Completed Let's Play Tyranicon's "Memoirs Of a Battle Brothel"

[Dhaze]

Only now that the photoshoot business is over do I get to order the construction of a massage parlor:

Yeesh, that's pricy. But I have enough.

As well, I see that starting with the third level of upgrades, some facilities offer bonuses specific to them:

'Silver Tongue' is described thusly: Moderante chance to bribe Pursuers in the overworld from attacking you (Pursuers feature still in dev)

And 'Irresistible' in the following way: Gain a permanent +2 bonus to all Contracts completed in the Guild Hall (Hosting, etc, these contracts are not yet implemented).

But the contracts are in fact implemented in-game, so I guess that footnote is a leftover from an earlier build. Still, it doesn't matter for now as ordering the construction of the Massage Parlor has left me almost dry. Consequently I think about lubing up, and who better to undertake such a task than my mechanic Kaywin. I go to the garage.

Having been invited to Amy Seagrave's penthouse, Kay is very excited:

Weirdly enough, the Penthouse is accessed via the overworld map, while I can access The Spire just fine via the underrail? We'll see.

Gathering my courage, I ask the following:

And she responds...

Betrayal! Tyranicon you heartless monster, what have you done. Kaywin proposed we get a room or something, and now she rejects my advances? God damn it. Don't play with a man-girl's heart like that. I mean, I guess I could spring for a sex change and see where that leads me (that's a weird sentence to write...), but holy if that isn't horrible. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I was so looking forward to hooking up with Kaywin.

 

[Dhaze]

Crestfallen after dearworthy Kaywin's rejection of my advances, I decide to organise a meeting, as I want to teach my employees a lesson or two in heartbreakage avoidance. Unfortunately, it seems meetings in this game are only to talk about the main questlines:

So we talk, of this and that and yet else. In short, I learn my team more or less shares in my concerns, and are equally distrustful as I am of the Iron Cartel and the Travelers' Mandate, while being mindfully aware of the latters' potential use in our mirksome future. Here, the characters' respective idiosyncrasies are once again clearly distinct, competently written and conveyed—so again kudos for that.

All in all, I've lost a modicum of trust due to a couple of my actions (mostly conniving with Iron Gregarion), but have gained a goodly bit of trust for most of my actions thus far.

Exiting the meeting room, multiple people call on me, amongst which Windress with a proposal:

I join her at the bar:

What follows is Windress getting pretty tipsy, ere long coming to question the origin of frogs and tadpoles while expressing disgust at their toes and mucous skin. Feeling a deviousness take hold of me, I press her to have drink after drink.

Foiled again, at least momentarily. For a brothel, it's damned difficult to get laid in this place.

Natheless, I'm not mad in the least. I then learn a bit more of Windress' personality, and her desire to expand the Guild's influence, to better regulate the sex trade for increased safety. I sympathise; sex workers do have it hard.

But I'm curious about Amy Seagrave's invitation to her penthouse in The Spire. Travelling quickly via the underrail I make my way to said Spire district; and indeed as the game had previously indicated do not there find Amy's penthouse. So I leave for the overworld map, at which point I receive an alert:

I'll have to reverse that if I somehow can. And this is promptly followed by a call from Dejah Mars, captain to the Stormbreakers, who explains she understands my looking after a closer connection with the powerful Iron Cartel, as my Guild might need all the help it can get; yet she cautions me against cosying closer still to Gregarion, lest I incur the wrath of the Cartel's enemies.

Quickly now, to answer miss Seagrave's invitation. Heavenward we go, higher perhaps than any other place in MoonFall; and there get a clearer sense of Amy's truly immense influence and financial means:

A ghost tree indeed and, as Jasen tells me, most likely the only one in existence outside the Four-Mile Barrier inside which Lost Gushan is mysteriously disappeared.

We partake in drink and expensive-tasting foods served by the staff, before eventually concerning ourselvs with more serious matters:

Ensues a rather strange situation. In short: Amy holds for certain her stalker is very close nearby, and will try to break into her penthouse tonight. Ensnare him we will with a Secaritras Entanglement device, that Windress describes as a "questionnably legal boobytrap" bought to some expense by Amy. A frankly abrupt and steamy bathroom adventure later, the stalker has somehow been captured without any effort on my part. I have precisely no idea why we were needed.

But that whole affair begot good things.

Firstly, the stalker turned out to be heir to the Rinlar family, who I am given to understand deals in... condiments? And for a moment my team argues. Should we handle him to the law, or ransom him. Aside from Kaywin The Teasing Hoyden, all—including myself—seem in favor of ransoming him; thus via Windress' contacts, me grow richer by a few thousand credits.

Secondly, I get some—and get it good. Forget Kaywin, She Who Only Likes Dick; and for the future only, Windress Who Might Let Me. The moment is now, with Amy who, as it turns out, is a big ol' slut.

Spoiler

Yup. Yup yup yup.

Her thing, as she herself explains, is to be tied and left at someone's mercy. Installed in her penthouse is a complex system of smart, voice-activated ropes that slither their way out of walls and ceiling, the better to bind her in true shibari or kinbaku style.

After approximately zero foreplay other than a brief explanation of the ropes' workings, we get at it. And ultimately, displaying immense enthusiasm to the task, as if her pussy was a lambative for my ailment, I bring her to a higher summit than even that of her cloud-capt penthouse:

Oh hey Kaywin! What do you mean, "my breath smells familiar?"

