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 pretty damn good coffee. I play to see what happens in the story, I write in my fictional journal, and you get to hang out next to me by the fire. My name is Auri. 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 minor 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 solitude. We do what? In the shadows Prompt fourteen A bloody reunion december sixteen fifty three The Horror Some creatures should not be allowed to exist, for their mere visage sends your mind to the pits of Tartarus. I can't believe I survived. I should not have survived. I will travel as far north as I can, to a land where he will never follow me, a land where I can be alone, where no one will die because of me again. Angélique de Boulangerie sent a letter asking to meet her. She had been looking for me, and found me hanging around in Copenhagen, where I composed some choir works, arranged some string sections, did all manner of freelancer work I could get my burning hand on. I replied to her in the affirmative. I recalled thinking it strange she asked for a meeting at a Holyball Court, for I never knew her to show an interest in the famous pastime of clergymen and cursed Italian cultists. I knew as soon as I entered the field, who would soon greet me upon it. The sour but buttery smell, like that of shredded arse, lingered in the thick, misty air. No, not mist. Sweat. Nice of you to drop in, my Kinder. I didn't respond, for I did not remember him. I had only read about him in my journal's oldest and faintest scribblings. The Fiend of Vienna, Father Arnold Weischeneger.
SPEAKER_00:I see the time is starting to affect your mind. Is this how you say Unglücklich?
SPEAKER_01:He spouted some other vaguely German sounding words like A hurri and such. I merely nodded and replied, But of course, Master. A strong strategy I had adopted when discussing politics in the French court. He threw a holyball and it approached my sculpture-like face at a life-threatening velocity. Once I could have returned it. Now I just scrambled for safety. He seemed disappointed. Angelique stepped in from the shadows. Her expression was perhaps even more serious than that of Weishnegers. She asked, Where did you abandon us? Alright, I'm sorry, but I find it easier to write what they said as a dialogue. But then I feel like I have to attempt their accents, but I can't do them. Bear with me, alright, I am trying my best. She continued, Was the temptation of your family so grand? You forgot who helped you when you needed it the most? I tried to explain, but the words escaped me. Their accents were affecting me.
SPEAKER_00:There is going to be a big tournament of holyball held in the belly of Vatican City. Not today, not next year, but one day when my team is ready.
SPEAKER_01:The tournament is called Papal Combat with a K because it's cooler. Same reason. Papal combat? Combat of popes? For popes? About popes? I'd never heard of it before. I asked what it was. You know how a new pope is elected? Election of cardinals Smoken Chimney all a distraction. For centuries new popes have been elected via Holy Ball tournament called Papal Combat. Combat with a K. Because it's cooler. I can't do the accent anymore. Essentially he explained that he wants to be the next Pope. And Holy Ball is the way they decide. The winner of the tournament gets to be Pope. And apparently this has been going on for centuries. Weichniger said that this is why he put his seed in me. He wanted me to be his team's ace. But now his team is incomplete. I don't know why he just murder the Pope and become the new Pope by force. That's historically a rather common way of impopement. He said the Pope has powers bestowed upon him only if the title is won properly. Makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose. I was trying to buy time with my questions, but it was futile. I confessed that I had lost my skills in a space jamming accident to a jigsaw puzzle of a man named Giuseppe the Giant in Florence. His wig fell off, revealing the devil horns and his head. He clenched his fist and began levitating two inches from the ground. A terrible wind was gathering around him. He said that he'd just have to add Giuseppe to his roster then. He had no use for me anymore. He ordered Angelique to kill me, yelling, Put that rookie down now. She seemed happy to comply. Wait, I shouted. I said something like this to her. I assure you of my honour. You may see me as a traitor to the boulangerie family. But that is not the case. Would Elise have married a man who betrays her friend's trust? She paused. I got a little bit panicked, but reminded her of their friendship and and her memory. She finally relented. Mr. Muscle was not pleased, and his eyes, like coals, burnt with such fire that merely a gaze would turn mortals to dust. This is when Angelique told me to run. And since I haven't been much of a fighter after losing my skills with the ball, I did. I saw them clash. I saw the dread priest's holy ball drive a hole in Angelique's belly. I felt as if I was the one who had spiked. My hand burned. I was in agony. I'm going further away, as far north as a man can go. I will shut myself off from the world. Who cares about anything? Nothing matters, and everything is worthless. I am worthless. I will never interact with a mortal again. Northbound from Copenhagen Guy Skeleton ninety nine years old. Prompt twenty one Echoes February sixteen sixty five. I'm so dehydrated, my eyelids grind on my eyeballs like stones grind on, even worse stones. When I masturbate, my only prize is a puff of fresh air. I have not fed on a human being since silenzio the mime. The birds, fish, and small animals of the coast are not a source of pleasant nutrition for me. But they keep me unalive. Better that than go out there and murder yet another circus. I've run out of ink a long time ago, but codfish blood has turned out to be a suitable replacement. Paper running out was a bigger issue. But I've taken to writing a drawing on the rocks on the cliffsides. And boy have I scribbled lines and lines, thousands of lines. And am I losing my fucking mind? How in the fuck did I think this was a good idea? Life of seclusion? Alone forever? No, thank you. Life of inclusion for me, please. Thank you, good sir. That will be the blood of everyone you hold dear. Oh, I've already paid that, good madame. Well, fucking get used to it, for you'll find new people to lose. Get out there, Buster. Get out there and find your place in the world again. It's not in a cave. If you want to play holy ball in the Papal Combat Tournament, get your fucking skills back. Don't wallow in your own self-pity in a cave in the middle of nowhere. It was the second winter, yeah, when I built a husband for myself out of butchered cod. After he passed away because of decay. I didn't give up on love. I made a new one. And a new one. I have to watch my spouse die once every few months when the maggots eat the last bits of flesh from the fish's bones. I have been in the icy ends of the northern Norwegian wastes for over ten years now. The summers are warm but sunny. The winters are cold but dark. The bipolarity of my surroundings can't help but seep into my very own essence. If I didn't know better, I would think I'm going mad. But two days ago I met a human child, Freya. If I had to venture, I guess, somewhere between the ages of two and twenty five. A good age for humans, I'm told. The first real face-to-face interaction I've had in over ten years. And I have to say, it's so much better than trying to talk with a husband made out of fish. Meeting Freya inspired me to write this poem. Skin and Stone Coarse. Moonlight drips a soft glow into both. She called me Alf. Apparently it is their word for elf. I feel it fits. I wonder if the little girl will bring others here to commune with me. I could act as their spiritual guide. The elf who helps better yourself. That's marketing material right there. I've been alone for so long. Now I wait for the humans to come. I wait for friends. Perhaps this time I can coexist. And for the love of God, the only thing I miss more than being with humans is playing holy ball. Echoes from a cave. Alf Skeletonson Spiritual Guide Extraordinaire a hundred and eleven years old. Thanks for listening, folks. My name is Auri Itamaki and Solitude is my personal project. I hope you enjoyed this episode. You can follow Solitude on Instagram at SolotudeShow, and if you got something to say, please send a message, send a comment. Also, please rate and review the podcast so people can find it a little bit easier. Tell a friend, tell a grandma, buy the game from Tim Hutchings, and play along. I don't know. I'm just happy you found it. Please pass it on to someone else. Episode Music, Courtesy of Epidemic Sound, theme song, courtesy of me. Solitude drops every week. Every other week there's an actual play episode. On the off weeks, there's a proper journal reading with music, like the one you just heard. Thanks again for listening, everybody, and I'll see you next week. Bye!