To the Glory of God

 

In eating, in drinking, in all that you do, do everything as for God’s glory.

1st Corinthians 10:31

The smoke of their torment goes up for ever and ever; day and night no rest is theirs, who worshipped the beast and his image, who bore the mark of his name.

Apocalypse 14:11

There's something that abuse survivors don't talk about, especially those who were abused as children: they can't bring themselves to blame someone other than themself.  Deep down, way deep down, most people are actually good creatures and don't want to put the enormity of that monstrous act on another human being. It's so heavy that most of us who are hurt would rather unconsciously bear the burden, alone. 

The problem, of course, is that loneliness is not of God. God is love, relationship. What people don't understand is that, by trying to relate to someone, they are invoking the Spirit of God. Spirits are living media for transmission, like the spiritual equivalent to air... but alive. So, withdrawing requires going through a medium to do so. There's nothing wrong with solitude in God, but we got concupiscence to worry about, which almost guarantees we won't do it right.

So instead of choosing solitude we choose loneliness.

Over the last year, I have watched a lot of horror. And I do mean a lot of it. And I don't mean "tame" horror. I mean stuff that borders on tasteless and genuinely awful. Stuff like Possessed, Irreversible, The Outwaters, The Poughkeepsie Tapes... stuff that is known for being entirely too much. Way, way, way too much. Tons of stuff that has left my skin crawling, terrified, in some cases sleepless. And I have been mainlining it all into my system, factory-style. 

Now, I didn't necessarily do this on purpose. I am ten years into this whole PTSD thing, and have gotten used to gauging when an overwhelming urge is something to fight with every bit of my being, or something to simply let go and watch like a hawk. So I am not claiming some form of moral superiority, no matter how snarky I may get at people who disagree with what I am doing. I am saying that I have gotten used to having things that are simply not worth fighting, because there are bigger fish to fry. I wasn't trying to do anything, other than let a part of me that didn't have have a lot of power before that point have it, as far as I could, without judging it. I simply let it exist and have what it wanted, as long as I wasn't harming someone else.

But I accidentally had a bit of a breakthrough, and I think people in my position may need to know about it.

There was this moment in The House that Jack Built where Jack, as a child, cuts the foot off a baby duck and chucks it back into water. The poor thing squeaks in pain, and then in panic, as it goes in circle upon panicked circle, bleeding out into the water, unable to steer straight because a foot is missing. The camera doesn't focus upon this poor thing's last moments as it spirals into death. It focuses on Jack's totally impassive face. The face of a child who does not care about the poor little duckling he just doomed.

In that moment I felt something I have never actually felt before: disgust. 

I have felt a lot of anger in my life, far too much for it to be healthy. But disgust requires something that no abuse victim can just claim: superiority. You can only be disgusted by something lower than you. Which means that you have to think that you are above something. Which is really difficult to do if you're a sex abuse victim. In order for there to be disgust, you have to be healthy. You have to be able to put yourself as above the disgusting actions (never people) of evil.

Those who think disgust is morally wrong are full of shit.

In that one moment, I was suddenly able to place something beneath me, on reflex. The self-loathing, which is atmosphere in rape survivors, a smothering plastic bag to self-worth, was gone. Just for a second. And all it took was seeing a poor baby duck's foot cut off and its panic.

I went home, and suddenly found I was more responsive to my wife and kids. I could suddenly relate to them better. Something had been banished. So I went and found more things. And found that, the more disgust I forced myself to endure, the freer I felt to love my family. And love glorifies God. 

When I was younger, I was told that to glorify God meant to only think or talk about beautiful things. What I realized a little bit later was what was meant was to only think or do "nice" things. The problem is that "nice" things aren't what Jesus did. Jesus did kind things. Him flipping the tables on the money lenders was an act of kindness to them. He loved them with a whip.

Jesus didn't avoid pain, He dealt it when necessary. Misery and discomfort were tools.

They weren't something He shied away from. He just didn't see the need to use them often.

I am not advocating for random smut. But there's a fact about the modern world that we don't like to acknowledge: we don't see a lot of horrible stuff. One of my friends who grew up on a farm complained about the lack of blood from lightsabers, and laughed that she didn't need any sex-ed, because she had seen what the animals did with each other and put two and two together to make four. The amount of nudity used to be much higher, not to mention the amount of blood, maiming, and killing. Pretending we're not used to such things and will miss them on almost a genetic level is... naive. 

"But Nathan," someone will say "tHE FAthErs..." 

