quoth he, as he prepares to turn the page to the crossword? “No skin off my antlers”? “Weather-what?”

It’s an easy one, sport. New Prussia vs. Weatherby would be a one-sided barrelfish-shoot, if left to advance unmolested. Weatherby barely possesses a Navy. Its soldiers once heard tell of gunpowder. They march in very precisely-measured circles.

And yet they control all of the sandfish market for the whole of Charybdis.

If Weatherby falls to New Prussia, then New Prussia emerges fatter and better-supported than ever before. Weatherby itself will lie in ruins, and who really gives a cloacal load about that, but can we really permit New Prussia to triumph so completely here, within striking distance of the very Heart of Charybdis? Unchallenged, do you realize just how insufferable those Prussians would become? They’ll turn their polished gunsights wherever they like… maybe even here, where we no longer enjoy the protection of Don Mondo’s organization.

As much as it pains me to admit it, we must fly to the aid of Weatherby. Already certain assets are in place both inside and outside the Weatherbean Governor’s Palace, to steer public policy in a way which is most likely to defuse the New Prussian threat, and simultaneously prepare Weatherby for its new, more profitable management.

I can say no more here. But you must trust me.

Commodore J. Grumby Ssskipper (Ret.)


Eudaemonia stands in the doorway of the recently-prepared nursery at Bedlam’s Bower. The room is tastefully decorated in shades of rose and white, the bedding carefully wrought in ruffles and lace. In every way, it was an abode worthy of an infant True Citizen.

The thought should have pleased Eudaemonia. But it didn’t. She shuts the door and retreats to her study. If only she could leave her worries behind so easily, she thinks, as she sits behind her desk.

After all, there was no guarantee that her daughter-to-be would be declared a True Citizen. It was entirely possible that the child-- her child-- would be denied her rights to inherit the rank, lands, riches and name she would be born to claim. And then what kind of life would she have?

Eudaemonia’s hands traced the folds of the papers stacked to one side of the desktop. Say what you will about Sylvain’s (@MalevolentPixy) churlish attitudes toward high society, the man had a way with words. He and his Post-Ledger writers painted an eloquent picture of the difficult lives Citizen-Pretenders faced on a daily basis. Without having secure access to education and jobs, they struggled for survival. And even if they managed to scrape their way out of poverty-- a most challenging task-- they still faced the threat of violence from others desperate to claim something, anything, for themselves, by any means necessary.

It seemed to Eudaemonia that rank was no safety against that desperation and struggle. Just look at the wards her fellow True Citizens had fostered. In their service to their masters, they were promised an introduction to a brighter future… and yet, their ambitions still led them into crime and mayhem. And poor Walleye Crusher paid for it with his life. She shuddered. It wasn’t the kind of existence she wanted for her daughter.

Of course, there was a real possibility her child would be a True Citizen after all, and her worries would be for nothing. But that thought brought her no peace. Should her daughter inherit, her life would be easier, but by no means more secure. Such rampant inequality would only breed more and more resentment towards True Citizens and their ostentatious displays of wealth and privilege. And that resentment would eventually and inevitably breed violence and upheaval.

Eudaemonia feels herself blush with shame. She had always prided herself on doing her duty towards her fellow members of society. She had truly believed that token donations here and there were enough to make a difference. But when all was said and done, what truly opened her eyes to the world around her? A selfish interest in her own flesh and blood.

But perhaps, she muses, that was part of what being a parent was all about. When bringing an innocent life into existence, one cannot help but take a fresh look at the world it will inhabit. And with that look comes an urgent desire to reshape it for the child’s benefit-- to break it apart and remake the whole dratted thing, if necessary, to safeguard its future.

And a more equal, more just society would not just benefit her daughter-to-be. If Citizen-Pretenders could gain better access to education, jobs, the means to support themselves with some measure of dignity and pride, society as a whole would be healthier and more stable for all. Oh, some of her fellow True Citizens would no doubt squawk about losing their precious perceived superiority. Perhaps the promise of more affluent CPs spending their new earnings at their businesses might soothe their ruffled feathers?

Eudaemonia startles, shocked at the drift of her thoughts. How arrogant is she, to think she can shift the very foundations Weatherbean society exists upon? Heaven knows, she’s had no great success in business, no great prominence in fashion. She has neither excelled in military might, nor blazed new trails in education. Her rank in society is laughably low. And even should she exert every ounce of oratory skill she can employ, even should she persist with all the persuasion and wit she possesses… she is but one Citizen. How dare she think she can change the world?

But… how dare she not?

If there’s any chance she can make a difference, for her daughter, for her fellow sentients, she must try. Duty demands it.

She draws a sheet of paper across the desk, readies her pen and inkwell… and prepares to wage a war of words.


Whoa - what was that? Feels like I got a hard reset…

Dear diary.txt -

I feel I must write you as I don’t know how much longer my memory or personality will stay with me. Come to think of it, I haven’t actually lost any memories, and save for the occasional odd outburst my fictional personality seems intact. In any case, there isn’t much else to do around here.

I found the statue I sent as a gift to Ambassador Carcinogennifer in Sssskidwish’s storage heap (I felt it unfortunate to ask a servant to tidy it up, though I ended up doing that anyway). I have found it odd how much time she spends away from home considering she doesn’t work or have any real concerns to concern herself with. The Ambassador does have other attendants, but I suppose she needs Ssskidwish. She clearly has the Ambassador’s ear since she knows about everything in such intimate detail.

I wonder if she’s supposed to share such detail with me. One must remember she is a space lizard, I suppose, and some odd behavior is to be expected. My feelings haven’t changed, though I find it hard to define precisely what my feelings are.

I am starting my masterpiece art project. Now if only I could decide what art form it should take.

I wonder if it’s proper to start every paragraph with “I”. I suppose nobody will know. I wonder if I’ll be disappointed in myself if I read this later after forgetting about writing it.


p.s. I sure do eat a lot of breakfast, don’t I


[GM Note: Due to the site outage today that overlapped almost entirely with the chunk of time I’d set aside for processing, I’ll be unable to post results tonight as usual. I hope to have them for you ASAP, but that night won’t be tonight.]


[GM Note: Continuing to set expectations, this was particularly bad timing due to my own commitments out there in the real world. Results and options will likely be posted Wednesday with deadlines and next results modified accordingly. Particularly frustrating for me given the state the game has reached and I thank you for your patience in the meantime.]


It’s okay, babies never come when they’re supposed to. Just relax and breathe through the labor.


I had no idea Bartlebot was expecting! Which is the more appropriate gift, the baby blue motor oil, or the pink?


Yellow is always the safest option.

It’s nice to know @Bartlebot is creating a being to take care of us once he is gone. How very thoughtful of him.




It’s … Apparently identifing as female in a binary sexed species. For other species, YMMV