 

[Tyranicon]

Ah, if you've built the massage parlor, you might notice an interesting bug I have yet to fix (probably will be gone by the next patch): there is a way for a female player to have sex with Kaywin.

But you'll spontaneously grow a dick and immediately lose it after coitus.

 

[Dhaze]

To start, the beautiful artwork for The Spire, since I had completely forgotten to post it earlier:

To continue, a second artwork, freshly unlocked in my gallery, of Amy Seagrave striking a pose we've seen before:

Spoiler

Continuing further, I spring by the Iron Cartel's headquarters, to see if the game will provide me an opportunity to distance myself somehow from this faction. Unfortunately, I don't see any such opportunity. Instead, good old Iron 'Semen Dump' Gregarion is now firmly intent on stealing the Seafoam Throne. Faded memories have it the Pirate Kings of old were something and a half; and Greg, having discovered the actual physical throne's location, bethinks himself to lower his fine leathered ass on it, hoping to benefit from the regal symbol of such an act.

But I don't want anything to do with him anymore, quite the contrary. Thus I change the subject to aviary considerations and, in so many words, tell him to go fuck a duck.

Time to board the underrail. Destination: the Commercial district, as I still have not delivered to Dejah Mars the Stormbreakers' gear I surreptitiously recovered in a Dockside warehouse for her benefit—and by extension, my own.

The gear, it appears, were drones.

Then the game offers me a prompt: flirt with her. Cupping my breasts provocatively as often did the figures of Félicien Rops, I tell tall but true tales, flaunting my expertise in all things boudoir-related.

Oh oh oh but charm them off I will, neko girl, just you wait. Between two louder beats of my heart, she mentions having a certain problem in whose resolution I might play a role; the name Tomassi—"a two-bit pimp"—parts her lips, and already I intimate where this is all going. I assure Dejah that Tomassi is well alive, but in the wind after selling the encrypted data he had stolen from his uncle Iron Gregarion. Dejah, in turn, assures me she knows who currently holds said data.

I am given the absurd amount of 100.000 credits in an encrypted form, and the purportedly hazardless task to exchange encrypted credits for encrypted data, in a double-blind deal.

Off the girls and I go to the meeting place.

But not our courtesan kind of whorehouse. No, no, certainly not. Rather it is the most sordid whorehouse, populated by asthenic girls kept enmired in the hazy brumes of oblivion by a nepenthe-like cocktail of drugs their pimp forces them to drink. Johns take their turn in unending succession, one after another after another after yet another, and surely each of these women must be used by twenty or more men a day. I, Kaywin, Zafra, Diana, and Isutyr feel such wrothful revulsion I doubt will allow us to leave this place as we find it.

I haggle a bit, and get Sly to lower his asking price to 90.000 credits, thinking it might make Dejah happy. The exchange goes through without a hitch; and I quickly decrypt some parts of the data slate, uncovering some information on the Progressives I might be able to leverage later, before erasing all evidence of my tampering with the device.

But the girls and I still have business here.

I wish I were provided an option to buy the girls, even if the price was something like 30 or 50 thousands credits. But it's not possible, so I make what is an obviously futile attempt to reason with this Sly guy before resorting to baser, less civilised means. In the end, he and his crew die.

Unfortunately, the game crashed right after the combat ended (it's only the second crash so far, and the autosave does its job all the same). Habitually I use Rivatuner to capture screenshots, but for some reason I can't determine I have problems making it work with this game, and I suspect using the Steam overlay instead for screenshots causes issues in combat, increasing the likelihood of crashes.

I restart the game then load the autosave, to find myself warped standing in front of the Stormbreakers' headquarters—which might seem like a bug caused by the crash but I'm certain it is not.

And it's the perfect opportunity to remark upon the fact that, when questing your way through the game, you don't so much walk from zone X to warehouse Y; ofttimes the game will, say after a conversation with a quest-giver, warp you to a one-time-use place, then warp you back out once your business there is done. Sure, because of that, you don't get to enjoy sights and sounds, and you don't have a sense of coherence physically linking this place to that one. All the same, I don't think it's a detriment to the game, as almost no game in existence is sufficiently beautiful to make me care about traipsing uneventfully for however many screens separate me from a place of interest, then again all the way back.

Warping me to and fro is a sound, economical way to deal with the whole thing, and in the context of this game it works extremely well.

So then, standing in front of the Stormbreakers' headquarters as I said. I enter, and see some change:

The tachikoma found itself robotic brethren! These drones being the 'gear' I re-appropriated for Dejah some time ago. Speaking of Dejah, I tell her how it went:

Operation 'Charming Her Pants Off' has begun.

Ah, if you've built the massage parlor, you might notice an interesting bug I have yet to fix (probably will be gone by the next patch): there is a way for a female player to have sex with Kaywin.

But you'll spontaneously grow a dick and immediately lose it after coitus.

That wouldn't be a bug in my case, it would be the power of love!

 

[Skorpion]

This thread is amazing, please continue!

 

[Dhaze]

Continuing straight on, with an air of Dejah vu:

La! trouble on our home turf. But no, Dejah, Le Lupanar is not a weird name for a brothel; it is the most appropriate name possible, thank you very much.

Rushing back to the well-named brothel, I am witness to this scene:

Using my good sense and Charisma, I sing the chorus—of a song titled The Phœnix King's Lament—along the mercenaries, then offer them a private booth wherein they can finish their night without further disturbing the other patrons.

The situation is resolved to everyone's satisfaction; when all of sudden: surprise Ciri!

