Tour De Spite, Part 2 - a collab post done with I, Suinicide, John Moose, Lord Gazter, Drake, and Jimmy Malice. Edit: Also Hamilton and Frye were part of the post as well.
The Sad Spider Hall tries its hardest to do the name justice. A crooked inn, located where the business and money were some twenty years ago, welcomes the group with the creaking of a rusted sign in the shape of a spider, hanging above the door. The paint coating has missed its five last appointments with a brush, not that the clientele is likely to care. Outside the door a ragged pile of clothing with a beard and a pegleg sits on a stool, sipping from a bottle of something hopefully related to ethanol. As the group follows Dirae in through the door, the bearded apparition spits exceedingly loudly on the cobblestones, but few present know whether this is a deadly insult or the accepted local form of greeting.
“”Hail all you scoundrels and zee-devils! I’m hunting a mighty creature and want to know if you have met it’s kind before!”
“Sounds like a Jack to me,” puffed one of the scarred captains, his pipe the white of zeebeast bone. “At least it started as one. I know more about Jacks than any soft Londoner and mindless monster hunter. You might think they are a strictly London problem, but I can tell it it’s from the damned living shores of Polythreme! I was hauling a shipment of goods - including a crates of knives - when I lost my whole crew to them. No, not one Jack - they all went Jack at once. I can tell you, no lifeberg measures up to turning around from measuring the scattering stars to see that your trusted crew has circled around, knives in hand. It was a tight spot, dodging around their knives trying to keep my important bits intact. Lost my ear here, but that ain’t an important bit. I finally managed to lock myself into the brig, where even their damned fury couldn’t break down the door. It was a harrowing three days, listening to my crew slaughter each other in a frenzy. I’ll never forget those screams and laughter. Even worse was realising that I only had a nearly empty barrel of rum and handful of hardtack. My ship was eventually found by one of the Navy’s ships, which is the only reason I didn’t die from the the next Wax-Wind that came to sink the ship. So, that’s all you have there - just a fancy Jack.”
“Ha! You call that a story?” scoffs another captain, younger and skinnier but no less grizzled, hobbling forward on her peg-leg. “Pah and pshaw, I say! I’ve heard more tragic tales from a poet who never left Veilgarden in his life!”
She glares around the room at her crew, who were cheering and nodding along to the last story, and they abruptly put on scowls and raise a half-hearted jeer. A few small scuffles break out between particularly drunken zailors from separate crews.
“I’ll tell you a story that’ll chill your bones proper. There’s uncounted horrors out there that look like people, and scarcely two years past I ran afoul of the worst.”
“It was seven days north of Whither and we were running low on supplies. The old cap’n was consumed with a madness like none I’d ever seen. He had this notion, y’see, that he had to go North, and damn the consequences. He’d got half the crew to go along with him, and as we zailed North it just kept getting colder. By the time we realised what he intended, it was too late to turn back. The navigator scribbled over all his charts: NORTH. NORTH. NORTH. NORTH.
“Some of us tried to fight back. Some of us died, thrown out into the zee or crushed by their inhuman strength. Some of us were less lucky, and got eaten. There’s precious little to eat in the frozen North, and the madmen were consumed by hunger worse than anyone else. They ate and ate their old crewmates until there was nothing left, and then started in on each other.
“If I were bragging like the rest of you like to do, I’d say I fought them off single-handed. But I didn’t. I locked myself up in the hold and waited for death to come. If you haven’t been North, I don’t expect you to understand. The cold there seeps into your marrow. I just huddled there in the freezing dark, listening to those madmen screaming and feasting. There were some supplies left in the hold to keep me going, but they wouldn’t last for more than a week or two.
“On the fourteenth day out of Whither, the cap’n came for me.
“He wore fingers on his belt and toes on his hat. His beard was crusted with frost and matted with blood. His own fingers were turned black by frostbite, and he looked half dead, but there was a mad light in his eyes that kept him going. He still looked like my old cap’n, but he was something different by then. Something not human.
“The cap’n looked at me through the porthole in the hold door with his mad eyes, and then he punched through the glass with his bare hands and turned the wheel to open the door. I slashed at him with my sword, but it was like cutting ice. He kept coming, and I ran as far as I could, but there was nowhere to go. He pinned me down, and bit into my leg, tearing out flesh like a wild animal. I almost passed out from the pain, but I kept fighting.