Dude, most of the Fathers lived in a civilization where slitting noses and other public maiming stuff happened. People died much more than they do now. You're really telling me that the context they said any of their comments about entertainment and enjoyment don't factor in... I mean you do you... but my wife's a history major and she wouldn't put up with such idiocy. You do you.

But the thing is that the Father's advice is given in an environment where you don't have to seek out disgust. Too much exposure to evil is corrupting. You have to focus on the true and good and beautiful in a world of horror. I'm not advocating ignoring the Fathers. I am saying that the proper interpretation of those passages in a world where you must choose to look away. No matter how sexually explicit our world gets, it's not the ancient world, it's just not.

"But Nathan,", someone will say "i THink tHat'S iCKy...."

Cool. But I gotta live with my decisions, which all need to have consequences I can live with. Such idealisms are nice, but I have seen the cost for having a "coherent" worldview, where you can worship your little inner abstract idol and not feel bad. "Coherence" is merely a nice word for idolatry, for avoiding God. I want to find God in the real world, using my mind to interact with it. God isn't in my head. He isn't whatever stupid system of beliefs used to keep my emotions pinned down. 

Furthermore, it was into that dirty and blood-soaked world that Christ came. He came during the Pax Romana, which is a polite term for "Rome had killed everyone who could resist". He came to the remnants of utter destruction. People would walk past their neighbors crucified all the time. It was in this dark time euphemistically called "peace" that Christ said "Love your enemies". There were people hanging, choking to death, in public squares as a matter of course. "Love your enemies"  didn't mean "Be nice to those you don't like". It meant looking at atrocity and seeing the humanity of the perpetrator, and to refuse to back down from it. It meant looking something actually horrific in the face, and to go "This disgusting thing you did does not change that you are human, and that on some level if I am loved, so should you be."

That requires horror. And yes, disgust. And yes, that is a beautiful thing to do.

So keep your abstract idols and your sterile sanctuaries. I’ll take the whip, the blood-stained farm, and the God who isn't afraid to get His hands dirty to pull me out of the dirt. The God Who, when seeing me covered in blood and shit, is filled with disgust at what covers me... and pity for the one who is covered.

The Lancelot Problem, Reforged

 

 “In summary, modernity replaces process with result and the relational with the transactional."

— Nassim Taleb, The Bed of Procrustes

Why does Lancelot fade?

I've posed this question to many people over the years—a quiet riddle from an old story that never fails to unsettle me. Most reach for complicated explanations. So far, three saw the heart of it clearly. Another came agonizingly close, with a confession that still echoes: "I don’t want to feel."

Logres once burned bright. Knights in glory. Wrongs were righted. While Arthur kept Logres, his knights kept Logres a place worth fighting for. Arthur fought and fought and fought. Nobody else could have done what he did.

Then the unraveling. People forget that Arthur slept with not one, but both half-sisters, and gat children on both of them. People seem to forget that your strengths are your weaknesses. Arthur was the fighting man. He was able to keep up a level of conflict in the service of peace that can hardly be imagined. But that has its costs. Arthur didn't sleep with Morgause and Morgan because lust was a problem, but because the same strength that let him keep Logres safe was out of balance. It's just that Mordred's the one that decided to burn it all down.

Lancelot failing with Guinevere isn't what brought Camelot down. It was going down anyway. Whether it was Mordred who brought it down or the consequences therefrom, Arthur's fire burned too bright. He was going to bring Logres down because of who he was. But Lancelot sleeping with Guinevere and then killing Gaheris and Gareth certainly looks bad, doesn't it? Lancelot going to France really doesn't help, either.

But then Gawain forgives him from his deathbed and begs for his help. The mightiest knight is needed, one last time. And Lancelot doesn't disappoint. He rises. Brings up an army from the ashes. He races.

And races. 

And races.

Too late.

The field... hushed. Bodies cold under a gray sky. 

Arthur. Gone.

Gawain. Gone.

Excalibur vanished into mist.

The mightiest knight stands alone, amid the ruin he helped forge. 

Silence.

He withdraws to

cold stone and thin prayers. Fasting until the body echoes the emptiness within. He watches as flames devour the last of the dream. Screams fade to wind. A dark age creeps in. But there's no blade lifted. No banner or roar against the night.

Just... retreat. He collapses at the tomb, wasting away actively, falling apart in a process that is incomprehensible to us.

Why? That's my question for you, the reader. Why did Lancelot, the mightiest knight, fade? And why do we refuse to undstand?

Guesses could come, like crows to carrion. I know I wondered about it a long time. Let's try going through some of them, shall we?

Can't be cold penance. Guilt had clawed him before—never quenched the fire and it hadn't shattered his faith.

