Hello and welcome to Your Worst Nightmare, another RPG actual play podcast. Solo 2, the 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 is a dramatic journal entry reading for the prompts we got to in the previous episode. Some things might have changed a little bit from the decisions made in the episode, since I've had a bit of time to collect my thoughts and write stuff down. This is Solotude. We do what in the shadows? Prompt 4.2 The Secret Cabal September 1581 There are three things in life that are of any meaningful importance. The ball, music, and God. This is what the late Father Augusto always said. Often he continued by explaining that ultimately, the three are one. The Holy Trinity, he called it. And each and every monk in our home served the Trinity. As of late, I have been one with music, but not so much with the ball or God. The Holy Onity, I call it. In the absence of a court, I found exquisite pleasure in the basic forms, the rudimentary movements all holy ball players are taught at the beginning of their spherical journey. Though the forms themselves are the very same ones I have always done, I am the one who has changed. I now see the hidden meaning behind the movements, the true face of holy ball as intended. by my well-muscled sire. To a naive apprentice, it seems as though I am stretching and warming my musculature. But in reality, I am performing the ancient ways of the unholy nocturnal predator. It was always a source of great bewilderment to me that so many of the basic forms included warm-ups for jaw muscles, tongue, lips. But now I see it was not to warm up the face to receive sudden blows on the court, but a preparation of the fangs for the succmentation of an innocent blood. Last night... As I was completing my final jaw-widening movement of the Serpentine series, a group of four approached me. They seemed older in age, but virile, with impressive muscle definition. They marveled at my form and inquired into my experience with balls. This made Garibaldi's cheeks turn into a shade of cherry red. He has a condition. they asked to examine my hands, and with some reluctance I removed my protective glove. Their leader, a man wrinkly in form but smooth in spirit, was immediately burned upon touch. He seemed convinced of something, and asked me to join them at their court on the west side of town, for what he called An innocent midnight rendezvous. I agreed. I had nothing to lose. Besides, I might get to play a game of holy ball with them. Or at the very least, have a decent supper. In any case, they were the prey, and I was the predator. For heaven's sakes, it was a senior team of holy ball enthusiasts. It's not like it was a cult. Turns out, it was a cult. They lived outside societal norms at a farm, just outside the western gates of the city. In an old barn they had a holy ball court, filled with candles, piles of books about esoteric subjects, and shelves flooding with alchemical vials, powder of protein. In the middle of the court was a gargantuan man, laying on his back, His arms were of different length, and one leg hairy while the other was slightly less hairy. His head had stitches, as if the top of it had been recently replaced. Their leader, the older gentleman who wished to remain nameless, directed my attention elsewhere, and revealed to me a stone tablet. It must have been centuries old!" It had a depiction of a game similar to Holy Ball. Perhaps an ancient archaic iteration of the very same game. And in the middle of the carving was a man whose body was sewn together. I glanced at the figure in the middle of the court. No question about it. They regarded that thing as some kind of twisted, sporty messiah. To free them of their curse of never making it to the playoffs, the older man introduced their group as the Secret Cabal, a rogue holy ball team that resides in the shadowy underbelly of Florence. Every one of them a disgraced monk, priest, or nun, who had been kicked out of their respective monasteries and churches. Teamless. They had found each other. I understood their pain very well. They pleaded with me to join them. I felt great joy in their demand, but I also saw their team was weak. They needed me, and I urgently needed balls in my life. But I was unsure whether I needed them. I declined. An error I regret having made. Their leader, who had tattoos all over their body and colourful short hair, was clearly disappointed. He didn't try to persuade me any further. Instead, he presented a faintly glowing holy ball, a product of an esoteric ritual they called space jamming. The team grabbed me and forced my palm on the ball. It felt like a deep layer of my soul was ripped out, like a spiritual band-aid from atop a festering metaphysical wound. My soul was left fleshy and raw, like Garibaldi's penis. Again, he has a condition. Then the leader placed the ball onto the belly of the gigantic jigsaw puzzle of a man. And so he opened his eyes. in which I saw the hunger for the game. Fighting my way through a group of seniors I could have managed, but I did not wish to challenge the monstrosity they had just created. They had performed an extraction of my holy ball skills. I felt like a footless sock, a flappy intestine yet to be filled with the meaty mush that constitutes a complete sausage. My right hand was still aflame. As I felt my depth perception had become flawed, my skills had been harvested for the benefit of this giant. They forced me to swear a blood oath to join their secret cabal. In my current condition, I could see no escape. I must return there every night so they can continue strengthening the monster they call Giuseppe the Giant The playoffs will be this summer and I hope they will release me and return what is rightfully mine After that I shall pray for it Secret Cabal It's in the game Guido Lanzoni 26 years old Sad Prompt 8 The Vampirocracy May 1582. It