“I don’t remember much after then. I think I got loose of him and ran to the deck of the ship. I think he came after me, and he was fast, but he was still half-frozen and I was faster. He charged at me, and I tipped him over the rail and into the frozen zee. And that was the last I saw of him.”
She thinks for a moment. The crowd is subdued. “I don’t know how I got back to London. The ship was stuck in ice, and there was no coal to start the engine anyway. I remember… an old woman in a little rowboat, on the twenty-first day. But that can’t be possible, can it?
“Anyway, when I got home, the doctors said the bite the cap’n gave me was infected. By that time it had been weeks, and the gangrene had spread throughout my whole leg. So they had to cut it off.” For all her bluster, the captain seems drained by telling the story. She returns to her table and nurses a pint glumly. “No monster like man himself, right? I don’t know what the cap’n meant to find in the North, but all he found was death.”
A haggard zailor raises his hand. He is missing his right eye and his left ear. Several fingers also appear to be gone on his left hand.
“I have seen something out of a nightmare. Have any of ye heard of… the Shiitake Death Cap?!?!” The zailor exclaims. There is no response.
“I see I will have to inform ye of this dread menace. The Shiitake Death Cap is a pirate ship, fashioned from an offshoot of the Uttershroom, and crewed solely by Blemmigans,” The haggard zailor explains, “and I’ve seen it with me own eyes. Aye, I was a prisoner aboard it for some number of weeks. Twas 20 years ago now, I reckon, when the steamer I worked on got dangerously close to the Uttershroom. Now, I ain’t one to discriminate, but them folks on that fungus have got some queer ways.” The audience is not even attempting to feign interest.
“Twas late, and we smelled it before we saw it: damp, and musty. Then we saw it: a massive upside-down mushroom! Stalk towerin’ into the air. We tried to turn and get away, but it was too fast, propelled by strange forces. And then, we they were close, they threw long tendrils onto our ship, and pulled us in. And then, they descended! Dozens of them! Blemmigans carrying pistols and cutlasses! And they cut through our crew, killing folks right and left. And then, once they had the captain, they stopped killin’ and took who was left prisoner. We was brought into the hold of their ships, and they started to- change us. Layerin’ spores into our skins, so we would become carriers, and bring the Uttershroom across the zee. But after a couple weeks, we staged a mutiny, and leaped from the ship. Most of the other crew drowned, but we that was left washed up on the shores of Mount Palmerston. We used the fire from the mountain to burn away the spores, that’s how I lost me eye, me ear, and me fingers. So I’m warnin’ ya- stay wary of them mushroom folk,” the Zailor finishes. He breaks into tears and shuffles off to a dark corner to weep. No one seems to care as it has nothing to do with the Shadow of London.
“Strange and terrifyin’ beasts o’ the zee be one thing, but one has nevar’ known true fear until ones seen a swarm o’ bats!” shouts old sailor wearing nothing but rags and with a speckled beard that reached down to his gut. Laughter erupts out of the zailors around him. The man scowls at them. “Oh, you be thinkin’ that I’m talking about them bats ye’ see around London. No, them bats is nuffin’ compared to the ones that I’ve seen.”
“We was a few days outta port headin’ for Venderbright, when they found us. Yah see, they came up outta tha’ zee around the ship. There was so many of em’ that they engulfed all of the crew, and these were no ordinary bats. I tell yah they was the size o’ a man and they started to take the crew and eat em’ while they was still kickin’ and screamin’. If it wasn’ for my cleverness I would a’ve never survived. Yah see, I knew that they didn’ seem to be in the water any longer now that they were outta of it. So I dived into the zee an’ waited for the swarm to disperse. In the end there were only three o’ us left.”
The old raggedy zailor takes a swig of his mug, and another zailor begins to argue the ownership of the mug. The old zailor tries to tell another story about how he obtained the mug from the Fathomking himself, but was unable to start his tale as the other zailor’s fist had impacted his jaw. A few seconds later they are at each other’s throats and rolling around on the ground. The other zailors watching this began laughing loudly at the sight before them.