Wait... wait, no, that's not Ciri, though apparently Dejah also knows how to teleport.

Curious to see how I would handle the matter of her rambunctious Stormbreakers, she shadowed my steps. Then and there, aloud she wonders if I can accomodate for a private room of some kind, to talk.

Moments later we are alone, in the meeting room of the brothel. I have ordered my staff to not let anyone in. Observed by my cat Pearl, while tireless devils fan the flames of lubricity in my loins, I light sconces left and right but miserably fail to light the fireplace. All the same, Dejah and I stare at it; and I can feel the warmth radiating—almost pulsating—from her.

We talk about her mercenaries:

We talk about herself:

We talk about the godly figure was the Phœnix King. Last to be touched upon is the subject of Dejah's ambitions of destroying the Iron Cartel (being mindful of the power vacuum would inevitably ensue), and how said ambitions could coincide with mine.

She asks me if I agree with her, that helping one another could prove most beneficial. I answer with the positive, and we shake on it. This follows:

And my lips to melt in the sweetness of hers. Sweetness made all the more delicious by what I readily recognise in her as uncontainable, almost rapacious hunger.

Good with me, I answer.

We thunder up the stairs, to my room. Our breathing quickens. She literally tears parts of my clothes off. No sooner do my pants drop to my ankles that Dejah drops to her knees, and again my lips meet hers, though in an arrangement different from before. Soldier-like in all aspects of her life, there is a quasi-mechanical quality to her exploring of my body. But if her skill does not in the least compare to that of a courtesan, her ardor overwhelms my senses all the same.

Spoiler

Uh. That artwork of Dejah from a different angle makes me realise that what I thought was a sort of neko ears headband, is in fact simply her hair carefully arranged to give the impression of neko ears when looking at her from the front.

This thread is amazing, please continue!

Glad you're enjoying it. Apologies if the progress might seem slow, but it takes a bit of time to arrange something coherent and interesting. I want to do the game justice, and simply posting any kind of screenshot I take accompanied by any kind of comment wouldn't cut it.

 

[ERYFKRAD]

I want to do the game justice

Near as good a job as ol' Jack Vance could do, at any rate.

 

[Dhaze]

I want to do the game justice

Near as good a job as ol' Jack Vance could do, at any rate.

God damn, that's a compliment I'll need to add to my résumé! "Was once compared not unfavorably to Jack Vance."

 

[NecroLord]

Tyranicon Slaanesh would be proud of you!

 

[Dhaze]

More than happy to dissociate myself now and evermore from that uncouth cur Iron Gregarion, I'm all too glad when sweet Dejah tells me she has more work in store.

She asks me if, mayhap, I know of a journalist and influencer named Bea Sonada, affiliated with Kumo Media. I don't, and answer thus. Dejah then explains to me this Bea—whose journalistic pretensions are more dreamed than established—has a loyal and dedicated following of idiots on MoonFall's equivalent to the internet; and is, of late, fancying herself a real investigative reporter, of a dead and buried breed. Like a rat famished for scraps, she is scurying deep in the heaps of Stormbreakers' trash—and those heaps reek like a midden.

Bea and her bodyguards went into hiding, her little rat nose having sniffed a fatefraught change in the air. She has an ex-lover in Cellerdown; a former co-worker in Gorfu; and some bigshot executive from Kumo Media lives in The Spire.

I hesitate between starting with the ex-lover, or the executive. I flip a coin. But my Athletics stat is shit and I can't even catch the stupid coin; somehow, it lands on the edge. So I take the underrail back to Gorfu and, after a hot second of searching about the area, can't help but notice a man with a big, fat, red, blue-backed exclamation point hovering over his head.

Thank be the coin, for I've hit the jackpot. It turns out the guy's a scumbag who had, while still a co-worker to Bea, stolen sensitive data from her. Whether because she was forced to Weinstein-style, or because she wanted a promotion, or perhaps even because she's a gerontophile who simply enjoys that, she spread it wide for a codger of the Kumo family; and that man likes to take pictures.

Now I'm a thousand credits lighter, but richer in paraphilia memorabilia, and I go to see the ex-boyfriend who I suspect might be interested to learn of what I now know. Evidently, hats are out but exclamation marks are this season's fashion:

He hangs about the entrance to the Progressives' brothel, but seems strangely reluctant to actually go in. I work my charm on him, and it does work like a charm. Feigning being impressed when learning he knew Bea—this extremely popular online personality—in the flesh, I ask a couple of benign questions about her.

Being of a generous nature I make a mental note to offer this guy a whetstone, seeing how he's pretty dull. Mere paces away, indeed behind a bakery, I find an entrance leads me to a back alley. And there being only one door, I politely knock:

I explain to her I'd appreciate it, were she to stop her broadcasting career, and cede her place to someone more amenable to the Stormbreakers' nerveful sensibilities.

– "And why the fuck would I do that?" she asks. "You think you're the first person to threaten me, Facilitator? Yes, I know who you are. Wave to the camera. You're the one in Saint Gorfu who's been running around the city like a chicken with its head chopped off. You're lucky I don't do a 'cast on you and the shitfuck the Guild is in right now. So I ask you again: why the fuck would I do that?"

I could blackmail her. But I bethink myself of what her ex-lover mentionned about her character: she doesn't scare easily. Moreover, blackmail oft begets resentment; and resentment, in turn, its own ugly progeny. Thus I decide to try and convince her, as I think it would be better if she got to the right conclusion on her own.

And she cracks. But in classic fashion she thinks to warn me, as if I was that stupid.

