Overview

Third Sword Draw: Nine of Swords Prompt: Someone is having an argument in the street. Does this remind you of an argument you've had? Major Arcana: Strength Crashing into the street, I stumble against the brickwork wall, pulling away with a wince as the damp sizzles against my skin. I have no time to collect my thoughts before I start at the sound of a man's voice. "I'm just asking you to be honest with me. Why can't you do even that?" My head lifts and I see him at the fork in the alleyway ahead of me. He is clearly no stable hand or field worker. His clean tunic is dyed red with embroidered swallows at the cuffs and collar, but the wear in his sloping cap and pewter jewelry mark him as no nobleman either. His expression is exasperated, and the woman he has hemmed in against the wall is clutching at her wrist, tugging the faded blue of her smock as she looks down and hugs her stomach. She murmurs a reply too faint to hear even in the close echo of the sparse stone alleyway. "What was that? Speak up. You know I can't hear you when you mumble?" She obliges but only barely, the answer less than half of what she seemed to say before. "Are you afraid?" The man in red sleeves scoffs, looking offended and shaking his head as he turns his eyes up to the narrow gap in roofs above them. A long-suffering sigh escapes his lips, and I feel my limbs trembling as anger and fear boil inside me. I try to urge my legs forward, but they feel as heavy as lead, rooting me to the spot. My own weak voice dies in my throat as I try to form the words 'leave her alone'. "Stop that." The man frowns then repeats himself more firmly as the woman in blue pushes her hands to her face, rubbing at her eyes. "I said stop that." He's scolding her like a child, his movements sharp and forceful as he grabs at her wrists and pulls her hands away. "I didn't do anything to you. Why are you crying? You want to make me look bad?" "I want to go home." They are the first words that come out clear, and I feel my heart sink as I hear them. "We can't go home." My mouth moves in time with the man's as if he's a character in a play I've seen a dozen times. I smell it again... the wine. I feel the echo of the jewelry that once pierced my flesh and hung around my tattooed neck and bare, pale wrists. I feel the ache of the scars and bruises concealed beneath my shift and linen cloak. We can't go home. We're already here. Yes, you can, I want to tell her. I want to scream it at her. I beg my legs to move while my shaking hands clutch the wall as if some great hurricane were trying to suck me away. Run if you have to. You can. "I went to a lot of trouble," the man was saying, his teeth clenched in a growl. "We're already late. And you didn't say anything until just now. Why would you lie? Why would you waste my time? Pull yourself together. Now. Stop that. Stop that." The clap of his palm against her is like the snap of a branch. I can see it then. Despite the way her dark hair hangs over her face, I can see it in the stillness of her body. I can hear it in the way her soft crying stops. For just a moment, the man looks down at her with a look like a kennel master judging if the bitch with heel. There is no shock at what he's done, not from either of them. "Are we good?" the man in red asks coolly. She nods, her head shifting in a simple drop that is neither too fast nor too slow, too exaggerated or too curt. It is the very exemplar of what a 'nod' should be. No more no less. I pull my improvised cloak around me, curling against the wall. For the first time since leaving the undertaker's workshop, it feels like corpse shroud again as I watch the man and his mannequin disappear into the fog, their footsteps clicking along the cobbles for a minute more before my straining ears lose them.