A skinny captain with an old and faded coat of the admiralty over his woollen jumper jumps up from his seat. His rodent-like face is frozen in terror. "Don’t you see!" he screams over the stories. "It’s here! The Thief of Faces! We’re all dead and gone, you hear me! I have to… The adm… The… Someone has to know!" At this, he runs out of the inn with a rather impressive turn of speed for someone his age, leaving a half-full pint behind. His table-fellows quickly adopt the poor lonely drink, being apparently used to such outbursts from the man.
“So” the bartender interjects, “were you lot thinking of payin’ for a drink, or did you come here just to rile up the old farts?”
Noah gives out a wan smile, and approaches the voice. “It seems like we’ll be here for a while, should we want to find out whether they truly know anything. Strangling Willow, if you would be so kind.”
As the zailors regale the party with fanciful tales, no one notices as Lord Gazter quietly walks out the door. Lord Gazter is not one to go into things blindly, and as such he had sent a message as the party was preparing to leave for this venture. He needed information. Lord Gazter makes his way to a nearby warehouse.
The outside warehouse itself was made of old, dull brick, many of which were cracked and chipped, and an oddly pristine roof, but Lord Gazter has no interest in the history of the warehouse or the state that it was in his business was with familiar gentleman leaning up against a sturdy section of the warehouse’s wall. As Lord Gazter approaches the figure grins and tips his bowler hat. Lord Gazter offers a cordial smile in return.
Henchard watched the crowd gather around them, each member boasting of impressive feats and battles. All lies no doubt. The real survivors, the ones with the true stories, would hang back, drinking their memories away. When a pair of overzealous zailors fell into blows, Henchard slipped away to find them.
Three zailors had stayed where they were. The first lurked in a shadowy corner, covered in darkness, only their hand was visible, and then only when they ordered another drink. Probably a teenager, hiding out to sneak some alcohol.
The second was a scarred lady. She saw his look, and returned a glare with her remaining eye. No doubt she would have some tales to tell. But it didn’t seem he would get them easily, not with how much time they had.
The third was an old man. Nearly bald, his remaining white strands hung down his chest, sticking to his skin as he brought a trembling hand to his mouth. A man that old had some stories to tell, no doubt.
Henchard sat down opposite him and hesitated, noting the tangy smell in the air. But he continued on regardless.
“Do you have any stories?” He asked, and the man set down the shaking cup between them. Now Henchard could see what he was drinking. Curdled milk. The man’s mouth stretched into a smile, teeth like a forgotten cemetery. Broken by time and vandals.
“Ay’ll ‘ave a story fer ya.” The man wheezed, saliva sticking to the tips of his hair. “When I were a lad, me crew stopped at an island, one not on ‘ny maps. ‘ere were food there. Food ‘ike you ‘ave never seen. Mounds of it!” The man’s hand slowly hit the table, not even rattling the milk. “An’ in a’ center of it all. ‘ere was a well. Pictures carved all ‘round it. Mountains. Strange buildins’. Nothin’ like Ay’ve seen befo’. When we ‘ad eaten ou’ fill, ‘ey came from the well. Grey slime, crawlin’ over ta’ walls. Crumblin’ in on themselves as ‘ey flowed towar’ us. ‘ey were disgustin’, ‘ike somethin’ you ‘ave never seen. Somethin’” He trailed off, lifting the curled milk, “like,” another pause as he readjusted his grip, “’is!” He threw the milk where Henchard use to be, who noticed what the man was planning a while ago.
“What was that for?” Dirae Erinyes whirled from hovering over drunk zailors, listening the stories that came up. Their heavy tread creaked the abused floorbeds as they approached behind Henchard.
The man’s bones creaked as he tried to look at Dirae. His lack of flexibility left him looking halfway between them and Henchard. “‘Nother one of you fellers, comin’ to bo’er an ol’ man lef’ in ‘is cups. Nothin’ better to do ‘an ‘eer at ‘em.” His lips curled as he tried to spit at them. It fell on the floor between Henchard and Dirae. “You can’t do anythin’ to me ‘ere. Nothing but ‘eer and laugh. Now git’ I’m gettin’ sick of you a’ready. You an’ your brigh’ eyes.”
Dirae Erinyes arms shoot out, faster then the man can respond. Instead of a punch or slap, they instead curl around his collar, lifting him out of his seat. Dirae Erinyes tone still remains that of annoyance.