It wasn't because it was too hard. Trials had scorched him and Lancelot had charged through outcomes foretold a long time ago.

It absolutely couldn't be fear. Defeat was an old shadow at his side.

These are shields. Words we clutch. Word I clutched, and still try to go back to, still. Dogs and vomit.

But in the ancient tales, not every fall is fought. Sometimes a flame gutters, without wind or cry. The blaze that once consumed worlds... extinguishes. Unseen, unresisted, unmarked, leaving only ash. A hollow where a primeval roar once lived.

Gilgamesh howls into void.

Achilles turns his back in thunder.

Gawain takes the green sash and still flinches.

Lancelot... drifts into a quiet gray.

We crave endings where heroes avenge, rebuild, defy the dark, arise from graves. But here, the mightiest... simply dims. We cannot hold easily it because to hold the situation is to feel the snuffing. That quiet, merciless crushing. The spark goes out, and the sword has to drop, because it requires the spark to keep the sword in the air, with it.

That one confession

“I don’t want to feel.”

really sticks with me. It's been awhile, but it burns through me. That confession

"I don't want to feel."

breaks into my normal thoughts, a lot more than I am comfortable with admitting, so here it is on a blog, for everyone to see.  The problem is that every time 

"I don't want to feel."

break through into my fucking skull, I am reminded that, even though I know the answer to this problem, that isn't enough. Knowing that

"I don't want to feel." 

 doesn't make me capable of facing the truth reliably. This isn't a solution, an end to the journey, but the start of a brand new one. One where I don't know the end of.

 If modernity demands a transaction—a penance paid for a sin cleared—then Lancelot’s silence is an insult to the modern mind. But in the gray light of that monastery, there was no transaction. There was only the process of existing in the ruins. I spent years looking for a riddle to solve Lancelot, only to realize I was looking for a shield to protect myself. 

"I don't want to feel."

isn’t just a key to an old story; it’s a white flag. It's a surrender to the truth without having to look at it. And that's... just... maybe the mightiest knight didn't merely fade. Maybe he just stopped lying to himself, the consequences be damned. We want Lancelot to roar against the night because if he can’t survive the feeling of total loss, what hope is there for us? 

But the tales aren't there to give us "hope"; they are there to give us company. 

Do you want it?

The Dragon's Fire: Passouan 7

The Prompt

Mild day. The rain from yesterday had spoiled several dozen barrels of preserved food. Nothing directly dangerous, but it is a concern.

Kuri- Raphael

The day dares to call itself mild, but I know better. Yesterday’s rain crept in like a thief, rotting several dozen barrels of preserved food—no blade drawn, no blood spilled, yet the damage is done. It isn’t a crisis… not yet. But shortages are the kind of rot that spreads quietly, testing resolve long before hunger sharpens its teeth.

I’ve seen worse omens begin with less. We endure, we adapt, and when the next trial comes, it will find us leaner, angrier, and very much alive.

Heranyt Playtest and The Dragon's Fire - Passouan 4 , 5 and 6

I like reading setting books. I like having a coherent set of vibes that I can just lean into on evenings where I don't feel like reading something more "substantial". Just soak in the vibes.

I hate using setting books while running games. I hate it because there's either too much lore or not enough, and it's impossible to just use the lore immediately. I don't know anyone who personally used a setting book as it was "intended", and the only people I know of who sorta did were using 4e DnD books, which have a lot of crunch in them: using the setting book changed the game itself, so they used the book.

So I decided I wanted to actually make a setting book that could be used, as-is, in a game of Crescendo... which meant that Crescendo needed to be done. And it is. We're getting the text firmed up, which is why it's in Ashcan, but the game's mechanics are done.

So I decided I wanted to make a setting book. Which meant actually making something I would use at the table. This time I decided to try and document what I'm doing in a somewhat public fashion. For funsies.

What I Look for in Designing a Game

The simplest measurement I have for when I design a game or game supplement is that it gives back much more than you put into it. My time is valuable. If the process for playing a game doesn't yield something that's obviously going to be worth my time, I don't want to design it. Or play it.

Now Hold Up

That doesn't mean that the game doesn't take skill or time to master. Or even that the game is easy. I make hard games. Crescendo is a very difficult game to master. The initial entry is quiet low, but once you realize what the game is doing... it takes a long time to produce truly epic results. But the process is extremely rewarding while you do it. It's a process that's fun and challenging.