True. But while some devils sport pitchforks, others sport long curly tongues. Dejah is of the latter kind, and hers are the supplices I would rather suffer.

Speaking of Dejah, I trek back to her office in the Commercial district.

Damn it. I hadn't thought about that; I could have gone to The Spire and arranged something with the executive myself. Oh well.

Seeing how we've already accomplished more than enough for a day, the girls and I leave the Commercial district to get a lungful of fresh air.

Yes! I endeavored to dissociate myself from the Iron Cartel, and like my breasts when I pleasure myself on all fours, the plan is in full swing. With perfect timing I receive a call from Iron Gregarion, who expresses faint dismay at my getting cozened with the Stormbreakers, and counsels me to stop. He only succeeds in making me loathe him more.

Feeling good and oh-so womanly, the girls and I go sightseeing around MoonFall, flaunting our charms as we go in an attempt to drum up a little business. First to enter our collective sight is the Stormbreakers' compound:

Then, the Civic district, wherein can be found the Homeguard Militia headquarters, and the Hall Of Archons:

The Industrial district, a dretful maze of factories and refineries:

Easternmost, at the very tip of a peninsula, we find the Iron Shore, an impressive prison complex operated by the Iron Cartel:

It reminds me a lot of the clean, oppressive nazi architecture in the later parts of Wolfenstein: The New Order.

Since I had forgotten to show the artwork for Dockside, here it is:

The building of the Constabulary:

And last but certainly not least, the supposedly Hidden Temple:

I love it when a place in full sight of absolutely everyone is called the Hidden Something.

 

[Dhaze]

Again with Dejah and our burgeoning working relationship with benefits.

Going straight to business, she asks me what I know about MoonFall's major crime syndicates. No that much, I have to admit. I learn that contrarily to what the Militia would have people believe, the Dead Dragons, the Dya Skapetr, and the Khun Kabila are the major muscle of MoonFall; and moreover they've contracted with the Stormbreakers to bring the Iron Cartel down and then further below still. This because the Cartel, with its expansion, is encroaching ever closer upon territories belonging to the syndicates. Syndicates whose connivance with the Stormbreakers is, at this point, become a segreto di Pulcinella.

The Dead Dragons: Gushanese Shapers, amongst whose ranks Diana once numbered. The Dya Skapetr: hard-nosed fuckers from Dyavol, who excel at anything related to fighting, but are outclassed by everyone else at anything else. The Khun Kabila: aristocrats forbanned from Zimalaya following the civil war.

(useless notekin: Kabila is the actual last name of two former presidents of the DRC, and it makes me laugh to imagine congolese politicians included in Tyranicon's RPG)

What's that I smell? Oh yes... the habitual waftings of distrust between professional soldiers on a side and crime syndicates on the other while they try to outmaneuver one another.

In short, Dejah profoundly mistrusts the syndicates, and is counting on me and mine to somehow slither our way into the Grand Heron Hotel, and there plant a bug closest to where exactly the most sensitive talks are held.

Perception check!

I press her on the matter. A veil falls over her eyes and, attristed, she recalls how it was and what it felt to live on the mainland, not in MoonFall where people—by necessity grown exceedingly egoistic—constantly use one another with nary an afterthought.

Now that is ominous as all hell and more.

I gather the team and, freshly perfumed, off we go to the Grand Heron Hotel. Once there, I suppose the important talks might take place somewhere on the upper floors; but the elevators refuse let enter anyone without a certain keycard.

Instead we enter a room close by, at random, and find ourselves facing a bevy of gangsters of various affiliations, playing billiard.

Coyly, I inquire about the meeting. But this proves too direct an approach, and arouses the gangsters' suspicion. They threaten us with violence. Brutum fulmen or actual threat, I do not know; but while not for a second do I doubt we could beat them into submission, unfortunately I also do not doubt any trouble caused directly by us might prove a balk to Dejah's plans.

We manage to talk our way out of that particular situation. Then I wonder if, perhaps, my co-manager Diana could leverage her erstwhile prominence amongst the Dead Dragons, whose members are present tonight? Indeed she can! and obtains an elevator keycard and a floor number, the 20th.

There, one corridor stands out:

The funny thing is I do know a completely new way to fuck. It involves three seashells. But I don't have the time to explain.

We enter a room and, as we cross its threshold, so too do we cross that which leads into spoiler territory:

Spoiler

And let me tell you, said territory makes for a fucking weird country.

The three people inside talk about what I had expected: machinations and treachery.

– Zabad etim. If the Travelers find out. I wouldn't worry about that. I've heard they have other things to worry about.

– The Chthonians won't let us eat at the table? That is on them, not us. What we do here will preserve the balance of the Accords, not violate it.

– One of their Iron Cartel familiars is making a play, is that right?

– Gregarion will take care of him. That one-eyed bastard is tough. We may have to take Gregarion himself out... or turn him, if it comes to that.

– No, I won't hear that talk. He's protected.

– Protected? I did not hear of this. Who is—

– You know who. The man in the shadows.

– If he says we don't touch this man, then we don't. Simple.

– Dybato fol! He shits on us. He has shat on us for a thousand years. The rest of you may not have any pride, bowing and scraping. But I remember. We exiles keep to the old ways.

– Hold for a second... our dinning guests have arrived.

A courtesan's fingers are defter than most, and with such légerdemain goes unnoticed I hide the bug under the table, while the syndicate bosses stare at me, an unsettling hunger in the depths of their eyes.