“Look, I don’t know what bat got into your bonnet, but you ain’t going to speak to me like that. I’ve proved myself on the zee as much as any man here - Polythreme, the Iron Republic, Apis Meet, me and the Living Leviathan have seen them all.”
The old man laughed, a sputtering uneven thing. He poked a boney finger at Dirae. “Zailin’ the zee don’t make you a zailor, anymo’ ‘an me bein’ ‘ere makes me a barman. Now git,” the wet boney finger trembled on their neck. “Git befo’ ‘ey make you git.” He nodded to the rest of the bar behind Dirae, not that he could see them.
Henchard hovered nearby, torn on whether or not to intervene. He hoped Dirae knew what they were doing, and weren’t just giving in to their pride. He suppressed a shudder at the slimy spot he knew the man’s finger would leave. Everyone knew old men were either wise or mad. It looked like this one fell on the wrong side of that divide.
“Well then, why don’t you prove you’re a zailor then? Don’t think of I’ve heard of you before, Captain ?”
At the bar, Noah finished his drink and got up, making his way towards the front door while looking as blind and harmless as he can, hoping that punching him would mark the aggressor as a sissy. His left hand squeezed a knife’s handle in his pocket, in case it wouldn’t.
The man’s finger jabbed into Dirae’s neck, again and again. Wondering why the stranger hadn’t been thrown out of the bar yet. “I’m Captai’ Croker. An’ if you’ve seen ‘alf a wha’ you claim to ‘ave, you still wouldn’ta seen a quarter a’ wha’ I’ve seen.”
“Well, Captain Croker, I’ll show you how a real zailor fights!” Dirae Erinyes lifted him just bit higher and left him dangling from the tusks of a stuffed unsightly zeelarus head mounted on the wall. “Is that view good enough?”
Croker sputtered with rage, bony limbs windmilling as he tried to grab onto Dirae. “Put. Me. Down.” His eyes darted across the room, focusing on blurry shape after blurry shape in panic. Henchard stepped behind Dirae, ready to intercept the zailors that would no doubt be coming.
Dirae Erinyes turned to face the crowd. “Well, there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Which of you want to be first?” Their booming laugh echoed through the bar. Henchard is less inclined to gloat, nor does he have time since he is between Dirae Erinyes and the pair of bruisers who just took the bait. He jumps to the side, a low kick at the shins sending them crashing - the beer soaked floorboards are not doing them any favors.
Not that Dirae Erinyes has escaped attack. As the bruisers fall, a sailor that is more tree then man flies over their heads, his hook hand firmly wedged into the chandelier. “For the Fighting Cellapod!”’ is drunken warcry as he drops down, showing that his other fake arm is not a cheap hook, but a shiny scimitar. Dirae Erinyes decides not to use any of the weapons that they are undoubtedly carrying but instead go for something flasher. In this case, something flasher is large stuffed zee-marlin. (For those who do not know, a zee-marlin resembles a marlin just as much as a gecko resembles an alligator). The sound of metal on equally tough emblemed flesh sets the beat, as the piano player switched from the usual evening program of melancholy Irish love songs to upbeat fight music.
Edward turns from his wine when he hears Dirae’s cry, and subtly moves toward the door with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Though he normally doesn't run from a fight, he definitely would rather not be in a tavern brawl, being not very good at unarmed combat, and not wanting to do any permanent damage to anyone.
As Edward makes his way towards the door, a zailor notices him trying to sneak out, and charges toward him with bottle in hand. Edward draws and sword and clumsily slashes the bottle out of his hands. “You coward!” the zailor shouts, now trying to punch him, but instead just getting his fists scarred from Edwards sword. “Fight me with yer fists, you cowardly scumbag!”. Edward sheathes his sword, not allowing himself to be called a coward, and then get punched in the face and falls down, unconscious.
Mr. Hamilton has been mostly staying in the corners of the bar, while occasionally dodging blows from varied zailors or beating a few back as well as he could while getting as little bruises as possible. Now he sees that Edward has been knocked unconscious on the opposite side of the bar, being beat up by the zailor who knocked him out in the first place.
“Take this!” shouts the zailor as he hits Edward repeatedly in the back with a stool. Mr. Hamilton rushes over to Edward just in time to (barely) block a well aimed jab at Edward’s head by hitting the zailor in the back with a stool, then pushes the zailor back to a table. Hamilton uses his stool to hit the zailor over the head and knock him out.