The Heranyt Setting

So, why my homegrown setting? Simply put, I know it. I have played in it for a long time, and feel comfortable with how much lore should be put in, and what I use. Also, this may come as a surprise to some, but I make my games and stuff so I can use them. For my own amusement. So if I am going to make a setting, it's a setting I am going to use. For me. And that means Heranyt, if I'm going science-fantasy.

Playtesting

Now, the big thing that I insist upon is that setting books fundamentally change how the game is played. It's not merely a skin, it's a different way to play that system. I have absolutely no want or need to make a setting that doens't fundamentally change things.. but I couldn't think of anything. I knew things were missing from the Crescendo experience, but then suddenly-

1:1 Time (It's John McGowan's Fault)

 

- I freaking read "The Living Campaign", by John McGowan, a nice guy who decided to write about how 1:1 time could be useful. For those of you who don't know, 1:1 is an older concept in Dungeons and Dragons, which says that game time is tied to real-world time. Sessions of play are more or less when you check back in with your characters and do something dramatic. 

Something about this setup clicked with me. Wolfe stories weren't quite this formula, but the idea behind all Wolfe stories are that there's something huge going on the background, and it is "the plot". The story is about what happens to the characters when the plot hits them... and then leaves. 

So 1:1 time wouldn't look like in Crescendo what it would in DnD, and that's fine.

The Procedure

Heranyt has some light gameplay astrology to it: the seven planets hang in the sky, and they affect things. 

How Does the Situation Progress?

I would roll a d20 for the scale of the event that day:

1: The situation is totally screwed. Downfall.

2-8: The situation gets worse.

9-14: The situation doesn't get worse.

15-19: The situation slightly improves.

20: The situation improves dramatically.

The Initial Situation

I made a calendar that told me when the principle planet was ascendant (doing good stuff) or descendent (doing bad stuff). For weather, I know that the general location we're at is actually decently similar to my own, so I just check the weather for the day at my house.

How Does the Situation Progress?

I would then check to see if Eous the Evil Moon was ascendant (screwing up the initial bad situation) or descendent (making the situation better). 

The Resolution

I would reference a random line from my journal, to see how it all ended up.

How This Looks So Far

So, here's what we got so far. I s tarted on January 4th, which on my calendar is the 4th of Passouan. It's technically winter, but the locale's in the more southerly climes, relatively close to a gulf. So it's actually decently warm. Here's how the plot's progressed at Sota City, where an uneasy alliance of men and elves keep back the eternal tides of undead attack.

4th of Passouan

Two days from now is The Drowning of Telos, when he was said to have met Elpida, the Flame Eternal. 

Unfortunately,  on this warm and temperate day  General Juhani, a popular elven leader, dies protecting his elven guard from a surprise attack led by the dragon and The Bride. Morale is very low amongst the elves. There wasn't even a body left.

Kuri

So, Kuri responded with two accounts: a historical account and one from the standpoint of her character, Raphael. I didn't anticipate this. I was overjoyed. Both were okayed, given that Raphael's survived run-ins with actual gods before.

Account of the Witness 

On that same day, the one who would later be named in the Wars to Come stood among the elven host, sworn neither to command nor retreat. They felt the turning of fate before the dragon was seen, and raised warning even as shadow fell upon the terraces.

When the attack came, they fought to hold the line beside Juhani’s guard, drawing steel and spell alike. They survived the firestorm only by chance—or by design unknown—cast to the stone as the General made his final stand.

When silence returned, it was they who first rose, and it was their voice that called the living together amid the ruin.

For this reason, the chronicles name them not as a savior, but as the Last Witness of Juhani, from whom the true account of the Fourth of Passouan is known. This what I have written or in historical addendum brain today I can change it up if need be.

Raphael

I stood among the guard when the air turned wrong, warm as a forge without flame. Two days remained before the Drowning of Telos.

The dragon came with the Bride. General Juhani placed himself before us and was unmade. No body remained—only scorched stone.

I fell in the fire.

I did not burn.

When the dragon withdrew, I alone rose where I had fallen. The host was broken, and mourning was decreed.

Fifth of Passouan

Kuri- Raphael

The day before the Drowning, on this day, a hundred of the elves sailed to the stars, hearts shattered by the death of Geneal Juhani. Defenses against the horde are worse than ever before. An envoy has been sent to the wolves of Serpent Forest, and prospects look good. 

I keep watch.

While others mourn or flee to the stars, I walk the walls and count what still stands. I test blades dulled by neglect, trace runes that no longer answer as they should. Juhani is gone, and with him the certainty of command—but not my purpose. I listen for the drums of the horde in the distance and for the answer that may come from Serpent Forest. If the Wolves answer the envoy, I will be ready to meet them. If they do not, I will be ready to hold the line. Either way, I do not leave. My survival—and this stand—were never accidents.