has been one and a half years and Firenze had become comfortable with our presence. I loved watching the sun set while decadently laying in my oak coffin until way past midnight. The golden hues painted the red rooftops a rich burned orange. and only cats and chimneys broke their silhouette. I had become the guide, but who guides the guide when the guide is guideless? After losing my holy ball skills, I had become lost in the desert wastes of my mind. Music was my only oasis. Even Garibaldi felt distant. He had not approved of my joining the sporty cult, But he wasn't there. He didn't see what I saw. He's not the one who was space jammed into the desert of the mind. Little did I know that my time in this city was soon coming to an end. My time in this city was soon coming to an end. For a few hours ago, everything changed. Again. I am tired. of the world happening at me. My life is mine alone, and I will mould it to my liking. Never again shall I be the victim of circumstance and the object of the ambitions of others. From now onwards I control. But first I have to do the holy ball tournament. Then I have my guidely duties at the marketplace every night. I also just found a hairdresser that knows just what to do with my thick black mane. And is open at night. When I'm ready, I will take control. So soon. Very soon. No one will boss me around anymore. Once I've completed my tasks and responsibilities first. Tonight began in a usual manner. I was singing my way through the classic ballad, Never Shall I Givest Thou Above, when the hair on my arms shot up, accompanied with a tingling feeling on my skin. At first I thought I'd caught something from Garibaldi, but then I recognized the sensation. The fiend of Vienna drew near. No, it felt similar, but different. Like, if Father Weishneger was a chimney, this was a cat. Both a disturbance to the boundless serenity of the horizon, but this one had claws. Our song ended, and as Garibaldi went to gather the donated coin, I tried to find the source of my recent unease. There was a woman standing in the audience, wearing white lace and a black hat with a comically wide brim. I fancied her extremely stylish. Beautiful, even. Her jewelry was glistening in the moonlight, and if I wasn't mistaken, so was her pale porcelain skin, like the moonlit sea or a bunch of marbles in yogurt. After myself, she was the most elegant thing I had ever seen. She glided towards me and immediately commanded the entirety of my attention. She said that finding me came as a delightful surprise to her. She rested her hand on my chest, gazed deeply into my eyes, and the next thing I remember is me, her, and Garibaldi standing in the cellar of the stinking beaver. She had my baby blue handkerchief in hand, studied the embroidered initials, then me. She didn't seem like the kind of person to explain her actions to anyone, but as she concluded her assessment of me, I could sense that a spark of curiosity lit a fire in her mind. She told me her name, Angélique de Boulangerie. She knew who I was. She knew my family. She knew my parents, for they were old enemies of hers. The two big immortal families of Paris. The Boulangeries and the family Z. She told me if I made my way there, I could help turn the tide in their everlasting war. Have revenge. According to her, I was abandoned because the powerful family Zed did not care for a weak mortal child. I was a disappointment. She welcomed me to the family boulangerie with open arms. Well, who's weak now, mother? Father? I suppose me, because a local sports club is sucking me dry every night. That used to be Garibaldi's job. Well, from now on, nobody sucks me dry but me. Before I even noticed, Angelique was gone. But having experienced her hypnotizing presence, I'm fairly certain I could reproduce the effect if needed. Regardless, I felt like a plaything, a disposable trinket to be toyed with. I despised it. But I also knew I had let the world treat me as a pawn for far too long. I would go to Paris. Garibaldi has really taken to Firenze, but I will just have to take him with me. He has become a calming presence to me. Besides, what would he do without me? He acts tough. But he's named Garibaldi, not Garibold-y. I will not let my family get away with what they've done. I must go to Paris as soon as the playoffs are done this summer. Then I will take my destiny into my own hands. I'm reminded of a relevant Bible passage. Galatians 6. Let every man prove his own work. And then shall he have rejoicing in himself alone and not in another. Guido Lanzoni, 26 years old, frustrated. Thanks for listening, folks. My name is Auri Itamaki, and Solotude is my personal project. I really hope you enjoyed this episode. Additional episode music and sound effects courtesy of Epidemic Sound. Theme song courtesy of me. You can follow Solotude on Instagram, at solotudeshow, and if you got something to say, drop a message or comment. I'm still absolutely figuring out the exact format of the show, so I'd be delighted to hear your ideas and suggestions on where to take it. I'd like to implement some stuff I didn't think of, so please, please tell me what to do, and I'll do it. No hypnosis required. Also, please rate and review the show so people can find it a little bit easier. I don't have a budget, I don't have a plan, it's just me playing a game on mic. So it would be awesome if more people found the show. Solotude drops every week. Every other week there's an actual play episode and on the off weeks I'll do a proper journal reading with music, sound effects, the whole deal. So you can enjoy Solotude as an actual play podcast or as an audio drama if you prefer to just listen to the journal entries. or probably the best experiences to do both. Up to you, I don't know. I'm not going to check hypnosis on you just yet. So thanks for listening, folks, and see you next week. Bye!