– What is this? Courtesans? We did not...

– Zahi, why did you order courtesans? They can be tracked easily. I asked for street walkers... now we must go hungry for your mistake.

– Do not put this on me, I called the right people. Don't forget, this is for you. Most of us have renounced the old ways.

– Honored courtesans, I must apologize. It seems there has been a mixup.

A veritable maëlstrom of questions whirls inside my mind—but under its current my inner voice whispers to me an echo of Dejah's advice: "... leave immediately after planting the bug, it's better for you health." I hesitate, and wonder if this bug is indeed just that, a bug, and not perhaps also an explosive device, or a delivery mechanism for some manner of airborne poison or letheon, should the Stormbreakers decide that what they hear displeases them.

I leave. I trust Dejah.

What – the – actual – fuck – was all that about?! Cannibalism? Chthon? Turning people? Also, is the guy with a goatee What's-His-Name, from the introduction scene? The guy who works at the Courtesans' Guild headquarters? So many questions.

Still, I go back to sweet Dejah.

Oh yeah. No way was that a bug and just a bug.

 

[Tyranicon]

I feel like this thread will answer a lot of your questions in a "Oh... okay then" kind of way.

https://rpgcodex.net/forums/threads...nfall-isometric-cyberpunk-vampire-rpg.141452/

 

[Dhaze]

Hey, I remember that thread. I posted in it some months ago, upon seeing the Taggert Samson handgun.

Cool to see there's a demo available. I'll try it, if only to see if the game runs well on my aging computer. And of course if you need an additional playtester or proofreader or whatever, don't hesitate to ask, I'll help if I can.

 

[Tyranicon]

Hey, I remember that thread. I posted in it some months ago, upon seeing the Taggert Samson handgun.

Cool to see there's a demo available. I'll try it, if only to see if the game runs well on my aging computer. And of course if you need an additional playtester or proofreader or whatever, don't hesitate to ask, I'll help if I can.

Much appreciated if you have time. You might also find that it actually runs better than Memoirs and the battles are more optimized (I gave the AI an additional "thinking" buffer so there's less lag). Combat system is being completely reworked though.

 

[Dhaze]

Hope you guys aren't getting tired of Dejah, because here she is some more, continuing from before:

Then, she's alerted to the fact the other syndicates are already talking about ramping up their efforts against the Iron Cartel. The Accords forfend any open war, under menace of the Traveler's Mandate involving itself in the matter; but bickering and sabotage—the next best things to a war—evidently fall within the rules.

I ask her why exactly would the Traveler's Mandate intervene to prevent all-out war between syndicates. Her answer only manages to thicken the mist, sufficiently for me to doubt even of what little I presently think true, as she claims MoonFall's syndicates are not what they seem, not at all.

Preventively she warns me that what she is about to reveal, I cannot in turn spread around me, lest I inflict irremediable damage to our relationship. Though I suppose this circle of secrecy can be extended to include Diana, Zafra, and the others.

Spoiler

Egad! an invasion. But honestly I'm not surprised, as it seemed plain such an event must be in MoonFall's imminent future.

For the laglasts of the class: while the Stormbreakers present themselves as a private military-cum-security contractor, they are widely considered as an officious extension of the Bren-Thulian Imperium's mighty reach; and in fact the Stormbreakers—who for their vastest part are Imperials—too readily refuse to be hired in any conflict would see them face the Imperium's official forces, going so far as to break contracts if need be.

Dejah furthers her explanations, telling me it is no coincidence the fledgling powers of MoonFall unceasingly quarrel with one another, preventing any of them from reaching greater heights. Indeed, for years have the Stormbreakers disrupted or outright sabotaged every attempt at power consolidation in MoonFall.

Would that the decision be hers and hers alone, Dejah would delay the invasion a short while longer; but the brass are breathing bull-like down her neck, as she plainly puts it. Three main obstacles remain somewhat staunchly in the Imperium's domineering way: Commissioner Jolene Bell of the Constabulary; judge Hawke Denton; and colonel Sawzi Hachij. Gone, the invasion would ressemble less an invasion proper and more a welcoming parade, owing the great popularity of the Stormbreakers in MoonFall (this being consectary to the decisive help they provided during the Crasher Crisis).

Ere long the Commissioner will celebrate her thirtieth year on the force. Tradition has it a truly bacchanalian revelry must be on the program and, well, where oh where might Dejah be going with this, for the life of me I've not the faintest inkling.

Oh that's right, I co-operate a brothel! I'll need to refill the vats of lube.

I'm glad I allied with Dejah over that misproud Iron Gregarion. Though of course Dejah is imperfect; her goals are noble enough, but rose-hued by a mixture of idealism and naïveté I'm surprised seems unmuddied by the realities of her work. Or, and that is a possibility however doubtful, the mainland truly is a world whose very stuff is wholly different from that of MoonFall's, and Dejah's optimism is warranted.

I guess we will see soon enough.

Much appreciated if you have time.

It's no problem at all. Feel free to shoot me a PM anytime; unless my computer gives up, or likewise my heart, I should be good to go.

For what it's worth I'm sincerely enjoying your game. I've played a whole lot of titles with bigger teams of bigger names, backed by bigger production budgets and bigger promotion budgets, ultimately received to great applause by critics and gamers both, that were not nearly as fun and engaging as Memoirs Of a Battle Brothel.

Which is depressing in its own right, serving well to show that on a Venn diagram composed of What Sells and What Is Good, the intersection is a sliver.

