Hello, and welcome to Your Worst Nightmare, another RPG actual play podcast. Solitude, a journaling RPG podcast, is just me in a room, not to brag, with a journal, a solo RPG, and some damn good coffee. I play to see what happens in the story, write in my fictional journal, and you get to hang out next to me by the fire. So welcome. I hope you enjoy our time together. This episode contains the journal entries for the prompts we got to in episode 2. This is Solotude. We do what in the shadows? Prompt number one. Father Augusto, the headless monk. July 1580. I have lost everything, and the fact that I am not terrified terrifies me to my core. As I write this, I am enjoying the rather gamey flavor of Father Augusto. To my surprise and delight, I found a discarded sausage machine, the Wurstkraft 2000, and I seem to be getting ahead of myself. I have spent weeks in seclusion. The garden shed has proved adequate shelter from the scorching rays of sunlight. But there's no shield strong enough to parry the holy rays of Father Augusto. He's so warm, so good and proper. It's annoying. From between the cracks of the wall planks, I saw him stub his holy big toe on a doorframe. And he said, Thank ye God. What a fucking twat. He has always had this holier-than-thou attitude. Granted, as head monk, he has been promised a spot in heaven. by Pope Gregory XIII, but still, he need not flaunt it so. I suspect he heard me seething with contempt, for he shot a gaze straight at me before darting inside the monastery. He came out but a minute later armed to the teeth with biblically proven exercising equipment, made the sign of the cross, and marched across the holy ball courtyard right into my lair. He found me on the floor, sitting, on a bloody mound of partially burned and eaten rats, snakes, and little birds. He said to me, Hold on, my boy. I shall exorcise this demon out of you. And so he began to exorcise, with an E. He began doing his holy ball warm-up routine of cross jumps, a Catholic interpretation of X-jumps, foot washes, similarly derived from toe touches, and burpees. No variation in Christ there. You don't fuck with burpees. I thought, let him have his attempt. I did not fear him. In fact, he looked different from before. He used to be this glowing, saint-like figure, but now all I saw working out before me was a frail old fart. Shortly he broke into a sweat and his movements turned sluggish. He saw my stash of jewellery, and perhaps determined that to be my malady's source. As his dirty old fingers touched my gold, I felt this growing, burning sensation in my right hand. A lust. Like something I've only felt with Garibaldi conquered me as the canvas of reality was painted a bloody red. When I came to my senses, I realized what I had done. Yet there was no remorse. I had his eyelids as little appetizers as I waited for the Wurstkraft 2000 to cease processing the father's once holy limbs. In my bloodlust, I felt simply beautiful. I knew instantly. I had to feel the same way again. Soon. Perhaps then, I haven't lost everything after all. for I have yet to see the extent of this plutonic beauty I have attained. If God's plan for me includes me being turning into a blood-hungry beast of the night, who am I to resist? In fact, I am only doing God's work now more than ever. It is my sacred duty to be as beautiful as I can. Thank you, Father Augusto, the Headless Monk. Guido Lanzoni, 25 years old. Prompt number four. Fleedom. November 1580. This autumn has proven to be both the most exuberant and devastatingly lonely time of For months, I had been living a false life, during day, attending to my monkly duties, and by night, hunting shrouded in darkness. I had to resort to eating the fauna of the mountains, for the disappearance of Father Augusto had left my brother monks puzzled and weary, though they never suspected me. When my prayer beads burned my hand, I lied. I had developed a walnut allergy. When reciting the Lord's Prayer, my eyes would turn black and I'd levitate two inches from the ground. Damn walnut allergy. And I was safe. But it could not last forever. They ultimately caught on to me when all the music I composed was in the key of D minor. For it is the saddest of all keys. Furthermore, one particular hymn of my composition utilized the tritone, the devil's interval. No mortal man would dare compose such a thing, and thus my true nature had been revealed. They tried throwing holy water at me, but since I had been the one sanctifying it, it had turned into a fizzy demonic beverage I had named a Seven Up. It had little effect on me, but it was clear I had to flee. As I returned to my botanical dwelling, packing my loot, handkerchief and jewellery as my plan, To my surprise, the abode was not empty. Garibaldi had found my sausage machine and the bones of our cleanly consumed padre. I could see him connecting the dots as he saw me draw near. I grabbed him by the throat and saw his flesh steaming under the constriction of my palm. His eyes betrayed not pain, not even surprise, but an old lust ignited a flame by the unnatural heat in my hand and my eyes. I spared him, for I still felt a connection. I had loved him for years, and I'd hoped for him to look at me like this. And now he did. I felt the way he saw me. I felt beautiful. I saw in his eyes he was under my spell. Not my actual spell. Can vampires cast spells? If so, I'd like to be three inches taller and have bright blue hair. Alas, nothing happens. Should my hair turn blue one day, I'd have the perfect necklace and ring to match. But if creatures such as I and Father Weichneger exist, do witches? Warlocks? Mummies? Well, I suppose mummies do. I digress. With Garibaldi by my side, we stole two horses and rode into the night. while my brothers chased us out, shouting obscenities. I had never visited Florence, but I'd heard of its beauty, so we headed north. It should be large enough to hide and regroup. Now we have been here in Firenze for five weeks. We have made our living as street musicians, playing popular hits for small change and easy prey. The locals have taken to calling me The Guide and Garibaldi, Garibaldi. For the songs I sing often have a guiding moral, and Garibaldi's name being Garibaldi, the logic behind his new nickname should be easy to comprehend. I believe my new moniker is also because I do give a lot of directions to people. Specifically, I direct them to a small cellar underneath a local tavern where I and Garibaldi currently reside. The tavern is called the Stinking Beaver, for whatever reason. The family of beavers I share my murder cellar with boast a hygiene level comparable to Garibaldi. He has a condition. Life here is good. I am slowly getting accustomed to my burning right hand. and newly found thirst for blood. Garibaldi is ever so sweet. He practically worships me, and I'm still as giddy as a monk's apprentice whenever I see him. He is sweet, and I love him dearly. Now I can be with my love forever and ever. We can just sing and hold each other to the end of time. Lev Laaf Slaughter. Guido Lanzoni. 25 years old. Firenze. Thanks for listening, folks! My name is Auri Itemäki, and Solotude is my personal project. I really hope you enjoy your time with it. Additional episode music and sound effects courtesy of Epidemic Sound. Theme song courtesy of me. You can follow Solotude on Instagram and TikTok at solotudeshow. And if you got something you want to say, please drop a message or comment. I'm still not 100% set on the format of the show, so I'd be delighted to hear your ideas and suggestions on where to take it. Also, please rate and review the show so people can find it a little bit easier. There's no budget, it's just me in a room, so it would be awesome if people found the show. Solotude drops every week. Every other week, there will be an actual play episode. And every other week, I'll do a proper journal reading with music, sound effects, and a whole lot of shabang. So you can enjoy Solotude as an actual play podcast or as an audio drama if you prefer to just listen to the journal readings. You can do both. It's up to you. Thanks again for listening, folks. Bye!