Mr. Hamilton drags Edward out to the front of the bar, out of harm’s way, then goes back inside to join the fight with the others.
Henchard weaves through the crowd, dodging sword blows and kicks as Dirae Erinyes and their partner leap on top of the table, sending curled milk flying through the air. Scanning for new threats, he is pleasantly surprised to see the shadowed figure bolt from their corner and out the door like Mr. Pages had a special squad of well-read Special Constables on them. He is less pleasantly surprised when he see’s the scarred women approach, adjusting her brass knuckles decorated with zee monster teeth. He barely has time to grab a battered platter as a shield before she explodes like a spring loaded bear trap. One where the springs threw a bear at the victim.
Defense was never Henchard’s style, but the lady’s constant attacks gave him little room to counter. No sooner had he deflected one blow, the platter nearly getting torn from his hands, when her other fist came flying at him. After several rounds of blocking and no signs of tiring or safer options, Henchard throws the dented platter into her nose, decades worth of grease sticking to it, and now, to her. It stunned her long enough for Henchard to leap to the next table and find a better weapon. The scarred women’s charge is stopped by the sudden impact of an object that finds rocks far too soft. A rain of ship hardtack. Miraculously, she was still standing by the third piece. Henchard swaggered over and pushed her over with one finger. She fell to the ground, and did not stir.
However, Henchard is not in the clear. A bundle of rags covered in anarchist slogans and posters, much like a more political Barselaar has stepped out of the riotous crowd. Emerging between the folds of screeds against the soul trade and the navy, a shining ratwork pistol emerges. Henchard does not see the deadly weapon pointed at him, too concerned with the crush of zailors surrounding him and his stash of hardtack, which he found to also work as a shield.
But Dirae Erinyes sees it. Seeing their sport turn unexpectedly serious. Deciding to finally settle the endless pattern of lunge and riposte, Dirae Erinyes catches their opponent in the wooden hilt of his sword with tip of the zee-Martin. Before he has a chance to twist off and press the attack, Dirae Erinyes heaves him and the Zee-Martin - the force causing their gears to audible strain, even over the piano music. It’s worst for the other duelist. He find his wooden arm firmly embedded in an abused dartboard. He vainly struggles against the mass of fish as Dirae Erinyes grabs the chandelier. Flying through the air, they give a flying punch to the mass aiming at Henchard. As he flies back, his pistol is crushed by Dirae Erinyes grip as they are sent flying, landing behind the bar.
Henchard was also chased out of his hardtack fort, thanks to a surprise from the maimed captain who told of the Shiitake Death Cap. While not a starveling cat in a box, a feral blemmigan in knapsack wasn’t much better, and had jaws sharp enough to almost eat hardtack. Retreating from the furious frenzy of beak and tendril, Henchard find himself behind the bar just as Dirae Erinyes crashed through. The bartender was too busy hiding that good stuff from the riotous patrons assembling a crude battering ram to pay attention to our pair climbing on top of the barrels.
Hearing the cries of the zailors, as they heaved against the bar, Henchard and Dirae Erinyes know they didn’t have long. With a understanding nod, Henchard dangled a handkerchief in front of the purple mass. As soon as it took the bait, Henchard jerked it up. Dirae Erinyes, borrowing the club behind the bar despite the protests of the barmen, hits the feral blemmigan with a solid thud. With a strange feeling of suddenly being a yankee, Dirae Erinyes was pleased to see the blemmigan fly through the air and land in an ostentatious hat worn by the self-styled “Captain Blood.” Their frantic wailings did little to hinder the efforts of the zailors spilling behind the bar.
Dirae Erinyes responded by sending the first few toppling by knocking the barrels down and sending them rolling through the ground. They also left their own barrel open for attack and quickly found themselves balancing on a rolling barrel after it was upended by a harpoon turned into a lance. Carried away by their own stubbornness, Dirae Erinyes is carried off into the crowd with reckless abandon.
Henchard chose to simply jump off the barrels and use the bartender as meat shield, where it is much easier to notice the soot covered clayman using an abandoned cigar to light a makeshift molotov cocktail. Not risking to find out how flammable his partner is, Henchard grabs an empty barrel. After a quick glance to measure trajectory, he jumps into the crowd, frantically stuffing himself inside the barrel, and manages to get all of his squishy bits in before hitting the shaking floor. He rolls his own path of destruction across the floor and any onlooker might be distressed by the amount of blades his barrel collects knives, swords, and the odd tooth.