More than anything, I've always liked an earnest, heartful game. Of course it needs backed by actual, undeniable technical competence (who said 'Mechajammer'?); but provided a modicum of competence is in fact there, genuine passion for one's project can make even some defects not only merely palatable, but outright flavorful in an ineffable way.

That, I've never been able to put into words precisely (thus 'ineffable'). But sometimes I see something, a specific dialogue or animation or idea, and it's rough, with a rather sizeable margin available for improvement; yet I can feel the hours slaved away in front of the screen, trying and trying and trying to improve it, to make it work bit by bit, and that is great in its own way.

/e: problem with the link to an image, fixed.

 

[Tyranicon]

I suppose you can call it a type of artisanal porn game.

 

[Dhaze]

Still on the Dejah train to MoonFall domination, I go back to the brothel, for a brief talk with this guy:

Spoiler

The entire affair does go right, is a matter of minutes, and indeed requires minimum effort on my part. The targets—Commissioner Bell, colonel Hachik, and judge Denton—are respectively in the Strip Club, the Blood Pit, and the Private Booths.

I humor Commissioner Bell and her questions anent the Courtesans' Guild's inner turmoils; and I slap a patron straight across his uncouth face after he dares call me 'sugar tits', but that bears no relation with the plot at large.

In the Blood Pit, the girls and I battle colonel Hachik and his very best troops. Very early into the brawl a constable in full riot gear closes in on Diana and, mighty-thewed as he evidently is, bashes her with his shield:

Ow. Ow ow ow. From full health to almost dead in one, double-hitting crit.

They are chunky boys and girls, these constabularies, with health pools far deeper than even that of Zafra—which gives me a perfect opportunity to try a few of my new Skill toys. Conjured under my empery over matter, Stone Teeth brutally erupt from the ground as if the lower maw of a core-dwelling devil. Zafra—whose Chem Rager skill tree is partially completed—brushes blows and bullets away with frightening ease, the while darting and leaping bodily about the room, unhindered by notions of restraint. Isutyr even dominates a female constabulary! Alas, no riding crop nor lip-biting threats of twisting certain parts are involved in this, Isutyr being merely content to break the woman's mind with her own, so that the constable is rendered aghast beyond resistance, and shifts this way and that, unable to do aught but gawk.

Lastly, I find judge Denton freshly out of a Private Booth, serviced to beyond his satisfaction, his vim exhausted to the last drop. Politely accepting his congratulations anent the overall quality of my brothel, then answering a couple of his questions, I ultimately leave him white in the face after explaining to him that some of the booths are manned by men. #somethingforeveryking

This done, I come back to the meeting room wherein Grejora is waiting for me:

What, already? When? How? I saw nothing, heard nothing, would have suspected less than nothing had I not been keen to and part of the plot. Damn, but are the Stormbreakers good at what they do.

Grejora then establishes an encrypted connection to Dejah; and my girl is pleased. "Everything is in place for Operation Broken Chain," she says. The next few weeks will be capital, but won't require my further involvement; and in fact Dejah recommends I try and stay inside as much I can.

Spoiler

I should note that during all this, I had multiple opportunities to alert each of the three targets to the dangers come crawling from their shadows. I wonder if it's possible to side entirely with Iron Gregarion, while still duplicitously going as far as this here with Dejah only in order to reveal her plans to her targets, thus ultimately foiling the Imperium's plans and helping propel Gregarion to the top.

That'll be for my second playthrough, done at my own pace.

So now the bacchanal is over. The air in Le Lupanar is dense—nearly cloying—with odoraments of the carnal kind. Whores are at their sinks, one leg raised. I hail Windress, flirt a bit with her for the fun of it, and we go to the bar to unwind.

"Hidden heart," she replies, and taken from an old Zimalayan myth. About a one-armed girl (Baiken?) who, riding a greatfox, hunts after a serpent goddess having swallowed the sun.

Ensues an almost obligatory, classic, very vaguely cringy—but aware that it's vaguely cringy—conversation about me suspecting Windress has some hidden depth, and her denying it in full.

Um... no, I'm really not. I'll walk tirelessly as long as big naturals are on my horizon, and that's pretty much it.

Oh, Windress. How sweet.

A glow? Lord, am I pregnant? Wait... Amy Seagreave! I knew that white stuff she insisted we use wasn't just regular lube.

Later that day I wake from a restless sleep, a vague somnolence in whose shadows shifted succubi with multi-color hair and fox tails buttplugs. I wonder why...

But what's this laid on the counter?

A surprise, yay!

 

[Dhaze]

Kore, I swear you're way too good for a brothel. You deserve a life spent in a playpen with kittens and puppies and baby squirrels, and tiny birds fluttering about you.

A little bit misshapen. If that isn't the sweetest thing. Hatsuo tells me they're good; he ate five of them already. I bite in one of them, and while the flavor of strawberry mixed with lemon is there, it is barely there.

"Is it good?" she asks.

But now, guys, I hope you have your diving gear at the ready, because the waters of Spoilerland lead to dark, frigid depths.

Spoiler

Suddenly and unexpectedly, we hear the sound of glass shattering. Someone hurled something through a window, a something lands right at our feet:

I try to kick the bomb away but Zafra tackles me to the ground. A blast rends the very air assunder.

Ever quick to act, Zafra rushes outside with Thassia, hoping to catch whoever caused this.