Second Swords Draw: Eight of Swords Prompt: You pass a place of worship. What is this place? How do you feel when you look upon it? Major Arcana: The Lovers I'm not sure how, but my feet know where to carry me. And as I cross the misty street into a stone archway, my bare foot claps against a wide step leading down. The sound of that last footstep is loud, the abrupt halt of the missed step as I stop myself from tumbling making the impact shiver in my shin. Ahead of me, the space opens up as if I'm staring into a valley, a crater that has been dug out of the middle of the town. As if sensing my stare, the mist parts and I feel an odd familiarity that makes me look closer. The wide stone steps are flanked by wooden benches, each row descending lower in concentric semicircles of amphitheater seating. A hexagonal stage sits at the bottom, its boards gleaming with waxy polish speckled in the ubiquitous dew. My breath catches and I find I can hardly draw another as the feeling of absolute silence wraps around me. I am on holy ground. A place of sacrifice. Empty oil lamps add a tinny edge to the echo of my soft footsteps as I slowly descend. And turning around, I see the honeycomb of box seats edged in carvings of chubby cherubs, voluptuous nymphs, and grimacing gargoyles. People watch from them, but the individuals don't matter. It's this place. It's a temple of perception, of sense and sensuality. It's a banquet table for voice and flesh where people cease to be and toys—objects in skin and rouge,—perform their roles. To be enjoyed. To be consumed. Mechanically, I step onto the stage, turning to the empty boxes and ringing pews. My linen cloak slips from one shoulder, baring an upraised arm as I feel my shoulders straighten and my chin rise. Words come out of me. More than that, a cadence—portentous and bold—drives them out. "Lo, tis a gala night within the lonesome latter years. An angel throng bewinged, bedight in veils and drowned in tears, sit in a theater to see a play of hopes and fears, while the orchestra breathes fitfully the music of the spheres..." I stop. My heart is racing. I was here. I've been here. Stumbling back, I feel the floor give way and with a sharp cry, I stumble to catch myself. A trap door. The skylight above falls through that dark gap, past my dangling leg as I brace myself on the edges of the opening. Below me, half-shadowed in the sickly daylight, dozens of corpses look up at me, glassy eyed and covered in the same cool droplets that coat everything. I see their hair clinging to their porcelain pale skin, their unmoving unbreathing bodies lying with limbs akimbo around each other, discarded as carelessly as the bones of an evening meal. But that isn't what freezes me in place. Each of their faces is identical. Each of them the very same face as the one I saw in the shaving bowl mirror I used the night before. My face. I scurry back, the boards creaking as I regain my feet. I blink, wiping at my face and pushing away the cloying mist that has already begun to prickle and burn on my skin as if I'd been too long in the sun. When I open my eyes again, I see the mannequins for what they are. Blank wooden dolls piled in a heap. No more no less. And forcing my own wooden limbs to remember the blood running through them, I stiffly retreat, my footsteps setting clipping out a brisk allegro melody on the stone as I flee back to the streets.

ACT II: Swords After getting your bearings, you walk around town. You know this town. You know it well, but you cannot remember it. First Swords Draw: Seven of Swords Prompt: You find yourself walking through a market. Which stall are you drawn to? Major Arcana: The Wheel of Fortune The rain has stopped. Through a gauzy haze connecting the grey clouds above to the fog swirling in little eddies around my ankles, I can see the pale light meekly dividing the day from the night. The undertaker spared me a couple yards of corpse linen for a crude cloak after I refused his offer to stay the day with him. There is too much about him that burns. His words, his expressions, his gentle touch. All of it is too warm and leaves me with the wincing, sharp feeling under my skin of having come in too suddenly from the cold. Following broken cobbles, wheel ruts, and the murmuring commotion of voices in the mist, I find a plaza. The space is alive and respirating with colors that feel flat and paled by the dewy air. Grey wood like exposed ribs hold aloft striped stall canvas while men and women with shrewd eyes and insane grins motion to those shambling between to inspect their wares. There's a desperation in the air that leaks out between the boisterous laughter and chirping calls, and the small space makes my stomach turn as an image rises in my mind's eye of a dead hare lying on bare, dusty ground while ants teemed over it. Closing my eyes, I draw a breath that's half a sob as I wonder if the image is a memory or merely an impression conjured by the spirit of the market. The merchants ignore me or cast suspicious looks as I pass through the rows. It's clear I have no money, and so even the false smiles disappear. At best I am just some animal that is taking space where a real human with coin to spend could be standing. At worst, I am a thief here to take what I did not pay for. And that is the greatest crime in the market. The one who does not exchange, who takes but does not give, is little more than a ghoul deserving of death. Just as the one who gives without taking is a traitor, a treasonous pirate who steals from every vendor at once by valuing something more than the coin... one deserving exile. A shimmering chime catches my ear. Pausing, I see a jewelers stand beside me. The metal links of necklaces catch the little light there is, sending cold blue sparks back as the dangling charms twist on the arms of the displays. My throat constricts, my eyes widening. I feel my chest tightening as it struggles to rise against a phantom pressure that seems to squeeze the air from my lungs. My hands shake as I feel the echo of where rings weighed them down. My ears also seem to go deaf, ringing in a whine that drowns out the market as I reach up and feel the small indents where they have been pierced. I remember the weight of intricate metal around my throat. I see myself in torch light, the smell of wine and the sight of my body in a mirror, shining like a constellation as the ornaments mingle with the glistening of sweat on the bare skin emerging from my dress. Bundling my linen cloak against my chill body, my bare feet clap freezing water against my ankles as I hurry away from the stall.