Henchard dares only the briefest of glances and the slightest of adjustments as the barrel flies into the lumbering clayman’s path. With a quick hand around a chair leg, Henchard manages to send his barrel and the chair smashing into the clayman. Splinters fly through the air. Fire spreads over the soot, turning the clayman in a figure worth the Bishop’s nightmares before he tumbles into the aquarium. An aquarium that previously hosted its fish in a manicured sea garden worthy of any fussy English gardener, but now resembles the morning after a bohemian party. The clayman has only a slight frown at this predicament, his discomfort offset by admiring the fish up close. The fish nibbled at his damaged nose. Henchard’s barrel comes to a stop, swords, daggers, and a variety of other weapons stuck to, and in several cases, through, the barrel. Several zailors stop their fighting, somewhere, a hat is removed in a moment of silence. Which Henchard breaks, pushing the barrel outward with explosive force, splinters, planks, and weapons fly into the crowd. Henchard stands, brushing off dust and splinters but otherwise unharmed.
Dirae Erinyes own path has been stopped by a haphazard barricade, assembled of shark heads and poorly constructed chairs. As both the barricade and Dirae Erinyes went down, the remaining zailors jumped in. While they imagined themselves as marsh-wolves around a blind astronomer, that was not the situation. Despite the wrestling moves learned from years at Zee, Dirae Erinyes stood up, and batted the grapplers away. The first one was merely defenestrated and the second one had the presence of mind to try to grab a table to halt their flight. Their velocity was strong enough that the table did not help but instead was taken with them as they flew out the door. Passerby’s paused to watch the zailor slide down the street on the table, playfully waving her red bandana. An unwise decision for the passenger in the carriage, as he was promptly knocked out of it by a flying zailor and then watched as the panicked horse rode away without him. One could not tell who had it worse, the rich man suddenly marooned at the docks or the zailor being carried off to the richer streets of the bazaar.
Henchard grabs Dirae Erinyes arm as they admire the flying zailors and redirects their attention to the other zailors gathering around them. A tense standoff is interrupted by the sound of whistles and hoofbeats on the pavement. The patrons don’t wait for the declarative shouts of “police!” before flying the establishment, stealing whatever food and drink was still left while quickly giving promises of bail to their incapacitated friends. Dirae Erinyes escapes with a plate of rubbery lumps, while Henchard makes do with more hardtack, stuffed under his shirt like armor.
Noah had been looking unthreatening and sidling towards the entrance when a combination of zailor and furniture had flown past him, knocking him down as it sought to relive the door of its hinges. Currently Noah was lying in a fetal position, having given up on navigating the mayhem and prioritizing protecting his head with his arms, as he heard the police whistles outside. The well honed habits of a Spite-denizen made him leap up on his feet, and as he heard the thundering sound of a running Dirae passing him by, he reached out towards the giant.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt, Erinyes, but I believe I’d like to employ your serv- AAH!” He’s cut short as Dirae, without slowing down in the slightest or listening to the doctor’s babbling, yanks him off his feet and throws him on his familiar spot on the gargantuan shoulder. Noah attempts to do his best to dangle in a dignified manner.
The sound of fighting reaches the gentleman wearing a bowler hat. He turns his attention towards the direction of the clamour and instinctively reaches for something on his belt. He grasps at the empty air, before looking down at his belt and quickly realising that he was looking for had been left behind.
“Well I’m afraid I must go now M’Lord. I don’t want to be caught in fight here in this part of Wolfstack, at least not without a few of the lads. Gooday M’Lord.”
The man is already a good distance away as he finishes making his goodbyes. He nervously looks around to make sure that no one around them has noticed him and swiftly turns the corner.
With the sounds still coming from the direction of his party Lord Gazter makes his way back to Sad Spider Hall. He arrives just in time to see the rest of the party heading towards the carriage bruised and battered, a large number of patrons fleeing the seen, and the constables rushing in to handle the bedlam. Lord Gazter stands dumbfounded for moment attempting to comprehend the madness before him.
(To be continued. . .)
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/17/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/18/2017
edited by Shadowcthuhlu on 5/22/2017