I remain not by chance, but by design—set aside to remember what others were meant to forget.

Sixth of Passouan

It’s a warm winter’s day, the Drowning of Telos is today. Heavy rains cancel the festivities for off-duty soldiers. Drunken debauchery amongst the humans follows, elves are disgusted.

Kuri-Raphael

Rain drums the eaves where I stand still.

Below, humans drown in ale and noise,

laughter rotting into shouts.

I do not drink. I watch—

count guards, note shadows, feel the night shift.

An elf turns away in quiet disgust.

I stay, sober with memory,

waiting for the rain to end.

Conclusions So Far

Only one of the four players has provided responses so far. I don't know how that's going to go, come game time and only one of the four players has been tracking things.

But I think this is the best way forward. I may have to figure out what that means, practically, but it's definitely... it feels right. This is amazing. I love it. I just need to figure out how to channel it to others. 

We'll see how this works!

“You Must Be Human First”

The story goes that a man went to Mount Athos to be a monk. Now, on Mount Athos they assign you an elder, who helps you progress in the spiritual life. You obey your elder, he helps you, you progress. So this particular man goes to his elder and asks him what he needs to do. The elder hands the man a copy of Les Misérables, and nothing else. Confused, the man asks the elder what advice he has for him. The elder tells him "First you must be human, and then we can talk about you becoming a god".

In our totalitarian-minded age, this is vital to remember: true people live from their chest, not their heads. What's in your head advises what's in your chest, but it cannot, should not attempt to, control it.

What do I mean by this?

To be truly human is to be driven toward something. Something within you  burns, and you feel it in your chest.  This is not obsession, it is passion directed. It is to be the servant of the Muse who speaks in your ear. Some may reduce that to mere metaphor, but I don't necessarily mean it that way. The idea that humans are microcosmic receptors of the immaterial universe is a deeply human one. And if it human, it is Orthodox. What most people think of as simply mental is actually relational. That relationship can help you to realize that you were always meant to realize that you were always meant to understand and express something profound about the human condition—something that stirs compassion, mercy, and fierce love in the face of suffering.

Think of Jean Valjean in Les Misérables. Before his transformation, he lives entirely in his head: bitter calculations of injustice, cold survival, resentment hardened into ideology. But when Bishop Myriel meets him with radical kindness, not with judgment or control—handing over the silver and lying to save him—something ignites in Valjean's chest. A burning. Not obsession, but directed passion. He goes to another city, and helps those who he can. After failing Fantine by accident, he becomes driven to protect Cosette, to redeem Fantine’s memory, to build a life of quiet, relentless goodness. 

Jean Valjean's head still advises—strategy, caution, planning—but it no longer tyrannizes the heart. The heart leads, and the man becomes truly human. He is bound to those around him by love, and he allows that to become his telos. It is irrational. He knows it. But rationality is for man, not the other way 'round.

This is what the elder from Mount Athos knew. You cannot leap straight to theosis/divinization, to “becoming a god” through ascetic feats or intellectual mastery, if you have not first allowed yourself to feel the full weight and wonder of being human. The totalitarian mind—whether in politics, ideology, and especially guided "spirituality"—demands control from the top down: the head suppressing the chest, reason smothering passion, systems crushing the individual soul. But true freedom, true divinity, begins lower down, in that fire in the chest that refuses to be extinguished.

In our decrepit age, we are taught to fear that fire. We are told it is dangerous, irrational, uncontrolled. We are offered systems—political, therapeutic, and especially spiritual—that promise to manage it, channel it, or put it out altogether. Putting it out is the end goal, just for the record. But the elder on Mount Athos knew better. He did not hand the young man a rulebook or an academic theological work that would leave him cold but giddy, like being atop a lonely mountain. The elder handed the novice a novel full of broken people, impossible mercy, and love that costs everything. Because only when we have wept with Valjean, raged with Javert, and felt the unbearable weight of grace can we begin to know what it means to be human.

Only then can we stand before God not as clever ideologues or disciplined ascetics, but as wounded, burning hearts that have learned to love in spite of everything. Especially our deluded ideas about reality. Those must go. 

So do not rush to silence the fire in your chest. Do not let the totalitarian spirit—inside or outside you—convince you that safety lies in control. Guard that fire. Feed it with beauty, with stories, with acts of mercy that make no sense on paper. Let it lead you, and let the mind follow as servant, not master.

First become fully human.

Only then will the path to becoming a god begin to open.