But Kore... The lower half of her body is gone. Simply gone. Strips of mangled flesh drenched in blood dangle from her. Inmeats slouch out of her, creating a goreful mound. Wisps of acrid smoke escape from tubes and a strange, blue liquid mixes itself with the red of her life.

We all glance at one another; words are unneeded.

Yet Kore is still conscious and, struggling to speak, asks if everyone is ok. We reassure her. Then Kaywin goes about inspecting the insane amount of augments present in Kore, desperately attempting to fix her somehow. But our mechanic does not recognise even half of these augments; and Kore screams, causing Kaywin to immediately stop whatever she was doing. Jasen tells me to apply pressure to a deep blood-gurgling gash on Kore's neck, and I do so—but without any conviction. Isutyr, for her part, recites the last rites.

 

[NecroLord]

Nooooooo!
Not Kore...

 

[Dhaze]

Act two, then.

Spoiler

Zafra swears she'll be the one to stick a knife in whoever did this. Kaywin, who is newer than even me to the brothel, asks if Kore had any family we should contact; to which Windress and Diana reply that no, she did not, all Kore had was us.

In my canon, Hatsuo is now renamed Hatsubro.

I think it obvious this bomb was thrown here in the context of the Guild's internal war, despite we've yet to officialy declare for either the Progressives or Traditionalists. Windress and Jasen agree.

There's a knock on the door. Enters this non-gendered entity:

For a second I think it's one of the Stormbreakers' drones. But the Stormbreakers have nothing to do with it: a mysterious someone apparently canceled the thanatologists' arrival, and in their stead sent this drone, as it explains itself. Anon, a multitude of strange tools whose functions we cannot even surmise spring out of the drone with a series of whirrs. The game offers me the opportunity to stop the drone as it begins operating on Kore; but I remain silent and unmoving, curious—anxious even—to let events unfold.

Kore's wetware, remarks the drone, seems miraculously intact. At this point, the drone begins fully replacing her blood with what it calls 'synthetic hemosave'.

And Kore opens her eyes, before taking a breath.

Spoiler

Nani kore?

Follows a short, collective conversation in which a now well alive—or should I say 'functionnal'?—Kore participates. We knew she had suffered some strange, utterly unexplained memory loss; and that most of her augments were of unknown, custom origin, doubtlessly terribly expensive, and beyond cutting edge. But what is that stuff she said, upon coming to artificial life?

Jasen then explains these words are linked to a conspiracy theory, of a kind he more or less considers baseless. Supposedly, an organisation aptly named Control plays marionettist with the world. (if I had to head a super-secret organisation bent on controling the world, I'd name it Banana Pizza; then nobody outside the inner circle would ever believe its existence)

"Control exists," asserts Isutyr the Goada Naren, whose haveage is "older than stream and stone," thus giving weight to her words. As for Control's actual agenda, she knows nothing of it, despite her people apparently having a certain history with this group.

What to say? It was a dirty, heartless, cheap kind of twist, mister developer-cum-writer. But now I'll cherish every moment with our girl, so I guess there's that.

 

[NecroLord]

Hehe, we all got PLAYED.

 

[Dhaze]

To start, I worry about Kore and talk a little with her, in company with others.

Interesting. Certainly bears keeping in mind.

So who might be responsible for the recent, tragic-then-not-that-tragic event? According to Zafra who had darted outside as fast as anyone could have: two individuals on a bike, speeding too fast for her to catch. No distinguishing marks whatsoever. Not even wearing matching leather jackets with their address and social security number embroidered on the back, the villains.

Jasen wonders if it might have been a message from the Progressives or the Traditionalists. Meseems neither. I suspect it is the act of someone else entirely, plainly trying to stir the pot. The Stormbreakers, potentialy? After all Dejah did explain they have, for years now, been actively destabilising the various factions of MoonFall, hindering any consolidation of power; and what am I, if not a rising one.

Yeah, about that... For a while now, every time I spoke with Windress—who is herself keener on the progressive side of things, and holds contacts with that half of our Guild—I had available a dialogue option about meeting with the Progressives. And every single time I selected it; and every single time Windress curtly replied, "No need for that now." Not a great way to make me feel like the co-boss. Errand girl, sure; but boss, not so much.

Still, moving on. The leader of the Progressives: Black Saffron. The leader of the Traditionalists: Lady Bathsheva.

Anent Black Saffron, Windress recounts a noteworthy story most telling of the woman's character. In short, having twenty years been kidnapped ago by members of a syndicate who wanted to probe at the Guild for signs of weakness, Black Saffron was tortured for days. Not merely tortured in fact, but maimed and overracked in such a way would have made even Kang Kek Iew look away with unease. On the sixth day, blinded, she made her escape, devouring her way through a ganger's lifestring afore stabbing three others to death. Is it a surprise to learn Zafra holds her in high esteem?

As for Lady Bathsheva—whom Nena once described as the canniest woman she ever met—details of her life prior to her joining the Guild remain wholly unknown. And while her beauty has enfamed her in MoonFall's collective eye, her reputation should warrant great caution on my part. More: Windress knows the Old Watch once had definite plans to assassinate Bathsheva; until nothing whatsoever came of it, the Old Watch mysteriously and exceptionally canceling their operation.

Thus is a meeting with Black Saffron organised, and...

Not what I had expected.

No. I tried to meet her before. I couldn't make this part of the story progress on 'my' own, that is by exerting my character's volition; then I repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to get Windress to organise a meeting; and finally Diana, my co-manager of sorts, had not a thing to say on the matter either. Unless I missed something would have caused this meeting to occur much sooner, as soon as near the very beginning of the game, I'd like to suggest completely erasing this sentence, "You've been avoiding me." As it is, it feels like taunting the player.