This must be why they call this sort of thing 'hot'. I am feeling unusually warm right now! While her flustered expression was turned away out of some meagre attempt at granting the two some level of privacy Selene's purple orbs occasionally stole glances, only long enough to burn the image within her mind. That said, she was not very good at concealing it. In such a state she was probably not very good at a lot of things! Affection was still an untamed beast for her to conquer, even if it wasn't being applied directly to her, and it was certainly more potent when utilized so suddenly! Oh gosh! Moaning!? How far will they go? I should definitely leave! Right? A hint of calm splashed upon her burning mind when Dylan finally broke the kiss to utter words. Of course they were the sort of words generally spoken in a more private setting, but it did at least mean that they weren't so thoroughly focused on making out. It was a welcomed reprieve for everyone, she imagined. At least this is what she tried to make herself belive. The alternative would have been to admit to herself that she was enjoying the show, and there was no way that she was going to do that! She wasn't perveted, after all! Dylan is right. She is really pretty. It was not a simple one way crush. Robin held feelings for Dylan! Or at the very least a desire to kiss them. When Robin's gaze traveled to her direction a sudden visible shiver of worried surprise ran up along her entire body, as though she had been caught doing something she was not supposed to! Both hands lifted in front of her face, waving softly. "N-no need to stop on my account!" she blurted out, only to notice a moment later that she had said the wrong thing. "I m-mean, I don't mind! I can turn away!" Without waiting for a reply the little witch did just that! With her back to the two it became considerably more difficult to observe them. That was a shame, but probably the right thing to do. Not as right as simply leaving the room, of course, however part of her was keeping her glued in place. She wasn't waiting for anything spicier. No, she was just here in case she was needed! That, she imagined, was a good enough excuse for herself. Are you? Huh? In love!? No, right? Something confusing. Is Dylan just horny? Or is it something more than that!? This is almost as good as a novel!

A tremble ran through Robin; her fingers shook as they hesitated on the edge of the desk, Dylan's eager pressure adding a tension that felt like clinging to some woefully insufficient rail on the edge of a cliff. Her tongue slipped over Robin's, and the wet slip of the skillful organ set a ripple up her spine like the trace of some phantom fingertip. The heat melting in the bowl of her hips and the burning rush of fear and desire in her drumming arteries pushed Robin to clumsily reciprocate, her own tongue pushing back into Dylan's mouth and moving in uncertain fits and starts as the girl with the poet's eyes taught her by example what that slick, pink muscle could do. Robin had not forgotten Selene was there, but as the moment stretched, she found the only thing she could do about it was blush and close her eyes. A part of her told her how bad this was... how whorish. A mild panic still tumbled in her chest, the girl she'd been for years terrified of what was happening while the girl emerging tonight held onto every second of contact like the harness of a rollercoaster. If she made Dylan stop, would they ever kiss like this again? Would the moment be gone for good? She didn't know. It was such a wild, unexpected development, and since she didn't know what had brought it on, it felt as fragile as rime on a winter pine. A hot pressure met Robin's own burning heat through the front of her bikini bottoms. The initial contact made her gasp, her lips parting from Dylan's as her thighs tightened to resist the fearful urge to retreat. She wanted this. The sparks Velvet had kindled in her had burst into incandescent flame at the volatile pressure of Dylan's desire. She felt the fabric of her bikini bottom folding in, just a little. Pressure like a fingertip sank against her concealed folds. Robin started. Confusion rising both from the unexpected sensation and from Dylan's sudden withdrawal as their eyes met, the shallow breath mingling between their parted lips. Looking down, Robin's eyes widened at the sight of the small bulge in Dylan's own swimsuit. "What...?" Her brain was short-circuiting. There was just no point of reference to be found. She knew intersex people existed. But it was more of a theoretical knowledge, not something that happened in real life. Not something that happened to her. And so for a full three seconds, as Dylan spoke, Robin could only half-hear her secret love's words, her mind consumed trying to understand if Dylan was a boy or a girl. She had breasts like a girl. He had something that seemed like a penis poking her. At least... she thought so? Confusion boiled off, leaving a gritty residue of fear that made Robin's mouth dry and her eyes scrunch up as she blinked and tried to understand. Her hand was in Dylan's while his other roamed up her exposed midriff and over her ribs. The sensation brought a soft moan to her lips but in the same moment she felt her heart folding like a hand was closing around it. She didn't know how to feel. The boy she'd pined over this last month had just transformed again, twice in the same night. The image she'd had was crumbling, and yet... she was getting everything she wanted. They were holding her... kissing her... It was so much like the blushing fantasies she'd had lying in her bed, quietly stirring under the covers as Charlotte scrolled on her phone across from her in the cramped bedroom. "I-I've really wanted that for a long time... too..." Robin replied, pausing partway through to swallow and lick her lips as she fought the rasp of a dry throat that threatened to choke off the words. As Dylan asked if they could do it again, Robin pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her dark eyes glancing to Selene and then shyly to the floor as she felt the repressed embarrassment she'd put off coming back in a tidal wave. "Do-You mean, like, now?" It was the wrong question. Her racing heart told her it was, and before allowing Dylan a chance to answer, Robin's voice dropped. Sotto voce, she said, "I'm sorry, Dylan. I'm... I'm really confused. And I'm—I'm really sorry. It doesn't matter. I just... are you...?" She couldn't finish the question, a heat like humiliation making her anxiously pull at her hair as she prayed Dylan would understand anyway.

