Greetings, Doomed Monkeys! Uncle Mort here, bringing you another piping hot batch of pure goodness. On the menu this week, Vincent Harris is still considering all things and taking calls while he’s at it in ‘All Things Considered Pt. 2’. The Psamurai gang faces down an old foe in ‘Psamurai #11’. A. Wizard doesn’t bother with the delicate setting on this week’s ‘Wizard on Whizzin’. And the Page Five Ghouls return with a report from Germany that’s all wet. All this is brought to you by Instant Churchill, the Breakfast of Champions, bringing you their special holiday recipe. I bet it’s got a lot of cinnamon and nutmeg in it. Well, kids, that’s this week’s haul. I’ll see ya next time and remember, sovramagnificentissimamente!
Tonight We Undine in Germany
Byline: Gary Llewellyn
Dateline: November 18th, 2017
The trail of Alwyn has led us to Germany. Germany has lots of crazy stuff because Germans are crazy and crazy attracts crazy. When monsters move into a region, it’s usually because they are attracted to the people. Or more specifically, attracted to the collective psychology of an area. An industrious, work-driven people attract industrious, work driven monsters. So you’ll find things like kobolds in Germany. This is a symbiosis, however. Creatures who move into a region attracted to one specific feature of the region’s psychology can often pick up new traits as a result of constant exposure. Take, for instance, the Undine, not to be confused with their racial subset, the mermaid. Undines were here frolicking in the waters of Germany long before the monkey folk migrated out of Olduvai and started shitting on everything. Some of these monkeys settled in western Europe and never saw the sun again. After millennia of sunless gloom, they began to lose pigment and began clapping on 1 and 3. Winters can get pretty long and rough here. The whole hunter-gatherer gig wasn’t panning out, so they had to turn to agriculture and animal husbandry.
The Past Sure Is Tense
Wolf stood behind the bar and filled two shot glasses with a luminescent golden liquid. Ray stood watching, arms folded and smirking. Ray recognized this appetizer as a Parthi liquor known as Ichor, fermented from the glowing blossoms of the Idrasil tree that only grew in his home prefecture. Unlike the depressant effects of liquor, Ichor had a lifting effect, like strong wine without the crash. It was usually enjoyed for its energizing effects before dancing, sport, copulating, or creating art; incidentally, all activities that the Seraphim of Parthus use a single word for. Ray shuddered to think what it would do to a human body, but here was a human before him who seemed content to demonstrate.
Wolf placed the bottle on the table and turned it so the label faced Ray. The label came from a legendary distillery that had been closed for centuries, but whose product was still in demand to those who could pay the rising costs for the ever-dwindling supply. The distillery was run by Ray’s late father who was mortally wounded in battle against the Draconians. This Ichor died with him. Ray kept a sizable stash and would give bottles to close friends.
“Nice touch,” Ray said. “Where did you get that?”
“You,” Wolf replied.
“300 years from now,” Wolf lifted his shot.
“You know what this will do to human physiology?”
“I’m not exactly human.”
“What else are you?”
“Humans and Seraphim are sexually incompatible.”
“It’s not because my mama had a-hankerin’ for a taste of paradise. I was born human.”
The laundry mat is better than church.