Phosphor [&] on cohost

this event fuckin slaps, y'all

(more screenshots below! I condensed them into one post because holy shit it got long)

Weave through the warring sigils: Most works of Field Correspondence don't also require the piloting of a ship through troubled waters. But needs must. A straightforward challenge: Your Zeefaring + A Scholar of the Correspondence qualities give you a 100% chance of success.

Your Zeefaring quality, by itself, gives you a 10% chance of success. Each point of A Scholar of the Correspondence adds 1 point of Zeefaring.

To be both agent of the Correspondence and captain of a ship is too many duties at once. The water and the fire pull in opposite directions, and so you turn the vessel itself into the agent of your communication. You pull the prow around in wild and unsafe patterns. You trace sigils in your wake, writing safe passage onto the waves to counteract the confounding fury of the burning sky above. As an act of responsible navigation, it is a disaster. As a scholarly work of the Correspondence, it is messy in the extreme. But as an example of both at once? Unprecedented.

Scholar of the Correspondence 21 freaks stay WINNING

Attempt to calm the Lorn-Fluke: You know a great deal about the Shapelings, and a great deal about the language of fire. Now that you are face-to-face, perhaps peace might be reached through less violent means.

You attune to the Fluke's song with senses and secrets unavailable to most. The song is fathomless, melancholy, alone. The song is boiling, bright, furious. It is fire screaming across obliging air, it is light grasping across the aching void, it is heat seeping through a partner's membrane.

You detect currents of regret, floating beneath the fury. Anger travels better in air than sorrow. In a more viscous medium, the two might be balanced, the Fluke's calls of trespass tempered and less wild. Not here. Your hull blackens and hair singes.

In contrast, your countermelody is insignificant. A low, quiet thrum in the water, sigils spoken across the incensed air, composite where the Fluke's is whole. But it is a reply where the Fluke expected none, and for a moment it listens.

You sing of accident and blame. Negligence, perhaps, but not intent. Admiralty Ordnance Depôt № 8, and the wreck of the H.M.S. Breadbasket. The chance collision of miniscule bodies in endless night.

The Fluke's fires ebb and cease. The pressure around your ship drops. The Fluke's vast bulk sinks beneath the waves, the spiral-irised eye at its heart affixed upon your vessel all the while. Its anger is not gone – not yet – but you are no longer a target for its fury.

SCHOLAR OF THE CORRESPONDENCE FREAKS STAY WINNING

Phosphor [&]

@bazelgeuse-apologist

It's a horrible day on the Internet, and you are a lovely geuse.

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