I'm all about the story, so if I have to sometimes bend the rules to make it a better story, I almost always do. The beginning felt stilted at first, until I decided to draw the third card for Act 1 and alter what I'd written for the 2nd card to make it a little more cohesive. The epilogue felt right, even if it really wasn't part of the game. Part of me wants to write about that modern day theologist, who she is, and how her life has been shaped by the words of Prudence. Part of me wants her to go back in time to meet Prudence and realize that, no, the devil was not a metaphor, there was an actual Devil chaining her, whose minions she had to battle. I think that would be fun.

I think your way (and the way the introduction to each act is actually written) generated a more cohesive story. Mine stumbles and lurches - which I don't hate. My journal for this looks and reads like addled thoughts. Yours evolved a moving narrative, that propels itself into a powerful epilogue. Well done, and thank you for sharing.

I pulled all three first, and to be fair, I might have reordered the one where she destroyed something of hers just because it didn't feel right being the first thing. But yes, I pulled all 3 minor then their related major and thought on each answer, then tried to give a cohesive thread through the three. It felt right to do it that way.

Dylan was used to having eyes on them. Selene's were welcome though. The Hollow didn't have conscious understanding of it, but they wanted a witness. The amethyst eyes on them were as unnoticed but as fundamental gravity. Dylan felt the moment of panic and confusion melt, and the primal attraction of their attraction to Robin reciprocated and their own panic subsided. The press of Robin's hips was real, the weight and warmth of her body undeniable and Dylan pulled the pair together - the fear of their unexpected anatomy lost in Robin's mouth. Robin's invitation to explore her mouth found an eager recipient in Dylan, and the Hollow's eager tongue sought Robin's. Unlike kisses past, Dylan had anticipated this one and dove into it excitedly. As their tongues danced Dylan moaned softly, their voice mingling with Robin's. Dylan felt the hard press of their arousal push against Robin and their breath froze in their chest. They lifted their head and eased back, suddenly afraid. OF what they'd done and what they were. "I'm sor-" the started to stammer, head shaking slightly as they cut off the thought. They weren't precisely sorry. Hopeful that they didn't need to be. Which meant they should be, but some how through the heat of the hurt and arousal and eXstasy coursing through their brain that was lost. Their eyes roved over Robin again and Dylan's face flushed, "You're so hot like this..." they said, letting their hand run over Robin's ribs and arms, to touch her face. Dylan leaned their head close to Robin's ear, "But you know, it was that strappy sundress that got me." They let their hand fall to Robin's and took it gently. "I really wanted to kiss you like that, for, like a really long time - " they paused for a moment, their lips pursed uncertainly as they tried to find breath to continue. "Can we, you know-" the began, half gesturing with Robin's hand still in their own, "do it again?"