A short, not discourteous but somewhat dry introduction between us later, Black Saffron talks.

Spoiler

She states the obvious: she has heard about the bombing. But, she assures me without I can tell if lie or verity, she did not order said bombing, nor sanction it in any way, nor does she think some amongst her people could be culprits.

We both agree most menacing black clouds are presently rolling in from the horizon, and cast over us deepening, fatefraught shadows. Of all this—the violence, the deaths, the mistrust and misesteem—Black Saffron wants none. This civil war needs to end, and end soon lest it might never know an end true and final possessed of cicatrisive quality.

I briefly evoke a sensitive subject I've yet to properly investigate: Nena's murder. A tragedy for the Guild, in which Black Saffron had no play, she assures me. Further is mentionned a name new to me, that of the Loveless, an assassins' guild long disbanded yet at once rumored to be active anew, their old banners held by young hands. "I'm old enough to know these things happen in cycles," says Saffron, "what came once will come again."

Hearing these last words, my mind briefly drifts away as I think about sweet Dejah; but now is not an appropriate time for thinking pink.

At length Black Saffron attacks the meat of this parley: Traditionalist versus Progressives. In short, the Traditionalists are old women, fighting change itself more than fighting those pushing for said change. Let the young take the helm, and sail the Guild unto clearer, unroiling waters.

Abruptly, the meeting with Black Saffron is ended, and I find myself warped away, facing Lady Bathsheva.

All right girls, vacate the room; I need to work my tongue. Yes, Diana, of course I mean 'talk', what else could I mean? Always with the suspicion of double-entendre...

Spoiler

During I envision how delicious would be to unclasp her dress, then caress with my lips the delicate, velvety back of her neck, Bathsheva is prompt and vehement in her gainsaying of the Progressives—animals!—who, in her seafoam-green eyes, must surely be responsible for the bombing of my brothel. They "lead us on the road to degeneracy," she says. Men—apologies to Hatsuo and Jasen—can not become an integral, cardinal part of the Guild; and vulgar street whores are not fit to join its ranks, be it to claim the lowest one.

As with Black Saffron, the subject of Nena is raised, and the Loveless' involvment is educed.

Then, a twist of the developer's wand later, we gather in Diana's office:

And Diana to alert me that my vote will represent non-courtesan staff (Kaywin, Kore, Hatsuo, and Jasen); and also that the brothel's personnel, by and large, favors the Traditionalists.

Feeling hapless to have re-joined the Guild in such times of strife, I bethink myself of all I have learned.

To a point, I agree with Progressives and Traditionalists. The Traditionalists do have about them something of the old fighting ineluctable change. And the Progressives something of the young and rash, prone to unheed the clear teachings of history. But the Traditionalists are, by nature, reluctant to acknowledge coming changes to MoonFall's structure, and the adaptations required on the Guild's part. Meanwhile the Progressives do not seem to fully grasp—or perhaps really care about—what makes the Guild what it is, and are overly eager to distance themselves from their counterpart, to push for too much change, brought about too quickly.

I ponder the issues, humming and hawing. At this pivotal a point abstention seems the coward's way, and neutrality might be the worst option (though could also prove the best, in a gamble with horrible odds). So then, which side to favor? Surely the prestige garbing us courtesans should not be discarded for street rags as the Progressives propose. What good, to undergo a change so damnably profound we lose ourself along the way?

Eventually:

My ponderous vote is cast. And once all votes tallied, support for the Traditionalists is enacted.

At which point the game then generously rewards me for my travails:

(PS: it would be so funny and fitting to their name if the Loveless turned out to be incels)

 

[Dhaze]

After such momentous and foreboding eventuations, let's catch a quick breather.

Cute moment number 1:

Great, now I'm gonna need to see my cardiologist, because my heart is swelling something fierce.

Cute moment number 2:

The man really is a fun, lively glutton.

Cute moment number 3, when I propose a date to Windress:

That's right, doxy, I brought only what's in my heart, as well's what's in my pants.

After some verbal back-and-forth she lets drop all pretense of doubt and evasiveness (that doesn't fit her anyway, but then again, 'hidden heart' and all that), then takes my hand in hers and up to my room drags me. Once she's closed the door with a sexy click of her heel, she asserts two facts about herself can bear no refute: she might be a whore but still possesses a modicum of class nonetheless, consectary to which she doesn't fuck on the first date. Because this is a date.

– "Fine with me," I answer. "So what do we do now?"
– "I... haven't actually thought that far... but it's your room."
– "Get wasted?"
– "That's not an activity."
– "Fairly certain it is, actually."

And wasted we get, all chaste- and proper-like, until the room seems acrook and we crawl maladroitly in bed.

Tut tut tut. Nuh-uh. I know Windress is not really sleeping. I just know it. As soon as I move or try anything, be it the slightest, most feather-light touch ever employed, she will stir then shoot me a knowing smile under half-open eyes while reminding me of what she previously said. That simply has to be what will happen.

Rejoice! for mine is the gift of prescience. Hey, Tyranicon:

Then:

I'll have blue balls vulva in the morning, that's for sure. Still, the affair was very cute..

 

[NecroLord]

Who would've thought whores could be so classy.

 

[Dhaze]

Tyranicon follows the Benioff & Weiss school of writing. It's all about subverting expectations. The whores are classy and hard to get, while other women are the real harlots.