As I work on my playthrough of Anamnesis, @IsabellaRose, did you draw three questions at the start of each Act? I have been pulling one suited Minor Arcana, thinking on the question and drawing a Major Arcana then writing before drawing the next card. I may play through this again and try drawing in sets to see if the narrative becomes easier to see and sew together.

You're welcome, and thanks for playing along. I still need to finish mine, but I am still on task. Just not posting photos anymore.

I am NOT enjoying seeing my penmanship on display, and it's also an annoying chore to photograph, resize color balance and post it, so no more photos. If you liked them, apologies. I can point you do a dozen places to buy a fountain pen and a journal. When last we left our amnesiac, she had found her house and the cards had lead us to the trash. Judgement signifies awakening, rebirth or significant change. It turns out her name is Chrysanthemum De La Raya (never ask a twelve year old for advice on these things) and what she found in her trash was a coffee stained bill for chemotherapy from the hospital. Ouch. Tough news to wake up to. Next draw. I don't have a physical deck handy, which kind of pisses me off, but here we are. Seven of Cups: The walls are adorned. What is hanging from the walls of your home? The answer: The Sun. Hmmm....

If it's one or the other, I think you should 100% have supernatural elements — long road rides and paranormal activity goes hand in hand often, and for a good reason. I think it's good to leverage that in your game. I'd say do it in a subtle way — think Stephen King's fiction (I have the Dark Tower on my mind for some reason): weird things can and will happen in the narrative, but you don't exactly have players walking around slinging spells or fighting dragons. That edge of the natural and supernatural is where I'm seeing this game fit quite well setting-wise (and it wouldn't require you to change the character sheets necessarily :p) That being said, if you do want to allow for multiple settings, I think you should try to make the supernatural elements as optional/separatable as possible. I'm with Isa here in that something like an epiteth-based system, akin to FATE, could let you bypass having to create separate mechanics for this kind of thing, though depending on how deep you are into development (or how set you are on certain ideas), I can understand that might not be entirely possible. It's honestly a little difficult at this point to give specific advice without really knowing what the game looks like in detail, so I think it's best you go with your gut from here :p

I may not be your target audience, as I generally dislike the limitations of class-based systems and the swinginess of d20 systems. BUT... If I were to play a setting like the one I described, I'd use (people who know me will not be surprised to hear me say) Cortex. I'd leave it loose, using Distinctions with SFX to carry the weight of whatever weirdness I decided to incorporate. Want post-apocalyptic mutated animals - that's a d8 Mutant Badger distinction, which would cover all aspects of "badgeriness" from attitude, to having long ass claws, to digging. Want retro sci-fi? Have a d8 Little Green Man Wearing a Human Suit distinction. I personally find the freedom of using custom Distinctions in Cortex, much like Aspects in Fate, to be very liberating and allow all kinds of weird, wacky variations within the same game, or hyper-focused separation of abilities, if that's what you're going for. So for me, I'd leave it open to anything, because I'd use a system that allows open-ended character creation. I'd just design a few sample set pieces and pre-generated characters, some lists of possible Distinctions, skills, assets (think gear and weapons), etc. for each type of setting to show how it's done. But again, I'm probably not your target audience, so... my opinion may be utterly useless to you.

>:0 *gets domed by a widowmaker*

Route 66 was highly inspiration to the creation of this game, I think you hit the nail on the head there. Pacific Drive I did not have in my head but the connection makes a lot of sense. I've been working hard with this game, developing classes and progressions systems etc. when it occurred to me that I don't need a real 'setting' and more of a sandbox with a few pre-written settings for people to choose from. After all, road trips can be done on the back of an ox-pulled cart or in an interstellar spaceship. Instead I am left with a revamped version of my question that I'm kind of hoping @IsabellaRoseor @Icarian Dreams, or really anyone can answer (forgive the @'s idk if I'm allowed to do that) I can't decide what level of supernaturalism should exist. If magic exists, or aliens, or something of that like, life and society would be completely diffrent and so would the rules. In order to write this game to accept them I would need to develop new systems. Usually, that would not be a problem, but then there would be systems that are optional but still take up space on the character sheet. In my experience, that is always a bad thing. Now I do agree with IsabellaRose that a little bit of retro-furism, the tales of murderers on backwater highways, dirty diners and drive ins, dive bars that have only one customer, I think those are some SUPER fun setting pieces that can work with a lot of story types and I'm concerned that adding fantasy elements would ruin the storytelling abilites. OR, I'm wrong and it would create a cool and unique world for the players to interact with. Tell me what yall think!

I have to agree there. The base Ironsword game is a solid setting, but being able to adapt it to other setting has made it infinitely replayable, imho. Although, I'd love to see a 50's themed "Route 66" type travel game, with everything that 50's media entailed - wholesome family road trips, the continuing prevelence of radio as a form of entertainment, inspiration from the retro-futurism of 50's sci-fi, drive-ins, weird horror like Tales from the Crypt, etc.

Not a lot of discussion going on right now. I think a few games were started. I've been posting some solo stuff. but life has decided that any more TTRPGs are too many more TTRPGs for my available free time right now.

Hellooooo all! Is this place still awake?

Character Sheet Threads List NPC List

Introduction I am playing through the story of a young woman who wakes with amnesia in a small medical center in eastern Kentucky. After a severe flood, she was found unconscious with head trauma near the edge of the woods and brought here by a local who happened to be passing by. The circumstances (after a flood) were randomly generated, the location was randomly chosen from a list based on data suggesting areas with high likelihood of flooding. I want her to be "someone special", perhaps a magical girl, a secret agent, an alien, a government experiment... I want her to have been escaping from something or on a mission or... well, something interesting. I want a past that will come back with a vengeance. BUT... I also want to be surprised by her past. My mind is likely to start filling in blanks on its own right out of the gate, and what I don't want is to decide, I want to use the tables in Mythic GM Emulator to lead me to her background randomly until there are enough details to make sense and get it firmed up and finalized in my head. Rules Used Cortex Prime: I'm using a very stripped down version of Cortex. I'm using the following Trait Sets: *Distinctions (with SFX), *Relationships (with statements), Attributes (Physical, Mental, Social), and Skills (with specializations). I'll be tracking injury using Stress (Exhausted, Injured, Emotional, and Aroused (because I'm still keeping it lewd)). In the beginning, I'll be leaning into the Attributes and Skills, but once she has relationships and her past reveals her Distinctions, I intend to switch over to those. I'd love to incorporate Values, but it feels weird to set her Values when I don't even know who she is yet. I may add more or switch it up if it feels appropriate to do so. I'm also loosely tracking possessions. Mythic GM Emulator, v2: I'm using the base system to setup the game using the "Next Expected Scene" based on what would make sense given the story so far. Then I roll against the Chaos Factor to determine if the next expected scene occurs as expected, if it's altered, or if it's an interrupt scene (i.e. random event). I'll be letting her past come through only via interrupt scenes at first until I can establish something cohesive for her backstory. I'm using the oracle tables to guide the story, action, NPC creation and attitudes... pretty much everything. ...and that's it, I think.

So... I leaned hard into the "religious" angle from the initial mythic rolls. I decided that her crusade became well-known, her mission obvious outside of her small community, and that she went down in history as something of an important figure. I wondered what people in the future might think of her, and decided that the only thing that fit was for her quotes at the end there to lead people to follow her, and eventually find her personal journals and use them as the basis for their own religion. It feels fittingly twisted enough given the beginning. I do want to write her misadventures, now. She's an interesting character, all in black, serving up vengeance against the misogynistic, judgmental faith for which she once carried out death sentences. I like how it ended, even if the ending was a bit beyond what the game intended. Thanks, @WritesNaughtyStories for the challenge!

The Collected Texts of the Unbound by Winona Coyle, Scholar of the Unbound, Keeper of the Ashes It is one thing to attend service, to hear the liturgy, to feel the fellowship of the sisterhood. It is another to hold in one’s hands the fragile leather journal of Prudence Lawton herself. Her original entries were not meant for an audience. They are raw, unpolished, soaked with love and regret. Yet they became the seed of a faith that now stretches farther than the halls that condemned her, farther than the graves that sought to silence her. In this volume, I have arranged the texts in order of their becoming: first, the journal entries; then, the psalmic scripture; and finally, the creeds and prayers. I offer here my commentary to show how each grew from the same root, and how one woman’s confession became our creed. The Original Journal: "I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people. Perhaps not even God. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back." Later Psalmic Form: "From this ruin I declare a new truth: No love is forbidden. No body is unworthy. No woman shall kneel before zealotry again." Commentary: Where Prudence confesses weakness, “helpless before her”, the scripture transforms it into defiance: “No woman shall kneel.” The tone shifts from private shame to public proclamation, but the heart is unchanged. Love, once whispered as sin, is made holy by her fire. The Original Journal: "To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care." Later Psalmic Form: "I am the woman who will burn your pulpits, break your chains, tear down your gallows." Creed of the Broken Scales: "The halls have fallen. The chains are broken. The fire still burns. Love endures. We are Unbound." Commentary: Here is the clearest example of transformation. What Prudence once admitted as surrender, “to bind myself in chains”, has become the banner of our liberation. Chains, once marks of devotion and ruin, are now the very things she vowed to destroy. The private admission became the rallying cry: We are Unbound. The Original Journal: "If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back." Later Psalmic Form: "Your laws cannot hold me. Your prayers cannot bind me. Your fire cannot consume me. I have already burned." Scarlet Creed: "We rise from ashes. We burn the gallows. We tear down the pulpits. No woman shall kneel again. Love is holy. We are Unbound." Commentary: Her defiance of damnation, “let him”, became our rejection of fear itself. The Devil she named was the zealotry of her time, the fire that consumed her lover. By declaring she would not turn back, Prudence gave us a path forward: we too will not turn back. Even fire cannot consume us, for she has already endured the burning. I write this not as a detached chronicler, but as one whose life is only possible because of her ruin. I love a woman openly, without chains, without shame. That freedom exists because Prudence burned. Because she broke. Because she rose. Some scholars insist on calling her The Unbound. Others prefer Mother Ashes, or the Scarlet Bride. But to me, she is the woman who left behind a journal with ink still damp from tears, a woman who chose love above law, and in so doing, birthed a world where I may hold my beloved’s hand in daylight. So I study her words, not to pin them in glass like a specimen, but to keep them alive. To show how one woman’s confession became our scripture, our creed, our freedom. We built a faith upon her ruin. We live because she chose not to turn back. And for that, she is not only The Unbound, she is our Savior.

The Liturgy of the Unbound (As practiced by the Daughters of the Unbound) Opening Invocation Leader: We gather not in halls of stone, Nor beneath the gaze of zealots’ scales. We gather in the firelight, In the shadow of the woman who burned, In the arms of each other. People (together): We are Unbound. The Reading of Ruin (From Prudence Lawton’s original journal entry, read aloud in its plain form.) Reader: “I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, Every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people. Perhaps not even God. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back.” Moment of silence. The Transformation into Scripture Leader: From her confession, we rise. From her ruin, we are reborn. People (chanting): No love is forbidden. No body is unworthy. No woman shall kneel before zealotry again. The Creed of Ashes Leader: What did Prudence become? People: She is Ashborn, rising from the ashes. She is the Counterweight, the Broken Scales. She is the First Flame, but not the last. She is the Voice of Love. She is the Protector of the Forbidden. She is Mother of Ashes. She is the Scarlet Bride. She is the Widow of Fire. Leader: She is ruin and rebirth. What are we? People: We are Unbound. The Prayer of Defiance Leader: What do we reject? People: Your laws cannot hold us. Your prayers cannot bind us. Your fire cannot consume us. We have already burned. The Vow of Love Leader: What truth do we proclaim? People (in unison): Love is not a sin. Desire is not a crime. To be yourself is holy. Closing Benediction Leader: Let those who have suffered find us. Let those who fear find us. Let those who burn for another woman, Or who have been judged unworthy, Walk in our shadow and find safety. People: We are the Unbound. And the scales will balance.

...and because I can never just let a thing be a thing without keeping it going until I ruin it, I imagine the words of Prudence Lawton finding an audience in some distant future. Her rejection of the religion of her time becomes the founding of a new religion. Would she approve? I wonder if the idea of others following her words as dogma would be something of which she would disapprove. Either way, I might have gone a bit too deep and/or too far with this, but coming up are some more bits I've jotted down since thinking those thoughts...